by West Camel
‘I tried to conjure up Mrs Clyffe; I needed her in the room with me if something wasn’t to happen – her height, her high bosom; her turned-down lips. But she was gone. And I was glad of it.
‘The door moved. I didn’t look at it, but the shadows in the room changed. He was in. I didn’t know what to do now; I just stayed absolutely still. He would know – he was a man. He humped all those bolts and bundles of cloth around all day. He flashed his teeth at the women who came into the shop, making them spend more than they meant to.
‘He was near the foot of the bed now, in my line of sight. He wore just his undershirt and shorts, his skin dark against the bluey-white linen.
‘His teeth glinted. I blinked and smiled back at him. We seemed to stay stock still for ages – I swear the moon moved across the sky while we looked at each other. Then he moved. His hand gripped the top of the sheet and drew it back with a practised flick. And then his sturdy legs seemed to fail him; he took a step back, like a stagger. In the half-light, I could see his face twist, still staring at my naked body, not able to look away.
‘A puff of night air from the open window brought goose pimples out all over me – across my completely flat chest, my tiny nipples, my narrow hips, my slim legs.
‘In the half-light, I could see his face twist, but he still stared at my naked body, not able to look away from what he must have seen was a grown person – but not what he thought of as a woman.
‘I should have sat up and grabbed the sheet; I should have hidden my undeveloped body from him. But I didn’t. I lay still and stared at his staring.
‘“I’m sorry,” he muttered. I could see the questions on his dim face.
‘“I’m sorry,” he said again, and he was out of the room, his naked feet patting down the stairs, hardly making them creak. His door closed with a quick, quiet click.
‘I stayed naked, frozen; and still I didn’t pull the sheet over myself. I had no one to hide from.
‘The moon had moved further through the sky. It was millions of miles away, wasn’t it? It looks to us just a little way; but it’s huge distances out there in space. Its light was now on the mantel over the empty grate, shining on the clock, the Bible I had been given at the hospital and the tin.
‘The tin was where I kept the strips of fabric – the one I had been given in the tunnel; the ones I had made myself. I thought of myself getting up, stepping naked across the bare boards and bringing the tin back to bed with me. I thought of myself examining its contents; caressing the rough and smooth stitching. Holding it up, staring at its strange in-and-out pattern, like the head and neck of a snake.
‘What had I expected? Had I thought he would grin and touch me when he saw what I was? A grown woman, yet sterile and blue in the moonlight.
‘I sank a little into the pillows – half sitting up, half lying down. My back was bent wrongly and I knew I would be in pain the next day. But I didn’t move. It seemed right. This was it for me.
‘I wasn’t sure if I slept at all that night. But the next day I went to the lady in Blackheath and, from her, the draper and I got the best business we had that whole winter.’
Chapter 15: Sam
‘I can’t die.’
The ridiculous words came back to Sam as he walked through the market and became caught in a clutch of mothers and children clustered around a stall selling cheap toys. The stallholder seemed in a rush to get rid of the broad, rattling boxes: ‘It’s all kosher stuff, ladies. Cut price ’cos it’s my mother’s birthday.’
‘I can’t die,’ Deborah had said, then tried to collect herself, sniffing and blinking. He had almost stroked her arm; had almost said he believed her as she told him the ridiculous tale of a piece of sewing that could make someone immortal. But he had put his hands back in his lap and listened in silence. And then he had dashed back home to meet Derek, attacking him with a rough embrace and biting down on the muscle of his shoulder. Derek had grunted and laughed.
In the couple of days since, those words – ‘I can’t die’ – had been repeating in his head and Sam had ignored them. He had turned away as if he hadn’t heard. But now, trapped beside the toy stall, they were suddenly louder – as if Deborah were perched on his shoulder, shouting in his ear.
None of the mothers around the stall seemed to see him; no one moved a pram or pulled their brats out of his way. He had to lay a flat hand on a woman’s back to get himself out of the crowd. Like a struck match, his irritation flamed into anger – at Deborah; at her dull, homemade clothes, her decrepit house. Her insistence that no one paid her any attention. He strode past the backs of the stalls, which were beginning to close up for the afternoon. Of course people saw her; and if they ignored her, it was her own fault, with all the stupid stories she told.
He closed his eyes for a second and shook his head. He had spent long self-pitying days in his parents’ house, standing at his bedroom window, gazing through the net curtain at the people passing on the road below. But he had left – despite his troubles, he had left; and here he was, making at least a bit of a life.
The air rang with shouts and clangs as people pulled apart the frames of their stalls, got in each other’s way and loaded up their carts and vans. What would it be like to have a stall here? He had seen someone selling cloth – perhaps someone at the warehouse could help him with stock. Perhaps Derek had a contact.
And then he saw him.
He was standing outside the Vietnamese supermarket with another man. The muscles of Sam’s face twitched into a smile and his throat prepared itself for words. He crossed the road, accelerating his pace, eager to touch Derek, if only his suited arm.
But Derek was red-faced; his hand jerked up and down and his voice was tight, fast. Sam slowed slightly, not sure how to interrupt.
The other man was speaking now: ‘We’ll sort Nigel out for you, Derek. He’s dead meat. He’s pissed too many people off.’ His hand was on Derek’s shoulder, shaking him firmly. The two men were strikingly similar – solid, with thick red necks under cropped hair. They wore suits of almost the same grey, their open-necked shirts almost the same white. But, unlike Derek, the other man’s face was pale and round, his eyes large and green, his expression flat – apart from a slight movement of his eyebrows that questioned Sam’s interest as he approached. Sam’s back prickled.
And then Derek saw Sam.
As their eyes met, it was as if Sam had climbed two steps, and he let his smile open. But Derek’s jaw hung loose and his thick eyelashes beat a stuttered rhythm. Then he switched his gaze back to his companion without a word or a nod, wiping his hand over his face.
Sam’s smile was still in his cheeks, but it was a dumb grin now. He stumbled slightly, as if shoved back downstairs and, swaying away from the pair, his heel slipped off the kerb, jarring his whole body. He was capsized; tipped into gaspingly cold water. He could not quite control his limbs. Squeezing between two stalls he tripped over bundles of unsold goods and then found himself stuck behind the market’s rubbish truck. It crept inexorably forward, bleeping and flashing, its band of peons feeding its wide back jaw. There was no way around it. Derek had ignored him.
He wanted to run. He’d been a fucking idiot; of course he was just a bit on the side – a secret, mucky vice. Men like that pale-faced thug were the centre of Derek’s world. He had no time for Sam. Sam wasn’t even worth his attention.
Why the fuck had he smiled? He lengthened his gait and accidentally clipped the shoulder of a woman who was moving slowly along. Her baby was slung on her back in a bright red-and-yellow wrap that matched her headscarf, and she was angling the child towards the rubbish truck as he gurgled his fascination. Sam grunted an apology, but the woman ignored him, beaming instead at her child’s delight. So he rushed on; but now it seemed he had nowhere to rush to. Sweat spread in his armpits and in the middle of his chest.
He was soon inside his building and, as he leaped up the stairs to his room, his phone chimed. He was sure it was Derek, but he resi
sted checking. He slammed his door, heart thumping, sending pulses up into his throat. He had to set his jaw to prevent himself from crying. He wanted to tell someone this was anger, not hurt. But of course there was no one – everything in the room was absolutely still: the curtains hung drearily; the bed was still unmade since the morning; a drawer was open with limp socks and T-shirts trailing out.
He went to the window and looked down at the estate and the backs of the Albury Street houses, almost expecting to see Deborah again, walking into someone else’s backyard, thinking no one could see her. He leaned his forehead against the grubby glass. How had he done this? He had been here all of three weeks and he’d become entwined with some nutty old sociopath and a local goon, who had seduced him and then cast him aside, leaving him in the gutter. It was a nasty knot that was too tight to unpick – it would be best to simply cut it out and move on.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stabbed at the buttons. It wasn’t Derek who had sent a message; it was his mother: Hello S. Haven’t heard frm u for 2 wks now. Hope all is ok and u r all settld into yr new life. We are missng u. Take care and call us soon. M & D. X
He threw the phone back on the bed. It bounced gaily, tauntingly – and then began to bleat. He stared at it for two rings, then picked it up and looked at the screen: Derek. He let it ring twice more while he considered his approach and then he answered with an abrupt ‘Yup?’
‘Alright, sexy?’ Derek’s tone was almost pleading.
‘Yeah, fine.’ Sam waited, leaving a cold pause, already snipping at the bond he thought they had made.
‘Look, sorry about that in the street. I texted you straight away after. Didn’t you get it?’
‘No, just a message from my mum. I might be going home this weekend.’ He wanted to sound casual, unattached, busy with choices.
‘Oh right. I wondered why you didn’t reply – thought you were upset with me.’ Even in the speaker of the phone Derek’s voice was rich and appealing. It was just what Sam didn’t want. ‘Anyway,’ Derek went on, ‘something’s happened that’s knocked me off course a bit.’
‘You not going to be able to make tonight, then?’ Sam was hacking away now.
‘Course I can. Wouldn’t stand you up, sexy. I’ll tell you all about it later.’ Derek left another gap – and Sam refused to fill it. ‘You OK?’
‘Yup. Meet here at eight, then? I’ll wait outside the door.’ Sam pressed the end-call button before Derek could reply and went back to the window, panting as if he’d been running.
He would not visit Deborah again, he decided. And he would finish with Derek tonight. A thrill of fear ran through him and the window rattled in the breeze.
Sam was waiting outside the street door a few minutes early. He paced a few feet of pavement, looking for Derek’s car, but ready to dart into the supermarket if Deborah appeared.
Derek pulled up exactly at eight and opened the car door, grasping Sam’s thigh as he got in and pushing his face into what seemed a confident smile. But his eyes searched Sam’s face and his lashes whipped nervously.
‘Where to then, sexy?’ He waited with his hands on the wheel, looking over at Sam.
Sam locked his gaze on the traffic passing the junction with Creek Road. ‘Let’s go for a drink at that pub by the river in Greenwich. You can tell me what’s happened.’ He slipped a glance over at Derek and then wished he hadn’t; Derek’s smile had become weak and worried.
Sam insisted on buying the drinks and suggested they sit outside on the terrace. When he came out of the bar, Derek was silhouetted against the shining greys of the water, the last light of the evening playing a quiet game with the ripples. He was looking down into his hands, pulling at the ring he wore on his thick finger.
Sam paused a few feet away; he had never had to do something like this before. It would have been so much easier to sit down, lay his hand on Derek’s and make things OK. But he had made up his mind; there was too much wrong here.
‘So, tell me what’s going on,’ he said before taking a sip of his drink. ‘Who was that bloke you were with?’ He could have asked, ‘Why did you ignore me?’ But it was cleaner to be calm.
Derek looked out over the river, pulling the ring up to the knuckle as if to remove it, then pushing it back down again. ‘Oh, that was Mel – he’s an old mate.’
They were quiet for a few minutes. The dark-red sail of an old-fashioned Thames barge appeared from upstream, gliding over the water towards them. Sam followed its progress and people sitting at the other tables pointed it out. There were figures moving about beneath the vast square sail. Sam wanted to sit closer to Derek and watch the barge from the crook of his arm, but there was a cold gap, and he thought it was of his own making.
Then, as the boat drew level with them, Derek spoke: ‘Lia’s pregnant.’
Nothing changed around them: the barge continued its smooth, assured journey; the tumble of evening talk carried on at the other tables; the sun’s rays weakened almost imperceptibly as their angle across the wide, full river shallowed. But Sam was disarmed – the blade he had been sharpening knocked out of his hand.
Derek picked up his pint and took a long draught from it, then placed the glass on the table and pulled at his ring again. ‘The baby’s Nigel’s.’
As he stared at the barge, the evening light erased the wrinkles around his eyes and made their bloodshot whites clearer. Something in Sam wanted to reach out and comfort him, but he kept his hands on his side of the table. This was supposed to have been a simple row about Derek ignoring him in the street, followed by a neat, sharp break. And, secretly, truthfully, he had thought they would re-tie the ends again – if not tonight, then soon. But in just a few moments, with just a few words, things had become far more tangled. He wasn’t sure what to pull at. ‘Never mind’ or ‘Sorry to hear that’ were brittle and pointless things to say. And then, with a shiver, he realised just how nasty this might get.
‘I heard that bloke Mel say he was going to sort someone out.’ He fumbled with the zip of his jacket. ‘Was that about Nigel? – you’ve already had him beaten up.’
Derek flashed a look around them and twitched his face into a hushing frown. ‘Keep it down, will you? That was nothing, we were just chatting.’
Sam thought he should get up and walk away – why wouldn’t his legs let him? Why was he about to ask the needling question he couldn’t suppress? It was being pushed out of his throat by a froth of frustration.
‘So where does this leave me? Us?’
Derek’s brows tightened and he blinked. ‘What do you mean?’ He raised his big hands. ‘What’s it got to do with us?’
Sam was silenced. This was a reverse side he hadn’t even thought of. Their dates were so few he could see them individually, but he had pieced them together into something whole. Perhaps to Derek they made almost nothing.
‘I’m just trying to say that you’re not married to Lia anymore, so why risk getting yourself in trouble over her?’
‘It’s not about her; it’s about him.’ Derek’s hands were in the air again, but this time ready to strike something. Sam braced himself. Derek slammed a wide flat palm onto the table. ‘He’s making a fucking monkey out of me.’
The other drinkers stopped speaking and looked over. Derek tried to restrain his voice, but it rolled loudly around the terrace. ‘I had a bit of clout around here, you know. I’m not saying I was big time or anything, but people respected me. But now – now they’re laughing at me, all ’cos of that scumbag. I knew Lia was blabbing to her mates about me firing blanks; that was one thing. But him; he’ll be going around all the pubs saying, “I got Derek’s missus in the club when he couldn’t”.’ Derek mimicked a whining voice and bobbed his head. Sam had to look away.
‘Well, if you’d lose face over that, what if they knew about you and me?’
Derek huffed out a nasty guffaw. ‘They’d all say it was no problem, but they wouldn’t mean it. They’d be nice to my face – but they’d pus
h me out in the end.’
‘Well, it sounds like we should forget about this, then.’
He’d done it. The words were cast out over the slopping water, and there was no reeling them in again. It took a huge effort to turn his face back to Derek’s, but when he did, he saw a startled panic in Derek’s eyes. It clearly hadn’t occurred to him that Sam was considering breaking things off.
‘What does that mean – “forget about this”?’ Derek’s fear tasted chokingly sweet; Sam’s eyes pricked with unexpected tears. ‘Sam. We’ve got something good going, haven’t we? I know it’s only just started, but, you know…?’ Derek tried to fix his features into an imploring smile and he made as if to touch Sam. But the table was too low for him to slip his hand under it and too wide to reach Sam unless he reached out too. Sam remained still, blinking.
‘Sam. Here. It’s not about us. It’s about what people think of me. It’s all about reputation in my game – respect and all that. I don’t want to lose this,’ he reached out again, ‘but I have to do something to show Nigel what’s what. And everyone else.’
Derek leaned low so that his chest brushed against the rim of his glass; it wobbled and the liquid and froth rocked about. He managed to reach Sam’s hand and Sam let him take it. The warmth and strength of Derek’s touch pressed Sam’s disparate parts together; he felt more reasonable. The other people on the terrace had stopped staring. He wanted to linger in this calm, but he had to push ahead – it was as if he were being propelled by some external engine.
‘OK, I understand all that. But it doesn’t make sense. All Nigel’s done is be a bit of a wanker, and now he’s going out with your ex-wife. Why can’t you just ignore him?’ It was as simple as that – you could turn it over, pull it apart, but really it was. He stared hard at Derek and waited.
Derek let go of Sam’s hand and shook his head vigorously, rubbing his short, neat hair with the heel of his hand.
‘No. I can’t ignore him. You don’t realise what he’s done to me.’ He jerked his arm up high. Sam pushed his chair back with a scrape. ‘Mel will sort him out. That scummy little cunt won’t be trouble anymore. And I don’t give a fuck what Lia thinks. She can have his dog of a kid and be happy with it. She’ll get a nasty shock when it comes out, I can tell you.’ Derek’s voice was a loud growl. ‘Maybe I couldn’t give her a kid, but I’d rather be a fucking poof than a weasel like him.’