She says something and I say, ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ and then we’re silent for a while and keep walking until she stops outside one of those posh bars with fancy cocktails and fancy people, and she says, ‘Here.’
I go to open the door for her but she’s quicker, and I walk inside ahead of her. I look over to the bar and across the half-dark room, and I feel her standing behind me, and I walk over to one of the small tables. We sit down. At the bar and at the other tables, women and men are sitting in the twilight drinking brightly-coloured cocktails or coffee out of big round cups with no handles. I take a brief look at her; she’s reading the menu and I watch her hand moving slowly across the paper. I look at her face, and her lips are moving very slowly too, lots of pretty cocktails with brightly coloured straws and little umbrellas and coffee in big round cups with no handles. She moves her lips and stares at the paper, and then she crumples it up and says, ‘Why can’t you just leave me alone, why don’t you get it? I don’t want anything to do with you,’ and even though she’s said it so often before I just nod and look at her. She takes the crumpled letter with her when she gets up – why doesn’t she leave it behind? – and I watch her go until she’s at the door and turns around again and gives me an angry look, with a slight crease from the top of her nose up to her forehead, and then she’s gone.
There’s a small beer in front of me, I don’t know where it came from, and she says, ‘Well then … Cheers,’ and I nod and says, ‘Cheers,’ and we clink glasses.
We put our glasses down almost simultaneously. She’s drinking a dark red cocktail, blood orange or something like that, and there’s a stripe of the stuff above her top lip. I try not to look her in the eye for too long, running my finger across my mouth a couple of times. She smiles, takes a serviette and wipes the red stripe away. I take a sip of beer and look into my glass. I hear her drinking too, I hear her coughing, then only the music and the quiet buzz of conversation from the other tables.
I put my fingertips on my beer glass and stroke across the curve and the long, thin stalk it stands on. It’s one of those small glasses we used to call ‘tulips’ back then, but I haven’t heard that for a long time now.
‘Have you been in town a lot the last few years?’
‘No,’ I say, without looking up.
‘Only on business then.’ She laughs, and I don’t know why, and that scares me, and I ask, ‘Why are you laughing?’ and she laughs, and I look at her top front teeth, the two in the middle a tiny bit longer than the ones next to them, but only a tiny little bit, and I see her laughing and her teeth even though she’s so far away, she’s walking across the sports hall with the other girls, but all I see is her and I lean my forehead against the glass.
‘I’m just imagining,’ she says, still laughing, ‘I can’t imagine it, you know, you in a suit …’
I nod. ‘I couldn’t imagine it either, back then.’
She stops laughing. ‘Sorry,’ she says.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Don’t be.’
‘No, I’m glad.’ She leans forward, and her face is quite close to mine. ‘Glad you’re doing well. I sometimes thought, over the years …’
‘What did you think, over the years?’
‘Well, you know.’ She leans even further forward, and I feel a tiny drop of her somewhere below my cheekbone. ‘I was so mean to you, back then, and I’m sorry.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Don’t be,’ and I can still feel the little drop and I tilt my head and wipe it away with my shoulder.
‘I,’ she says, ‘I …’ She reaches for the dark red cocktail, takes out the straw and puts it on the table, then she drinks a couple of mouthfuls, holding onto the glass with two hands. ‘Maybe … I guess I wasn’t ready, back then.’
‘Why – why are you saying that?’ I down my beer in one draft and slam the glass on the table. No, I’ve got everything under control and I put it down carefully on the coaster. ‘After all these years …’
‘I haven’t … haven’t seen you for so long,’ she says, ‘and now … and now, don’t get me wrong …’
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘I understand. I understood you back then as well.’ I put the empty glass to my mouth again, feeling the tiny leftover of beer on my lip, and then I say, ‘Sorry.’
‘No,’ she says, and the little table moves because she’s moving too. ‘Don’t be.’
We look at each other, I nod, she smiles, I turn around and gesture for the waiter. The guy looks pretty gay in his skin-tight lilac shirt, and I smile at him the way I want to smile at her. ‘Hey, faggot,’ I say. ‘Lonely, are you?’ No, I just think it and order a small beer. ‘Do you want anything else?’ I ask her, and she shakes her head. The waiter takes my empty glass and scuttles off to the bar.
‘And you really want to stay in town?’ She rests her chin on both hands, and I nod and try to smile and say, ‘We’ll see.’
‘And your business?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s going … going pretty well. Can’t complain.’
‘That’s a nice hotel you’re staying at.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s not bad, it’s really not … but in the long term …’
‘True,’ she says. ‘You could get a flat, I know someone … I mean, if you want …’
‘We’ll see,’ I say, and then my beer comes at last, and I pick up the glass and drink and think about the hotel and the flat and her, about meeting her three days ago, even though she’s sitting right in front of me, think about her teacup still standing in the room that’s not mine, standing on the table for three days now. Rosehip tea. I don’t know anyone else who drinks that kind of thing, and the teabag’s still next to the cup, small, brown and shrivelled. I put the empty beer glass on the table and get up. ‘Got to go to the little boy’s room.’ I walk around between the tables looking for the toilet, a woman and a man, at four or five little tables, all with a candle on them, just like ours, woman – woman – woman, two men alone at one table, with a candle as well, but nobody all on their own, the gay waiter standing behind the bar and flirting with a woman, and suddenly he doesn’t look gay at all, and then I spot the toilet doors at last in an alcove beside the bar. A man on the left, a woman on the right, and I stumble into the door, and before I open it I turn around again. Our table is a long way off now; she’s sitting with her back to me, resting her chin on both arms, and not moving.
I stand at the wash-basin, the cold water running out of my hair and over my face. I look in the mirror. I’m wearing a white shirt I bought this morning. I never usually wear white shirts or suits either, and now the water’s dripping out of my hair and off my face onto the shirt, making tiny stains on the material. I see my pale face and try to smile and support myself on the edge of the basin.
‘Am I on my own, you mean?’ I nod. ‘No wife, no children. Just … just business, you know …’
‘And …’
‘Do I ever think about it, you want to know? Yes, sometimes.’ I look at the cup between us on the table in the hotel room. I ordered a whisky, I’ve been holding the glass in my right hand for ten minutes, and the three ice cubes are getting smaller and smaller. Rosehip tea. I don’t know anyone who drinks that kind of thing, and then the cup’s suddenly empty, and the teabag’s on the table next to the cup, small, brown and shrivelled.
‘Am I on my own?’ I grin at the mirror and say, ‘Not yet, but I soon will be,’ and when the door opens and closes again and there’s some guy behind me I turn around, grab him by the throat with my left hand, push him against the wall and press his head up against the tiles. ‘Keep your hands off her, you bastard, you keep your fucking hands off her.’
He wants to say something but I’m holding him so tightly by the throat that only his lips move, and I put my right hand over his mouth and press his head even harder against the wall. ‘Don’t touch her.’ I whisper in his ear. ‘You keep your fucking hands off her.’ He’s quiet now, not moving, breathing in and out again very quickly, and I feel his breath
on my hand. I let him go. I turn around and look at him in the mirror. He’s pale and silent.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s nothing to do with you, you bastard.’
I dry my face on a paper towel. I’m scared someone will come through the door – I want to be with her just a little bit longer. I open the door and see her far away at our table, pushing the candle to and fro, and I can tell she must be smiling. I go to the bar and pay our bill, and then I’m back with her. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I say, putting my hand on her shoulder very carefully. ‘Let’s go somewhere else. Please.’ Her shoulder moves, and I take my hand away again.
‘Are you not feeling well?’ She gets up, and I take a few steps back.
‘No, no, I’m fine.’ I see someone going to the toilets, but it’s a woman. ‘I just need a bit of fresh air. Let’s go somewhere else. Pool – can you play pool?’
‘A little bit,’ she says, and then we walk past all the tables and candles and go outside.
The night’s almost over, and we’re walking through the streets, and I look at all the lights and then at her, but mostly at the lights. She’s just as beautiful as back then, as if we were still fifteen or sixteen … and somehow she still has a part of back then inside her, and we walk through the empty streets and stop in front of shop windows and talk about this and that.
‘You played well just then,’ I say.
‘Oh no,’ she laughs, ‘only because you …’
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t on good form today, but you … you had a bit of luck, but you were really good.’ She leans over the table and I’m standing behind her, I take her arm and say, ‘Just a little bit, a tiny bit further to the left. You have to hit it on the arse.’
‘On the arse?’ She’s leaning over the table, one eye pressed closed, moving the cue to and fro. ‘Further to the side,’ I say, shifting her arm very carefully. She looks up at me, one eye still pressed closed, with a crease from the top of her nose up to her forehead. She pots the ball, and I shoot mine off the cushions and across the table but don’t pot them, let them stop before the pockets, because I want to see her happy when she wins.
We’re standing in front of a shop window with all sorts of shoes on display, a tiny pair right at the front. I look at my watch. In eight hours, I’ll be picking up my bags and disappearing. ‘It’s late,’ she says.
‘It’s late,’ I say and look at the tiny pair of shoes and walk on slowly. I haven’t smoked all evening and I take out my pack and light one up. I turn around, she’s still standing in the light of the shop window, and I take a drag at my cigarette, then I flick it against the wall. A few small sparks fall onto the pavement with the cigarette. She comes towards me slowly. ‘I’ll walk you home,’ I say. ‘Then I have to go to the hotel.’
‘Do you know where I live now?’ I nod. ‘How come …?’
‘Someone told me.’ We keep walking. It’s not far to her flat, and I walk very slowly and stop at every shop window, even the ones only displaying ring binders.
‘If you really stay here …’
‘I’m sure it’ll work out,’ I say, standing in front of a shop; nothing to see in this one, just the counter at the back of the room, long and dark.
‘There are plenty of flats free round my way, if you like, I know someone …’
‘Let’s … let’s not talk about it now.’ I look into the shop, then we walk on, the road empty, just a couple of cars driving past now and then, and I see the lights of the cars and the lights of the lamps on the edge of the street, and then we’re standing outside her house. I light up a cigarette. ‘You smoke?’
‘Sometimes,’ I say.
‘Have you got one for me?’ I want to give her mine, I’m holding it away from me between my thumb and forefinger with the lit tip downwards, but then I push it back between my lips and hold the box out to her. She takes one out and I give her a light.
‘I used to smoke too,’ she says, ‘a while ago now, though.’
She smokes hastily and quickly, and blows the smoke away to one side. ‘When …’
‘Soon,’ I say. ‘Maybe tomorrow even, I have to sort out a couple of things, work and the hotel and that.’
‘I … I’m so glad we met up again, that you’re …’
‘Yes,’ I say, and I want to lean in to her but then I see the taxi driving slowly down the road, the sign on the roof glowing yellow.
I raise my arm and wave, twice, three times, and it comes over slowly and halts. The window’s wound down, and I say, ‘I’ll just be a minute.’
I throw away my cigarette, lean up close to her and say, ‘Look after yourself,’ and I lay my hand on her hair for just a moment. She doesn’t say anything, and I turn away and walk over to the taxi. At first I want to sit in the front, but then I get into the back. ‘The station,’ I say. That’s where my bag is, in a locker. I’ll sit down on a bench and wait for the morning and the train.
RIDING THE RAILS
All the nights on trains. That’s what I still think of, often. Sometimes, in my dreams, I’m back on the trains again, riding the rails from town to town with Blondie. Outside, all the lights, us drinking beer or whisky, usually in silence, rarely making plans, counting up our money.
The conductor looks tired; there’s a man asleep on his seat, his mouth gaping. Blondie looks at me and says, ‘When the time comes … when I’ve got them … don’t ever leave me alone too long with those bastards.’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I’ll always look after you.’ We were passing through some small town or other. We looked out at the lights in silence.
I met him out in Torgau. He was doing time for something petty, a bit of theft, bit of drugs, that kind of thing.
He was queer, I could tell straight away, not that I usually had an eye for his type. I’d often sat in bars and pubs in strange towns and wondered why there wasn’t a single woman in there, and sometimes one of the guys had bought me a beer, and when I caught on the whole thing sometimes ended down at the police station – but not always, and that wasn’t why I was in Torgau.
I can’t remember how I noticed, and I don’t know where exactly it was that I first saw him. Probably in the corridor but maybe in the yard or the gym. It can’t have been the way he walked, he walked pretty normally actually, not swaying his arse or anything. It was something about his face, about the way he looked at you. It wasn’t that he looked like a woman or acted all girly; he came across as very young, almost like a child, even though he was maybe in his mid, late twenties, and he had this smile … I think if you looked at his smile for too long you got scared, especially where we were, that you’d have to go to him, hug him or something.
I’d met a good few queers in the three jails I’d been in. I’d seen prison gays who couldn’t hold out all the years but only loved women outside. Prison-marriages, lags who’d shared a cell for years and quarrelled about nothing all day long like old grey couples but forgot about it all every night. I’d seen guys get beaten up for looking at someone ‘queer’; usually they hadn’t done anything at all. But in all the years I’d never made friends with any of them. I’d made sure I never spent too much time with them – no good for your reputation.
It was strange. I saw him and I knew right away that he’d never go to bed with a woman, not a chance. Later on he told me it had happened a couple of times actually, on drugs, and that he’d felt so cold every time that he’d had to get up and leave right in the middle.
His hair. I always remember his hair: blond, shiny and pale at his temples; it looked almost like he was starting to go white there. Someone grabbed him by the hair; that was the first time I stood directly in front of him. He had quite long hair, flopping over his forehead. ‘Let him go,’ I said. He peered at me through one eye; the guy’s arm was covering his other eye, the guy holding him by the hair. ‘You keep out of it, it’s none of your fucking business.’
And the guy was right, it was none of my fucking business, but once I’d stopped and said ‘
Let him go’ – even though I didn’t know what it was all about, even though I knew the queer wasn’t clean and needed to powder his nose now and then and that kind of thing always made for trouble sooner or later – I’d held out my hand to him and I couldn’t just take it back again, not any more. A couple of weeks beforehand my cellmate had tried to kill himself, wanted to top himself. ‘Let him go.’
I knew the guy wouldn’t let him go. I could have tried persuading him for hours, maybe then a snout might have come along and the guy would have acted like he was putting his arm round Blondie, like they were the best of friends having a wee chat in the corridor. And then it all went very fast, the guy was on the floor and Blondie said ‘Ouch,’ and put his hands on his head, and I saw that the guy was gripping a few hairs between his fingers, rolling to the wall, his arm splayed away from his body. I’d caught him unawares.
I shoved Blondie away from him, pushed him along the corridor, a couple of guys standing by their doors watching us, and I said, ‘Go on, piss off back to your cell.’
He nodded, still holding his head as he walked down the corridor. He hadn’t said thanks or anything, he’d just nodded and left, but when he’d peered at me through one eye, the guy’s arm across his face, there’d been something in his eye … In bed that evening I thought a lot about it, there was something there, as if he’d known at that moment that we’d be riding the rails, later on.
‘You a gay-lover, are you?’ I’d known it’d happen and it’d stay that way, for the rest of my time. ‘Gay-lover, eh? You doing her, are you?’ I hit out, pummelled into the guys, tried to beat the shit out of them before they beat it out of me. I felt time passing more and more slowly. Six months to go.
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