by Paul Burston
‘Not exclusively,’ he replied, as if a few fumbles with the opposite sex were enough to save face and make him more of a man in their eyes. ‘There are plenty of women I find attractive.’
If Evie sensed his discomfort, it didn’t prevent her from labouring the point. ‘But you don’t sleep with them.’
Tom gritted his teeth. ‘On the whole, no. But there’ve been a few.’
‘Was your friend Emma one of the lucky few?’
It may have been the drink talking. It may have been bravado. But it was then that Tom said something he should never have said. Something he’s been quietly regretting ever since.
‘Here we are,’ Colin says, entering the room with two fresh steaming mugs of tea and placing them on the table. Settling down in his armchair, he takes a sip of tea and smiles reassuringly. ‘I was just thinking about something while I waited for the kettle to boil.’
‘What’s that?’ Tom asks.
‘Tell me to mind my own business, but I just wanted to say, there’s no shame in admitting weakness. You were the victim of a crime. It’s bound to affect you.’
Tom’s face burns. ‘I think I’m embarrassed by the fact that it’s a woman.’
‘I don’t see why. Remember that gay chap who was beaten to death in Trafalgar Square?’
‘Ian Baynham.’ Tom nods. Of course he remembers. The case made the national news. There was even a candlelit vigil at the scene of the crime.
‘One of his assailants was a young woman,’ Colin says. ‘Tough as nails, some of them. There’s nothing for you to feel embarrassed about.’
‘I hate to be thought of as a victim.’
‘You’re only a victim if you let it define you, and I’m sure you’re far too clever for that. But if you try to deny your feelings, they won’t go away. They’ll just become all twisted up inside.’ The old man smiles knowingly. ‘You wouldn’t want that, would you?’
‘I guess not.’
They sit in silence for a while. The hot tea warms Tom’s throat and he holds the mug close to his mouth, grateful for something to focus on and to occupy his hands. That was always half the attraction of cigarettes, though he’s not entirely sure his smoking days are completely behind him. The craving is still there – more psychological than physical, but no less powerful. He could use a cigarette right now.
Finally Colin sets down his mug and fixes Tom with his milky blue eyes. ‘I’d like to show you something,’ he says. ‘If I may?’
‘Of course,’ Tom replies, expecting another old photo or a memento of some kind. Instead the old man gently removes his wig, revealing a bald head with fine tufts of white hair at the sides. But that’s not what grabs Tom’s attention. What shocks him is the large crescent-shaped scar on the top left-hand side of the old man’s head; it’s about the size of a clenched fist. The scar tissue is paler than the rest of his scalp and raised slightly, like the ridges of a fossil. At the centre of the scar is an indentation, as if someone has taken a blunt instrument to the old man’s skull.
‘What happened?’ Tom asks, though he already has a pretty good idea.
‘I was attacked,’ Colin replies. ‘It must be over thirty years ago now. It was when I lived in London, near Clapham. I’d gone to the gay pub down by the common, The Two Brewers – perhaps you know it?’
‘Otherwise known as The Two Sewers. Yes, I know it.’
The old man smiles. ‘Not quite your scene? No, it was never quite mine, either. But it was someone’s birthday. I can’t remember whose. My memory is a bit hazy. But I do remember that Graham wasn’t well, which is why I went on my own. The last thing he said to me before I left was “be careful”. They were dangerous times, you see. More so than now. Anyway, it was late – around one o’clock or so. And I’d had a few, as you do. I was walking across the common to my bus stop and they just came out of nowhere. Two men with baseball bats. By the time I realised what was happening, it was too late. I called for help but there was nobody around, or if there was they didn’t want to know. I tried to run, but they were too fast for me. The last thing I remember is a blow to the head, and that was it. I was out cold.’
‘Oh my God,’ Tom says. ‘That’s awful.’
Colin shrugs. ‘It could have been worse. I could have died. I very nearly did. Some man found me an hour or two later. The police said he was out walking his dog, though I’ve often wondered. Who walks their dog in the middle of the night? But he couldn’t have told them what he was really doing there. They might have charged him. The doctors told me my head was the size of a watermelon. Blood everywhere. I was unconscious for days. They had to reconstruct part of my skull. That’s why there’s that bloody great dent at the top. Poor Graham. I’ll never forget the look on his face that day at the hospital. “I thought I’d lost you,” he said. And the truth is, he very nearly did.’
‘Did they ever catch them?’ Tom asks. ‘The men who did it?’
Colin snorts. ‘Did they hell! I don’t think it was high on their list of priorities. And it was no good the police appealing for witnesses. People didn’t trust the police. They were worried that they’d be arrested, or exposed at work and lose their jobs. It was a different world back then. The night I was attacked, the police arrested three men they caught cruising on the common. That’s where their priorities lay. Never mind the poor bastard who’d just had his head smashed in.’
‘How did you cope?’ Tom says. ‘Afterwards?’
‘I was shaken, obviously. I was afraid to leave the house for a while. I kept seeing men with baseball bats on every corner. But what can you do? Life goes on. You have two choices: you either get on with it or you give up. I chose to get on with it.’
Tom nods. A wave of emotion washes over him and he struggles to maintain his composure. He’s already broken down crying once in front of Colin. The last thing he wants is a repeat performance.
‘I’d better be going,’ he says, rising to his feet. ‘Sorry to rush off but I have work to do and I really ought to take a shower.’
‘Well, you know where I am,’ the old man says. ‘Any time you fancy a chat, my door is always open.’
‘Thanks,’ Tom says. ‘And thanks for the tea, and the conversation. It’s been humbling talking to you.’
‘Humbling? Why?’
‘It’s not often I meet a man like you.’
‘A man like me? What am I like?’
Tom blushes. ‘A survivor.’
Colin grins, flashing his too-white teeth. ‘We’re all survivors, aren’t we? Until we die.’
25
It’s almost 10.00 a.m. when Tom leaves Colin’s apartment and heads upstairs. By the time he’s shaved, showered, dressed, has eaten a quick breakfast and is finally settling down at his computer to work, it’s closer to 10.45 a.m. The Guardian article has been live for a little over three hours. But when he checks his Twitter account he sees that it’s already caused quite a stir. More than fifty people have retweeted the link from the newspaper’s Twitter feed, including the journalist herself. Tom knows this because he’s been tagged. His notifications show that dozens more have liked, retweeted or commented on the original post.
The first comment says simply, ‘Brave of these men to speak out’ and has already attracted a number of responses. Most are pretty innocuous. ‘Some crazy bitches out there’, writes one woman. Some are plain stupid. ‘Scared of a woman? LMAO!’ says one man. Others are more aggressive. ‘Women like this need to be taught a lesson’, says one. Another reads, ‘Bitch tried this shit with me she’d be dead!’
Tom swallows. It’s not that long ago that he wished Evie Stokes dead. But there’s a difference between wishing it and threatening it. Seeing it spelt out like this leaves a nasty taste in his mouth.
Further down the thread, he sees that someone has tagged her, adding ‘Pleased to see this pathetic troll finally got what’s coming to her’. Several others have liked the comment or responded with further insults. ‘No wonder she hides behind stock photos�
��, says one. ‘Imagine the face on it!’ Someone responds, ‘Never mind the face. Imagine the twat! #shudder’. Another says, ‘Mad bitch wants locking up’. A fourth man suggests a hashtag, #FuckEvie and calls for people to hound the ‘evil cunt’ off Twitter. ‘No place for hate’, he adds, with no apparent sense of irony.
If Stokes has seen these tweets, she hasn’t responded – at least not so far as Tom can see. He feels a pang of pity tinged with guilt and has to remind himself that she brought all this on herself. The online abuse she’s getting now is nothing compared to the abuse she dished out to him. He recalls some of the tweets she sent – the ugly words, the way she’d tag as many people as possible to maximise his humiliation and increase the chances of him seeing what she’d written when someone replied. He isn’t comfortable with what he’s seeing now. The misogyny makes him squirm, and the bullying way people are ganging up on her sends shivers of recognition down his spine. But he isn’t responsible for any of this. Twitter can be a real viper’s nest. She of all people should know that. She thrives on it. Didn’t she like to boast about the number of people who’d blocked her? Wasn’t she thrilled when one of her blog posts caused a Twitter storm, attracting an avalanche of hostile comment? ‘Writing should provoke people’, she used to say. ‘Everything else is just PR.’
Tom keeps telling himself this as he watches the number of retweets rise sharply and other Twitter users pile in with further insults. People are calling for her blood now. Men are competing to see who can come up with the most offensive putdowns. She’s a ‘stupid cunt’, a ‘pig ugly troll’, a ‘mad bitch’ who should be ‘put out of her misery’. A few women try to challenge some of the language used and are shouted down, dismissed as ‘feminazis’ or lesbians who ‘need a good seeing to’.
A coil of anxiety tightens in Tom’s stomach. He wishes he wasn’t tagged in these posts, but short of muting or blocking everyone who shares or comments, there’s not a lot he can do. At least most people seem sympathetic to his situation. Though knowing Twitter, it won’t be too long before the tide turns and the storm changes direction. He’s seen it happen a thousand times. Unless of course it all blows over by lunchtime, eclipsed by the latest terror attack, natural disaster or celebrity sex scandal. Here’s hoping.
He logs off Twitter and quickly checks his emails before turning off the Wi-Fi on his laptop and putting his phone on silent. With a bit of luck he may even finish his book today. Time to focus on what really matters. Time to write.
Maybe it’s the welcome distraction from all the crap on Twitter. Maybe it’s the relief at having unburdened himself to Colin, and the reminder that life is short so he should stop messing about and just get on with it. Maybe it’s that mystical state of mind every writer longs for but few are able to describe in terms that don’t make them sound like a total wanker. But upstairs in his rented flat, Tom finally pushes through whatever’s been holding him back these past few days and experiences that rare sensation of being possessed by the spirit of a story he’s been chosen to tell – words he would never repeat to a third party, for fear of ridicule. He writes quickly, the words falling over themselves, faster than his fingers can type. All the pent-up emotion he’s been storing for months pours into his writing. He loses all track of time until suddenly he’s at the end of the last paragraph to the final chapter of the book.
Tom sits back in his chair, hits the return key twice and types the words ‘THE END’. There are few things in life more satisfying than this, and he pauses to savour the moment before the usual doubts start creeping in. He has a sudden craving for a celebratory cigarette – but that would mean going to the shop and committing to a pack of twenty, and he knows his lungs won’t thank him for it. What he needs is a new ritual, one that won’t fill him with carcinogens and self-loathing. The clock at the top of his screen says the time is just past 2.00 p.m. It’s a bit early for a drink. and there’s not much fun in cracking open a bottle of champagne on his own. The celebrations will have to wait.
He closes the laptop and rises from his chair. For now at least, the book is complete. He can reread the final chapter later and make any necessary adjustments. Reaching for his phone, he turns it on and sees that there are two missed calls and two voicemails. The first is from Emma and was left shortly after 11.00 a.m.
‘Tom, it’s me. I’ve seen the article. Look, I know you think you’re justified in doing this, and I’ve tried to see it from your point of view, I really have. But I’m your friend and I have to tell you I think you’re making a big mistake. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. I’m assuming you’ve seen what’s happening on Twitter, so you’ll know what I’m talking about. If not, go and take a look. But please, don’t respond. Don’t make this any worse. Just stay out of it, please. Call me when you get this message. Okay, bye.’
Great, Tom thinks. His best friend, and she’s more concerned about the woman who harassed him than with his personal welfare. How can Emma be so disloyal? He thought she had his back. Evidently he thought wrong.
The second call is from his agent, and the contrast couldn’t be more striking.
‘Tom, darling! It’s Lucinda. Great piece in the Guardian today. I’ve had Woman’s Hour on the phone. They’d like you on the show tomorrow. Call me.’
He hits the call-back button and is surprised when he’s put through to her immediately. ‘Tom! Just the man I want to speak to. How’s that wonderful new book coming along? You know I’m dying to read it.’
‘It’s finished,’ he replies, and immediately wishes he’d played for more time. What if he reads over it later and decides it still needs work?
‘Wonderful news!’ Lucinda says. ‘So you’ll send it to me this afternoon?’
‘I’d like a day or two to go over it one last time, if that’s alright.’
‘Of course. Why don’t you do that, but send it to me today anyway. I’m out of the office for a few days, and I can’t wait to get stuck in. Besides, you’ll be too busy tomorrow with Woman’s Hour.’
‘About that,’ Tom says. ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea?’
‘It’s a great idea. They loved the Guardian piece, and you’re obviously the go-to man on this.’
‘But that’s just it. I’m not sure I want to be.’
Lucinda pauses. Tom is sure he can hear her fingernails tapping on the phone. This is not a good sign. Lucinda tapping her nails is like a cat whipping its tail or a dog baring its teeth. Warning sign. Danger approaching. Then she laughs – a deep, throaty chuckle that contains very little warmth. ‘Tom, darling. This is a great opportunity. The BBC haven’t exactly been beating a path to your door lately. Do this and it might lead to other things. It’s time we got you back in the saddle.’
Immediately Tom pictures himself being thrown from a horse. ‘Yes, of course,’ he says, imagining cracked ribs and a broken collar bone. ‘Tell them I’d be happy to go on.’
His agent practically coos her approval. ‘Wonderful! I’ll have the researcher call you. And I look forward to seeing the book.’
‘I’ll get right onto it,’ Tom replies, but she’s already gone.
He doesn’t get right onto it. For the next ten minutes he sits and stares, wondering why on earth he has allowed himself to be coerced into doing something he’d rather not do. He’s not a regular listener to Woman’s Hour but he has a feeling they’ll be far more interested in Evie’s side of the story than his. What would drive a woman to behave the way she did? How does it feel to be on the receiving end of so much abuse from misogynistic trolls on Twitter? What’s the feminist angle on this? Is the patriarchy somehow to blame?
A loud bleep snaps him out of his reverie, announcing the arrival of a text message. Tom glances at his phone, sees Emma’s name flash up.
Where r u? the text reads. Call me.
A surge of irritation lifts him from his chair and marches him into the kitchen. The craving for a cigarette is stronger than ever, but he takes a few deep breaths and pours himself a glass o
f water. Returning to the living room, he snatches up the phone and calls Emma’s number. She answers on the second ring.
‘Great news,’ he says. ‘I’ve finished the book.’
‘Good for you.’
‘That doesn’t sound very sincere. I thought you’d be pleased.’
Her tone softens. ‘I am pleased. Seriously. Well done. That’s great news.’
‘I sense a but.’
Emma sighs. ‘I assume you’ve seen what’s been happening on Twitter?’
‘I glanced at it earlier.’
‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’
‘Are you happy with your handiwork? All those men bullying her like that?’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Tom says, pacing the room as he talks. ‘I’m not responsible for any of that. She’s the one who committed a crime, not me. All I did was tell the truth.’
‘Is that all you did? Really?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Emma pauses. ‘I wish you hadn’t spoken to that journalist. I tried to warn you, Tom. I told you it wasn’t a good idea.’
‘Yes, you did. But I’m a free agent and I make my own decisions. I happen to think it was the right decision. And just so you know, I’ve been asked to go on Woman’s Hour tomorrow.’
Emma’s tone is despairing. ‘Oh, Tom. Why?’
‘Why do you think? To talk about what happened to me. To share my experience with their listeners.’
‘I meant, why do it?’
‘I know exactly what you meant. You’d rather I just shut up about it. But I won’t. Why should I?’
‘Stop it, Tom. Please, just stop it. Before things get any worse.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’re devoting so much of your time to this. You’re letting it take over your life. You’re letting her take over your life. Is that what you really want?’