Kiss Me First

by Lottie Moggach

  ‘Ah, Hampstead Heath,’ said Adrian. ‘London’s lung.’

  We continued onto the grass, past squatting dogs and office workers sitting with sandwiches, their faces tilted up to the sun. Adrian asked whether I had come far, and in reply I asked whether he lived here.

  ‘Ha! If only. Do you know Brixton?’

  I didn’t of course, but I thought it was some distance away and wondered why he had suggested meeting here, so far from both of our houses. I opened my mouth to ask but he jumped in with another question, about my views on the upcoming London 2012 Olympics: ‘Are you pro or anti?’

  I hadn’t really considered the subject and didn’t have an opinion to hand, so was relieved when, in the next breath, he continued, ‘That’s if the world still exists by then, of course. What do you think of these 2012 Armageddonists, convinced that mankind’s number is up?’

  This area I felt more confident about. Enthusiasts of these doomsday scenarios were prevalent in chat rooms and I was aware of their nonsense arguments. I felt pretty certain of what Adrian’s opinion on them would be, too – after all, their beliefs could hardly be described as rational – so I took a chance and answered in no uncertain terms.

  ‘I think they’re mad.’

  Adrian hooted with laughter.

  ‘Indeed, indeed. In fact’ – he lowered his voice – ‘I’ve always wanted to invent my own conspiracy theory, just to prove that these morons will swallow anything. I could make one up right now: say, Obama caused the banking crisis. Give me the morning to build a website, throw together a video and tweak Wikipedia, and by 5 p.m. I bet you I’d have a thousand true believers under my belt.’

  I knew nothing about Obama or banking, so was pleased that a smile seemed to suffice as a reply. Adrian then smoothly changed tack, asking me whether I’d been sporty as a child or more of a bookworm, like him – ‘I’m guessing from the quality of your brain it was the latter’ – and from there the conversation flowed, each answer I gave leading to another topic, often only tangentially related to the last.

  In that way, within about fifteen minutes we had covered a large amount of conversational ground and Adrian knew more about me than anyone else in my entire life. Apart from mum, of course, but with her it was different, our conversation spread over weeks and months and years and mostly concerned with practical, everyday matters. Here with Adrian, it was all brand new, about ideas and opinions I didn’t even know I had until I heard myself voicing them. As we leaped from one subject to another, it felt a bit like that game the others played at junior school, where they tried to step on every tiled square in the playground in as short a time as possible.

  Despite its speed, the conversation didn’t feel effortful or one-sided, like Adrian was asking questions just for the sake of it, but rather that he was genuinely interested in my replies. There wasn’t time to reflect or consider whether what I was saying was ‘right’, but from his positive responses it seemed like it was – he would agree with me, and offer up some related experience or thought of his own – and rather than feeling flustered by this rapid-fire experience I felt instead rather exhilarated.

  Then, about twenty minutes into our walk, as we were passing through a shady wooded area, he said something quite surprising, that momentarily rippled the fluency of our exchange. We were discussing vegetarianism – he was one too, it turned out – and he mentioned that there was a good restaurant nearby, in Hampstead.

  ‘You haven’t been?’ he said. ‘Oh, you must. I used to take my wife Sandra there, it was our favourite place. Not least because they were always very accommodating about her wheelchair.’

  I hadn’t been aware he had a wife, let alone that she was disabled. Before I could reply, he added, ‘RRMS.’

  He immediately followed this by remarking upon the adorableness of a dog that was gambolling nearby, before asking me whether I liked animals. And so, he guided us onto another topic and that of his wheelchair-bound wife was left behind.

  It was only later, when I had time to review and process the whole experience, that the full implications of this exchange became clear. Adrian had a wife, whom he talked about in the past tense, who had had multiple sclerosis.

  This second coincidence made our encounter seem all the more extraordinary – yet another similarity between us. It struck me how he used the acronym for relapsing remitting multiple sclerosis without explanation, as if he knew I would know what it meant, although I hadn’t mentioned the fact that mum had suffered from the condition, either during our conversation or on the site.

  It was around then that I noticed my shoes were rubbing my heels quite painfully, and I was forced to slow my pace. Adrian noticed my discomfort immediately.

  ‘Oh you poor thing,’ he said. ‘What you women suffer for beauty. Shall we sit?’

  He motioned towards a nearby bench, overlooking a pond. We sat, him at an angle beside me, one arm slung across the back of the bench. He smiled broadly at me.

  The newspapers were obsessed with how ‘ordinary’ Adrian was in appearance. One journalist described him as looking ‘like the deputy manager of a Dixons’, which seems nonsensical: how is the deputy manager of a Dixons ‘supposed’ to look? He wasn’t very tall – about five feet eight inches – and quite thickset, but not fat. It’s true that his facial features weren’t particularly striking – full, pink cheeks; a largish nose; small, deep-set blue eyes – and his most noticeable attribute was his hair, which was almost black and combed back from his forehead. In real life, it had a slightly odd, springy texture that wasn’t obvious onscreen.

  Yet there was something about him, his confidence and the way he focused his attention on you, that made him compelling and attractive. I was used to it on the videos, where he would stare into the camera like he was an old friend, but it was the same in real life, too.

  ‘So, Leila,’ he said. ‘You’re doubtless wondering why I requested this meeting. Let me make it clear straight off. Like I said in my note, I’ve been monitoring your activity on the site, and you’ve really impressed me. Now, tell me – what is it you do for an occupation?’

  When I told him about my testing work, he smiled and leaned toward me in a conspiratorial manner.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone, but despite the fact I run a website, I’m terrible with computers. Ironic, huh?’ He laughed. ‘You should give me lessons. Do you give your parents lessons?’

  I explained that mum was dead and that I had never met my father, because he and mum had separated when she was pregnant.

  ‘And what about siblings?’

  ‘I’m an only child.’

  He smiled. ‘Well, I hope you see us all on the site as a kind of substitute family.’

  ‘Oh, I do, I do!’ I said. I remember thinking that I didn’t sound like myself, far more bubbly, like a girl on TV.

  ‘You know, Leila, every single day you or one of the members on the site will say something wise and wonderful that blows me away. Literally makes me whoop with delight.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’m going to confess something to you. I like to think I’m an upbeat kind of fellow, but very occasionally I find myself getting a little depressed by the state of the world. By the banality and woolly thinking that seem to be the norm. Do you know what I mean? Do you ever feel that?’

  I nodded enthusiastically. ‘Oh, yes, definitely.’

  ‘But at times like that,’ he continued, ‘I just have to go to the site and see clever, passionate truth-seekers such as yourself, engaged with the things that really matter in the world, and I know that things will be OK.’

  He smiled at me. I remember the sun was on his face, making it glow. I think it was only then the reality of the situation really struck me. This brilliant man, whom everyone at Red Pill clamoured to impress, was, at this precise moment in time, entirely focused on me. I could see the pores in his cheeks and smell the mints on his breath. When I looked down at his feet, I could see a sliver of the socks he was wearing under his slip-on shoes. I was up close
, with complete access. Randfan, for one, would have killed to be in my position; the previous week he had told the forum that he had got one of Adrian’s favourite mottos – It is not the attainment of the goal that matters, it is the things that are met along the way – tattooed around his calf.

  Although there were several people around us, their presence receded and it felt as if we were all alone, just me and him. My anxiety about the interview had also disappeared – at that point, remember, my guess was that this was about me becoming a moderator on the forum. I was, at that moment, perfectly happy. The best way I can describe it is feeling I was in a space that was exactly the right size for me.

  ‘So, Leila,’ he said, leaning back. ‘What do you think of the site? Please be honest. I really value your opinion.’

  I had anticipated this question, and told him that I thought Red Pill was an oasis of reason, a forum for intellectual enquiry, and so on. As before, Adrian seemed fascinated by my opinions. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Gosh, that’s good to hear.’ He then told me a bit about the background to the site, most of which I already knew: how he started it in America, how Libertarianism means something slightly different over here, how the Americans were more interested in the economic side of it, whilst in the UK we got more animated over the philosophical aspects.

  He leaned forward. ‘I would never say this to anyone else, but I’m slightly more drawn to the moral side of things myself. Not to say that the economics are not important, of course. But it’s how best to live that really gets my juices flowing.’

  ‘Me too!’ I said.

  ‘For instance, the right-to-die debate we had the other week,’ said Adrian. ‘You were very passionate about that. Would it be fair to say that’s an area you’re particularly interested in?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I felt on firm ground here. ‘I believe that deciding upon the time and place of your death is the ultimate expression of self-ownership. It seems clear to me that anyone who professes a belief in personal freedom cannot be opposed to suicide. Freedom to choose how and when we die is a fundamental right.’

  ‘And are there conditions attached – morally speaking?’ asked Adrian. ‘Should a candidate be suffering from a terminal illness before we condone their actions?’

  I shook my head. ‘Life is about quality, not quantity, and it’s up to each individual to judge whether theirs is worth living or not.’

  As we were talking a toddler came down the path on wobbly legs. She was wearing a sun hat and cackling with delight, turning around to look at her father, who was some way behind. When the child was just a few feet away from our bench, she tripped and fell heavily on her face. After a moment, she lifted her head, gravel stuck to her cheek, and let out a ghastly wail.

  Adrian winced visibly at the noise.

  ‘Shall we walk?’

  Without waiting for an answer he stood up and moved off, stepping around the crying child. I followed, and we walked in silence for a moment, down a path which led between two ponds. One of them was filled with people swimming, and laughter and shouting floated across the brown water. Adrian looked over at them and smiled, his jovial mood seemingly restored after the interruption.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Leila, are you familiar with the claim argument?’ he asked.

  Now we’re back to the proper interview, I thought. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what he was referring to. I thought I could work it out rationally if I had a minute, but Adrian didn’t seem to mind my lack of response and carried on.

  ‘It says that not only do we not have the right to prevent those who wish to end their lives from doing so, but that we actually have a duty to help them, if asked.’

  ‘Like in euthanasia?’ I said.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Adrian. ‘But it’s more encompassing than that. And it may not be to do with the actual act of suicide itself. Put it this way – should there be a situation when someone whom you judge to be of sound mind asks you to help them in some way or other to end their life, then – so says the claim argument – it is your duty to do so.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I understand.’ I was still preoccupied with not knowing immediately what the claim argument was.

  ‘In fact,’ said Adrian, ‘it’s kind of like turning the common idea of euthanasia on its head. Some people are physically able to carry out the act themselves, but are prevented from doing so by the hurt it’ll cause their family and friends.’ He paused to take a breath. ‘OK, so here’s a hypothetical dilemma for you. A woman has an affliction that is not in itself terminal but is ruining her quality of life and is, essentially, incurable. After considerable thought she has come to the conclusion that she wants to end her life. But she knows her friends and family would be deeply hurt and upset, and for that reason she doesn’t. Yet she desperately, desperately wants to kill herself, and has felt convinced of this for many years. She comes to you and says that she has thought of a way she can carry out this act in a way that will not upset her family and friends, but she can’t achieve it without your help. What would you do? Would you help her?’

  I nodded. ‘Of course. Under the claim argument it’d be my duty.’

  He smiled at me, dazzlingly. ‘You really are an extraordinary young woman, aren’t you? I bet people around you haven’t appreciated this as much as they should.’

  I felt my cheeks flush. We had reached a small meadow, running steeply down to a pond. Groups of merry people were dotted around, heads and brown limbs just visible above the long golden grass, but I could only view them in a disconnected way, as if I was walking past a vast painting. My conversation with Adrian was the only thing that seemed real.

  ‘Not everyone can deal with advanced theories like the claim argument,’ said Adrian. ‘It’s beyond even some RP members. They say the right things, but really, they can only go to a certain level; they can’t deal with the full implications and reality. They still cling to illusions and societal norms. They can’t push through the resistance; they’re not truly free. It’s a rare, special person who is, Leila.’ He paused. ‘Are you free?’

  We were now at the bottom of the meadow, standing by the pond. I watched a man throw a Frisbee into the water, and a tubby black Labrador belly-flop after it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, finally. ‘I mean, I don’t think I’m there yet. I know I’ve got lots of things to learn, but I really want to learn. I want to be free.’

  Adrian smiled and squeezed my shoulder. He motioned for us to start walking again, and that’s when he told me about Tess.

  Actually, he didn’t mention her name, then. He just said that a woman had come to him, desperate to kill herself, but not wanting her family and friends to know. And had the idea to employ someone to pretend to be her online, so that no one would be able to tell she was not still alive.

  Of course, I didn’t say yes immediately. Adrian insisted I take a week – ‘at least’ – to consider the proposition.

  ‘This is a huge ask, Leila. Huge,’ he said that day on the Heath, stretching out his arms for emphasis. ‘It will take up a lot of your time. It will require a heck of a lot of preparation and mental strength. You will have to commit to the project for at least six months. And because, alas, not everyone shares our enlightened views, you will not be able to tell anyone about what you’re doing.’

  I nodded, deep in thought.

  ‘There will, of course, be some form of financial remuneration,’ Adrian continued. ‘We can discuss that at the next stage. I’m afraid it won’t be a vast amount – the woman is not rich – but she wants to pay you for your time.’ He paused. ‘If, in theory, you were to decide to help her, how much would you want for it?’

  The question was wholly unexpected, so I had not given the matter any thought. However, at the time I moved into the flat I had done a breakdown of all my bills and food costs and calculated I needed approximately £88 a week to live on. From what Adrian had said, working for Tess would be a fulltime occupation and I would need to stop my work for Testers
4 U, so this would be my only income.

  ‘Eighty-eight pounds a week?’ I said.

  Adrian raised an eyebrow and nodded. ‘That sounds eminently reasonable. I’m sure she’ll be happy with that.’

  As we parted at the tube, he put both his hands on my shoulders and gazed into my eyes for a few moments, without saying anything. Then he smiled and released me.

  ‘Goodbye, Leila.’

  The train back to Rotherhithe that day was packed. I had no choice but to stand pressed against a man’s bare, sweaty shoulder, with a group of tourists squawking in my ear. In normal circumstances I would have got off at the next stop and waited for another train. But then, that day, I didn’t mind. It didn’t affect me. It was as if, during our meeting, Adrian had given me a protective cloak.

  For the next three days I thought about the proposal, examining it from all sides. I wrote a list of the pros and cons, as I did when I had to make decisions about mum. But this situation felt different, as if I was just going through the motions of deciding. By the time I got on the tube that day after the Heath I knew I was going to say yes.

  ‘I don’t know anyone else who has both the mental capacity and the compassion required to help her,’ Adrian had said. He promised to be there whenever I needed him. ‘You won’t be alone. I’ll always be watching out for you. Your well-being is my primary concern.’

  We discussed the fact that due to the risk of judgement from the less enlightened we should avoid making reference to the project on Red Pill, even in PMs. Adrian said that if I wanted to be involved with the project, I should let him know by changing my Red Pill ‘sig’ to a quote from Socrates. If I decided against it, it should be one from Plato. It would be a secret signal between us. ‘And from then on, once the project begins, we’ll communicate by other means,’ he had added. ‘You are, I trust, on Facebook?’

  I was keen to find an appropriate Socrates quote to use. After some consideration, I decided upon They are not only idle who do nothing, but they are idle also who might be better employed.