Untouchable Things (9 page)

She imagined him stroking Rebecca’s lustrous tresses and felt tight. Soon there would be no room for her. Could she crawl back under that stone, the life from which he had pulled her? Could she survive that darkness again, having felt the warmth of the sun on her face? She knew the answer. The advancing night had become menacing, the trees reaching out thin black arms to coil around her. She shivered, leaned to press the lamp switch. Now she would be illuminated to the outside world. What would passers-by make of the solitary figure motionless at the piano? Perhaps they would see straight through her like a ghost. Perhaps she would blend in with the surroundings.

Blending in, that’s her trademark. Where Michael is the corner piece of a jigsaw, angled, rigid, crucial, she’s amorphous and shape-shifting, moulding herself to the situation and making herself invisible or at least unnoticed. She can cling around Michael’s sharp corner or slink away to fit somewhere else. Fitting but not fitting in. Like a dog that nestles around its owner’s feet at night, making itself as small as possible to avoid discovery, and then in the glare of morning is kicked out, chastised, discarded.

But not when she plays. Then she’s solid, she impacts on people. The music gives her conviction, fills her with it. Each press of the foot pedal pumps her fuller, but when the music stops she can’t hold her shape. However hard she tries, the hissing of release begins, accelerates, and then it’s all over.

Rebecca, she suspects, may be a bit of a chameleon too; she’s an actress after all. But she’s beautiful so it doesn’t matter. No one would look through her. Their eyes would snag on the curve of her cheekbones, the line of her leg, get caught up in the autumn forest of her hair.

A memory attacks her from nowhere. Blood on the floor of this room and a cascade of red hair falling to the ground. She clasps hands over her mouth and stifles the scream like she did the first time. She can’t think of this now. She promised to forget. They all did.

She can feel the night behind her, sweeping its gaze over her shoulders and back like a hostile audience. She knows it’s unlikely that anyone will raise their gaze above their own shoes, their own thoughts of reports to finish and supper to make. But she has an urgent need to close the curtains over her vulnerability. She walks towards the window.

Curtains still closed at midday. Something must be wrong.

No, she won’t think of this.

Don’t open them yet, for God’s sake.

As her hand tugs harder at the fabric she hears the key in the lock.

“Hey honey, I’m home.” This is Seth’s usual return call. Normally it makes her feel safe, like they’re a family. Today she starts and trembles like a trapped bird.

“Hello.” She is flushed, guilty, caught fumbling at the window. He stops in the doorway and his eyes narrow. “Now what is my little Catherine up to over there?”

“Sorry, I was just closing the curtains, I know you don’t like it though…” Her voice trails off.

“I certainly don’t like it if you don’t use the cord.”

“Oh dear, sorry, I forgot.” She perches on the piano stool, slowing her breathing.

“Nothing broken. But can we keep them open? You know I feel penned in if I can’t see out.”

“Of course, sorry, it was just being on my own.” She sits on her hands, which are suddenly cold.

He walks over to her. “Now what have I told you about constant apologising?”

“I know, sorry – God…”

He grins. “How about you pour us a nice glass of wine and we’ll say no more about it?”

She smiles relief, gets to her feet. “Red or white?”

“White. There’s a Sancerre chilling in the door of the fridge. And you’ll find some cashews in the cupboard.”

She set to, suddenly peckish and hoping they might pop out for pizza soon. Seth was in high spirits, having spent the afternoon at an auction in Hampstead out-manoeuvring a ‘crusty old twerp’ who was bidding, like him, for an Italianate sideboard, which would look divine next to the armchair and would be delivered tomorrow. He leaned back for a second, crossed his legs and sighed with satisfaction.

“Isn’t it wonderful to win?” As she watched him, Catherine thought she felt as a mother must feel. All her earlier jumpiness had passed. He looked up, caught her eye. “Dear little Catherine. Now, what naughty things have you been up to while I’ve been away?” She quietly told him what she’d been practising, but he was barely listening. “You know, I’m absolutely starving. What would you say to Thai takeaway?”

She smiled. “Sounds great.”

Scene 12

I’ve yet to understand, Mr Stanley, why you became involved with Seth Gardner.

Involved?

Friends with him. From what you’ve told me he doesn’t exactly strike me as your type.

He isn’t. Wasn’t.

But there were moments.

Simon Rattle and the CBSO, Royal Festival Hall, May 1994. The whole place chattering with excitement. All the musos out in force, a constant process of ducking and weaving to avoid being seen by teaching contacts and ex-choir associates. He is here alone. Mahler’s second symphony, the Resurrection. No Marcus, his singing buddy, no Catherine, no need for conversation. Just him and the music. Until the distinction erodes.

We share a love of music.

Catherine always claims that he and Seth are ‘more similar than you realise. You talk about music in a similar way. If you could just look past him having a different background from you…’ He doesn’t care what Catherine thinks. Tonight all he cares about is this moment, this music, the first shivers of violins and rumbling basses as the funeral march begins. This time there will be no escape, no pity. He closes his eyes and is flooded by the old feeling, the one he craves.

This is why I’m here, only this. This is enough.

It affected me a great deal. It’s hard to explain.

He is thrown backwards and forwards, propelled through trumpet cries and ambushed by violent drum bursts. Waltzed to an old world of innocence where things makes sense, then abandoned again as the ground shifts beneath him. He should expect her by now but when she comes, the Voice, she is a quiet shock, lightly soaring above his head like a guardian angel, telling him things he doesn’t understand but wants to hear.

One day I will understand.

But the death march returns and hauls him before It, the Terror, the rage that splits his head and leaves him breathless, judged and found wanting. He cringes, cowers before it but there is no mercy. Here is where he must stay.

But… look… no. Yes. A pinprick of light in front of him, then a small hole, slowly expanding. He is reaching the end of the tunnel. As he emerges a mass of people in turquoise are standing waiting for him. In deep throbbing hushed song they open their arms to him and he goes to them, tears flooding his face. Here are cool hands to soothe him, loving words to forgive him; here at last there is a place saved for him. He takes it and his heart explodes with joy.

You were saying, Mr Stanley?

The clapping thunders around him, overwhelming, so many people celebrating his deliverance. And then he comes back to himself and his body, picks up clenched hands from his lap and joins them, clapping like he will never stop. But he must. He must get out before he is noticed. He knows exactly where to find the toilets and reaches them before the third ovation, locking himself in a cubicle where he can let the sobs come hard. He has traversed a whole lifetime of despair and euphoria in eighty minutes. Now he has nothing left.

He hears the room getting busy, people chattering about the performance. How can they speak? Make dinner plans, laugh, wash the music away under the hot tap. He must wait till they have all gone.

A long time later it is quiet. Michael unlocks the door and sees just one other person leaning over the basin. As he approaches, the man looks up into the mirror and their eyes lock and spring away in shock. It’s Catherine’s friend Seth. Of all the people on the planet there isn’t anyone he wants to see less at this moment. He keeps his eyes down as he washes his hands at the next sink.

“Quite something wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Michael, isn’t it?”

He is forced to look across at Seth in the mirror. He looks terrible. Ashen, bloodshot eyes like his own. He has clearly been crying too. Seth half smiles.

“It always does this to me.”

“Me too.”

“I never know what to do with myself afterwards.”

“I know what you mean.” Suddenly Michael feels appalled by the thought of going back to his empty flat. They both dry their hands silently on the pull-down towel and step out into the foyer.

“Did you come on your own?”

“Yes. You?”

“Always. I don’t generally like people seeing me like this.” Michael smiles.

Seth pauses and then, “Do you fancy doing something now? I don’t really know what because neither of us is probably in the mood for talking.”

Michael looks outside. “What about a walk?” He stops, shocked by his own words. But in Seth’s face, the last place he would have looked for understanding, he has seen his own feelings reflected. Perhaps this is the only person he can be with tonight.

They walk slowly along the Embankment, watching the river’s ethereal distortion of the city lights. A sniff of summer over the cool tang of the water. Even the traffic noise is a lullaby tonight. At moments like this, Michael can love London, appreciate its beauty. These are the times that make up for the rest, the nights spent with a pillow over his head because he can’t bear the constant intrusion of noise, other people. The longing for the heady, empty hills of his childhood where he used to walk for hours, until even Bess the family Labrador protested.

They stop and look back along the river. “Even the South Bank looks pretty tonight.”

Seth glances over, lighting a cigarette. “You don’t much like London, do you?”

“Not really.”

“So why do you stay?”

It’s not an easy one to answer without sounding self-righteous. He stays because there’s good that he can do, because the people he’s trying to reach out to can’t leave themselves. But would they want to? Sometimes it seems that it’s only him with the problem.

“I don’t know really. Obviously there’s a lot of music here. But I’ll leave one day.” He catches the first smoky whiff of Seth’s cigarette and even that melds in with the rightness of the moment. “I can’t imagine you’d ever think of leaving.”

Seth pauses to take a drag. “London sustains me. I feed on its energy. Every corner of the globe is here, every experience. Galleries, museums, restaurants, theatres… all that is best in mankind is showcased here.”

“And all the worst.”

“You’re right. Perhaps that’s why it appeals so much.” He flashes over a wicked grin and Michael is annoyed to feel himself smiling back.

They resume walking. Talk of themselves, music, moments from the concert he would normally tuck away for private savouring. Their worlds are so different and yet there’s an ease of communication he has rarely found with anyone. Seth quizzes him hungrily about music and composing. Few people have ever done that. Only one, in fact.

At London Bridge station they said goodbye. Seth held out his hand and then they were hugging each other. Michael couldn’t remember when he had last hugged a man. Had he ever? They swapped numbers and Michael agreed to come along to the musical evening Catherine had been badgering him about. His life up in Finsbury Park had fallen into a rut. Perhaps it was time to allow more people in.

And if they were arseholes he could just go home.

Scene 13

José’s leather jacket was scuffing hard against the wall and his head kept catching on a metal sign as the man’s tongue plunged into his mouth. This one was desperate. Must be married, probably a kid or two waiting for him at home. Kissing like this was not José’s style, but what did that have to do with anything? He kissed back harder, squeezed the man’s arse and slipped a knee between his legs. The man groaned and started pulling at José’s belt. José pushed him backwards – a little rough was clearly called for – and yanked down his own trousers and boxers. The man looked at his erect cock, gasping. It was pretty impressive, José knew. Impressive enough to have half a town full of regular clients. He rubbed himself salaciously, avoiding eye contact, before releasing the man’s belt one-handed and stripping him down. Gasping in return would have required better acting skills than he could muster, so he went for the grope. The man made a guttural noise and turned him round; here came the wall again.

“Not so fast.”

José held the condom he had ready behind him, looking to check the man put it on. Two minutes later he was whistling down the street with 50 quid chafing his pocket.

He went dancing. He always went dancing afterwards – maybe to lose the encounter in a room crammed with people, maybe to sweat off his feelings, whatever they were. Did he even have feelings anymore? He used to. The first time he’d puked into the canal afterwards. But he’d got used to it now, didn’t ever look at their faces – that way it was only about his cock and their cock, it didn’t need to concern his mind. Sometimes he even enjoyed it, if the waist-down package was good.

He danced, letting his body wriggle to the slowed tempo. Something a bit reggae-ish. It didn’t really matter, he could dance to anything, loved it all. A tickle of sweat brushed his nose, then his mouth. His eyes were half closed as he gyrated his hips, raised his arms. He loved the blackness of the room and the way the neon beams darted and dazzled, making everyone the same flashing no one. The problem was that no one was getting rather close to him. Between the splashes of white light he could see legs moving too near his own. He felt irritated, then irritated with his reaction. He wanted to feel nothing. Without looking up he pivoted an obvious message of rejection. But now the man was pushing his hips into José’s arse, grinding with him to the music. And it clearly wasn’t just the music he was interested in. José was about to elbow him away when a raised voice right against his ear said, “Two hundred for a night at your place.” José jolted. How did he know? Had he been followed? Was it a copper? He started walking off the dance floor, but a hand on his arm pulled him towards the toilets. He whirled to see the most beautiful face he had ever seen looking down at him. “I’ve been watching you for weeks. You’re worth more than a quick fuck under the arches, José. Let me treat you.”