The Sleeping Truth : A Romantic Thriller (Omnibus Edition containing both Book One and Book Two)

by Irvine, Ian C. P.

  “Don’t worry,” I replied. I intend to.

  .

  On Saturday night I take Slávka to another Helen Boulding concert, this time at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire, a larger venue than I have ever seen her play before, and hopefully a positive sign that she is now really going places. We eat at another Polish restaurant just around the corner, Slávka once more pointing me to some special delicacies that only Eastern Europeans would ever be brave enough to try. Once again she impresses me with her culinary knowledge, and once again I leave an Eastern European restaurant several sizes larger than when I went in.

  The concert in the Empire is fantastic, with Helen playing better than I have ever seen before. She plays two new tracks at the very beginning of her set, both of which I love.

  The evening is going great, until half way through her set I can no longer resist the urge to go to the toilet and I make my excuses from Slávka and disappear.

  I am standing in the cubicle, the door closed behind me and I start to urinate.

  “Fuck!” I shout, almost jumping out of my skin. As the urine starts to squirt out of my penis, a lightning bolt of pain shoots up inside me and I almost die.

  I immediately stop urinating. In agony. And confused. I look down at my painful friend and bend forward, trying to examine it. It looks okay.

  I straighten up and start to urinate again.

  “Shit…..!” I whisper loudly under my breath. Another bolt of pain shoots up inside me. As soon as the urine seems to leave my bladder and start to run it’s course, it feels like a rod of red hot iron has just been stuck up the centre of my penis.

  With no alternative but to endure the pain, I carry on, finish, shake and zip up. I leave the cubicle, shaken and very stirred.

  “You missed good songs,” Slávka shouts at me, as I arrive back in the concert hall, although I’m not really concentrating on what she is saying. What is the matter with me? It must be pretty serious?

  “And now,” I hear Helen announcing from the stage, “…I’m going to play my last single, ‘If it hurts, it ain’t love.’ ”

  And then it dawns on me what the matter is.

  .

  --------------------------

  .

  I make an excuse that on Sunday I have to work hard on something for work, and suggest that after the concert we’d better not spend the night together because I need to get up early and start working straight away.

  “Why you not tell me this before?” she asks.

  “I knew you’d be upset. I thought I’d better get you in a good mood before I told you. Anyway, I’ll see you on Tuesday night,” I say.

  “Why not on Monday night? You never say before that you were busy?” she asks, disappointment showing in her voice.

  “I just want to spend some time with Guy. It’s about time we went out for a proper chat and he’s going to be alone on Monday night, because Sal has gone to spend a few days visiting her mother.”

  .

  As soon as I get home I start searching the Internet, and within minutes I have found what I am looking for. Randle Clinic in Vauxhall.

  Come Monday morning, I am the first person standing outside of the entrance doors. It’s 7.30 am, and I have already been to the toilet twice that morning, both times with excruciating pain. Pain like I have never experienced in my life before. Pain like no man on this planet ever deserves to go through. Pain like…

  The doors open, and I pile inside, four other people, all men, following me close behind. We queue up at the reception desk, fill in some paper work, and then go and sit quietly in the reception room, each of us avoiding the gaze of the other people sitting beside us, but us all wondering what on earth the other person is here for.

  After twenty minutes of waiting, my number is called and I walk through to the doctors room.

  “Aha, Mr Jardine. So, what are your symptoms this morning?” she asks. A female doctor.

  I squirm in my seat, dying from shame and embarrassment.

  “It’s alright. It’s all confidential. I don’t even have to know your name, but you’ve given me it now, so never mind. Anyway, please tell me, how can I help you?” she asks, repeating a line she has to give about fifty times each day.

  “I’m sorry, I know it sounds crude, but the best way to describe it, is to say that whenever I urinate …it feels like…it feels like I’m pissing fire. It’s unbearable.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s a very common description...Any discharge?” she asks, while she scribbles something down on my form.

  “No. I don’t think so,” I reply.

  “There probably is. You just haven’t seen it.” She says. “Just keep an eye out for it first thing in the morning. I think you’ll see something then. Now, when was the last time you had unprotected sex?” she asks. “And was it with a woman or a man?”

  “What?” I reply, not prepared for this level of intimacy.

  “I need to know when the last time was that you had unprotected sex, and when you first noticed the symptoms.”

  I look past the doctor at a poster on the wall, trying to think.

  “Last Saturday night. A week ago.”

  “And…?”

  “It was with a girlfriend.”

  “Your regular partner?” she drills.

  “No.”

  “Do you have a regular partner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Man or woman.”

  “A woman.”

  “And have you had unprotected sex with her at any point in past.”

  Oh shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  “Yes…”, I reply. “I have.”

  “When?”

  “About eight hours after I had unprotected sex with the other woman.”

  She looks up at me, her well-trained, non-judgemental mask slipping for a few seconds. She stares at me.

  “That’s not good. Not good at all.” She scribbles some more notes.

  “May I ask how long you have been together with your partner? Is it a fairly steady relationship?”

  “About a month. And yes, we’re in love.”

  She looks at me, and I can almost hear her thoughts.

  “Well, Mr Jardine, if possible, could you tell me the number of sexual partners you have had in the past six months?”

  “Yes,” I reply, starting to count them mentally. Kate, Dianne, Slávka, and Gail. “About four.”

  “About four, or exactly four?”

  “Exactly four.”

  “Okay, now, we’ll do some tests, and then I’ll ask you to go back and sit in the waiting room. Some of your results will be ready in about an hour and we can discuss them then. I’ll give you a telephone number and an identification number, and you can call in anonymously to get the rest of the results over the phone at the end of the week. Now, can you just stand up please and show me…”

  I stand up. I drop my trousers. And I stare at the poster on the wall. Looking. At. Every. Word. And letter.

  In between learning everything about testicular cancer I feel the doctor touching, pushing and prodding.

  “Now,” she pre-announces, almost sarcastically, “this may hurt a little…I’m just going to take a little swab…”

  And in that moment, I discover the only viable alternative to the death penalty for murders, rapists and terrorists, as the doctor forcibly inserts a plastic swab up the inside of my penis and then quickly withdraws it..

  “There,…” the doctor says. “That’s it done… You can come down off the ceiling now…”

  .

  --------------------------

  .

  Sitting quietly in the waiting room, I watch as one after another, each man comes back from the doctor’s initial examination, all further interest in sex having been expunged from their system for ever, and a lifetime of celibacy seeming like the obvious choice to make.

  An hour later the receptionist calls out my number again. I get up and am directed to another ro
om. Another doctor. This time a man.

  “Aha, Mr Jardine. Please sit down.”

  I sit.

  “Well,…” a long pause, a long dramatic pause during which the doctor breathes in deeply and the entire world seems to stop. A moment of poignancy not unlike the final seconds on the X-Factor or Big Brother when the winner is announced, except for the fact that instead of £70,000 cash or a £1 million recording contract, I am waiting to hear if I have won syphilis, gonorrhoea or Aids.

  “…well, from the symptoms you’ve described and from the results of the tests so far, I can tell you that I don’t think that you have syphilis or gonorrhoea, or anything nasty…”

  “What about Aids?” I interrupt. “Have I got Aids?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t tell that unless you take a test specifically for Aids. The doctor would have asked your permission for that. You didn’t take one did you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to take one?” he asks.

  “No.” I reply.

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “Because, …I just don’t think I would survive the waiting to find out what the result is….Do you think I should take it? Are you saying that I might have it?”

  “I’m not saying anything. From the answers you’ve provided to the doctor, unless you know that any of your partners are drug takers, or are high risk, then I think the likelihood is low, but you can only tell by taking the test.”

  “No.”

  “Well, okay, then. It’s up to you. But if you start worrying about it, then…”

  “Do you think I should start worrying about it…?”

  “Again, from what you told the other doctor, then the likelihood is low, but if you are worried about it then perhaps you should…”

  “No.”

  “Okay then. Now, going back to where we were a minute ago, what I think it may be is probably what we call a Non-Specific Urinary infection. Or an NSU, as we more commonly call it. Of course, we won’t know for sure until the other tests come back, but from what we could see at this stage, it doesn’t look like it is going to be anything more than that.”

  “How did I catch it?”

  “From having sex. It’s an STD.”

  “A what?” I ask stupidly, already realising what it is before the words finish leaving my mouth.

  “A Sexually Transmitted Disease.”

  “Is it serious?” I ask, the sky beginning to fall upon my head.

  “Not if we treat it now. With some antibiotics... And we treat your partner…”he looks quickly down at his notes and corrects himself, “…your partners…Not if we treat your partners so that you don’t re-infect yourself.”

  “What?” I ask, not sure if I have just heard correctly.

  “If it is an NSU, then we would advise you that you should definitely tell your partners about your infection. For two reasons. Firstly, so that if you have passed it on to them, or if you got it from them in the first place, that they can be treated for it too. It’s possible that they have not displayed any symptoms themselves, and they may not even know they have it.”

  “And secondly?” I prompt him.

  “And secondly because, if you don’t tell them, then not only is there the risk of possible re-infection once you are cured, by subsequently having sex with an infected partner again, but also they run the risk of potential damage if their infection goes unchecked. In women there is a possibility that it could affect their ability to have children…”

  “So, you’re saying that I have to tell them I have an infection and that I am being treated for it?”

  “Yes. And you should give them the clinic’s telephone number and ask them to come and get themselves tested. That’s really important.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Yes, or any further partner you remember where you think there is a risk that either you infected them, or that they infected you.”

  “But, if I tell my girlfriend that I got infected when I slept with another girl, she’ll kill me. It will be the end of our relationship.”

  “How and when you tell her, and what you tell her, I will have to leave up to you to decide, but in circumstances like these all I can advise is that your partner’s…all of your partners, whoever they are…that their health comes first. Especially if you love them. Think about the risks if you don’t tell them. If you don’t let them know that they have potentially been exposed, then because you don’t tell them, they could, just could, find that they have some problems having children later on. And if you do stay together, those children could be yours. Or may not be yours at all, if your partner becomes infertile…”

  “Infertile?” I ask, not believing a word I am hearing.

  “In the worst case, yes, but it won’t come to that. I pretty sure we can easily sort this whole thing out. But first of all, before you do anything, I suggest you wait until you get the results of the other tests later this week, and that you read this leaflet on NSU’s. I’ll write you a prescription for antibiotics now, and assuming that the other tests come back negative, then if you start taking these today, I think you’ll be back to normal by the end of the week. Maybe sooner. Of course, if it doesn’t go away, you should come and see us again.”

  “When?”

  “In a week's time? But don’t worry…I’m pretty sure it’s just an NSU.”

  “Just an NSU? It may be just an NSU to you, but this is going to ruin my life. How am I going to tell my girlfriend?”

  “I can’t help you there. All I can say, without sounding contrite, is that you really should have thought of the possible consequences, before you had sex with someone else without a condom…”

  Chapter Forty Nine

  The truth must out.

  .

  .

  I get into work about half past eleven. Only as I am entering the building do I realise that I have missed the Monday morning marketing meeting. As I step out of the lift onto my floor, and start walking towards my desk, James see me and beckons me over to his office.

  It doesn’t look good.

  “Andrew, are you alright?” he asks as I step inside his office.

  “I could be better,” I reply. “I’m sorry I missed the meeting this morning. I had to go to the doctor.”

  “Are you ok?” he asks, stepping over to the door and closing it behind me. This looks serious. The day seems to be going from bad to worse. James waves at me to sit down at the circular conference table in the middle of his office, and I do so, but I find it hard to concentrate on what he is saying. I have other things on my mind. Like, what is NSU, and what is the likelihood that as soon as I tell Slávka everything, that I will lose her for good.

  “I don’t know. They’re running some tests.”

  “Is everything going well with Slávka still?” he asks, sitting down beside me, his body language friendly but definitely managerial. Why is he asking about Slávka. Is he reading my mind?

  “I hope so…”

  “How is work?” he asks.

  “Fine. I’m really enjoying it.”

  “I thought you were. Actually, now you’re here, I just wanted to have a quick word with you about a few things….”

  Here it comes…

  “First of all, I just wanted to say that your work is very good. It’s obvious you can do the job, and what you’ve done so far is really helping the group. So well done there.”

  He pauses. The typical pause. I wonder if they are taught how to do it on special managerial courses…‘Good morning ladies and gentlemen. And this morning we are going to learn how to deliver the classic managerial pause…’

  “The thing is Andrew, I’m just a little bit concerned that recently you’ve been coming into work later than most of the others. And you’ve been doing it quite regularly.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say immediately, giving myself some time to think. “…and I’m really sorry for missing this morning’s meeting. I knew I would be in late this morning, so I spent t
he whole of Sunday working at home to make up for it. As soon as I get to my desk, I’ll send you the white paper I finished yesterday, the one that is not actually due till this coming Friday, and also the presentation that you wanted done for Wednesday. If anything, I am ahead of my schedule…”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that.” He says, almost as if he is back tracking. “I’m just a little worried that it looks bad in front of the others. I know that what with your friend who was in hospital…”

  “Sal.”

  “Yes, Sal. I know it hasn’t been easy on you, but would it be wrong of me if I could just ask you to try and make it into the office on time more often? I always feel more comfortable if we are all working hard as a team during office hours and then enjoying our free time out of the office at night. Is that fair to ask?”

  He is trying to be nice. I know it. And I know that someone in the HR department has probably sent him a report from the electronic time-stamps that show when we swipe into the building and then swipe-out. Maybe he is even being told off by his manager for being too lax.

  “But you’re happy with my work?” I ask, worried that there is something else to come.

  “Absolutely. Like I said, your work is good. It’s just that you’re still in your probation period for this new job, and we just need to make sure you don’t get a black mark for being late, and not punctual or anything silly like that.”

  I leave his office feeling rather like I’ve just been to the Headmaster’s office at school, but as soon as I sit down, and get my laptop out of my bag and power it up, my mind switches back to other things. More important things. I can always get a new job. I won’t be able to get a new Slávka.

  “Gail, are you free for lunch?” I ask, as soon as she picks up the phone. “We need to talk.”

  “I know. There’s something I need to tell you,” she says.

  “Is it what I think it is?”

  “It could be. What is it that you want to tell me?” she asks.

  “Probably the same.”