minute.”
“In a bit. Just gonna make us a cup of tea, and…”
“No. Now. Please.”
He obeyed. I think he knew then the game was up, that whatever sweeping, overwhelming thing he’d meant to do, it was no good. He sank onto the edge of an armchair opposite to me. Perhaps he was just tired—or maybe two years of steadfast deception had done their work on his once-open, sweet-natured face. He looked…faded, and there was a twist to his smile I hadn’t seen before.
I was sure I was altered too. He said uncomfortably, “Come on, Mattie. I’ve got things to do.”
No one else in the world called me Mattie, not unless they wanted a punch in the mouth that had formed the word. It was a name from our deepest past, from bloody nursery school, for God’s sake, when Joe had been too young to pronounce my real one. I said, throat burning, “Marnie must be devastated.”
He shrugged. “Well. You know Marnie.”
“No, I don’t. I only met her a handful of times before you left. Where is she?”
“She’s at home.”
Home. Leaning forward, I propped my elbows on my knees and ran both hands through my hair. I knew this would make it stick up like electrified wheat, but it helped me to think, to begin to get some fragile grip on what the fuck was going on here. “Okay,” I said wearily. “Okay. Here’s what I think is happening. If I’m wrong…” I tailed off, choking a bit. My chest felt dry and sore. “If you want to stop me at any point, go ahead. Marnie’s at home. You haven’t told her you’re here. You’ve brought…just enough clothes to get by for the night and your spare toothbrush, nothing she’s actually gonna notice is missing. If things go all right here, well and good. And if not—if it all goes tits up, you’re going to pick up your rucksack and go quietly home. To Marnie. Is that right?”
A terrible, hard-edged silence descended, weary and tarnished as the light. “Come on, Joe,” I said. “Whatever you tell me, I’ll believe it. You know I will. So make it good.”
He lifted his head. He had been staring at the hearthside rug, where so much had gone on, but now he looked at me. His eyes were dry and empty. He said, hoarsely, “You don’t understand, Matt. I thought it was right, but…I can’t even fuck her.”
Walking out was easy: I only had one small rucksack of my own. Picking it up, I fished in my pocket and tossed Joe my set of keys. He didn’t try to catch them but flinched from them, and they clattered down onto the hearth. I thought he might follow me, but he did not. The street was deserted, painted in coloured lights, beginning to be hushed with snow. I didn’t know what time the Metros stopped on Christmas Eve, but now was the time to find out. I ran.
***
I got no response to my pounding on the Quayside flat’s door, and reluctantly—Aaron’s privacy seeming doubly sacred now—I let myself in. I hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but he’d placed a lot of faith in me, hadn’t he, giving me my own key on the second day of my stay with him, as soon as he could get one cut. A nice return I’d made him for his trust.
I scanned the flat’s sparse rooms. It barely took a minute to establish Aaron was not just out, but gone. Unlike Joe, he’d taken things he really needed for a proper stay, and I wondered—sick at heart, unable to stop myself—how pleased Rosie would be to see him. Home for Christmas after all…Turning on my heel, I walked out.
Chapter Nine
I realised halfway down the corridor that I had no idea of where I was going, and slackened my pace. A dull blade of loss began to push its way under my heart. I tried his mobile number for the nineteenth time and got nothing. Well, I wouldn’t answer to me either, in his place. His last sight of me, I had been clasped in my ex-lover’s arms, or maybe leaping about laughing like a bloody chimp on the wall, paying no attention to his retreat, his sudden, total disappearance from my world,
“In a bit. Just gonna make us a cup of tea, and…”
“No. Now. Please.”
He obeyed. I think he knew then the game was up, that whatever sweeping, overwhelming thing he’d meant to do, it was no good. He sank onto the edge of an armchair opposite to me. Perhaps he was just tired—or maybe two years of steadfast deception had done their work on his once-open, sweet-natured face. He looked…faded, and there was a twist to his smile I hadn’t seen before.
I was sure I was altered too. He said uncomfortably, “Come on, Mattie. I’ve got things to do.”
No one else in the world called me Mattie, not unless they wanted a punch in the mouth that had formed the word. It was a name from our deepest past, from bloody nursery school, for God’s sake, when Joe had been too young to pronounce my real one. I said, throat burning, “Marnie must be devastated.”
He shrugged. “Well. You know Marnie.”
“No, I don’t. I only met her a handful of times before you left. Where is she?”
“She’s at home.”
Home. Leaning forward, I propped my elbows on my knees and ran both hands through my hair. I knew this would make it stick up like electrified wheat, but it helped me to think, to begin to get some fragile grip on what the fuck was going on here. “Okay,” I said wearily. “Okay. Here’s what I think is happening. If I’m wrong…” I tailed off, choking a bit. My chest felt dry and sore. “If you want to stop me at any point, go ahead. Marnie’s at home. You haven’t told her you’re here. You’ve brought…just enough clothes to get by for the night and your spare toothbrush, nothing she’s actually gonna notice is missing. If things go all right here, well and good. And if not—if it all goes tits up, you’re going to pick up your rucksack and go quietly home. To Marnie. Is that right?”
A terrible, hard-edged silence descended, weary and tarnished as the light. “Come on, Joe,” I said. “Whatever you tell me, I’ll believe it. You know I will. So make it good.”
He lifted his head. He had been staring at the hearthside rug, where so much had gone on, but now he looked at me. His eyes were dry and empty. He said, hoarsely, “You don’t understand, Matt. I thought it was right, but…I can’t even fuck her.”
Walking out was easy: I only had one small rucksack of my own. Picking it up, I fished in my pocket and tossed Joe my set of keys. He didn’t try to catch them but flinched from them, and they clattered down onto the hearth. I thought he might follow me, but he did not. The street was deserted, painted in coloured lights, beginning to be hushed with snow. I didn’t know what time the Metros stopped on Christmas Eve, but now was the time to find out. I ran.
***
I got no response to my pounding on the Quayside flat’s door, and reluctantly—Aaron’s privacy seeming doubly sacred now—I let myself in. I hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but he’d placed a lot of faith in me, hadn’t he, giving me my own key on the second day of my stay with him, as soon as he could get one cut. A nice return I’d made him for his trust.
I scanned the flat’s sparse rooms. It barely took a minute to establish Aaron was not just out, but gone. Unlike Joe, he’d taken things he really needed for a proper stay, and I wondered—sick at heart, unable to stop myself—how pleased Rosie would be to see him. Home for Christmas after all…Turning on my heel, I walked out.
Chapter Nine
I realised halfway down the corridor that I had no idea of where I was going, and slackened my pace. A dull blade of loss began to push its way under my heart. I tried his mobile number for the nineteenth time and got nothing. Well, I wouldn’t answer to me either, in his place. His last sight of me, I had been clasped in my ex-lover’s arms, or maybe leaping about laughing like a bloody chimp on the wall, paying no attention to his retreat, his sudden, total disappearance from my world,
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