The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (38 page)

And then there’s Victor. Beautiful Victor. Clever Victor. Dancing Victor. Kissing Victor. Victor who spent half an hour telling me about the bloody goat-farm he wants to buy in France. Victor who seemingly has been put on this earth to taunt me: So you think having gay friends is frustrating? Try this one! The perfect man.
Except.

And how on Earth can
Victor
be single? What secret fault-line can Victor possibly be hiding that keeps all the guys around him at arm’s length? For were I a bloke of the poofy persuasion I would snap him up. A weird fetish, perhaps? A tiny dick? Honestly, he could have a dick the size of a peanut and I’d manage to get over it. Perhaps Darren snapped him up last night. That would be sweet.

But of course, that wouldn’t last either . . . Victor’s dreams of muddy goat farms make him about as compatible with Darren as he is with me. And I suppose, in the end, that must be part of Victor’s problem. Gay guys probably don’t go for muddy farms in a big way. They probably aren’t that turned on by the gynaecologist thing that much either, thinking about it. But it’s a shame, and a waste . . . for looking at Darren from afar, he clearly needs a change – his life clearly isn’t making him happy any more than mine is satisfying me. I wonder if he feels as stuck as I do?

Remembering his phone call, I hunt my BlackBerry from my bag and check my voicemail. His call was at three-forty a.m. but he hasn’t left a message – I had no idea that it was so late! I wonder if he found his birthday gift and I toy with the idea of phoning him. But realising that he’ll almost certainly be out cold, I shrug and put the phone on to charge and carry Guinness through to the marginally less dingy lounge.

The day outside is suitably lacklustre that I don’t have to feel any guilt about slobbing in front of the TV all day. I check the Sky guide and switch to Film Four and wait for
Speed II
to finish, and
Jane Eyre
to begin.

I wonder what Mark and Ian are doing, and feel another little wave of jealousy. I remember my brief snog with Victor. Honestly! I snogged my gay gynaecologist. What’s that all about? And then I wonder if orange-haired Carol is sitting somewhere nursing a cup of tea and thinking the same thing about me. What it’s about of course, is Ecstasy!

And then I flick the sound back on and pull a blanket over Guinness and me, and start to watch – and then doze in front of –
Jane Eyre
.

I’m awakened just after three by the chirrup of the landline. I peer blearily at the display and then at the titles rolling up the screen and then back at the handset, as I debate whether I have the energy to speak to Mark right now. My eyesight seems even more fuzzy than before, and I wonder if this is a side effect of the drug, and, thinking that I can ask Mark about this, I swipe the phone from the base.

‘God, you weren’t asleep, were you?’ he asks. His voice sounds like ground-glass.

‘No, well . . . sort of,’ I say. ‘Dozing in front of the TV.’

‘OK, sorry,’ he says. ‘I was just about to give up, only . . .’

‘Your voice!’ I say. ‘You don’t sound like you at all. You sound like Marianne Faithful. You sound like I feel.’

‘Yeah,’ Mark says, quietly. ‘CC, it’s, um . . . I have some bad news.’

‘Oh? Go on . . .’

‘It’s Darren.’

I shiver then, because I know exactly what Mark is going to say. I know it like I read it in yesterday’s newspaper. And how can that be? My mouth fills with saliva. I swallow hard. ‘Right,’ I say.

‘The police phoned . . . they, um, found his number in my . . . I mean
my
number in
his
mobile. I thought they might have called you too?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘He’s . . . is he . . .’ And then, for a second, I decide that I’m being ridiculous; that I don’t in fact know anything; that I’m in a drug-induced E-hole or something and that I’m assuming the worst when . . . ‘Is he OK?’ I ask.

‘Well no. He’s . . . Well, he’s
dead
,’ Mark says.

My vision glazes over entirely now. My mouth fills with an acidic taste. I raise a hand to my mouth and gasp, almost silently, ‘God.’

‘I know,’ he says.

‘And I knew it. Somehow, I knew it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Mark says. ‘I . . . I thought you should know.’

Guinness chooses this moment to squeeze from my grasp and I hate him for it.

‘CC?’ Mark prompts.

‘I . . .’ I say.

‘I know,’ he says.

‘I . . . I knew . . . I should have . . .’

‘He told me,’ Mark says. ‘He actually
told
me he was going to do it,’ his voice quivers and cracks.

‘Me too, Mark,’ I say. ‘He told me too.’

‘I . . . I don’t know what to do. You know?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I . . . I need some time. To take it in. Can I call you later?’

‘Sure,’ he says.

I listen to the line click dead and then lay the handset on the sofa as if any sudden movement might make it go off again, perhaps with
more
bad news. The room feels icy cold, so I stand and turn up the thermostat. My eyes are watery and I have a lump in my throat that is so big I can barely swallow.

Beyond the window, a child whizzes past on an electric-blue bicycle, laughing crazily. His father runs after him, and I want to shout at them to shut up, to stop laughing. And then I think of Darren’s parents and think that Darren was a child once too – a carefree child on a bicycle. And now he is gone. And it’s a waste. Because he should have stayed. He should have stayed and ridden a bicycle and laughed. It’s as easy as that.

But Darren
wasn’t
laughing, was he?

As the child cycles back the other way, still shrieking with joy, that thought strikes me as profound. For we all become so sophisticated, so cynical, that we forget how to ‘en-joy’ ourselves. But joy is easy. Joy doesn’t need money or drugs . . . Joy just needs a wobbly push-bike. Somewhere along the way to becoming adults, we forget that simple fact.

And then as the father runs shouting back past the window, I think,
Well, those of us who don’t have children forget it.

I sit in shock, and stare at the world outside. A world that no longer contains Darren.

I remember him – it seems the least I can do.

I remember him at work, feet on the desk. I remember him sitting in my kitchen, perched on the counter-top . . . at the photography exhibition, at the salsa club . . .

And then, of course, I remember Waiine and Dad and wonder if they’re all together somewhere (if Dad was right) or if, as my mother believes, that’s it – they’re just
gone
.

All these people who
were
, who had lives and possessions, and jobs and people around them who loved them, and then suddenly they are gone . . . For a while, their lives remain like an afterglow, that’s the really strange thing. Darren’s flat still contains Darren’s clothes. Darren’s iPod still contains Darren’s favourite tracks. Darren’s job, and Darren’s desk, and Darren’s friend CC . . .

A single tear slides down my cheek, because, yes, we all still exist, and all that arsehole had to do was stay, and continue to exist, here, with us. And it’s all too fucking stupid for words. At seven, I phone Mark back.

‘How are you holding up?’ he asks.

‘I feel terrible,’ I say. ‘I feel like it’s my fault.’

‘He told everyone,’ Mark says. ‘Jude says he knew too. He told us all but we didn’t believe him.’

‘Only I think I did,’ I say. ‘Deep down, I think I did believe him. That’s what’s so stupid. God, I can’t really take in that he . . .
isn’t
. . . any more.’

‘No,’ Mark says. ‘Tomorrow will be the worst. At work.’

‘I know it’s . . . How did he do it? I think I sort of need to know so that I can believe that he’s . . .’

‘Drugs,’ Mark says. ‘Ketamine. Masses of it.’

‘The horse tranquilliser thing?’

‘Yeah. He took enough to
kill
a horse apparently. Ian reckons he won’t have suffered. He will have just slipped away.’

‘But it was definitely . . . I mean, are we sure it wasn’t an accident?’

‘He left a note, apparently, for his mum. So no. Not an accident.’

‘God, his mother. Imagine,’ I say.

‘Oh, CC,’ Mark says, his voice cracking. ‘I miss him so much already. I have this hole in my stomach . . .’

‘I know, babe, me too.’

‘If he’d have just come to the party. He could have seen how much . . .’ Mark’s voice trails off in a gasp.

‘How much we loved him,’ I say, my own voice gravelly.

‘Yeah,’ Mark says. ‘I
did
too. That stupid boy.’

‘It is . . .’ I say. ‘Stupid.’

‘A waste . . . that’s such a cliché, but it is,’ he says. ‘It’s a waste. I just don’t understand.’

‘I know,’ I say.

‘Look, I have to go,’ Mark says. ‘Ian has made soup and is insisting I eat something.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say.

‘Call me if you need to,’ Mark says.

‘Sure.’

I put the phone back in the charger and sit and wrap my arms around myself and think that it’s certainly stupid and definitely a waste. But it’s also entirely understandable.

Because being single can be desperately hard. Being alone can sometimes be
unbearable
.

And my nose runs, and my lip trembles, and I feel desolate and desperate, but not now for Darren – for myself.

Because right now, at this moment in my life, the one thing, the only thing that could possibly help, the only thing which might possibly ease my pain would be if someone – any one human being on this entire stupid bloody planet – cared enough about me to bring
me
a bowl of soup.

But that person doesn’t exist.

And that’s why I understand far better than I care to admit, that Darren didn’t want to exist any longer either.

Surprise Visit

‘So this is a bit unexpected.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry about that.’

‘It’s fine. You’re lucky I had a cancellation though. I can’t usually fit people in at such short notice.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. Really. As I said, I didn’t think I wanted to come back. And then something happened, and . . . well, I’ve been feeling a bit stuck.’

‘Stuck.’

‘Yeah. I couldn’t face going to work this morning, because, well, Darren won’t be there.’

‘Who won’t be there?’

‘Darren. The guy who died. On Saturday night.’

‘This is someone you worked with.’

‘Yes, a friend. From work. I used to see him outside work sometimes too.’

‘I see.’

‘He killed himself. On Saturday. He took an overdose.’

‘That’s very sad.’

‘Yeah. Well, that’s the thing really. I mean, I understand.’

‘You understand.’

‘Yes, I understand why he did it. I almost think he’s . . . he was . . . right. I mean, I’d rather he were still here, of course. But that’s more for me than for him. Being dead doesn’t matter to him, does it?’

‘I’m not sure I follow.’

‘Well he’s dead. It’s awful for his mum, and for us. But for him, well . . . he’s not feeling anything, is he? Does that make any sense, what I’m saying?’

‘I suppose it does in a way, yes.’

‘I feel guilty too. I mean, I know everyone says that whenever anyone dies. But he warned me, so . . .’

‘He told you he was going to commit suicide?’

‘Yes. He even said he was going to do it on his birthday. He couldn’t stand being single any more. Which I understand. But I didn’t take it seriously.’

‘Was there ever any romantic . . .’

‘Darren’s gay. He
was
gay. So no.’

‘OK. And why do you feel guilty? Do you think you could have stopped him?’

‘Well, maybe . . . I think I could have done more. I mean, to start with I might have cared a bit more when he didn’t turn up at the party. But someone had put something in the punch, so I was off my head.’

‘The punch was drugged?’

‘Yeah. Liquid ecstasy or something.’

‘MDMA?’

‘Yes, that’s it. I’m not a junky or anything. I don’t do drugs. But someone slipped it in the punch. So I sort of noticed he wasn’t there, but in a way didn’t notice either.’

‘I see.’

‘Plus there was this trip to Cornwall. Well, Devon. And Darren wanted to come. And I sort of think that maybe if I had let him, well, he would have had something to look forward to next week. I’m not making much sense really, am I?’

‘You think that if you had invited your friend to Cornwall with you he might not have killed himself?’

‘Yeah, but that’s stupid, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not sure. What do you think? Does that sound likely?’

‘No. Not really. I think it’s overestimating my importance a bit. I mean, he liked me, but . . .’

‘Right.’

‘And I didn’t cry again.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘When Mark told me. I didn’t cry. I mean I got choked up, but . . .’

‘I see.’

‘When he told me . . . Mark . . . that Darren was, you know . . . dead. Well, it was weird because it was like I already knew. I wasn’t surprised at all.’

‘Because he had warned you, yes.’

‘Maybe. But it was more of a feeling of,
that’s what happens . . .
’

‘That’s what happens?’