Shameless

by Paul Burston

  She released the pause button and felt her heart sink as Dylan’s voice flooded into her living room. “Hi, Caz,” he said, sounding far too familiar for her liking. He knew perfectly well that she hated people calling her “Caz.” She had told him as much only a couple of days ago. And now here he was calling her up at home, invading her privacy, and winding her up with his “Caz” this and his “Caz” that. Well, she wasn’t having any of it. She didn’t have to listen to this. Before the message could play on any further, before Dylan completely contaminated her living room with his overly familiar voice and his deliberate misuse of the horrible nickname she had left behind her all those years ago, she pressed the delete button and wiped away all trace of him for good. She felt much better after that, and spent the rest of the evening slowly unwinding with several more vodkas and a late-night film called The Net. The film starred Sandra Bullock as a lonely computer programmer who accidentally taps into some secret government files and suddenly discovers that people are out to kill her. It was one of those silly thrillers that played on the fear that, in the age of e-mail and mass telecommunications, someone sitting in front of a computer screen somewhere could learn everything there was to know about you. But Caroline had a soft spot for films featuring spunky career girls, even if they were played by someone as sickeningly winsome as Sandra Bullock, and she soon found herself suspending disbelief in the film’s faintly ludicrous premise and rooting for Sandra to beat the bad guys.

  It was a couple of hours later, just as she was drifting off to sleep, that Caroline suddenly remembered the document she had been writing at work when her boss walked in. The document in which she described breaking up with Graham. The document in which she described Sophie’s forthcoming wedding as “not terribly important.” The document in which she referred to herself as only having had two orgasms in three months. The document in which she admitted taking too many drugs. The document in which she confessed to becoming a prostitute. The document that, if her memory served her correctly, was still displayed on her computer screen, and from which her work colleagues could learn, if not everything there was to know about her, then certainly a lot more than she would like them to know.

  “This party is so boring,” John said with a dramatic sigh. John had a sigh for every occasion, and quite a few put aside especially for those evenings he didn’t deem worthy of the term “occasion.” Martin was attuned to them all, and immediately recognized this as one of those special sighs. “I’d have a line to perk myself up,” John continued, “but it would be a waste of good drugs.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Martin insisted, sipping on his seventh vodka martini and feeling slightly the worse for wear. “The cocktails are nice, and we’ve seen some interesting people.”

  John, who had a far higher tolerance for alcohol but not for people, pulled one of his faces. “You are joking! This is meant to be an A-list event, and the only remotely famous person I’ve spotted all night is Pete bloody Waterman! They’ll be wheeling out Christopher Biggins next, followed by half the cast of EastEnders! Oh, hang on. Now I get it. By ‘interesting people,’ I suppose you mean people you’d like to take home and fuck. Where is your little cowboy anyway?”

  Martin quickly scanned the room. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for a while. Maybe he’s already left.”

  “Yes, well, obviously he’s a lot smarter than he looks. I’d leave, too, if I only knew where to find Fernando. I wish he’d hurry up. I’ve got a flight to New York tomorrow and I really can’t see any point in hanging around here much longer. Oh, fuck it, let’s just go and have a discreet line. At least it’ll give us something to do.”

  Martin knocked back his martini and followed John to the toilets. There was an attendant keeping a watchful eye out for any illegal activities, so John ducked into a stall and chopped two lines of coke, quickly snorting one himself as he flushed the toilet, and leaving one on the seat for Martin. When Martin reemerged, sniffing conspicuously and rubbing his nose, John was helping himself to the attendant’s vast array of colognes and making eyes at the boy in the cowboy hat, who had just walked into the room and was standing with his back to them, studying himself in the mirror.

  Much to Martin’s embarrassment, John reached out and tapped the cowboy on the shoulder. “We were just talking about you,” he said.

  The boy answered without taking his eye off the mirror. “Really?”

  “Yes,” John went on. “My friend was wondering, are you the midnight cowboy?”

  The boy turned and stared at them both evenly for a moment, then glanced at his watch. “Actually, it’s only half past eleven,” he said, looking directly at Martin with a cocky grin. “You’re a little early.” And with that, he disappeared.

  “It sounds to me like you’ve got yourself a date,” John said, nudging Martin in the ribs before pausing in front of the mirror to adjust his head scarf. “Just think, tonight you could be giving a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘ride ’em cowboy’!”

  As they made their way back to the bar, it struck Martin that the line of coke John had just snorted must have been substantially larger than the line he had left him, because suddenly John began talking incessantly about the various gay porn movies he’d seen in which cowboy hats, boots, chaps and stirrups were all featured heavily. “I saw this great one once,” he said. “There was this really cute blond guy who was supposed to be straight, but who was completely shaved all over, right down to his arsehole. I don’t know about you, but I’ve yet to meet a straight man who shaves his arsehole. Most of the straight men I see at the gym can’t even be bothered to trim their pubes. Anyway, this guy is the sheriff of this little town somewhere, and there are these outlaws stealing cattle and running around shooting at everybody, only not with their guns if you catch my drift. You can tell they’re the bad guys because they’re all dressed in black leather. So, the sheriff rounds them up one by one, and they have sex in haystacks and on blackjack tables and the backs of horses and all that kind of thing. And then finally there’s this big group scene in the jailhouse where the outlaws all take it in turns fucking the sheriff, who is just wearing his chaps and is loving every minute of it. Anyway, you’ll never guess what it was called.”

  Martin, who had switched off at the mention of shaved arseholes and was busy surveying the room for the boy in the cowboy hat, turned and looked at John blankly. “Sorry?”

  “You’ll never guess what it was called,” John said again. “The porn film I was just telling you about. Guess what it was called!”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Bunfight at the OK Corral!” John cried and fell about laughing. “Get it? ‘Bunfight’!”

  Martin smiled weakly. “Yeah, that’s really funny.”

  “Oh, just forget it, then!” John said crossly. “I was just trying to help pass the time. But if that’s your attitude, I won’t bother. I’m off to look for Fernando. If I don’t see you through the week, I’ll see you through the window.”

  Martin looked confused. “Window? What window?”

  “It’s just an expression,” John snapped and flounced off.

  Martin was about to run after him when suddenly the crowd parted to reveal the boy in the cowboy hat standing a few feet away at the end of the bar. He appeared to be deep in conversation with one of the girls from earlier, but when he spotted Martin, he immediately stopped talking and gave a little grin. Still maintaining eye contact, he whispered something to the girl and sauntered over. Judging by the way he walked, Martin was pretty certain that he didn’t have a wooden leg.

  “Hello again,” the cowboy said. “What happened to your friend? No, don’t tell me. He’s gone and found someone else to poke fun at.”

  “Oh, John’s all right, really,” Martin replied, suddenly feeling much happier and more generous of spirit. “He’s just a bit full-on sometimes, that’s all. I’m Martin, by the way.”

  “Ben. But you can call me the midnight cowboy if it makes you happy.”
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  Martin blushed. “I’m sorry about that. It’s just John’s sense of humor. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Ben frowned. “Really? That’s a pity. I thought it was his way of getting us two to talk. I thought maybe you were hoping to get to know me a bit better.”

  “It was,” Martin said quickly. “I was. I mean, I am. What I mean is . . .”

  “It’s okay,” Ben smiled and placed a hand on Martin’s arm. “I know what you mean.”

  “Yes, of course. Good.” Martin laughed nervously and tried to think of something to say. “So what do you do?” he said finally.

  “Well, I’m not a real cowboy. And to be honest with you, nothing bores me more than talking about work. Look, I know it isn’t quite midnight yet, but what would you say if I suggested we leave this dreary party now and go somewhere more private?”

  Martin grinned. “I’d say that sounds like a great idea.”

  Fifteen

  Martin woke up at 5:30 A.M. with a dead mouse in his mouth and no idea of where he was. Then he remembered. The sour, furry taste in his mouth was the hangover from all those vodka martinis, and he was at the cowboy’s house, somewhere in the wilds of west London, possibly near Chiswick. The journey back last night was a blur. He vaguely recalled leaving the party and walking up to Shaftesbury Avenue to hail a cab. But after that, it was just odd moments, a giddy collage of images like the view over the river, or the sudden glint of a front-door key. Even the sex was a hazy memory of bruised lips and thrashing limbs, torn condom wrappers and pounding flesh. Had it really been that violent? The soreness of his nipples suggested that it had, but there must have been some tenderness, too, surely? Or if not tenderness, then at least some contentment in the pleasure they had given one another, possibly even a little joy? Had they kissed before falling asleep? And when they drifted off, were their bodies still entwined or at opposite sides of the bed? He couldn’t remember.

  He rolled over to find the cowboy still sleeping heavily. Martin had never seen anyone sleep quite so heavily, or in such an awkward position. He was lying facedown with his neck twisted at an odd angle and his arms close to his sides, palms facing upward, the way bodies were sometimes discovered in detective films. He was definitely breathing, which was a good sign. There was a trace of spittle in the corner of his mouth and a blob of mascara on his cheek. His eyelids were shut tight. Beneath them, his eyes flickered and rolled, suggesting that he was dreaming—of what, Martin hardly dared imagine. It would be nice to think that he was featured in there somewhere—nice, but not very likely. The chances were he was dreaming of some previous encounter, or perhaps even some man who had walked into his life and turned everything upside down, the way Christopher had when Martin first met him. Maybe the cowboy had been hurt, too, Martin thought. Maybe his cockiness was just a front, a way to disguise his fear of rejection. Maybe he was searching for someone, too. It was a romantic thought, but then from where Martin was sitting, it was a pretty romantic picture. During the night, the glitter from the cowboy’s cheeks had rubbed off onto the pillow, surrounding his face with a silver glow. In the strange half light, he looked pale, wounded, almost alien, as if somehow he had just landed there during the night—The Cowboy Who Fell to Earth. Ben—the cowboy’s name was Ben. And as he lay there, white and fragile and clearly not the kind of person who would run off with a male prostitute, Martin had a strong sense that falling in love with him would be the easiest thing in the world.

  Feeling the need to pee, he slid quietly out of bed and padded out into the hallway, looking for the bathroom. There was a shaft of light spilling through an open door at the end of the hall and he walked toward it, shivering slightly in his Calvins and feeling like an intruder. It was like that when you woke up in someone else’s house, especially when it was someone you hardly knew. Without them standing beside you, talking you through the color scheme for the living room or trying to lure you into the bedroom, you were divorced from your surroundings, out of context, completely alone. Even the photographs on the wall seemed to conspire to make you feel out of place. Faces you’d never seen before, people you’d never met, places you’d never been—each one reminded you that you didn’t belong here, that this wasn’t your natural habitat, that you were merely passing through. It was at times like these that Martin was grateful for the familiar gay trappings of tasteful watercolors, funky ethnic bric-a-brac and track lighting. Sadly, Ben didn’t appear to have any of these—just a plain white hallway with a few clip-framed photographs of himself posing with various friends and family, none of whom made Martin feel particularly welcome.

  The bathroom was pretty disgusting. Whatever Ben did for a living, he clearly didn’t believe in wasting his hard-earned cash on home improvements. There was a heavy buildup of lime scale around the rim of the toilet and along one side of the bath. The linoleum flooring was worn through in several places, the bathroom mirror had a large crack running from top to bottom, and a solitary damp towel hung on the back of the door. Martin hesitated before gently flushing the toilet and then turning to examine his face in the mirror. He wasn’t looking too good—not much better than the bathroom, in fact. The hangover was etched deep into his features. That was the trouble with cocktails—the wider the variety of alcohol consumed the night before, the greater the damage in the morning. Far better to stick with vodka. He could wake up practically embalmed in vodka and not look nearly as bad as he did now. There were dark rings around his eyes, and his skin had the kind of deathly pallor usually associated with serious liver damage. Battleship gray, John called it.

  He searched for some mouthwash to disguise the taste in his mouth, and wasn’t the least bit surprised when he couldn’t find any. He knew better than to use a stranger’s toothbrush (these days it wasn’t just rude but potentially dangerous), so he squeezed some toothpaste onto the tip of his index finger and ran it around his teeth and gums until his mouth tasted suitably minty. He did the breath-in-hand test and was relieved to find that the sour smell was barely detectable. There wasn’t a lot he could do to combat the other effects of his hangover, except splash some cold water on his face and hope that the sudden shock would get his circulation going. As he patted his face dry with the towel, he recognized the faint smell of mold.

  Hearing the creaking of bedsprings from the bedroom, he padded back along the hall and opened the door. Ben was sitting up in bed, arms outstretched, mouth wide open, yawning silently like a cat. His eyes, when he opened them, were still glazed with sleep and slightly red. Seeing Martin standing at the bottom of the bed, he looked puzzled for a moment, then broke into a grin. “Hello,” he said. “Sorry, what’s your name again?”

  Caroline hadn’t slept well. All night long she had been plagued by nightmares involving every authority figure she had ever known gathered around her desk discussing the contents of her document, the state of her mind and the chances of her ever finding another job with a good salary and a decent pension plan. Her boss was there, of course, together with her mother, her headmaster and the store detective who had caught her shoplifting as a teenager from Woolworth’s. Her coke dealer was there, too, which she thought was rather odd considering that, strictly speaking, he didn’t really qualify as an authority figure. Theirs was a relationship based on shared interests and mutual trust. If anything, the balance of power rested more with her, since she was the customer and the customer was always right. Then she remembered that when dealing with class-A substances, the usual laws didn’t always apply. Experience had taught her that, while her coke dealer wasn’t always right, it was usually in everybody’s best interests to act as though he were.

  She climbed out of bed at 6:15 A.M. feeling completely drained, sleepwalked her way into the shower, and had a brief panic attack over what to wear before gulping down a cup of coffee and setting off for the office. To make matters worse, her local minicab firm was having one of those mornings when the only driver who had turned up for work was the one who knew his way to
Peckham but who so far hadn’t been able to find his way back, and so she was forced to take the tube. It was years since she had handed over good money to London Underground in exchange for half an hour’s chronic discomfort, and she resented each minute and every last penny of it. Standing in the overcrowded carriage, caught between a hatchet-faced woman with a rock-chick hairdo and a sweating businessman with a hard-on, she vowed to walk to work rather than catch the tube ever again. At the rate the train was actually moving, it probably wouldn’t take her much longer anyway.

  She alighted the train at Green Park and caught the Piccadilly Line to Leicester Square, where she left the station and headed up into Soho. Cutting across Berwick Street with its fresh vegetable stalls and piss-stained alleyways, she did her best to ignore the signs advertising live nude models. How much did those girls actually earn anyway? Fifty pounds an hour? Seventy pounds? Whatever it was, it hardly compensated for having to lie down with men like that businessman on the tube, feigning pleasure while they poked away and the scorn in their mean little eyes showed that they considered themselves a million times better than the woman they were fucking. If anyone deserved performance-related pay, it was those girls. It made her feel sick just thinking about it. Was this how Dylan saw her now? Was this what her work colleagues would think of her if they saw that document, that she was some cheap hooker turning a few tricks in Soho after work? What would she do if they had seen it? What should her plan of action be? Try and pass it off as a joke? Claim that she was making notes for a novel, and had used real names as a simple matter of convenience? Insist that it was something she had accidentally downloaded off the Internet, and that she had no idea where it came from or why it referred to a man called Graham who had recently broken up with his girlfriend and a woman called Sophie who just happened to be getting married?