by Patrick Gale
‘Hey!’ Sam laughed, gaining some idea through his drunkenness of the irrational terrors that were besieging him. ‘It’s okay. Come here.’ More openly affectionate than he had ever been in public, he pulled Jamie to him, kissing his forehead and stroking his hair as one might soothe a frightened child. But Jamie’s nightmares were still closing in. Every passing Noah’s Ark pair looked at him in scorn, hissing indignantly at the sorry spectacle. Worse still, a security guard was standing nearby, watching and muttering something about two defectives to be neutralised into his walkie-talkie. Could he really be saying something so appalling for all the crowd to hear? Now the guard was coming over, walkie-talkie whispering maliciously in his grasp. His tone managed to be simultaneously obsequious and threatening.
‘Could I see your invitations, Sirs?’
Sam checked his pockets.
‘Left it in the car, mate,’ he said good-naturedly. Hearing Sam’s accent, the guard’s manner immediately frosted over.
‘If you’d like to come with me quietly,’ he said.
‘Listen. We were properly invited,’ Sam said. ‘I told you. It’s in the car.’
‘Yish,’ Jamie began, and found his mouth unable to work.
‘James Pepper and Friend, it said.’ Sam went on angrily. ‘I’m the friend.’
‘Oh yes sir. I could see that. Very friendly. Come along now.’
People were definitely stopping to stare now. The guard had made the mistake of taking Sam by the upper arm to steer him away. Sam shook furiously clear of him and pushed him away. The guard quickly pressed a button on his walkie-talkie that set a red light flashing, then tried to seize Sam again. Sam spun round and landed a powerful punch in his face, sending him staggering back against one of the marquee ropes.
‘Come on, for fuck’s sake!’ he shouted, but Jamie couldn’t run, couldn’t cry out. All he could do was stare at the blood pouring from the security guard’s nose and think of Sam behind bars and how this was all his fault, all of it, and that he deserved to be severely punished.
‘Come on!’ Sam urged.
For a moment, Jamie even imagined that the taking of the drug was the punishment, rather than the cause of it, and that everyone here, Sam included, had planned this, had sent the woman into the cloakroom after him, primed and falsely smiling. Then two more guards came running through the crowd and one shoved Sam’s arms behind his back, tightening their hold when he struggled so that he cried out in pain. The other held Jamie by the upper arm. As they began to be led away, Jamie saw Nick Godfreys, white-faced, hurrying the minister’s daughter away from the edge of the crowd. The utter lack of recognition in the glance he threw them was more chilling than any hallucination Jamie had suffered.
‘Say something,’ Sam shouted. ‘For fuck’s sake tell them who we are!’
But Jamie’s mouth had turned so dry that his tongue was glued to his palate, and his teeth were chattering so furiously he feared he would bite into his lips if he even tried to speak.
Salvation came, surprisingly, in the tall, disapproving form of Beatrix Maxwell, who had thrown a dowdy knitted shawl about her gaunt shoulders. Tent dress billowing in the night breeze, she stepped out into their path.
‘Stop,’ she said, patrician as a vestal in the dancing light of a brazier. ‘There’s been some stupid mistake.’
‘No mistake, Madam. Don’t you worry. Just some gatecrashers.’
‘But I know these people! Heini. You tell them.’
Heini caught up with her and his imperious manner, silvery hair and old-fashioned white tie and tails worked like a charm on the guards, who promptly released Sam and Jamie to talk with him. Then the one with the bleeding nose came back to apologise to Sam, a handkerchief clutched to his face.
‘So sorry, Sir. I had no idea. No hard feelings, I hope.’
The three of them melted back into the crowd around the tent.
‘Whatever did you tell them?’ Mrs Maxwell asked.
‘That my tall young friend here is a distinguished, if unconventional ‘cellist.’ She scoffed but Heini insisted, ‘He looks the part. Now, these two are in no state to drive anywhere.’ He turned to Jamie. ‘I assume you came by car?’ Jamie could only nod his head and wipe away the dribble from his lower lip with the back of his hand. Heini turned smartly back to Mrs Maxwell, betraying only a hint of disgust. ‘Perhaps you could explain to Candida, if you see her, Beatrix? She’s wearing green. I’ll drive them to Edward’s place. It isn’t far. He won’t mind.’
Miraculously sober, Heini took control, making Jamie feel more than ever like a disgraced delinquent as he retrieved their coats, then bundled him into the back of the Volkswagen, threw the tartan rug over him and drove them in silence to The Roundel. He seemed as familiar with the building as Jamie was. The studio was all in darkness so he led them straight into the main house, ignoring Sam’s amazed questions and briskly finding Jamie a room with a made-up bed to fall into.
Lying beneath chilly sheets and weighed down by the two eider-downs Heini had thrown over him to stop his teeth chattering, Jamie was slightly soothed by the familiar surroundings and by the sudden withdrawal of stimuli – no more music, no more stares, no more strangers, only soft near-darkness and the clean smell of the sheets. He listened to the distant murmur of voices from the kitchen and waited impatiently for the effects of the drug to wear off. Sam eventually came to bed, too exhausted to do more than mutter, ‘Alison’s here and she says to say you’re a berk. She says you can give me the guided tour in the morning.’
Jamie kept him awake however, nervously fingering Sam’s chest hair and asking again and again, ‘Who am I?’ or ‘Who did you say I was?’ never quite believing Sam’s patient, sleepy replies.
When, once too often, Jamie turned on the bedside light to stare fanatically at his own hands moving in the air before him or to jump up and examine the unfamiliar face in the dressing table mirror, Sam was forced to fling an arm and leg across his restless body, pinning him down until the natural anaesthetic of exhaustion took a hold on them both.
46
Assuming Alison to be too engrossed in the Sunday book supplements to mind, Heini Liebermann and her grandfather had allowed their conversation to lapse back into the soft, eager German she had interrupted earlier. There was a disarmed gentleness to her grandfather’s voice when he spoke the language, as if the underused idiom of his youth had retained the intact imprint of his younger, untried self. He gestured when he spoke German, tapping the table for emphasis, uncoiling his hands to shape words he was perhaps no longer sure of choosing correctly. When he spoke English, his hands were still, his inflexion wearier and less musical.
The Munich café atmosphere so alien to The Roundel’s kitchen was heightened by the sweet smoke of the little cheroots Heini had persuaded her grandfather to share with him – in spite of the way they made his lungs heave – and by the smell of the cripplingly strong coffee he had brewed. Heini had thrown a borrowed tweed jacket over his evening dress but otherwise it was easy to imagine that they had been up talking all night. She glanced at her watch and, judging the morning to be far enough advanced, poured a couple of mugs of tea and took them to the Boys, as she had taken to thinking of Sam and Jamie.
Their bedroom door was ajar and water was noisily running in the adjacent bathroom. She knocked.
‘Brought you some tea,’ she called out. ‘Cover up. Woman coming in.’
Jamie stirred in the bed, mumbling, edged upright and clutched a pillow to his chest. Shocked at how bony he looked since she had last seen him naked, she passed him his tea and smiled. ‘Could you draw the curtain again?’ he muttered, wincing.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re down here so rarely. I’m not having you spend the whole day in bed.’
He sipped at his tea, crestfallen.
‘Sam’s in the bath,’ he said, indicating the second mug. ‘I’ll drink that one too. He’ll be hours. Are there any old clothes of mine down here still? If I have to get dressed i
n last night’s I’ll throw up.’
She opened the little wardrobe in the corner and tugged out some jeans and a frayed white shirt for him along with some Donald Duck boxer shorts Miriam had once made the mistake of giving him for Christmas. Then she stood, triumphantly, with her arms folded.
‘Okay, okay,’ he protested. ‘I’ll be out in a second.’
She went away to brush her teeth. As she walked back onto the landing, Jamie joined her, hair in spikes, stamping his way into some old, red plimsolls.
‘Heini Liebermann’s in the kitchen smoking cheroots with Grandpa,’ she warned him.
‘That’s what the smell is. Christ. Let’s go in the garden, then. Is it warm enough?’
‘It’s fine.’
She saw him throw a quick look around him at the hall as they headed for the garden door. He scowled as though the house were a familiar enemy. She was glad to see him here again feeling as unsettled by his neglect of the place as she would by the estrangement of friends.
‘I hear you made a spectacle of yourself last night,’ she said, not intending to be as judgemental as she sounded.
‘Don’t ask. Godfreys’s friends were nightmarish enough even without the chemical assistance.’
‘You should be more careful taking drugs from strangers.’
‘She was a TV personality for Christ’s sake!’
‘You shouldn’t be taking drugs at all.’
‘Hark at mother.’ He nudged her playfully but she scowled. ‘I know, I know,’ he admitted. ‘I could have died.’
‘I’m envious as hell,’ she laughed as she dropped the responsible pose. ‘What was it like?’
‘Fab at first. Then it started teaching me things about myself I didn’t want to know. I mean, I never thought I was especially well adjusted but I did think I had the paranoia under control … I’m not sure it’s stopped yet.’ He peered around him and shivered. ‘I’m still a bit wall-climby. And it feels weird being here. Sam got in a fight. All I could do was watch,’ he went on. ‘Heini saved our lives. They could have pressed charges. Imagine Miriam’s face!’
‘He’s … He’s never hit you, has he?’
‘Sam? Don’t be silly.’ He threw her a mocking look as he walked on. ‘His emotions are so boxed away most of the time. I think he lashes out because he can’t cry.’
‘I wonder if his parents beat him as a boy.’
‘Hmm. God. Listen to the bleeding-heart liberals!’
They walked down to the stream together. Instinctively she led him into the cool chamber formed by the canopy of willow branches; a childhood refuge from grown-up curiosity. He stepped forward and gave her a tight but curiously formal hug, then backed off.
‘There’s no easy way to tell you this,’ he said, and then he told her. He told her just the way she had always imagined he would, baldly and swiftly.
‘How long have you known?’ she asked.
‘Since I lost my job.’
‘I thought you left.’
‘Godfreys sacked me,’ he said quietly, watching for her reaction.
‘But he can’t do that!’ she shouted.
‘He did.’ Jamie shrugged. ‘He could always think of a reason if I bothered to press him.’
‘But you could appeal through a tribunal.’
‘Let’s not talk about all that.’
‘And how did he find out?’ she pursued, dismayed at his apathy. ‘The doctor must have told him. You could sue him for breach of confidence – at least get him struck off.’
‘Alison, I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘And you went to his party!’ she began indignantly. ‘Sorry,’ she added, more softly. She began to lean against the willow trunk then sank to the grass instead.
All her counselling training abandoned her, and she reacted in precisely the unhelpful way she always advised callers against. She cried. She responded as though he were already dying, weeping as much because she was losing him as because he was going. She cried for herself because in him she saw her own mortality – the casual ease with which she too might be snuffed out. He did not try to comfort her, just stood a few feet away, plaiting willow strands and waiting for her to recover. She was grateful for this. If he had hugged her again, however formally, it would have opened whole new pits of grief.
‘Sorry,’ she managed at last.
‘That’s all right.’
She was beginning to feel damp from the ground, so she stood and walked over to look at where the tips of trailing branches flickered in the stream’s dark currents. She felt a sudden anger at his exclusion of her.
‘Why did you take so long to tell me?’ she asked. ‘If you hadn’t ended up here last night, how much longer would you have waited? Hmm? Sorry. Fuck. Forget I said any of that. How can I be so crass? Sorry.’
‘You have to understand,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve been finding well people difficult to be around. Old people too. Poor Sam’s been getting the –’
‘But you’re not sick,’ she cut in, thinking. Oh my God if you are you’d better tell me quickly.
‘Spare me the psychobabble,’ he rounded on her. ‘It’s all right. I’m not being a victim. I’m not being negative. But I am being realistic’ He snorted, his tone softening. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of maths recently, you know? I’ve been trying to work out when I last had unprotected sex and adding fifteen years to that to see how long I have. But then that’s a best possible case scenario. The worst possible is more like eight or six years’ incubation period, or less. This thing’s been around all my sexual life! Then there are all the times I got a little carried away, or the condom broke, or I had mouth ulcers or a cut on my hand.’
‘Oh Jamie.’
‘Then Hilary was saying how they’re now finding people who could only have caught it through oral sex – years after they told us oral sex was perfectly safe.’
‘Jamie please!’
‘Don’t cry again. It doesn’t help. Don’t.’
‘Sorry.’
He tugged fiercely at a willow branch, stripping it of leaves.
‘I’ve been reading up on the subject,’ he went on. ‘Sam goes to the site and I go to the public library, finding out about what causes the virus to go into action. Wake up. Whatever they call it. And start fucking up the immune system. Alcohol’s one thing. Well I drink plenty. Not to excess but I go out to pubs and I drink. Then there’s protein. Apparently cum is full of protein and there are some researchers saying that while promiscuity per se doesn’t do any harm – except of course putting you more often in the firing line – that multiple contacts with numerous different kinds of cum proteins might activate the virus. The only thing I haven’t been doing wrong is becoming a vegan.’ He chuckled. ‘There’s always someone worse off than yourself, eh? Vegans seem to be doomed. Apparently people in my condition need animal fat. Sod looking after my heart or worrying about cancer! I tell you,’ he laughed now, ‘I’ve been eating butter and cream with everything since I read that.’
‘You know the test isn’t a hundred per cent accurate,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Miss Helpline. I know. So I went for a second one. A proper one at a clinic with strict but motherly doctors and nice gay nurses in ACT UP badges.’
‘And?’
‘Bingo a second time. The health worker wanted to know if I could give her a list of my sexual partners. I nearly died laughing. I have to hand it to her, so did she. In fact, I think she only asked to break the ice, you know? Stir up a little nostalgia for syphilis. Sam went in too. Jesus he was calm! Either he’s very brave or incredibly stupid. He went along as if it was a routine tetanus jab or a dental check-up.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Which reminds me. I’ve got to change my dentist because they checked up on their little blacklist and apparently mine is way up there with Mengele for political bloody incorrectness.’
‘But what about Sam?’
‘It’s okay. He was negative. Twice now. We’ve both been very
careful. I’m just amazed that he still wants to stick around.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve been treating him like shit.’
She shrugged.
‘He loves you, Jamie.’
‘Yeah, but –’
‘But what?’
‘Nothing.’
He turned aside, pushing out through the willow canopy and back along the stream towards the studio to sit on an arm of the bench there. Alison went to sit beside him, astounded that he was still so unable to accept the fact of Sam’s love. Suddenly time was shrinking around them, a fragile sand bar in an encroaching tide. She felt and knew better than to voice, that her time with him was now infinitely precious to her. Once again she thought about throwing in her job to be with him but all she said was, ‘Now you’ve told me, you know you can pick up the phone and talk about it any time at all, don’t you? Even at work.’
He avoided her eyes, staring down to pick at some moss on the bench wood.
‘I know,’ he said.
‘What about Grandpa? Oh God and what about her?’
Jamie shook his head.
‘Not until I’m strong enough to deal with it myself, and maybe not even then.’
‘Don’t they have a right to know?’
‘Don’t I have a right to privacy? No. I don’t think they have any rights here.’
‘But they’ll find out sooner or later.’
‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘But I’ll face that when I come to it, okay? I don’t even know if I can look the old man in the eye.’
‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘It’s not shame,’ he insisted, eyes tight with a momentary fury. ‘It’s so fucking unfair. That old bastard gets to survive the holocaust, marry a saint, live in this place, earn a fortune, write symphonies people actually listen to, even have an affair with a sex goddess. What do I get?’
‘You get him.’ Alison raised a hand to greet Sam, who had appeared at the side of the house and was sauntering down the garden towards them.
‘Yes,’ said Jamie drily. ‘I’ve got him.’
Sam reached them, threw himself on to the bench between them and began enthusing about The Roundel.