‘It’s not all bad,’ Marcus remarked. ‘Sharleeze in 454 will suck cock for any motherfucker, apparently. How very community-minded of her.’
Fortunately, the lift shuddered to a halt and scraped open with a noise that made my sinuses ache. Marcus held the door open again. I looked to Big Man.
‘Right or left?’
He pointed right. He was still ashen and sweaty, and I saw Marcus frown in concern. But there was no way in hell Big Man would allow him to help, so he didn’t bother to suggest it. We accompanied Big Man at glacial speed down the corridor, until we came to flat 312.
Big Man felt in his pocket for his key. It took him an age to get it in the lock, but all I could do was bite my lip and wait. Door finally open, Big Man said, ‘Put the bags down here. I’ll take ’em in.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I told him. ‘You can barely stand.’
And I barged my way on in to Big Man’s home.
Marcus, a good half-minute later, said what I was thinking. ‘Christ almighty. How does anyone live like this?’
The flat was a tip. No – no, tip suggests some kind of order. Bulldozers shifting stuff into neater piles. Bins for recycling. A man helping you to reverse your trailer. In that respect Big Man’s house was nothing like a tip. It was more like his ceiling had been opened up and all the garbage in the world had been dropped through it. You could see one chair. You could see the stovetop, such as it was. I assumed that if I went in his bathroom, I might be able to see the toilet seat. Every other available surface, high and low, was covered with crap. Newspapers, cardboard, magazines, envelopes, bills, the odd dog-eared book, used paper plates and plastic cutlery, crushed takeaway coffee cups, milk cartons, Coke cans, baked bean cans, orange peel, a ripped sock, plastic shopping bags, apple cores, crumpled tissues, phone books, a broken pair of spectacles, encrusted cereal bowls, blackened saucepans, an old shoe covered with mould, things I couldn’t identify covered with mould – and this was just what I saw in only one swift, appalled glimpse of the room.
Big Man made it to the one visible chair and sank down in it. For a moment, he hung his head, trying to get his breath back. Then he turned on the two of us a look of pure hatred and said, ‘No one asked you. So you can fu–’
But I refused to let him finish. ‘I can’t even find a place to put this shopping,’ I told him. ‘You can not live like this!’
‘No one asked you.’
‘Serial killers live better than this! Jeffrey Dahmer had a nicer flat – and he had chopped-up body parts in the vegetable crisper!’
I heard Marcus say, ‘Darrell. Let the man be.’
I turned on him. ‘How can I? How can I let him stay here? For God’s sake!’
‘Darrell, it’s his house. He’s his own man. He’s the one who has the right to decide.’
‘But surely–’ I was flabbergasted. ‘Surely, if this is a council estate – don’t they expect some standards?’
‘If they’ve never received a complaint, I doubt they’d care.’
‘How can they not have–’
Then I glanced across at Big Man and shut my mouth. No one would ever have been in here. Apart from the strong reek of nicotine, it didn’t, surprisingly, smell all that bad; he must get rid of the worst of the waste. He paid his rent on time. He never caused trouble. He was, in almost every respect, a model tenant.
He was looking at me, warily, furiously. He’d kept this secret for God knows how many years, and now, through no fault of his own, he’d been made vulnerable. Suddenly, my heart went out to him.
I held up the shopping. ‘Where do you want this?’
He shrugged. I picked my way over debris and into the kitchenette. There was no clear bench space anywhere. I opened a cupboard and to my amazement found an empty shelf. I realised its emptiness was why he needed to go shopping. The cans in the bags were what he lived on. There were fourteen – baked beans, spaghetti, baked beans and sausages. One each day for lunch, I guessed. One for dinner. I placed them on the shelf and shut the cupboard door.
Marcus caught my eye, and indicated with a nod of his head that we should leave. Big Man was slumped in the chair, but his colour was better, his breathing more regular. Still – even though I knew his shopping would, by his reckoning anyway, last him a week, I was not at all keen for him to be left alone.
Marcus had the front door open. He said, ‘Come on, Darrell. Time to go.’
‘I could bring you a cup of coffee tomorrow?’ I ventured.
Big Man’s eyes widened briefly in surprise. Then they settled into hard anger. ‘You come here again and I’ll do you.’
Marcus tutted. ‘No, you won’t, you cantankerous old sod. But don’t worry. She won’t come here again. Will you, Darrell?’
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t look at Big Man, either, as I left the flat. But all the way down the corridor and in the lift, I could feel Marcus’ eyes on me.
‘You’ll regret it,’ he said, when we were once more outside the estate. ‘He doesn’t want your help.’
I continued to ignore him. I heard him chuckle softly in the darkness.
But at my front door, I was forced to speak. ‘Oh shit! The key!’
And there it was, in his hand. ‘Call me ever-prepared,’ he said. ‘Actually, no, it was sheer luck. I saw it on the hall table. But I’ll accept your thanks, nonetheless.’
Inside, in the quiet and peace of the house, my legs suddenly started to wobble, and I had to sit down where I was, at the foot of the stairs. I lifted my hands to wipe my face and found they were all clammy. I wiped my face anyway.
Marcus let out a breath, and lowered himself onto the stairs next to me. There wasn’t much room. I felt his body press against mine, and the warmth and solidity of it was astonishingly welcome.
‘Was it his flat that distressed you most?’ he asked. ‘Or something else?’
I couldn’t answer him. I had no idea.
He hesitated. ‘Would you object if I hugged you?’
That forced a quick smile from me. I shook my head, and he reached around behind me with his arm and pulled me to him, so that my head rested on his shoulder. I felt his cheek press against my hair. He smelled slightly sweaty with a hint of nicotine. It wasn’t at all unpleasant.
‘I can’t help him, can I?’ I said after a while.
‘I very much doubt it.’
I sat up. ‘How can he do that to himself, though? How can he?’
Marcus regarded me in return. ‘It’s his choice. No one has forced him to live like that. So why let it bother you? And why him, anyway? How on earth do you know him?’
‘I don’t really,’ I admitted. ‘I know his name and that’s about it …’
‘Then why? Why bother about him?’
A thought darted into my head. It said: Because he lived. Because death decided to give him a second chance.
‘I have something to tell you,’ I said to Marcus.
‘Tell me, then.’
‘I was married. My husband died.’
He was silent. I saw him take a deep breath, in and out. ‘I can’t imagine what that must be like,’ he said eventually. ‘That kind of loss …’
‘It’s hell,’ I said. ‘Because it seems as if it will never go away. You think it’s lifting and then – wham. There it is. Back again, just as bad as before. No – worse. If it were constant, it wouldn’t be half so awful …’
‘How long has it been?’
‘Twenty-one months and three days.’
‘Ah.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He seemed genuinely astonished. ‘What on earth for?’
‘For putting a damper on things.’
He chuckled and tightened his arm around my shoulder. ‘Angel, I’ve had more fun and excitement tonight than I’ve had in eons. Beer, chips, a laugh – topped off by a midnight mercy mission.’ He turned his head and placed a gentle kiss on my temple. ‘Thank you.’
The need rose up in me with such force, I
had no chance of deflecting it. I grabbed the back of his neck, pulled his mouth onto mine and kissed him for all I was worth. I felt him give the briefest startled jerk, but then his mouth opened to mine and he began to kiss me back.
But after only a few seconds.
‘Mmph–’ He broke away. I reached for him again, but he put a hand on my shoulder and held me apart from him.
‘I can hardly believe I’m saying this. But I’m not sure this is a good idea.’
The need was still so strong, I almost smacked him around the head in frustration. How dare he stop? He wouldn’t stop with anyone else – it’s not fair! I’ll make him kiss me again! I’ll make him sleep with me!
As I reached out to him again, I felt a surge of sick horror. What was I doing? What kind of desperate mental case did I think I was? I shoved my traitorous hands in my lap, and tried to breathe.
‘I’m sorry,’ I managed to say. ‘Again.’
‘If it’s any consolation, I’m regretting it.’
I offered him a quick grin. ‘Well, I do have more towels.’
He screwed up his face in sheepish apology. ‘Ah. Yes. Sorry about that. It was the thought of you undressing only ten feet away that did it for me, I’m afraid. I’ll wash it. You’ll never know, I promise.’
Relief and gratitude rushed through me. I had to revise my opinion of him being an arse. Despite the fact he had no humility and – let’s not forget – had jacked off in my spare bed, he really was all right. He’d been patient and kind, and he had not taken advantage of a desperate mental case when, to be quite frank, I was fully there for the taking.
‘Thanks,’ I said with a smile.
He smiled in return, and then checked his watch. ‘Christ! It’s nearly three!’ He blew out a breath. ‘Is it even worth going to bed–’
I felt a clutch in my gut as the need raised its stupid head again. Wearily, I beat it back down.
Marcus was watching me. ‘Your mouth did the cartoon thing again.’
‘Did it?’
‘Darrell–’ He hesitated. ‘One of the other reasons I like women in my bed is because I find it comforting. There’s probably some Freudian urge behind it, or it could just be the result of ten years of nights on a narrow, iron-hard plank, surrounded by evil little bastards who intended to do me ill at the first opportunity.’
He saw my raised eyebrow. ‘Yes, well, my point is – would you like me to come to bed with you? Only to sleep–’ he added hastily. ‘No hanky panky. I promise.’
I gave him a long, hard look. ‘That sounds like an absolute crock, you do know that?’
‘Then say no,’ he replied. ‘It’s only an offer.’
No was the right answer. I knew that. Well, my head knew that. My heart, my gut …
‘All right,’ I said. ‘But none of your naked shenanigans. I’ll lend you a t-shirt. And I’ll expect you to keep your underpants on.’
He got to his feet and held out his hand to help me up.
‘And if you grope me even a little,’ I warned, ‘I’ll cut it off with a nail file.’
‘Sleep time now,’ he said, as he led me up the stairs. ‘You can threaten me more in the morning …’
‘Flynn. I’m pretty sure it’s Flynn. Irish? Slightly nuts?’
‘We have a Dr Gabriel Flynn.’
‘That’s him.’
‘Putting you through …’
It rang so long, I was about to hang up. Then a voice that sounded tired and fed up barked, ‘Flynn!’
Caught off guard, I began to stammer. ‘Oh! Um, look, it’s–’
Suddenly the voice switched to cheerful. ‘Miss Kincaid! What can I do for you?’
‘How did you know?’ I asked cautiously.
‘Two and two. Charming Antipodean accent. Our friend Mr Hogan having discharged himself without proper authority. Though God knows how he managed to walk out without anyone noticing. Being the size of the average public work as he is.’
‘He’s not supposed to be out yet?’ I felt my heart sink. ‘Look,’ I began, ‘I’m incredibly worried about him. He’s not well at all, and he has no one who can help him, and–’
‘Miss Kincaid,’ he sighed. ‘Do you want me to notify social services?’
‘No!’
His voice started to rise. ‘Listen, if you want my help, I can’t give it to you! I’m up to my neck in enough hopeless bloody official cases. I don’t need one on the side!’
I caught a hint of something in his tone.
‘Bad morning?’ I asked gently.
There was a short pause. He said, ‘Yes. But I’ll spare you the details. No reason why two of us should be kept awake at night.’
‘I’m sorry …’
‘But you still want my help, do you not?’
‘I’ll buy you a drink.’
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Dinner, then?’ I persisted. ‘It might have to be pizza, though.’
‘Pizza? My sweet Lord, the luxury! I’ve been subsisting for weeks on cheese and onion crisps and Fanta. I think my gums are losing their once proud grip on my choppers.’
I named a wood-fired pizza place on the Essex Road. ‘Seven? Or is that too early?’
‘I’ve had ten hours sleep in three days. Make it six-thirty, and be prepared for me to be slumped face down in my quattro stagioni by quarter to seven.’
What a morning. And where to start relating it? From the beginning, I suppose …
When the alarm Marcus had set dragged me out of sleep at six, I realised two things. One, Marcus had shed his t-shirt and underpants in the night and was once again buck naked. Two, something akin to the fuselage of a Boeing 737 was pressed up against my bottom.
I was furious. With him for being so utterly shameless. And with myself for agreeing to this moronic plan. I should have leapt out of bed right away. Instead, I sat up and prodded him hard in the shoulder.
‘Wh– Howsit–’ He jerked awake, and blinked, bleary-eyed, until he managed to focus on my face.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I demanded. ‘Where are your clothes?’
He lifted his head a fraction and glanced around, bemused. ‘I’ve no idea. I got too hot, I suppose.’
‘You were poking me.’
‘Poking you?’
I nodded towards the spot. He peered down the bedclothes, to where it looked as if someone had pitched a small tent. ‘Oh. Right.’ Then he grinned. ‘Sorry. Beyond my control.’
He propped his palms on the bed and hauled himself into a sitting position next to me. ‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘Please don’t bring out the nail file.’
I couldn’t help it. My eyes were magnetically drawn. ‘It’s still there.’
‘So it seems. I’ll have to douse it with cold water, or it’ll be hell trying to pee.’
Oh God. I don’t know what was going on with me, but I was having the internal struggle of my life. It was as if I were two people: a smart, sane, rational person, and a demented loon. My whole body was overheating, as if I were being filled with boiling liquid. My skin was pinking like a hot car engine. My heart – let’s not even go there. I suspect the beat rate had reached a point where it was no longer detectable by known medical instrumentation.
I wanted him. I wanted him so badly, I feared for any flammable materials in the area. I wanted to grab hold of that erect monster, and do terrible, filthy things with it. I hadn’t had sex in so long I could barely remember. And I wanted it. I wanted it now–
I put my hand on his cock.
He jumped. ‘Christ!’ Then he gazed at me, wide-eyed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘So don’t ask again.’
I ran my fingers up the length of the shaft.
He closed his eyes, ‘Oh, Christ–’
And then I whipped off my knickers and straddled him. I was preparing to lower myself down when I was doused by the cold water of sanity.
‘Bugger!’ I said.
‘I certainly can if you prefer�
��’
‘No!’ I glared down at him. ‘No, we need – you know!’
He raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘What? Handcuffs? A third party?’
‘Protection!’ I slumped down so I was sitting on his thighs. ‘I don’t have any. Do you?’
‘Ah, well. As it happens …’
He reached out sideways to my desk, and lifted off it a small foil packet, which he brandished with a grin.
Then he saw my face and his grin vanished.
‘I thought you might have some in your wallet,’ I said slowly. ‘In your jacket pocket. Over on the chair. On the other side of the room. But instead you had them right here, by the bed …’
‘I know! But God! Please! Don’t get me wrong! I never expected this! Trust me – it’s one of my cardinal rules! Never expect and you’ll never be disappointed!’
‘Then why did you–’
‘Because one of my other cardinal rules is – be prepared. That way if it does turn out, you won’t be disappointed, either.’
His expression was genuinely beseeching. ‘Please. Please don’t stop. I am hard as a rock here. I don’t think I could bear it if I had to settle for another towel.’
I hesitated for a half second. ‘Oh, go on, then.’
I’ve never seen a man roll on a condom that quickly. And there he was, ready. He placed his hands first on my hips and then slid them upwards under my t-shirt. The touch of him was so intensely pleasurable, I realised how much I’d been missing the feel of a man’s hands on my skin.
‘I think we can do without Captain Awesome,’ he murmured, and he took off my shirt. ‘God, look at those. Wonderful.’
‘They’re all real, too,’ I said.
‘Wonderful,’ he breathed. ‘Now, come here.’
Oh, Dear Reader, it was astonishing. And I believe that was for one simple reason – he just loved to fuck. Everything he did was dedicated to creating the maximum pleasure for both of us. When I came, it absolutely rocked me through and through. With some effort, I roused myself from the golden, sleepy haze and found him smiling down at me.
‘Glorious,’ he said. ‘Now, if you’re ready, I’d like to join you.’
The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid Page 15