It Knows Where You Live (24 page)

Especially
when you’re hiding from it.

Sometimes these things just creep into your life when you’re not looking, and despite anything you might do to prevent it, they decide to set up camp and stay.

•
   
•
   
•

“Thanks for that, Ted.” Stan felt like he was speaking just for the sake of it, to force some kind of connection between them. “I, er...enjoyed what you had to say.”

The other man smiled. He was putting his laptop back in its case and struggling with the cable as he tried to tuck it down the side of the machine. “Thanks. I often feel like people only attend these lunchtime seminars for the free sandwiches.” He smiled again. He was beautiful: a long narrow face, high cheekbones, thick hair.
 

Beautiful.

“Well, they
were
good...especially those ones with the salmon and cucumber, and the crusts cut off.”

Ted shook his head, but he was grinning. “I know, I know...you people only want me for my catering.”

“Oh, I want more than that.” The words were out there before Stan had the chance to stop them. He closed his mouth, much too late to repair any damage that might have been caused. Then, feeling scared, he waited. The clock on the meeting-room wall ticked too loudly. The traffic outside was deafening. The moment stretched, becoming a lifetime.

Ted glanced up, his long, thin fingers now zipping shut the laptop case. Stan imagined them unzipping his trousers. He looked to the window, unable to hold the other man’s gaze. The low trees outside the office trembled in a breeze.

“Oh,” said Ted. All the other sounds died away, making room for his voice.

“Sorry.” Stan began to turn away. He’d made a mistake.
 

“Don’t be.” Ted smiled again. His teeth were too white to be natural: he must’ve spent a fortune on dental work. “I’m flattered. Really, I am.”

“But?” Stan hovered by the table, ready to bolt. He stared hard at Ted’s features, looking for even the slightest hint of mockery but detecting none.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, there’s always a ‘but.’”

Ted shook his head. “Not this time, mate.” Now his smile could only be described as lascivious. “Unless you mean
my
gorgeous lily-white butt...”

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•
   
•

They didn’t even bother to go out for a drink and get to know each other first. There was no shared dessert after a romantic meal, no holding hands across a restaurant table, not even a smattering of Dutch courage imbibed in a nearby bar. Stan took his new lover straight back to his place immediately after work, and they fucked first on the stairs, then on the upstairs landing, and finally in the bed.
 

Ted’s body was smooth and tanned—his butt was far from being lily-white; in fact it was a rather fetching nut-brown, which bespoke either of naked sunbed sessions or prolonged spells on nudist beaches. His spit tasted of vanilla and his spunk was very salty. He liked to hum Beatles songs under his breath when he was being fellated, and his palms were dry and rough, like a cat’s tongue.

Stan liked all of these things. He liked them and he wanted to experience them more fully, and countless times in a row. As often as possible, in fact.

“How the hell did that happen?” They were lying on their backs on the bed, holding hands. Clutching, really, rather than holding. Or perhaps
clasping
was a better word. They were both breathing deeply, shattered after the monumental bout of lovemaking.

“I’m...not sure.” Stan was struggling for breath. He’d not done this for a long time—brought a virtual stranger back home for sex. It reminded him of his old habits, when his life had been a lot messier and he enjoyed placing himself in situations of controlled danger. Things had been more complicated back then, and he didn’t miss that way of life one little bit. He liked things safer these days; he preferred to be in control.

“I’m glad it did happen, though,” said Ted, turning his face towards Stan’s on the crumpled pillows. “
Really
glad, to be honest.” His smile was small but genuine.

“Thank fuck for that,” said Stan, still breathless.

They both laughed at that; oh, how they laughed. Like loons.

The two men began to see each other, off and on, over the next few weeks. Soon they were inseparable, like a couple of teenagers experiencing these emotions for the first time. Stan felt himself falling; he liked Ted a lot, and was certain that liking would soon become loving. He knew the signs; he’d been through it all before, at least twice in his life. This was going to be a major relationship: one of those you never forget, even if they end badly. This, he knew, would be memorable.

They spent a lot of time together. Doing things. Being a couple. They went to the park, walked hand-in-hand through the streets, window shopped for clothes they couldn’t afford in expensive stores. All the things partners were meant to do—and wasn’t that the thing they’d become, a partnership?

They shared a love of old films, black and white classics. The funnies were the best. Stan liked the Marx Brothers, and Ted said he liked them, too. So they sat up late, drinking wine and eating popcorn and watching Stan’s worn VHS copies of
Duck Soup
,
A Day at the Races
, and
A Night at the Opera
. Stan thought Ted might be lying about his love of the Marx Brothers, but he didn’t say anything about his doubts. He knew the sketches by heart, but Ted laughed as if he were seeing them for the first time. But people did that, didn’t they? They pretended to like something that another person liked, just to forge a bond, to hurry along the natural process.

It wasn’t a big deal. And Ted lapped up the antics of Groucho, Harpo, Chico, and that other one—the one whose name hardly anybody, even Stan, could ever remember.

In exchange, Ted introduced Stan to the Universal horror films.
Dracula
.
Frankenstein
.
The Wolfman
. Stan had always been too afraid to watch horror films—even silly, dated ones like these—but Ted held his hand and didn’t laugh when he jumped in shock at all the right moments. Even when he faked it, just to get a cuddle.

They traded their interests like this, swapping likes, giving each other small gifts of films, music and art. Enjoying the fact that the other also enjoyed (or pretended to, anyway) whatever it was they were being shown. Stan started to suspect Ted might be The One. That fabled lover everyone wanted to meet, but few actually did. He started to imagine the two of them growing old together, maybe adopting a kid, getting married in a hot air balloon. All the things he’d told his friends that he never wanted but secretly did, because he felt they would make his life more complete, like a proper life rather than some strange faded copy he’d picked up in a second-hand shop.

He soon realised he was probably in love.

One night, as they sat in Stan’s front room drinking Muscat after a nice pasta dinner, they had The Conversation: the one that always comes along, sooner or later, if things start to move beyond Casual and into the territory of Serious.

“How do you feel...” said Stan, putting down his glass on the table, “about this? About
us
?” He pushed the glass around, causing the wine to slop against the side of the glass. He couldn’t look up, into Ted’s eyes, just in case he’d misjudged things.

“I knew this was coming,” said Ted, before taking another sip of his drink. “I could feel it brewing...like a storm. I suppose it was always just a matter of time.”

Stan closed his eyes.
Shit
. He’d fudged it; the man didn’t feel the same way about him, and he’d already put his cards on the table. Right next to the expensive wine glass he was in danger of tipping over.

“There are things you don’t know about me. They’re not nice things.”

Stan kept his eyes shut. “Let me guess...you’re a government spy, which means you’re not allowed to form lasting relationships? Or you suffer from a rare blood disease and only have a few weeks left to live? I’ve heard them all before, love. I’ve even used a few of them myself.”

Ted surprised him by reaching out and grabbing his hand. Those long, artistic fingers...they moved as if they had a life of their own, beyond the will of their owner.

“No,” said Ted. “This isn’t the preamble to me making some big excuse to get rid of you. I know how you feel—it’s obvious. You’re rubbish at hiding your feelings.”

Stan opened his eyes, but he didn’t look up. He kept staring at the glass. It was very thin, elegant. A nice glass. He’d always enjoyed quality things.

Ted continued: “And if I let myself, I know I could feel the same way about you.”

The air hummed; tension bounced off the objects in the room: the leather sofas, the television, the framed posters and prints on the walls. The window glass seemed to vibrate.

“If you
let
yourself?” It still sounded, to Stan, like some kind of excuse.

“There’s something wrong with me, Stan...I’m
different
. I’m not made like everybody else.”

“Oh, come off it,” said Stan, snatching back his hand. The glass tipped over but he made no move to pick it up. “Just go. Get out, if that’s what you want. I won’t make a fuss. You don’t have to make up some kind of story.”

“No, that’s not what I want. What I want is to stay here, with you, and have you take me to bed. I want us to be together.”

Finally, and with great difficulty, Stan looked up. Ted’s thin face was ashen; his tan had faded. His cheeks looked sunken and his eyes had dark smudges around them. Strain had drawn a sketch of his features, and the drawing slowly faded as Stan sat there and watched.

“I’m serious,” said Ted. And Stan knew he was telling the truth.

“Okay,” he said. He picked up the glass and placed it back on the table in its upright position. The wine had spilled and drained into the plaid tablecloth, so he refilled it with more. He made no move to refill Ted’s glass, and he didn’t bother wiping up the mess.

“I have so much love inside me...but that love is, well, it’s strange.”

Stan almost laughed. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Jesus, you sound like a cliché, a big queer cliché.” Suddenly he wanted to hurt the other man, even more than he wanted to hurt himself.

“No, really. I am filled with love. But it’s a dangerous love. A hungry love.”

Stan smiled, but it was without humour. “Spare me the crappy song lyrics...”

“That,” said Ted, his lips barely moving at all, “is exactly what I’m trying to do. Spare you. At first I had you pegged as just another victim, but now things are different. Everything’s changed.”

“Bullshit. You’re just trying to fob me off, to put me off you. There’s no need for that. You don’t have to create some shitty little reason to disguise that you have no feelings for me, that I was just a fuck-buddy. I’ll be fine. I’ll survive. I always do.” He knew that he had also lapsed into cliché, but he couldn’t help it: he was doing it on purpose, as if by using overly familiar, melodramatic language he might distance himself from the situation.

“Oh, I have feelings for you,” said Ted. He looked sad, as if he was experiencing regret. “I have so much love for you it’s practically bursting to get out...” he began to unbutton his shirt. “Here, let me show you.”
 

“One last fuck for the road, eh?” Stan’s bitterness tasted bad. It filled his mouth like bile. “Okay, obviously I have no self-respect. Let’s go for it.”

Slowly, and still with his face reflecting so much sadness, Ted shook his head and continued to open his shirt. He bared his chest, and then took off the garment, casting it aside. The skin below his clavicle was churning, writhing, as if hundreds of maggots were crawling inside his chest. Small ridges and rises; tiny whorls and tracks. It looked like something was inside him, and it was desperate to get out.

“It isn’t a metaphor. This is it...this is my
love
.”

Stan opened his mouth but no words came out.

Ted used his long, thin fingers to peel back the skin just beneath his ribcage. He pulled it up and over, like another piece of clothing—a T-shirt, or a vest—and kept on pulling until he exposed the layers of dry, withered tissue beneath.

“No,” said Stan, at last able to summon a word, even if it was just a small one, and meaningless. “No,” he said again, stuck on that single negative declaration.

Ted pressed his fingertips against the middle of his ribcage and pulled the two halves aside like a set of doors. Whatever it was he kept there—his
love
, as Ted called it—responded by swelling and surging out of the gap. It looked like a cluster of jellyfish, all clumped together but with a lot of stunted arms and legs and half-formed mouths. Each of those tiny, lipless openings was rimmed with a circular set of pointed teeth, and the teeth rotated like the blades of a circular saw.

“What the fuck...?” Stan couldn’t move. He tried, but he was unable. His body had severed all communications with his brain.

“It’s my love...my hungry, hungry love. I try to keep it fed, but I’m not enough. Never enough. It always wants more.”

Then, surprising himself, Stan reached out and began to stroke the gelid mass. It was soft and smooth, and slightly cold to the touch, like window putty. The thing responded to his gentle caress, twisting and wrapping part of itself around his hand. If it were a cat, it would have been purring.

“It likes you.” Ted reached out and brushed his hand against Stan’s cheek. “It likes you as much as I do.”

Stan was no longer afraid. It was as if the thing in Ted’s chest had taken away his fear, absorbing it and transforming the negative emotion into something much more useful. “How long has it been there, inside you?”

“Always,” said Ted. “I was born this way. Filled with hungry love...and usually, in situations like this, it only wants to satisfy that hunger. I groom potential lovers, see them for a while—until they start to love me. Then
my
love devours theirs, turning it into sustenance.”