by Paul Burston
He hasn’t got round to killing her off yet. That’s a pleasure he’s looking forward to. But he has produced the best part of a book that is strikingly different to any he’s written before – dark, gritty and really quite disturbing, perfect for today’s crime-obsessed market. In other words, just the kind of thing his agent asked for.
Tom’s stomach rumbles and he checks the time in the top right-hand corner of his computer screen; he’s surprised to see that it’s almost 3.00 p.m. He’s loath to step away from the book when he’s on such a roll, but hunger gets the better of him and, since there’s nothing to eat in the flat, he has no choice but to venture out. He closes the laptop, grabs his keys and heads downstairs and out of the front door.
The beach is busy now. The groynes either side of the pier are lined with lazy sunbathers, shielding themselves from the sea breeze. Couples huddle together for warmth on the shingle. At the water’s edge a fit young man in white swimming trunks is posing for photos, flexing his bulging biceps. He has dark cropped hair and a sleeve tattoo. He looks Eastern European – Polish, perhaps. Sometimes when Tom is out with Emma they play a game called ‘gay or European?’ where they try to guess a man’s sexual orientation based purely on his physical appearance. Certain dress codes used to be a dead giveaway. Likewise the overuse of male-grooming products. But it’s getting harder to tell these days, now that metrosexuality has gone mainstream and so many men aspire to look like the models on the cover of Men’s Health – ripped bodies, tattoos, fake tans, even a piercing or two.
Tom stops and leans on the railings above the sea wall. He’s glad he remembered to wear his sunglasses. All the better for watching people. The man has one of the best physiques he has seen in a while – a narrow waist, six pack, impressive chest and muscular thighs that complete the look rather than detract from it. This is not a man who goes to the gym and neglects leg day. He looks exotic and vaguely out of place among the hordes of pasty Englishmen with their pink faces and beer bellies. For a moment Tom entertains the possibility that he and this young man may have something in common.
The likelihood of this is somewhat reduced by the presence of the woman taking the photos, whose sense of ownership is clearly indicated by the way her hands travel over the man’s body and by her peals of girlish laughter. Photo shoot over, she tucks her phone in the side of her bikini thong and grabs his hand as they head back up the beach. As they draw closer, Tom sees that the man’s white swimming trunks aren’t trunks at all but tight white briefs. Somehow, Tom doubts that this man has ever been to an underwear party. He’s simply confident enough in his appearance not to worry about what’s considered suitable beachwear.
Possibly sensing that he’s being watched, the man pauses to embrace his female companion, pulling her body close to him and going in for a long, lingering kiss. As their lips lock together, he grinds his groin against hers, one hand stroking her shoulder as the other rests in the small of her back. Not for the first time, Tom wonders at the way straight couples take public space for granted, the complete lack of inhibition or fear that their displays of intimacy might result in anything more menacing than the odd raised eyebrow.
Finally, the man steps away, revealing a visible erection. Tom feels himself flush, embarrassed that he might be caught looking, yet simultaneously annoyed at himself for feeling that way when he’s not the one making an exhibition of himself. Right on cue, the man turns his head in Tom’s direction and flashes his teeth in a knowing grin. It’s a grin that says, ‘yes, I know you find me desirable’. But there’s a hint of violence about it, too. Tom knows only too well how a situation like this can suddenly turn, how quickly a man can go from enjoying the attention to feeling threatened and lashing out.
He averts his gaze, turning away from the seafront and heading towards the town centre. He passes a parade of shops, bars, cafés and restaurants, most of them empty. A few people are sitting smoking outside a pub – the men in shorts and vests, the women in heels and full makeup, complete with heavy contouring and false eyelashes. At a neighbouring table, a couple are staring silently at their hotdogs with looks of deep disappointment etched on their faces. What were they expecting, Tom wonders – fillet steak?
The town centre is a flurry of activity. Market stalls selling everything from books and vegetables to army surplus, dream catchers and other assorted hippy paraphernalia. Tom watches as a small group of men and women snake their way quickly through the crowds – all pale, pinched faces and glazed, darting eyes. Hastings has more than its fair share of drug users. He remembers reading that somewhere. London boroughs move them here to save on housing costs. He braces himself as the group heads towards him, worried that one of their number might snatch his phone or wallet. But they hurry past without so much as a glance in his direction, eyes set on a different goal, bodies jerking like stick figures in baggy sportswear. Tom wonders how many of them still have a home to go to, how many are sleeping rough.
The smell of freshly baked bread draws him to the 1066 Bakery, where he buys a cheese-and-onion pasty. It’s not the sort of food he’d normally allow himself, but what harm can it do? Stepping out into the street, he takes a bite and the warm pastry melts in his mouth, stomach grumbling as the digestive juices start to flow. There’s a sudden rush of air behind him and something clips the top of his left ear. Startled, he looks up to see a seagull flap its lazy wings and soar high above the shops ahead. No sooner has it registered that the bird was going for his pasty than another gull swoops down and snatches it clean out of his hand. He watches them fly away, partners in crime.
Someone laughs – a loud, machine-gun rattle. One of the market traders gestures at him with a grin. ‘Never mind, mate! At least it didn’t shit on you!’
Burning with humiliation, Tom turns away, fumbling in his pocket for his phone as he starts to walk.
‘You won’t believe what just happened to me,’ he says. ‘I’ve been mugged.’
Emma’s voice sounds panicked. ‘What? Are you okay? Have you called the police?’
‘By a seagull,’ Tom says. ‘Well, two, actually – working together. One acted as a decoy and the other snatched my pasty.’
‘Sounds painful. I didn’t have you down as a pasty sort of man.’
‘I’m a man of many appetites.’
Emma laughs. ‘Well, at least you weren’t hurt. I’m glad you’re okay.’
‘I’m not okay,’ Tom says. ‘I’m far from okay. I’m literally starving and those bloody vultures just flew off with my lunch.’
‘Isn’t it a bit late in the day for lunch?’
‘I was writing and lost track of time.’
‘But that’s good, isn’t it? I’m glad it’s going well. And how’s Hastings?’
‘Nice. Apart from the seagulls, obviously. They’re enormous. And they’re everywhere.’ He spots a couple of fledglings on the pavement up ahead, fighting over a bag of chips. ‘You think the pigeons in London are bad? These are like pigeons on steroids. No, worse than that: they’re like pterodactyls!’
‘Not that you’re prone to exaggeration.’
‘I’m not exaggerating in the slightest,’ Tom says. ‘Remember that scene in Jurassic Park, where the velociraptors work together to hunt and kill the gamekeeper? Imagine those with wings.’
‘So tell me about Hastings,’ Emma says. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘Close to the pier. I can see the sea from my front window.’
‘And is it really like Hoxton-on-Sea?’
‘Not really. Though I did spot a beardy hipster riding a penny farthing along the prom earlier.’
‘You didn’t!’
‘No, I didn’t. It hasn’t reached that level of hipsterdom just yet. But I did see a man on the beach in his underwear.’
‘Lucky you. Was he hot?’
‘I assume so. Or maybe he’s just an exhibitionist.’
‘Very funny. You know what I mean.’
‘I know exactly what you mean. And yes, he was
hot. He was also painfully straight and shamelessly parading his heterosexuality for all the world to see.’
‘How disgraceful! You’d think all the hot men would have got that gay memo by now.’
‘My thoughts exactly. So how’s London?’
‘Warm. Sunny. And I’m stuck at my desk, staring out of the window at people making the most of the weather. Don’t these people have jobs?’
Tom chuckles. ‘Poor Em! Have you missed me?’
‘Hardly. You’ve only been gone a few days.’
‘A lot can happen in a few days. I could be abducted by pirates. Speaking of which, you’ll never guess who I ran into last night.’
‘No idea.’
‘Guess.’
‘Jake Gyllenhaal? Ryan Reynolds?’
‘That waiter from the restaurant. He was dressed as a pirate. And I have to say, he wore it well.’
‘I’m surprised you can remember him,’ Emma says.
‘I never forget a pretty face.’
‘Really? I’d have thought they’d all merge into one after a certain point.’
‘Ms Norton! Are you slut-shaming me?’
‘As if!’ Emma pauses. ‘Have you heard from her?’
‘Her?’
‘You know who I mean.’
Tom’s pulse quickens. ‘Yes, I know who you mean. And no, I haven’t. Why do you ask?’
‘Just checking, that’s all. I remember you saying you were worried she’d breach her restraining order.’
‘Well, she hasn’t. Not so far, anyway.’
‘That’s a relief.’ Emma draws in her breath, like someone about to make a big announcement. ‘Listen, I’ve been doing a bit of research, reading up on female stalkers.’
‘Have you, now?’
‘Apparently they all have certain characteristics in common. They tend to be single, heterosexual, highly educated women who suffer from some kind of mental illness or personality disorder.’
Tom sighs. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘Hang on,’ Emma says. ‘Let me just pull up this article.’ There’s a moment’s silence, then she’s back. ‘Right, so the thing I found most interesting is the way they select their victims. Male stalkers will stalk anyone. It might be someone they’ve had some kind of prior relationship with, in which case the stalking is an attempt to restore the same level of intimacy. Or it might be a total stranger – a woman they’ve only ever seen from a distance or on the TV. With female stalkers, it’s different. They tend to latch on to men they already know – a work colleague or an acquaintance of some sort, someone they feel safe with. According to this psychiatrist, they’re not trying to restore intimacy, they’re trying to create it. Often they’re driven by loneliness, jealousy, fear of abandonment and anger at what they perceive as some kind of betrayal by the object of their obsession.’
A familiar feeling of anxiety stirs in Tom’s stomach. He scans the surrounding area, half expecting Evie to appear from behind one of the market stalls and walk towards him with that crooked smile on her face.
‘Tom? Are you there?’
He lifts the phone closer to his mouth. ‘I am.’
‘I think she’s suffering from de Clérambault’s syndrome. Otherwise known as erotomania.’
‘I know what de Clérambault’s syndrome is. What I’d like to know is why you’re telling me this.’
‘Well, it helps explain her behaviour, doesn’t it? And the thing is, people with her condition are rarely violent.’
‘And you’d know, would you?’
Emma’s voice falters. ‘I’m just telling you what I read. I thought it might help.’
‘Remember John Hinckley?’ Tom says. ‘He tried to assassinate Ronald Reagan. And do you know why? Because he was fixated with Jodie Foster. It was reported that Hinckley was suffering from erotomania and believed that shooting the president would somehow endear him to the object of his desire.’
‘Oh.’
‘Exactly. Oh. So please spare me the amateur psychology. I think I know who I’m dealing with, far better than you do.’ Tom pauses. ‘Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.’
‘That’s okay,’ Emma says hurriedly. ‘I didn’t mean to go on. I just found it interesting, that’s all. I’m glad she’s stopped bothering you. At least now you can get back to normal.’
Tom forces a laugh. ‘Or as normal as I ever get.’
He begins to walk faster as he talks, scanning the road ahead, searching each face, each doorway. He feels the warmth of the late-afternoon sun on his face and is suddenly tempted by the thought of a chilled glass of wine and a bite to eat on the terrace at The White Rock. He hadn’t planned on drinking today but he needs something to take the edge off. Besides, it’s not every day a man is mugged by marauding seagulls, and he owes himself a reward for all the progress he’s made on his book.
Emma must have read his mind. ‘I’m glad the writing is going well.’
‘Me too,’ he replies, eager to draw the conversation to a close. ‘Actually, I should probably be getting back to it.’
‘Well, don’t let me keep you.’
‘Are you okay?’ Tom asks.
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘You sound odd. You’re not angry because I snapped at you just now, are you? I said I was sorry.’
Emma sighs. ‘No. It’s nothing to do with you. Long day at work. I can’t wait to get home and put my feet up. I’m fine, really.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure. Now go and write.’
‘I will,’ Tom says. But he knows he won’t. He pictures the chilled glass of wine waiting for him at The White Rock and can’t wait for the comfort it will bring.
17
DAY 18 (712 DAYS REMAINING)
I’ve been thinking about something my therapist said. She wants to get to the root of my behaviour – as if I’m some plant which has failed to flower and whose roots must now be dug up and examined for signs of disease. Rose, thou are sick. Evie, thou art sicker!
I’m not convinced that I am sick. If you ask me, I’m pretty robust. Not entirely disease resistant, of course. But I’m no wilting, shrinking violet either. I’m more like a wildflower or a hardy perennial. I’ll thrive anywhere. You could take cuttings from me and they would root easily, without the need for fertile ground or rooting powder. If I should ever go to seed – and looking at myself in the mirror these days, this seems a distinct possibility – little versions of me would spring up in the cracks between paving stones. I’ll grow where others fail to germinate. Remember that song by Pulp, ‘Weeds’? That’s me. Invasive. Unstoppable. I would flower on wasteland.
As for the mother plant, that’s a different story. I think of my mother as a hot-house flower, requiring perfect growing conditions and regular feeding. Liquid feed was her favourite, of course – especially the alcoholic variety. She demanded lots of loving care and attention. My poor father tended to her the way one might fawn over a tender fern or a rare exotic orchid. Though whenever I think of her I picture a Venus flytrap – vicious, snapping, deadly. She preyed on us the way a carnivorous plant preys on small insects.
Of course, I don’t discuss my mother in these terms with my therapist. I know the drill by now. Keep it simple. Don’t go off on flights of fancy. I think my recent eulogising about Genet sailed dangerously close to a celebration of criminality. Time to rein it in a bit. Time to make a good impression.
So when Maria enquired about my mother, I kept my answers short and to the point.
‘We never really bonded,’ I said. ‘I think she found me a burden. We didn’t have much in common, and she wasn’t exactly the maternal sort. Parenting didn’t come easily to her.’
‘Do you think she may have been suffering from postnatal depression?’ my therapist asked. As if this would explain my mother’s actions during those early years. As if this would excuse the many crimes she committed and cruel things she did.
‘She may well have
been,’ I replied. ‘But the poor thing was already addicted to Valium by then, so it was hard to tell.’
This was a lie, of course. My mother’s addictions were many and varied. Women who are addicted to Valium tend to be chilled out and pretty malleable most of the time. My mother was anything but.
‘It must have been difficult, growing up with a mother like that,’ Maria said.
‘I didn’t grow up with her,’ I replied. ‘She left when I was ten. First she drove my father away. Then when he came back, she fucked off. But you know what they say – what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’
‘Even so. It must have been difficult for you when she left.’
‘On the contrary, the day she walked out it felt as if my life was just beginning.’
‘And was that the last time you saw her?’
What could I say? Anything even close to the truth carried the risk of incrimination – not just for me, but for my dad too. So I lied. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That was the last time I saw her.’
I hoped that this would draw a line under this particular subject, but Maria wasn’t giving up so easily. She gave me one of her sympathetic looks and asked, ‘When you think about your mother, what do you think of?’
What was I supposed to say? I know plenty of women have fond memories of their mothers. The mother-daughter relationship is one of those sacred bonds in our society. It’s why the mother of Madeleine McCann is often given a hard time by the press and general public. What kind of mother would leave her precious daughter unattended? My own mother made Kate McCann look like Mother of the Year. Her maternal instincts were nonexistent. Her tongue was sharper than a razor. And she had plenty of other sharp objects at her disposal – a whole arsenal of them, in fact.