Nicholas and old Mr. Hall—who now tells me to call him Lewis— have asked about Mum, but I don’t want to talk. Robin, the straight psychologist whom I’ve privately labelled Mr. Pass-for-Gay, has invited me to have a chat sometime about my current situation—no delving into the past, just a survey of present hot-spots—but I’m not playing. Sorry, mates, but I’ve got to focus on holding myself together and I’ll do it my way, not yours.
In some ways I’m not doing too badly. I’ve got my money—Susanne’s emergency wheeze worked. I’m out of hospital and convalescing in a brilliant safe house, a large flat at the top of the St. Benet’s Rectory. The house itself has a full security system plus a panic-button which connects directly with the nearest police station so I feel I can relax, and soon I realise no one’s coming after me anyway. With Asherton’s arrest his empire’s collapsed.
On my arrival at the Rectory I’m introduced to Nicholas’s young second wife, Alice, a curvy piece with a nice nature. It turns out she was originally an outsider, just like Carta and me, someone who was lassoed by The Bloke and drawn into the St. Benet’s circle. Alice, Carta and I— we’re all outsiders whom The Bloke scooped up, a tiny fraction of all the millions he scoops up globally in the daily grind of making the world come right, and so when I look at Alice I see someone special, like Carta—another companion for me on the journey.
Alice has done her duty as a clergyman’s wife by making up beds in two bedrooms of the safe house, but I say to Susanne: “Okay if we save on laundry bedwise?” and she says: “I don’t mind.” So that’s all right. Being without sex in hospital has done my head in so as soon as I’m no longer one big flop I do some catching up on lost time.
It’s bliss without the paid sex but weird without all the sexual activity. Even though I’ve got Susanne my body doesn’t know what to do with itself when I’m not shagging her. It’s so used to being revved up—I suppose I’m hooked on my own adrenaline, and what I’m missing now isn’t the sex but the adrenaline rush. I start drinking more to calm myself down, but Susanne watches me like a cat eyeballing a mouse so I know she’ll pounce if I overdo it—and I don’t want to overdo it, I want to get fit and look good again, not just for my own sake but for her sake too. She deserves more than just a pathetic bloke with eating problems who turns himself into a lush.
Curvy Alice, who’s a cordon bleu cook, brings me some delicious snacks to help my convalescence along, but although Susanne and I are invited down for meals in the main part of the house, I always say no. Can’t face anyone except Susanne for longer than five minutes. Can’t even face Carta (now reunited with Sad Eric, yuk, don’t want to think of him). It takes all my energy to face the police. Have to see them for more than five minutes at a stretch, no choice, they keep dropping in when their investigation reveals new facts they need to talk to me about—and their investigation has just turned up a new fact which sends the media into overdrive.
The forensic teams have been digging up the floor of Asherton’s S&M dungeon, and they discover that Jason and Tony weren’t the only blokes he snuffed.
I suppose I should have anticipated this. I knew about the “chickens” who were recruited for the S&M games, but I assumed they’d been released afterwards, too terrified to talk. And maybe for most of them this really did happen. But maybe others died during the games, and that was when Asherton realised making snuff movies gave him the biggest buzz of all.
Horrendous. Horrendous. I’m shocked to pieces all over again, and this time I feel as if someone’s saying to me: “What are you doing walking around when all these other blokes have died?” Susanne says this is survivor’s guilt and I should get counselling. But I can’t face that. I just blot it out by heading for a high-stress interview which I can no longer avoid.
It’s time to see the Reverend Gilbert Tucker at his vicarage near Blackfriars Bridge.
I’d called Gil from hospital to say I was out of action but I’d phone him later to fix a date when we could meet. (Since Asherton had been arrested by then there was no longer any need to worry about the romp.) That took care of Gil for the time being.
When I finally make the promised phone call I cut off all his questions and just say: “Can I come to your place at six tonight?” and when he says “yes” I hang up. I know I’m being a coward, but in view of what I’ve got to do to him I can’t just chat away about nothing.
I’ve worked out I’ve got to tell him everything, but I’m not being driven by sadism, I’m being driven by a desire to ensure there are some mistakes he never makes again. I’ve got to shock him rigid. I’ve got to drill it into that romantic, idealistic head of his that clergymen are too vulnerable to mess around with prostitutes, and as for falling in love with one . . . No, Gil needs to wise up fast, poor sod, but who would have thought saving him would be so painful? I feel I’m sweating blood before I even arrive on his doorstep.
Susanne comes too, just in case the trip proves too much for me in my weakened state. We take a cab to Fleetside, where the vicarage stands next to St. Eadred’s church, and we arrive at one minute past six. I’m carrying the shopping bag of tapes and looking as if I’ve just come from the supermarket.
Gil joyfully flings open the door.
He looks at me, looks at Susanne, looks back at me again. His shining eyes go dead. His smile fades. If he were a puppy his tail would stop its whizzy-wag and slump deep between his legs.
“Sorry, Gil,” I mutter. “Sorry, but I’ll try and keep it brief. Can we come in?”
When he nods, unable to speak, I add over my shoulder as I pass him: “This is my girlfriend Susanne. Is there a place where she can wait while we talk?”
This practical question helps him get his act together. He shows Susanne into a little sitting-room by the front door and takes me across the hall into a room which is clearly his study. As soon as the door’s closed I hand over the videos. He takes them out of the shopping bag one by one and when they’re all on his desk he stands staring at the pile.
Then I lay the facts on the line.
When I finish he’s frozen with horror and his pallor has a greenish tinge. Great. Just what I wanted. But you poor sod, I’m so sorry.
What’s he going to do? If he breaks down I won’t be able to stand it, I’ll have to cut and run, but that’ll be terrible because afterwards I’ll hate myself. If only we can somehow end this with dignity—
“It’s hard to find the words to thank you,” he says, bringing the agonising silence to an end. “You were a real hero, thinking of those tapes even when you were in such danger. I’ll always be in your debt.”
“No. I got you into this mess so it was right I got you out of it. You owe me nothing.”
We go on sitting in that quiet clerical study with the tapes stacked between us, the remembrance of pornographic times past, but at last he says: “The best thing of all here is that you’ve stopped selling yourself. That’s what I’ve prayed for ever since we met.” He hesitates but manages to add in a firm voice: “I’ll keep praying for you, of course, and I wish you every success in your new life. I hope you’ll be very happy.”
I don’t even try to comment on this. Worried about him breaking down, was I? Shit, I’m the one on the verge of being the water-fairy here. Standing up I mumble idiotically: “Thanks, mate. Good luck. Cheers.”
Then I’m out of that study, I’m collecting Susanne, I’m leaving that house in double-quick time before Gil can reduce me to rubble.
“You were right,” I say to Susanne as we collapse into a cab. “Breaking hearts is a shitty activity.” I feel as if someone ruthless has handed me a pair of spectacles which makes it impossible for me now to see people as mere lumps of meat. My capacity for empathy’s been stretched so hard I could yell with the pain.
“I suppose that so long as I was denying my own pain I was denying other people’s,” I say. “Or was I trying to take my pain out on those other people? But perhaps that’s just saying the same thing in a different way.”
>
“Huh?”
“Nothing. I just wish I could talk to Nicholas about Gil but I can’t, it would be a breach of confidence.”
“Oh, stop worrying about that stupid Gilbert! He’ll wake up, realise how bloody lucky he’s been and make sure he gives all tarts a wide berth in future. Happy ending.”
I suppose she’s right. But I still wish Nicholas could learn about Gil’s mess somehow and give the poor bastard a helping hand . . .
The next day I receive a letter addressed to Mr. Gavin Blake, St. Benet’s Church, London EC2, and at the bottom of the envelope someone’s printed PLEASE FORWARD, as if the writer has no idea I’m living at the Rectory.
Unfolding the letter I read: “Hi Gav—I read the news in the papers, oh God all those bodies, who’d have thought he really did do snuffies, I nearly barfed all over my newspaper—listen, I didn’t grass you up, I swear it, I never even found those brochures under the floorboard, I swear that too—well, I swore it to Elizabeth, but oh God that made her crosser than ever—she screamed at me to get out before she got Asherton to fix me, so I packed up, but when I was leaving I heard her on the phone, she was in her bedroom, nowhere near the office where Susanne was, she—Elizabeth, I mean—she was talking to Asherton, telling him to come and get you, saying you had to go the same way as Jason and Tony, and oh God of course I tried to call you, but you must of switched off the phone at Austin Friars or maybe you weren’t picking up, and when I tried to call the house later, the line was dead, I suppose Tommy did something to it to stop you dialling 999, and oh God I never had your mobile number, did I, so there was no way I could get in touch, but Gav I was in agony, truly I was—maybe I should of gone to the police but I’m so nervous of being fitted up—I did call them anonymous but they probably thought it was a crank call and anyway by that time it was probably too late—oh God the relief later when I found out you’d survived, I just broke down and sobbed until my mate at the pub, the one I’m staying with, threatened to throw me out, and I didn’t want that, specially as I don’t know how I’ll ever get another job, but never mind, all that matters is you’re safe, but Gav I just want to say one thing more and that’s this— I know you thought Elizabeth loved you but she didn’t, I was the one who loved you and always will for ever but you don’t have to see me again, that’s okay, though if you want to write me a line to my mate’s address (see above) I’d be ever so happy to hear from you and maybe we could have a drink sometime because you’re a great bloke, the best, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, take care, NIGEL.”
I sigh, remembering those cosseted days when my clothes were always clean in the closet and nutritious meals were always waiting for me at the right time in the kitchen. I remember too how Nigel nobly let me have charge of the zapper when we watched mindless TV together. I’ll miss him.
But the information he provides is too important not to pass on to the police. Sorry, Nige, I know you’ve got a police phobia, but they’ve got nothing on you this time and you’re not about to be banged up again in the perv-wing of a horror jail. Showing the letter to Susanne I say: “Here’s a witness who heard Elizabeth ordering my murder.”
“You’ll never get that silly little shit to testify!”
“He’ll do it for me if he’s sure the police won’t fit him up for kiddiefiddling.”
“If I had my way I’d see he was fitted up for life!”
“But he put all the paedo stuff aside! He fell in love with me instead!”
“Only because he knew you’d never want to have sex with him.”
I have an uncomfortable feeling this is a shrewd insight, but I don’t pursue it. Instead I write back to Nigel: “Dear old friend, thanks for your letter. Good to know you’re safe. It’s okay, I did realise you told Elizabeth as little as possible and wouldn’t have grassed me up over the brochures. About the job: don’t sell yourself short. You’re a great valet. Go to a top domestic agency. I’ll give you a knock-out reference.
“Now listen, Nige. It’s all very well you saying you love me, but do you love me enough to testify about that phone conversation you overheard? And the answer had better be yes. Think of all those bodies at the Pain-Palace. And remember: I was nearly one of them.
“Please help, mate. I’m counting on you. Love GAVIN.”
Then I pick up the phone.
I’m not so good after Nigel’s reminded me of my old life. To calm myself I play my favourite tenor aria from The Magic Flute and yes, it’s still beautiful and yes, one day I’ll enjoy listening to it again, but I can’t enjoy it now, it just splits my head open to reveal the black pit of unwanted memories. To try to get relief from my excruciating tension I avoid the booze but find I can’t stop myself sneaking into the kitchen and cutting my forearm with a paring knife.
Disaster. Susanne catches me with the blood flowing and the knife in my hand. She knows just what it means and she’s furious. “If you ever do that again I’ll walk out!” she shouts, and I’m so rattled I have to throw up my dinner but I do it very quietly and she doesn’t hear.
I make a new effort to hold myself together. As soon as my body can take it I start going to the gym—not my old gym but another one on the northern edge of the Barbican. This improves me physically but mentally I’m still so clobbered that when I’m home I can hardly do anything but watch TV. Dimly I begin to realise that this is what I want—it stops me thinking. I get nervous, thinking of the future. I get sick, thinking of the past. All I’ve got is this weird, idle present, but at least Susanne’s here to share it with me.
Susanne’s got a job manhandling a computer for some outfit in the City and she comes home for lunch to make sure I eat. I can’t even think about getting a job until the trial’s over. I need all my strength to stay in one piece.
In contrast Susanne’s not only got a job but she’s developing a hobby—she’s asked Curvy Alice to teach her how to cook. Susanne approves of both Alice and Nicholas, but she doesn’t like Lewis. Interestingly she doesn’t think he’s a repressed gay, but she says he reminds her of some of the punters she knew—lots of interest in hetero stuff but no real empathy with women.
I’m just thinking I’m doing better, successfully holding myself together as I drift towards Christmas, when the bomb drops. Nicholas stops by one evening and tells me Carta’s getting married in January.
“That’s wonderful!” I exclaim, smiling radiantly as soon as I’m told the news.
But it’s not. I feel churned up. I don’t want her to marry that red-headed tosser. To tell the truth, I don’t want her to marry anyone. I’ve faced up to the fact that she’s not for me but I don’t want anyone else to have her either. I want her to be sacred, precious, set aside like a sort of nun, someone whom I can visit every now and then, someone I can rely on to be constantly there for me at all times.
Of course I can’t disclose any of these headbanger’s thoughts, but I feel sad. Well, more than sad. I feel angry with myself for not being a better man, the kind of man who could hook a golden girl like Carta.
I haven’t seen much of her lately. Not her fault. I still can’t cope with the fact that she got back together with Sad Eric—now Cool Eric, Eric the Winner—and I can cope even less with the prospect of her marrying him. In fact the whole situation makes me want to run around smashing things. But I don’t. I binge and throw up instead.
To my horror I now find I’m missing the Life. Of course I never tell anyone this. But I feel so powerless now, whereas in the Life I had power by the cartload—the power to make a lot of money, the power to control those poor sods who paid me, the power to walk into glitzy shops and buy top-of-the-range clothes. I miss all the boosts to my self-esteem too—the boost of hearing my clients gasp that I’m drop-dead sexy, the boost of being told I’m bloody good at what I do, the thrill of hearing Elizabeth croon that I’m wonderful, adorable, the apple of her eye. Okay, I know this is all pathetic, but the trouble is I haven’t yet figured out a substitute for this crap and meanwhile I�
�m feeling I’m nothing any more, just a sad-sack loser who does little else but watch TV because he’s so shit-scared of falling apart.
I know I ought to talk to someone about this, but I’m too frightened of how the conversation might go. Supposing prostitution’s all I’m good for? Supposing I have to go back to it to earn a living but can’t hack it and go nuts? Supposing—
“How are you doing now?” says Nicholas when I’ve finished lying about Carta, and I know he’s giving me the opportunity to talk if I want to. But I can’t.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Brilliant. Better every day.”
But I’m not. I’m getting worse. Eventually Susanne catches me vomiting and I swear I won’t do it again but she says I’ve got to see Dr. Val. Val says it might possibly help if I have a chat with Robin, but I say no, no, I’m fine, and everyone backs off again.
“I’ll be better after the trial,” I insist to Susanne. “After the trial I’ll finally be able to relax and then everything will be terrific, just as it should be.”
Susanne says nothing.
I start to panic. Supposing she leaves me? How would I survive? Even as I pine for Carta, I know I can’t live without Susanne, the girl who tells me I’m not shit—although by this time she must be thinking I am.
In a frenzy of insecurity I start to worry about sex. Am I shagging her too often? Is she secretly thinking oh God, not another fuck? Is she longing to be shot of me altogether?
In agony I mutter: “This okay for you?”
“What?”
“Me wanting sex.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Because if I’m being a pain—”
“I’d say so.”
“You really don’t mind?”
“Oh, stop twittering and start shagging!”
This is hardly rapture, but on the other hand Susanne isn’t the rapturous type. I decide she’s not on the point of walking out but she needs to be encouraged to stay, so the next morning I sneak off to Hatton Garden, where all the jewellers hang out, and buy her a gold ring with a diamond attached.
The Heartbreaker Page 48