My Policeman by Bethan Roberts

the conversation away from the topic of you, Patrick. I didn’t want to know why you were in London, or what you were doing there.
    Tom finished his pint and put his glass down on the bar. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘We can’t talk in here.’
    I watched him walk out of the place. He didn’t look back for me, or call me from the doorway. He simply made his wishes clear, then left. I gulped back the rest of my gin and tonic. A cool rush of alcohol sped through my limbs.
    Until I stepped outside and saw Tom, I didn’t know I was furious. But in a second everything tightened and my breath came fast. I felt my arm going rigid, my hand drawing back, and I knew that if I didn’t open my mouth and shout I would slap him, hard. So I stood with both feet planted firmly on the pavement, and I yelled: ‘What the bloody hell is wrong with you?’
    Tom stared at me, eyes bright with surprise.
    ‘Can’t we have a drink, like a normal couple?’
    He looked up and down the street. I knew passers-by were staring at me, thinking,
Redheads. They’re all the same
. But it was too late to care.
    ‘Marion—’
    ‘All I want is to be alone with you! Is that so much to ask? Everyone else manages it!’
    There was a long pause. My arms were still rigid, but my hand had relaxed. I knew I should apologise, but I was frightened that if I opened my mouth a sob would come out.
    Then Tom took a step forward, grasped my head in his hands, and kissed me on the lips.
    Now, looking back, I think: did he do it just to silence me? To prevent any further public humiliation? After all, he was a police constable, albeit one still on probation, and probably not taken at all seriously by the local criminal population. But at the time, this thought did not cross my mind. I was so surprised to feel Tom’s lips on mine – so sudden, so urgent – that I thought nothing. And it was such a relief, Patrick, to merely
feel
for a change. To allow myself to melt, as they say, into a kiss. And it was like melting. That letting go. That sliding into the sensations of another’s flesh.
    We said little after that. Together we strolled along the seafront, arms about each other’s waists, facing the wind from the sea. In the darkness I could see the white tops of the waves, rising, rolling, dispersing. Boys on motorbikes raced up Marine Drive, giving me an excuse to hold Tom tighter every time one whipped by. I had no idea where we were going – I didn’t even consider our direction. It was enough to be walking in the evening with Tom, past the upturned fishermen’s boats on the shore, away from the bright blare of the pier and towards Kemp Town. Tom did not kiss me again, but I occasionally let my head rest on his shoulder as we walked. I felt very generous towards you then, Patrick. I even wondered if perhaps you’d gone away deliberately, to give us some time alone.
Take Marion out somewhere nice
, you’d have said.
And for heaven’s sake give her a kiss, won’t you!
    I’d hardly noticed where we were going until we reached Chichester Terrace. The wide pavements were quiet and empty. The place hasn’t changed since you left: it’s still a hushed, solid street where the glossy doors are set back from the pavement, each one announced by a sturdy set of Doric columns and a flight of black and white tiled steps. On that street, the brass knockers are shining and uniform. Each facade is flatly white, iced in brilliant plaster, and each railing is straight and unchipped. The long windows cleanly reflect the street lamps and the occasional flash of traffic. Chichester Terrace is grand yet understated, without the arrogance of Sussex Square or Lewes Crescent.
    Tom stopped walking and felt in his pocket.
    ‘Isn’t this …’
    He nodded. ‘Patrick’s place.’ He dangled a set of keys in front of my face, gave a quick laugh, and skipped up the steps to your front door.
    I followed him, my shoes making a lovely light clipping sound on the tiles. The huge