by Neil Cross
‘How old were you?’
‘Twenty? So girls’ school, sixth form, gap year, university. It felt like a lot of life experience at the time. So I tell him this, all about myself. Then I ask him about himself and he tells me about books. As if he’s made up of all these books he’s read, or was going to read. And later on, he walks me home. I didn’t question it for a minute. And I’ll tell you one thing about John: if you’re a twenty-year-old girl and you’re not that knowledgeable in the ways of the world and you live in a dodgy area, walking home with him, you never felt so safe. And he stops outside my door and says, This is you, then? And I say, This is me. And I’m thinking, Kiss me you arsehole, kiss me or I’m going to die on the spot.’
‘And did he?’
‘No. He just slouches and gives me this nod – he’s got this shaggy-dog nod he does sometimes. Then he digs his hands in his pockets and walks off.’
‘Well played, that man.’
‘Except it wasn’t,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t a tactic. I swear! It was just him. That’s who he was. Is. Whatever.’
And then a melancholy descended on her – as it always did when she thought of that boy and that girl. The thought of John Luther, twenty-two, slouching off without kissing her. And the lightness in her heart that night; how she couldn’t sleep and couldn’t believe herself: serious, level-headed, hard-working Zoe, who’d slept with two men in her entire life, one long-term school boyfriend, as a kind of parting gift, and one slightly older man she met on her gap year.
It wasn’t in her nature to lie in bed wondering what a boy might be doing right now, right this second. But she spent the whole night like that.
And she spent the next few days pretending she wasn’t trying to manufacture ways to bump into him in the corridor, the English department, the refectory.
Sprawled on that park bench, looking at the pigeons, Mark said, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ said Zoe. ‘Sorry. Miles away.’
He stretched his arms. ‘Best be getting back.’
‘I don’t want to go to work,’ she groaned, stretching her neck. ‘I want to take the day off. I’m tired.’
‘We could play hooky,’ said Mark. ‘Go to the pictures or something. I haven’t been to the pictures for ages. Especially not in the afternoon.’
‘Me neither.’
‘We should totally do it,’ he said. ‘Say we’re in a meeting. Go to the pictures. Grab a Chinese afterwards.’
‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘But no.’
So he slipped his tobacco tin into his pocket and they strolled back to work.
In her memory they were arm in arm, although of course that can’t be right. Not yet. Not then.
That afternoon, she’d been distracted and clumsy. She spilled a cup of coffee over her desk.
Just by sitting there, laughing at the past, she’d felt that her John, that boy, was nothing more than a memory.
He’d catch her sometimes, after one glass of wine too many. She’d be tearful, going through their old photos again.
‘Look at my hair,’ she’d say. Or, ‘Christ, look at those boots. What was I thinking?’
Or she’d say, ‘God, remember that flat? The one on Victoria Road?’
And Luther would oblige her by flicking through the albums, unaware that the man looking at the photos was not the boy they pictured.
Somewhere along the line, that boy had joined the dead and Zoe had spent years waving to him from a far shore, trying to call him back.
And now it’s not even lunchtime on this strange day a year later and she lies naked on a hotel bed with Mark North in the warm afterglow of orgasm.
She nuzzles his neck, kisses him. He turns, kisses her.
She knows she’ll feel guilty. She’ll get up and walk naked to the shower and walk back and dry herself and Mark will watch; of course he will – he’s going to watch her do these everyday things because here and now everything she does is fascinating, vertiginous, magical. Just as everything he does is fascinating and magical to her.
She’ll towel herself in front of this man who has just come inside her, twice. And she’ll dress: underwear and tights and shirt and suit and shoes, and she’ll toy with her hair and reapply her make-up. She’ll make an appointment with the doctor to pick up the morning-after pill because neither of them had been planning this and neither had thought to pop into the chemist and buy condoms.
The morning-after pill may give her a headache and sore breasts and it may nauseate her; she’ll have to think of a good lie and practise it over and over again until she no longer thinks of it as untrue. That’s the only way to lie with any success to the man she married.
She’ll kiss Mark goodbye and because she knows now that their bodies fit, there’ll be no awkwardness between them. She likes his smell, the hint of fresh tobacco in his sweat; the few grey hairs on his chest, the scar on his upper arm.
She can feel it all, like the faint foreshadow of tomorrow’s hangover throbbing through the bright white glare of dancing drunk.
But all she feels right now is the satisfaction of being fascinated. And of being fascinating.
When, reluctantly, she gets out of bed and walks naked to the shower she doesn’t cry and she doesn’t laugh. She just washes herself and tries not to think.
Paula’s been on the game more than twelve years, during which time she’s sold pretty much all she has to sell. But she didn’t truly find her niche until she fell into the erotic lactation game. That was a few months after Alex was born.
Now she trades under the name Finesse. Compared to some of the crap she went through when she was younger, it’s easy money; she gets to spend her working hours in a clean little flat, and most of her lactophiliacs are long-term customers, middle-aged men who like to engage in what they call Adult Nursing Relationships. Sometimes they like to go the whole hog and assume the role of a breastfeeding infant, complete with nappies.
Some men like to have breast milk sprayed onto them as they masturbate. One or two like her to express into a manual pump as they watch and wank themselves off. They take the milk home to drink it or cook with it or do God knows what with it. Paula doesn’t really care; what harm can a little bit of milk do to anyone?
A very small minority of her clients are lesbian. She even has a lesbian couple. They like to latch on to a nipple each and nurse before doing their thing.
Paula doesn’t judge. She just gets on with it; takes her Domperidone, her Blessed Thistle, her red raspberry leaf, and counts her blessings.
So she’s surprised to see this sweet-looking young man standing in her doorway, telling her that Gary Braddon’s recommended her.
Braddon’s one of these tough-looking men, all tattoos and shaved heads, but he’s a gentle soul really, a softy. Loves his dogs, loves his milky boobs to kiss and nibble and suck.
Paula assesses the kid. He’s skinny, nervy. He smells not unpleasantly of fresh earth. She can see how he might be a friend of Gary’s. So she asks him in.
He looks at the prints she’s hung in the little hallway, faintly erotic Christian art showing the Lactation of St Bernard, in which the Saint receives milk from the breast of the Virgin Mary.
Paula paid her downstairs neighbour, who’s studying interior decorating, to do it for her at cost. He’s a nice straight boy, her Chris downstairs, so above the cost of materials she paid him in kind and everyone was happy.
Along with the subdued lighting, the prints add the right touch of reverence to the proceedings. Unlike most apartments providing related services, this is a place of nurture and worship.
Now this kid looks her up and down. His eyes can’t meet hers, but they never can at first. A lot of the younger ones never had a mum. The first time they look her in the eye is when they’re laid out on her lap, suckling away. Sometimes she strokes their hair and murmurs gentle words of encouragement. Sometimes they cry when they come, spunking all over her tummy.
Finesse doesn’t mind that. She’s
pleased. It seems to help.
This kid digs into the pocket of his army surplus coat and brings out a wad of tenners. He tries to foist it on her – a fistful of greasy money in her lovely clean hands with their lovely manicure.
She says, ‘There’s no need to do that now, love.’
He blinks at her, embarrassed and confused.
She says, ‘Why don’t you come in for five minutes, take off your coat, sit down, have a little chat?’
But the kid won’t relax. He looks nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if he needs the loo.
He follows her into the little front room. There’s a nice vibe in here, too, like a boutique hotel in earth tones and artificially aged wood. Paula does all right for herself, but that’s not the point of this display: the point is to suggest that she doesn’t need to do this – that she’s essentially an altruist, a therapist providing a service.
She invites the kid to sit.
He perches on the edge of a chair. Wipes his palms on his thighs. He jiggles his leg. He twists his hands in sweaty knots. He look at her, he looks away.
She crosses her legs, shows a bit of thigh, and leans forward. And there’s the cleavage. Boom. ‘Would you like some tea?’
He shakes his head once, looks away.
‘I’ve got some herbal blends,’ she says, in her smoky voice. She’s been doing it so long now, this voice, that she hardly thinks about it any more. She got training from an acting coach. He wasn’t a straight boy, so it was payment in cash. ‘Peppermint’s very relaxing,’ she tells the kid. ‘And chamomile.’
He shakes his head, looks like he wants to cry.
Paula sits and waits. Sometimes that’s the best thing.
Looking at the floor, the kid says, ‘It’s my dad.’
‘Oh, love,’ she says. ‘What about him?’
‘He sent me. He wants you to come round our place.’
‘Does he have a disability?’ Paula says. ‘Because that’s not a problem. The building’s got wheelchair access.’
‘It’s not that.’
She makes a concerned face, and the real emotions follow. This was taught to her by an acting coach too, and the funny thing is, it doesn’t make her feel like a fraud. It makes her feel like a better person. ‘Is he bedridden?’
‘No.’
She waits for more, begins to doubt it’s ever going to come. Fighting the urge to look at her watch she says, ‘Then what is it, love?’
He taps his foot, plucks at one of the sparse blondish hairs on his spindly forearm.
‘We’ve got a baby that needs feeding.’
There’s a silence. Paula hears cars go past, like the sound of blood in her ears.
As a girl, working the streets, the first sign that something was wrong was your hearing suddenly got very clear. It was your body, getting ready to react before your brain knew anything was amiss.
Hearing the traffic now, she knows she should have followed her first instinct and not invited this young man in. But he’d sounded gentle and personable on the phone, and she didn’t see the harm in starting an hour or two early; she could always take a nap afterwards.
None of this shows in her voice or in her body language. She just says, ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘We’ve got a baby,’ he says. ‘It needs feeding.’
‘A little boy or a little girl?’
The kid hesitates, as if thinking about it. ‘Little girl. Emma.’
‘Can’t her mum feed her?’
‘Her mum’s dead.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, love.’
‘That’s all right. She wasn’t my mum or anything.’
The kid squeezes his eyes shut as if silently rebuking himself for something. He blushes.
Paula says, ‘How old is she? Little Emma?’
‘Very young. Just a baby.’
‘What do the doctors say?’
‘My dad doesn’t trust doctors. He says a baby needs proper milk. From a woman.’
‘Well, there’s a lot of people who’d agree with him,’ she says. ‘My special friends think that’s true later in life, too. There’s something about a woman’s milk.’
The kid nods.
‘But formula milk’s safe for a baby,’ she says.
‘She won’t take a bottle. She just spits it out.’
Paula smiles, tenderly. ‘They do that. You’ve just got to be patient.’
‘Dad thinks she’s sick.’
‘Then he should go to the doctor. I think it’s lovely that you’ve come to me: it shows that your dad loves your sister very much. I’m touched. It’s a special bond, nursing a child. And it’s wonderful to think we could share that together. But it’s not the right thing to do. The right thing would be to go to the doctor’s. Then maybe contact your local breast-feeding support network. You might find some young mums who offer to help. They call it cross-nursing now, but that’s just a newfangled way of saying wet-nursing. That’s what I think you should do.’
The kid grows more agitated. He digs in his other pocket, produces another fistful of money. ‘This is all I’ve got.’
‘This isn’t about money, darling.’
‘Please. He’ll kill me.’
‘Tell you what,’ Paula says. She’s aware that her palms are damp. She needs to get this kid out of the flat. She’s angry at herself for letting him in, but she hides it.
‘Please,’ says the kid. His face is grey with wretchedness and fear.
‘Give me your dad’s phone number,’ she says. ‘I’ll have a little chat with him.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Then why don’t you call him yourself and pass your phone to me? I’ll have a word with your dad, tell him how great you’ve been.’
‘He’ll kill me.’
‘Come on. Don’t cry.’
‘I mean it,’ he says. ‘I mean he’ll actually kill me. He’s done it before. Please.’
Now Paula can’t hear or see anything except the abject, unhinged kid at the end of her tunnel vision.
In a false back of the left-hand drawer in the small dresser is a pepper spray and a taser. On top of the dresser, next to the landline, is a small pad of scented paper.
The kid says, ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to write your dad a little note.’
The kid leaps to his feet. Shrugs narrow shoulders.
‘Come on,’ he says, ‘please. Just once. Just come to our place for one time.’
‘I can’t love,’ Paula says. Her voice is still calm, a little firmer now. But her hand is shaking as she pretends to look for a pen. She makes a face. She tries to underplay it but her features feel grotesque and exaggerated. ‘I’m sure when he reads the letter, you’ll be okay.’
The kid paces, muttering to himself. Paula doesn’t dare look back, but she thinks he might be tearing at his hair.
‘Please,’ he says, ‘please please please.’
She opens the drawer. Takes out the little can of Mace and turns to him.
‘Now,’ she says. ‘I’ve asked you nicely and I’ll ask you nicely one more time. Please leave.’
The kid looks at her, aghast.
He backs away, trips over the furniture.
‘Get out,’ she says.
The kid scrambles to his feet, reaches into his other pocket. It takes her a moment to recognize what he draws from his pocket.
It’s a torque wrench.
The kid draws back his hand, still snivelling.
No, Paula thinks, Not like this.
Luther and Howie step into the interview room.
Sheena Kwalingana sits behind a dilapidated desk, holding a cup of milky tea.
Luther slows down, makes himself relax. He nods at a chair. ‘May I?’
Sheena Kwalingana says yes.
Howie cracks open fresh audio tapes, loads them into the recorder, switches on the machine. Makes sure Mrs Kwalingana knows the interview is being recorded.
Mrs Kwalinga
na gives her permission.
Gently, in a voice designed to calm the witness as much as give information, Luther repeats his name and rank. He asks Mrs Kwalingana to confirm her name, address, and date of birth, which she does after clearing her throat and sipping stewed tea.
Knowing her throat is dry with nerves, Luther gets her a cup of water from the cooler on the other side of the door. She takes it with a look of bashful gratitude.
Then, just as gently, Luther says, ‘Can you tell me what happened on January seventeenth of this year?’
‘I already told you.’
‘For the record. Just once more, please. It could be very important.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘Please,’ he says.
‘I was burgled,’ says Mrs Kwalingana. ‘A man broke into my flat. He took a few things and ran away. No big one.’
Howie steps in. ‘But that’s not quite it, is it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Please, tell us everything you told the other officers about what happened that night.’
She sighs. ‘I turned off the TV. I went to bed.’
‘What time would this be?’
‘I don’t know, usual time. I work early. I’m up before the dawn. So not too late, ten-thirty, maybe?’
‘You live alone?’
‘Since my husband died.’
‘No children, grandchildren?’
‘In Manchester. Apparently it’s fancy.’
‘And you live in a flat in a local authority development, that’s right?’
‘Nice place,’ she says, ‘modern, very clean. Nice neighbours. Old fashioned.’
‘You’re very lucky.’
Mrs Kwalingana sniffs to indicate she knows it.
‘So what happened?’
‘I wake up,’ she says. ‘I hear someone moving around.’
‘Someone in your flat?’
Mrs Kwalingana nods.
‘What time was this?’ says Howie.
‘Not so late. Quarter past eleven? Quarter to twelve?’
‘You were still awake?’
‘No. I was very tired. I work hard, love, I get up early. So when I woke up, I thought I was dreaming. But no.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I must have moved, because he heard me. Whatever he was doing, I heard him stop. Then he walked into the bedroom.’