Live to Tell (38 page)

He kissed me as if I were the only thing in his world. It was only the fourth kiss we had ever shared and it was the best. His expert hands stripped away my clothes as his mouth moved down my body. Because of the emotional turmoil we were both in, I expected passion overload. He didn’t disappoint me.

It was nice lying in my own bed, lovingly cradled in Barry’s arms, very nice. Not nice as in bland, no, more comfortable and satisfied and smug, a feeling that I had almost forgotten. I snuggled into the crook of his shoulder. “Are you awake?”

“Hmm.” He bent forward and kissed my nose.

“I just wanted to say,” I said. “Well… thank you. You were wonderful. That’s the best thing that’s happened to me for almost as long as I can remember. It’s just that… well… it doesn’t change anything. We can’t see each other, can’t have a relationship.”

“Jesus.” He raised himself up onto one elbow and glared at me. “What the fuck is this all about? I want to know the truth, and don’t give me any of that old fanny about working in John O’fucking Groats. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Look, it’s not you. You know that now, don’t you?”

“Well, I did kinda get the feeling you liked me.” His expression softened and he smiled at me. “Just one thing.” He kissed me again. “My name’s Barry by the way, not Danny.”

“Oh, my God. Oh no I’m so, so sorry.” I blushed. “Oh no.”

“That’s Okay. I figured it was your husband’s name. Felt quite flattered.”

“Oh, Barry, I’m sorry. That thing about my work is partly true. I do go away…”

His look silenced me.

“Okay,” I said. “But if you go to the police, I shall deny everything.”

“The police? What’s the fucking police got to do with anything?”

I sighed. “You know that morning when you found me asleep and the room was in a mess?” He waited—his face a few inches from my own. “Well, you were right, I had been assaulted and I did have a lot of bruises that I didn’t want anyone to see.”

“Go on.”

“Well that’s it really.”

“Come on, you’ve told me that much already. The moving staircase, remember? Why does that stop you letting me take you out?”

“A long time ago, like many years, I witnessed something, an attack. The men—they nearly killed a friend of mine, and I knew who it was. Then a couple of months ago I suddenly saw one of them again. He ran off and I tried to find him to tell the police, ’cause the beating my friend took was terrible. But they found me first. I haven’t seen any of them since that night but I’m afraid. They know who I am and where I live. Anyone close to me could be at risk too.” I paused. ’Cos they could get to me through them, I can’t even see my mum and dad without going all round the houses… to put them off the scent.” I felt I had to emphasize this side of my problem to make my actions more plausible. “The reason I was walking past that pub tonight was because I choose different routes home each time.”

“For fuck’s sake, I don’t believe all this. Just what’s going on? You make it sound like you’re being hunted by the bleedin’ Mafia.”

“It’s worse than that.”

“What’s worse than that?”

“For goodness sake,” I shouted. “You know where I live. What’s just up the road? What do they collect money for in pubs in Kilburn?”

“Are you serious? Well before they can get to you, they’ll have to get past me, won’t they? Take on a real man instead of hitting women.”

“My husband said that. Now he’s dead. You don’t understand what they’re capable of. And they might not bother with you. How would you like it if they targeted your little boy? I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to him because of me. Could you?”

I had brought the conversation back into the realms of a cold reality that I hoped would resonate with him. I did not want him to be under any illusion that I was exaggerating the situation. I had to make him understand that whatever we might desire must be put aside in the face of the threat. But it was hard. I so wanted everything to be normal and it never could be.

He lay back and ran his hand through his hair. “What do you suggest,” he asked quietly.

I stroked his face. “I have to keep a low profile for a few months, wait to see if everything’s safe. That’s all I can do. I guess it’d be better if you leave now.”

“Leave? You mean go ’ome? No way, I’ve had far too much to drink to drive and I can’t walk all that way. It’s too bleedin’ far.”

“I could call a cab for you.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” He paused and kissed me again. “I’m ’ere now. Why don’t I stay with you tonight, go home in the morning?”

Well, I thought, he is here now, isn’t he, and he’s less likely to be in danger in daylight. Isn’t he? His tongue slid inside my ear.

“Stop, stop that now. Don’t, no don’t do that. Stop it!” I protested in vain.

“I like it. Don’t you? To be honest, I had hoped for a few more hugs,” he said.

I was afraid that if I let him stay, I’d never let him go again, but I wanted more hugs too. “Do you think Mrs Jeffery heard us? I wouldn’t want her nearly calling the police again, like before.”

“Don’t worry. She’d approve of me bein’ ’ere. Whenever I see her, she tells me what you’re up to. I think she’s living in hope.”

Aren’t we all, I thought?

At 7-30a.m. we were on the point of leaving the house when his phone started to ring. No doubt one of the members of his fan club, I thought. Bet he won’t take the call. To my surprise he placed it against his ear and said “Hello Mum.”

“Yes, sorry. Yes, I know. After we left, I went for a drink with Mack. Then I bumped into an old friend.”

He rolled his eyes in a way that I knew so well. “Yes, Mum. No, Mum. Yes, yes. Yes, Mum. She’s a very nice lady actually. Nan would have approved. Yes, Mum. Yes, okay. Can I go now, please? Bye.”

He closed down the phone, switched it off, and leaned against the newly painted wall. He sighed and pulled me against his chest and we started kissing again. “I want you,” he said. I wanted him as much as he seemed to want me. Luckily he had turned back his sleeves and I didn’t have to struggle with his buttons again.

An hour later I pushed him out of the front door. “Now remember what I said. No coming round on the off chance.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll see,” he said. “It won’t ’arm if I just come round every now and then for a coffee and to check on you, make sure you’re all right, will it? Oh and thanks for the… you know.”

That settled it, I thought. I’ve got to get away. He doesn’t even drink coffee.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
 

Since his return from France six months earlier at the end of October, Ben seemed to spend most of his waking moments in a fourth floor office overlooking Trafalgar Square. He liked the Kenton Street apartment but he used it more like a hotel suite than a home. Delighted he lived so close, his parents tried to make plans for his weekends, but to their annoyance, he usually found excuses not to participate. He preferred to spend time strolling around the galleries of The British Museum, a short walk from where he lived.

In this fashion Ben led a solitary life and felt happy. Even more to his liking was The British Library next to St. Pancras station. That discovery brought him tremendous satisfaction, especially the philately exhibits revealing the secret postal services created in the ghettos of WWII Warsaw. He couldn’t believe that in the midst of the harshest persecution he could imagine, the human spirit concerned itself with operating an impromptu and efficient post office. He felt the excuse “from necessity” masked the true purpose, defiance.

Occasionally old family friends invited him to dinner, but apart from this he had hardly any social life. In the hope of seeing the two men from the Territorial Army Centre who came to his rescue months earlier, he often went into his local pub. To his surprise, they were not regulars, and he managed to bump into them there only once.

Ben preferred London pubs to the bars and cafés of Paris. There he always felt like a tourist; here he felt at home. He was born in the north London suburb of Stoke Newington, but when he was a small child, his family moved to Finchley, a couple of miles to the west. London was his town and he was content to spend his free time in his new inner-city neighbourhood.

In his office he pushed back his chair to look out the window, past the bomb-proof curtains onto the street below. He shared the room with Kevin Leighton, a commander in the Royal Navy, but today he was alone. Kevin was away on a tour of British bases within the Arctic Circle. Ben liked Kevin. He was laid back and affable, the sort of man who inspired loyalty in others. Ben could have done a lot worse than share his office with Kevin.

A flag was flying jauntily from the roof of the South African Embassy across the way. After a long cold winter, April sunshine had arrived. The breeze blowing across Trafalgar Square disturbed the water in the fountains, spraying the tourists who, inadvertently, came too close. Some of them shrieked with laughter but others tried to pretend nothing had happened, nonchalantly edging away.

Usually he smiled at the deception but today his window on the world didn’t make his mood any better. He was not looking forward to meeting the visitor he was expecting and the feeling made him uncomfortable. The prejudice he felt against the stranger made him question his own inner well-being and he didn’t like that. Sighing, he walked out of a side door, and locked his office—standard procedure. A few yards along the corridor he entered the small conference room that was reserved for informal meetings and sat down.

Less than a minute later Heather, one of the corporals from the outer office that had to be breached before access to him was permitted, knocked and put her head around the door. “Hello, Sir. Mr Bauer is here to see you.”

Heather was curvaceous with softly curling hair. Well, Ben imagined it was soft as he had never actually touched it. Even though he knew she was twelve years younger than he was and a karate expert to boot, he wished he could take her on a date and find out for himself about her hair. Damn, he thought, control yourself. Even if dating a colleague were acceptable, the difference in rank would make it impossible. I’m just going to have to get over it. I wonder: if we were making love would she still feel she had to call me Sir?