Attend

by West Camel

  Sam’s body relaxed; he had to grip the wall to hold himself up.

  The grinding of the trains faded, so that Sam could hear the rippling and bubbling of the tide rising in the creek. He knew it was madness, but he wanted to reach out and touch this big, beautiful man. He was within an arm’s length – Sam could feel his body heat. Surely he must be able to feel Sam’s.

  Sam twitched. It was involuntary, but he may as well have stepped out and grabbed Derek’s shoulder because Derek jumped aside, almost a stagger.

  ‘Fuck.’

  Sam did step out now, showing himself, tossing aside his fear.

  Derek’s eyes held his for a beat, then cast up and down his body. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing down here, mate, but you didn’t see anything.’ His voice was low and warm. ‘You understand me?’

  Sam nodded. ‘I was just walking.’ Despite himself, desire plucked at his belly.

  Derek continued to stare, then blinked; a tic of recognition. He came closer. Sam knew he should back away, but he held still. Derek’s hand was on his arm, pulling at him, so he had to reach out to steady himself against Derek’s solid chest. Derek shot a look back down the alley, then slowly moved his hand from Sam’s arm, to his shoulder, to the back of his neck, holding his head still. And before he could take a breath, Derek was kissing him, his stubble teasing the tip of Sam’s nose. Their chests pressed together – under the heavy coat Derek’s body was damp.

  Derek stepped back. And then a surprise: Derek lifted his hand to Sam’s face and, tilting his own head a fraction to one side, examined the curve of Sam’s eyebrow with a finger. His thumb was resting on Sam’s chin. Sam dropped his jaw and let it plop between his lips. It fit perfectly into the roof of his mouth. Derek pulled it out carefully, then, twisting his head awkwardly and pulling at his lapels, he said, ‘I have to go.’

  Derek looked down the alley, then back at Sam, then down the alley again. Suddenly urgent, he put his hand back on Sam’s neck, squeezing hard. ‘Come with me, but keep out of sight until they’re gone.’ He lowered his big hand to the small of Sam’s back and started walking towards the road.

  Sam leaned into Derek’s arm and shoulder; but he was confused. He had been preparing for a fumble in the shadows. But now he was being propelled towards the road, and he didn’t know what danger.

  Close to the bend, his toe caught on something soft. A body heaped against the wall let out a groan, the head turning and shining on a long, thin neck. Sam gasped in recognition and swivelled back, but Derek didn’t stop – and didn’t let Sam stop either; a few tripping steps and they were at the mouth of the alley.

  ‘Wait here, I’ll come back for you,’ Derek ordered. In the street light, his blue eyes were in deep contrast to his dark hair. He looked a little tired. He stepped out of the alley onto the pavement, leaving one hand on Sam for as long as his arm’s stretch would allow. Sam leaned against the wall; his head felt light.

  Someone out of his view said, ‘How long, Del?’

  ‘Just having a quick word with our friend Nigel. I think he understands now.’

  So the body in the alley was the man Derek had been chasing across the road. Sam remembered Derek shouting his name.

  Laughter, then a door banged, engines started and Derek was saying, ‘No, go with them, Lee. I’ve got to see someone.’

  The engines revved together, the cars pulled away and finally, there was quiet.

  Sam closed his eyes. He had not experienced such stillness as this in London. It was a countryside silence and it made him acutely aware of the chill, damp air, of the wall at his back, the brick under his nails. And the body back up the alley.

  ‘Run,’ he mouthed to himself. But he could not even step out onto the pavement. He still felt the pressure of Derek’s hands on him. He could still taste Derek’s thumb.

  With a huge effort, like moving a boulder, he turned his head to look back down the alley. Was that movement? No one came out of the darkness. Why not? Fuck. What had he witnessed?

  He had almost managed to move his legs when a car pulled up in the road. Derek leaned over and opened the passenger door, smiling up at Sam from under his eyebrows.

  Speed away now, Sam thought; escape into the estate opposite; jump into the creek; run back to Deborah. He had to strain to think of her, but all the while he was getting into the car, closing the door, his heart racing, sweat trickling down his back.

  As Derek turned the car smoothly around, Sam bent his neck, trying to look into the alley. ‘What about that bloke?’ he said.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one in the alley. Nigel.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t see anything?’ But there was no threat in Derek’s voice. There was even a helpful little smile on his lips. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be alright. He was just someone who needed sorting out. He’ll be down the pub tomorrow, showing off his stitches.’

  That shouldn’t be enough. Sam looked over at Derek, the strips of orange street light floating over him – thickset, thick hands on the wheel, thick-lipped, set chin.

  ‘So, what were you doing down there?’ Derek asked. ‘Trying to get into the new flats, were you?’

  ‘I’ve never been down there before.’ Sam paused and turned away. ‘I was looking at the creek.’

  ‘There’s nothing to see; I suppose you found that out.’

  But Sam had seen a lot; too much, he thought. He wasn’t sure where to start.

  He noticed Derek take a decision at a junction. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘Just driving. Where do you want to go?’

  Sam breathed through his mouth before answering. He’d been sitting still for minutes, but his heart pounded as if he had been running. ‘Just driving’s fine.’

  They were quiet. Derek swung the steering wheel; Sam observed the closed shops as Deptford turned into New Cross.

  He had been in many cars with many men – driving somewhere for a brisk thrill, followed nearly always by a sticky, awkward journey home. This felt different; but whether it was because of the body lying in the alley or Deborah sewing in her improbable house, he couldn’t work out.

  They were on a long, empty road now, skirting a sleeping estate. The towers must be full of people but all the windows were dark, no one looking out to see the car cruising past.

  Derek changed gear and accelerated, leaving his hand on the stick, tapping the pommel with his thumb. Sam eyed it, his tongue between his teeth. Without a decision he grabbed Derek’s wrist, snatched the hand to his mouth and bit down hard.

  ‘Fuck, mate. What are you doing? That’s fucking dangerous!’ Derek’s head wobbled between scowling at Sam and watching the road ahead.

  ‘Seeing if you’re real.’ It was only when the words were out that Sam knew he meant them.

  ‘I’ve slapped people for less, you know.’ Derek’s smile was uncertain.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘By the river. Why?’

  ‘Shall we go there, then?’

  Derek held the wheel tightly and leaned forwards. ‘Alright. If that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is.’ Sam felt a little high, ready to jump. ‘I’m Sam, by the way.’

  ‘I’m Derek,’ Derek replied, and then brought the car to a sudden stop. ‘Shit, I always miss this road.’ He executed a ragged three-point turn.

  On the landing outside his flat, Derek had difficulty with the keys. Inside, he showed Sam into a sparse living room and retreated, flustered, to the bathroom, leaving him alone. Sam was baffled now – at everything that had happened that evening; at his own behaviour. It was as if he had put his shirt on inside out before leaving home.

  Derek came back after a few minutes and dropped onto the sofa with a sigh. He must have put his head under the shower because his hair was ruffled and wet. Sam reached up to touch it, but Derek grabbed him by the neck and pulled them roughly together. The kiss was awkward – their teeth collided and there seemed no room for their tongues. It was noth
ing like that first moment in the alley leading to Deborah’s house.

  Sam allowed Derek to undress him and push him onto his back while he stayed clothed, his shirt and trousers rough against Sam’s skin. Sam put his arms behind his head and watched Derek struggling to untangle his underwear from his feet. He had to suppress a laugh.

  A muffled trill came from Derek’s trouser pocket. He sat up, tutting, and retrieved his phone. ‘Alright, Lia, what’s up?’

  Sam heard a splintering, diminished, female shout.

  Derek lunged off the sofa and walked over to the window. ‘Lia, love, calm down.’ Then, in a rough whisper, ‘I ain’t done nothing to Nigel … He’s a stupid fucker; probably got on someone’s tits like he always does…’ He paused, hunched. ‘How do you know it was me?’ He looked at Sam as he spoke. So Sam had been right. The man beaten up in the alley had been the Nigel Derek was chasing a few days before.

  Derek switched the phone to his other ear, pivoting on his heel as he did so. ‘I don’t care what you do anymore, darling. It’s up to you if you go out with scum like him.’

  Derek dropped his gaze to the carpet and listened while the woman shouted on. ‘Believe what you like,’ he said, and ended the call. Sam felt like he’d wandered onto the stage in the middle of a play.

  ‘Was that about the bloke you beat up?’ Sam was shocked at himself. He rolled his legs off the sofa and sat up.

  Derek stared at him, taken aback. ‘I said don’t fucking worry about him, didn’t I?’ But it was a childlike anger. He softened his voice instantly. ‘Why don’t you go into the bedroom? I’ll be there in a second.’

  Sam stood up; perhaps this was the moment to get dressed and leave. But he caught sight of his straight, nude body in the dark window. He’d come this far. He walked into the hallway, found the bedroom and lay down on the bed, listening to Derek fumbling around in the living room.

  When Derek finally came in, he pulled his shirt and trousers off and lay down without a word. Sam twisted over and touched him, and Derek shuddered. Indignant, Sam persisted, tracing the contours of his full torso with a light, consistent pressure, following the pattern of the hair, a design stitched into the skin. Derek let out a deep sigh and turned over into him, laying a heavy arm across Sam’s chest so he couldn’t move.

  They remained like this for several minutes, then Derek stirred and, with a quick movement, pulled the duvet out from under them, covering them both with it and holding Sam down again with his arm. Sam clasped his wrist, stroking the soft patch where his watch had been, and stared into the air. Nothing tonight then, after all.

  He tried to avoid asking why, tried not to make a coherent story out of so few scraps. He closed his eyes and pushed his mind down other paths, hoping they would lead to sleep. He thought of Deborah, sitting in her bow window above the water, sewing and shuffling through her tapestries. But he found that he edged along the ledge, over the wall and into the alley, returning to Derek, to that moment in the darkness, to the mind behind the closed eyes beside him, to the need in the position of the thick arm across his chest. His own had been, as always, for sex, for quick satisfaction. Perhaps Derek – that bit older than him – felt the need for something else. Something more.

  He couldn’t sleep. And at last decided he shouldn’t stay. There was a tangle here he didn’t want to be caught in. He lifted Derek’s arm and got out of the bed.

  Derek woke up. ‘You off?’ His eyes were focused on the stretch of sheet where Sam had been lying.

  ‘Yeah. I’ll let myself out.’

  Sam dressed in the odd light cast by a desk lamp that sat on the living-room floor. Doing his coat up, he put his head back into the bedroom. ‘See you, then.’

  ‘Yeah, bye mate.’ Derek was on his back, staring upwards, a finger in his mouth.

  Two steps to the front door, a flight of stairs, and then Sam was out in the cold and damp. It was a long walk home. He was tired now, slightly faint and not at all sure of the way.

  He had been walking for some minutes when the fine rain returned. It was welcome – gently rinsing away the past hour or two, letting him focus just on his feet and the empty street ahead.

  As he approached the main road he heard a car coming up behind him, but not passing. He resisted the temptation to turn and look. No more risks tonight, he thought – just home and bed. He picked up his pace. The car did the same with a jerk and pulled ahead of him.

  It was Derek. He drew into the kerb and the passenger door swung open. Sam could have – should have – walked past without looking. But a smile tweaked his cheeks; somehow he had known this would happen. He bent down and looked inside the car.

  ‘Get in, then.’ Derek held the wheel with one hand; the other was on the passenger seat. ‘I’ll give you a lift home.’

  Sam’s head was ringing with things to say, to Derek, to himself. But he didn’t say any of them; he just got in.

  ‘So where am I taking you?’ Derek asked.

  Sam didn’t answer for a moment. He realised he was snagged: if he struggled, he would become more entwined.

  ‘Deptford High Street.’

  ‘OK. You live above a shop?’

  ‘Yeah. By the Spar.’

  ‘When I was first married we lived in a flat down there. Above the sewing-machine repair shop. You know it?’

  ‘Yeah, on the corner.’

  ‘That’s it. Been there years, that has.’

  Sam had to ask: ‘Are you still married?’

  ‘No, no; divorced.’

  Sam was relieved, despite himself. It must have been her on the phone. And Derek had lied to her about beating up Nigel.

  They were on the main road now. This was his route home from work. A bus heaved away from a stop, full of people swinging around the top deck. It looked like a fight; or maybe it was just rowdy play. Perhaps it was better to be on the edge, looking in, not involved in those kinds of messes.

  Derek chatted on about the High Street, waking to the noise of the stallholders on market days, the shops that had come and gone, aunts and grandfathers who’d had barrows. His voice was low and soothing again; as if the awkward moments in his flat hadn’t happened. His hand, firmly grasping the gear stick, was square and certain. Sam covered it with his own and tried to swallow the surprising lump that had bloomed at the top of his throat.

  Derek slowed the car to a stop. ‘We’re here,’ he murmured.

  It took a second for Sam to see they were in the High Street already. ‘Oh, right, thanks.’ He got out awkwardly, catching his foot in the seatbelt. Derek laughed and unlooped it, his hand firm and warm on Sam’s calf.

  ‘Thank you,’ Sam managed.

  ‘Thank you,’ Derek replied.

  Sam remained looking into the car and Derek continued to smile at him, a display of perfect, strong teeth. Would asking him upstairs be a pointless repetition?

  Derek looked around him. ‘Sixty-three, is it?’

  ‘Sixty-three D; I’m at the top.’

  Derek sat back. ‘OK, mate. See you, then.’ He pulled the door closed and drew away with unnecessary acceleration, the engine’s roar hanging in the fine drizzle.

  Chapter 8: Anne

  The morning after she visited Rita and Julie, Anne’s need for a fix was the strongest she remembered since she’d been clean. She attempted to escape it by slipping back into sleep, but the sheets seemed to irritate her skin and the small of her back ached whatever position she lay in. She squirmed beneath the pressure for an hour, before finally lurching out of bed to stand in the dim blue light of her bedroom, avoiding her reflection in the mirror.

  It was Sunday again. Mel would be visiting Rita, Julie and Tom. Perhaps he would tell them more about Kathleen. Perhaps they would tell him about her.

  As she washed, made tea and ate half a slice of toast, her back continued to ache with a dull insistence. She couldn’t ignore it. Neither could she ignore the fact that she wanted a hit. Within the hour, she had left the flat, as though driven out by
her craving, only to find it flaring up higher in the mild spring air.

  She walked over to the High Street and found it empty, so she crossed back to Church Street, then back again into the High Street, but lower down. She passed flats and pubs she had once scored in and shops she had stolen from to buy her gear. She glanced into the churchyard twice, but it was empty too, apart from some early roses that were about to bloom. It was a familiar pattern, this shuttling back and forth across the grid of quiet streets. Back then, it had been a determined search for a dealer or a fellow junkie; now it was just aimless. And if she did see someone she knew? She wasn’t entirely sure what would happen. But no one she passed paid her any attention; she felt she was invisible.

  When she reached the bottom of the High Street she crossed Creek Road in front of the Methodist Mission and found herself at the junction with Watergate Street.

  She stopped, a little breathless from her walking. She had not been down this street in a very long time; even when she had lived in Deptford, it was a place she had avoided. Once her mother had moved, there had been no reason to come this way.

  She took a few steps and the sounds of Creek Road diminished; a few more and everything was silent and still. On the other side of the street was a block of flats – red-brick and steep-roofed, much like the block she lived in now. The flat at the end on the first floor was where she had had her first fix. The needle had slipped so neatly under her skin and into her vein, and the relief had been so complete, so perfect, she had cried. A curtain was pulled across the window of the flat, even though it was the middle of the day.

  Her body was almost buzzing in memory of that hit and the ache in her back had dimmed. This was dangerous. She ripped herself away.