The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone (12 page)

I heated a ready meal but didn’t eat it. I poured a glass of whisky but didn’t drink it. I still had to phone my mother, and I was dreading it. She answered at the second ring.

‘All Eilish would tell me,’ she said, ‘was to ask you. So, I’m asking you a straight question, and I’d like a straight answer. What’s going on?’

I was getting better at the explanation: better at saying the words, better at coming out with it. She listened without comment until I’d told her everything. Even when I came to the end, she said nothing.

‘Are you still there?’ I asked. ‘Mum?’

‘Thank God Robert isn’t alive to see this.’

‘I know. Poor Dad.’

‘Poor Eilish! What did she do to deserve such a slap in the face?’

‘Nothing. She did nothing. It’s all my fault.’

There was another silence. I heard the flick of a lighter, and an inhalation.

‘Let’s not pretend I had no idea,’ she said. ‘Let’s not pretend that. You and I have memories, don’t we? I’m to blame.’

‘You? No!’

‘Oh, I think so. I think I am. I’m going to ring off now, Luke, because you’ve given me a lot to think about and I don’t want to cry when I’m on the phone. Don’t worry, I’m not having a heart attack or anything. I’m not going to be found dead in my bed. I just think it’s best if I . . . Let’s talk again tomorrow. You’re all right, are you? Good.’

She sounded completely winded. I think I would have preferred tears and recriminations.

After that, the silence screamed at me. The silence and the emptiness, stretching on forever. I felt completely alone. My eyes strayed to the cupboard below the sink. The rope still lay in there, coiled up. There was a hook in the ceiling that would take my weight. My letters were all ready and folded in the briefcase.

I couldn’t manage this without some kind of help. It was too much, too terrifying. I was setting out on a journey with no map, compass or guide—and without Eilish.

I slid my laptop out of its case, fired it up and typed into the search bar:
help advice transgender.

Within a second, those three words had brought up over twelve million results. I blinked, astonished.
Twelve million
? If only Google had been in existence forty years ago! I grew up believing myself to be the only person ever, in the history of the world, to feel as I did. Later I discovered that there were others like me, but I had no idea how many.

I could see forums and chatrooms. Lots of them. I searched for a site that didn’t only push online dating and eventually chose one called
TransChatterers
. It looked innocuous enough.

I clicked on the icon for
chat
.

Register now.

Damn. Why did I have to register? It was one thing to sign up to the National Trust or Friends of the Royal Ballet; it was quite another matter for a partner at Bannermans to be hobnobbing on a website called
TransChatterers
. Perhaps my identity could be traced? I might be blackmailed or publicly outed. I didn’t even know where
TransChatterers
was based, if anywhere. The USA? Russia? Nigeria?

Still, I was desperate, so I clicked. The next page asked for my email address. No, no, this was asking too much! They’d find me. I imagined an army of men with handbags chasing me down the street, banging on my door in the middle of the night; or perhaps beautiful Asian girls with penises, trying to sell me something I didn’t want to buy. I got up and walked five times around the table, chewing my thumbnail.

Listen to yourself, Livingstone! You’re awfully bigoted for a man who keeps lipstick in his briefcase.

Right. I was going to do this. I sat down again, typed in my email address and agreed to their terms and conditions. A final message sprang up:

Nearly there! Please enter a username.

A new name, for a new world.

Lucia.

Instantly, the site responded with the clanging of electronic gongs.
You are logged in! Welcome Lucia!

Euphoria swamped my anxiety. I was Lucia, and I was welcome! I had no idea what to do next. Suddenly, more words appeared on the screen. This time, they were from a real person.

BK: Hi, Lucia!

I didn’t expect that. I ducked, as though they could see me; as though I could hide. Someone knew I was here.

BK: What brings you to our community?

Good question. I laid my hands over the keys, took a long breath, and typed.

Lucia: I just need advice.

BK: Ur among friends here. Are u trans?

Lucia: I think so.

BK: Have u come out to anyone?

Lucia: Yesterday. To my wife. Terrible.

BK:
Sorry to hear that. My parents didn’t want 2 know me but my sister came round. Hang in there Lucia.

I’m not alone, I thought. My God, I’m not alone.

BK: What’s next for you?

Lucia: I don’t know what to do.

BK: I am m2f, transitioned 5 years ago.

It took me a while to make sense of the shorthand. Ah yes, I’d got it. BK was born male, but she’d been living as a woman for five years.

Lucia: Are you happier now?

BK: Let me answer that another way. Can you go on as you are?

I hadn’t yet responded when my mobile rang. It was Simon. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. ‘I’ve just spoken to Mum.’

I stood up, eager for news of Eilish. ‘How is she?’

‘How do you think? How do you bloody
think
? I want you to promise that you’ll never, ever give in to these urges again. I want you to see a shrink and get yourself cured. Then she might even have you back.’

‘This isn’t something that can be cured. I wish it were.’

‘Sort your shit out, Dad! You can control this thing, if you really want to.’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Meet me tomorrow and let me explain better. There’s so much to say.’

‘If I see you, I truly think I might kill you.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Oh, I mean it.’ His breathing sounded ragged, as though he were running uphill. ‘I want to kill you for what you’ve done to Mum. Don’t you dare start mincing down the street in a dress. If you do that, she’ll be finished. And you’ll be dead.’

‘Simon,’ I said. ‘Simon?’

He’d hung up. I slumped back down into my seat, terrified by the new void in my life. That was Simon making threats—my rational, adored son.

The gong sounded on my computer.

BK: U there Lucia?

Lucia: Sorry but I have to go. This is too destructive. Thanks.

I closed my laptop and sank my face into my hands. It was too much; it was impossible. I couldn’t go on, and I couldn’t go back. I had no future.

Hi, Luke!
breathed The Thought, popping breezily into my consciousness.

‘Go away,’ I said out loud.

It had no intention of going away. It draped itself around me, hypnotising with whispered promises of peace.
Remember Plan A? It’s still the best option! Look at your funeral in East Yalton church. The pews are packed for such a well-liked, public-spirited, decent man! See Eilish? She’s in the front row, wearing that black dress. Doesn’t she look elegant? Such a respectable widow. See Simon? He’s standing with one hand on your coffin, talking movingly about the father he loved. And there’s your mother, bless her. She still has a son, even if he’s dead. They can hold their heads up. Nobody’s laughing at them.

‘Shut up. I’m not listening.’

There’s your ticket to peace. In that cupboard. You know what to do. It’ll be so easy.

‘It would be tidier all round, wouldn’t it?’ I said.

So much tidier. You’ve even got the letters in your briefcase. Shame to waste all that planning.

The next moment I’d grabbed the rope from the cupboard and was charging through the flat, out of the sitting-room door and into the garden. There was a very high wall at the end, and beyond that the railway line. I pulled back my arm as I ran, swung, and let go. It was a pretty awkward bowling action, but the rope sailed out of my hand and far over the wall. I’d never be able to find it over there.

The letters were next. Back in the kitchen, I slid them all out of my briefcase. I needed a flame . . . ah, the gas ring. The paper caught faster than I’d expected. A few charred scraps were soon left, but they disintegrated and were washed down the plughole.

Then I stood leaning against the sink, head down, exhausted but victorious.

The Thought was sulking. I’d won the battle, if not the war.

In the early hours of the morning, I wandered along to the bedroom and lay down still in my clothes. I was afraid to sleep; afraid of the dreams. My mind felt light yet opaque, like cloud. The robin was singing in Thurso Lane. I’d seen him sometimes, flitting among the branches of the sycamore tree outside the flat, his red breast dulled in yellow street lighting. His song was sweet and clear as water. Sad, too. The poor little chap should have been safely tucked up in his nest, but he had no choice. The traffic noise was so loud during the day that his complex melodies couldn’t be heard by other birds. So he had to suppress his nature and sing through the night.

I know how you feel, I thought as I closed my eyes.
What a world. What a world.

A bird was singing in the forest. We were lost, my baby and I. Howls echoed in the darkness. I made a bed of leaves in the hollow of a tree and hid in there with her.

Don’t be frightened. I’ll protect you. Nothing will hurt us.

I felt the prickle of milk in my breast, and as I fed her she gazed up at me. I was filled with perfect happiness. I’d never felt such love before.

Then horrors came. I heard the snarls of wolves, and teeth sank into my leg, dragging me out of our safe place. Their faces were shaped like triangles, like devil faces, and their tails were waving merrily. It was Charlotte they were after. I shouted and kicked but I couldn’t save my little girl. I was useless. They’d found her and pulled her out. They were tearing her apart with their terrible teeth.

I was in the flat, lying fully clothed and alone. I was sobbing. There was no baby.

After a time, a shaft of morning light found its way onto my pillow; but it couldn’t brighten the darkness of that forest. The robin had gone. There was no point in singing now. The world had drowned his melody.

Thirteen

Kate

Was she back in her tent in Israel? The sky outside her window glowed, and birds were tuning up for the bird version of the Hallelujah Chorus. Then she focused on the striped yellow wallpaper, remembered what had happened, and covered her face with Mr Polington. It didn’t matter about the birds or the blue sky. It didn’t matter about Owen.

After a time she rolled out of bed, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, and trudged downstairs in search of coffee. The kitchen doors were folded open. Eilish was sitting on the bench outside. She was wearing her cotton wrap, the white one embroidered with coloured flowers. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t moving. She seemed to be waiting for a non-existent train.

She looks after herself, thought Kate. You’d never guess she’s in her fifties. All that Pilates. All that gardening. She’s got a waist, and nice legs; she even has them waxed, which I’d never do in a million years. She can still fit into her wedding dress. What was it all for? Was it for him?