fear: I felt out of control and started to quietly panic about everything, as though my life was a balancing act that was going to topple. One time, I told Lucy that I would never leave Rachel and she got mad with me - not because of what I'd said, but because I'd felt the need to say it at all. Over and over again, she told me: "I'm not an idiot and I know its not going anywhere. I just like you and want you.
And so it carried on for a while. I was worried that I was taking advantage of her. When she thawed enough, it was clear that she was unhappy and sad. But it was stupid of me to imagine she didn't know exactly what she was doing. Even more dumb was this: I was scared that she'd fall in love with me and get hurt. I was assuming that would be the way it worked: her falling for me; me remaining ambivalent; me wondering why these pesky women couldn't separate sex from love, as I so obviously could. And of course, my assumption turned out to be more than a little back-to-front.
To explain what happened, I need to break a promise.
'Have you ever loved anyone?' I asked Lucy one day.
It was two weeks after Sean had vanished and the investigation into Alison's murder had stalled, and Lucy and I were in a cheap hotel room at the edge of the city, lying in a bed that was approaching double in size without quite getting there. We were naked, with sweat drying on us, and Lucy was smoking a cigarette.
It was dark outside, but still early enough for me to be out for a drink after work with colleagues, or working late ... or whatever, really. If I needed an excuse, I'd think of one later. Right then, I wasn't thinking of much.
Cars were rushing past the window: their tyres crackled on the wet tarmac outside; their headlights came through the cheap, pale curtains and went quickly around the room in a sinister circle.
'Yes,' she said.
I knew it wasn't me, but I was stupid enough to think it might be.
I said, 'Who?'
'No, it's weird. You'll think I'm strange.'
'I already think you're strange,' I said. 'That's why we get on so well.'
'Well, you might be right there.'
'Go on.'
'No. I don't know if I should tell you.'
'Don't if you don't want to.'
She smoked the cigarette until it was nearly down to the filter, and there were a few seconds of silence while she did. Two cars went past, and then she said:
'It's someone I've never slept with.'
'Okay.'
'I've never even kissed him.'
'Wow.'
'Someone I don't even see anymore.'
She stubbed the cigarette out then. Twisted it methodically into the glass base of the ashtray by the bed.
'Who?' I said.
'Can you keep a secret?'
'Sure.'
'Seriously, I mean. None of my family even know.'
'I am serious,' I said. 'I didn't even know you had any family. But I can keep a secret, I promise.'
'Okay.' But then she thought about it and shook her head. 'It's something you need to see. I can't explain it very well. I'll let you know later.'
'Wow,' I said again.
It had seemed like a simple enough question, and now I was really curious - something I would actually need to see. I wondered what it could be, and also whether I'd regret finding out. When you're getting to know someone, questions can open trapdoors.
You fall into them - unsuspecting - and suddenly you're in a world you never knew existed. Often without a ladder.
The next day, a mid-shift break found me in an internet cafe, sitting in front of an old, battered monitor. I was just one person in a sea of plastic that was dotted with the tops of heads. There was no way I was risking logging in to this at home, because Rachel used the internet and she wasn't stupid. I straightened out a piece of paper in front of my mouse. There were two lines of text written on it in shitty biro, which was all she'd had in her handbag last night.
The first line was an email address: richjohnson@theleftroom. Com.
The second was the password: truelove.
I logged on to the account and then clicked on the inbox.
24 new messages
There were actually
And so it carried on for a while. I was worried that I was taking advantage of her. When she thawed enough, it was clear that she was unhappy and sad. But it was stupid of me to imagine she didn't know exactly what she was doing. Even more dumb was this: I was scared that she'd fall in love with me and get hurt. I was assuming that would be the way it worked: her falling for me; me remaining ambivalent; me wondering why these pesky women couldn't separate sex from love, as I so obviously could. And of course, my assumption turned out to be more than a little back-to-front.
To explain what happened, I need to break a promise.
'Have you ever loved anyone?' I asked Lucy one day.
It was two weeks after Sean had vanished and the investigation into Alison's murder had stalled, and Lucy and I were in a cheap hotel room at the edge of the city, lying in a bed that was approaching double in size without quite getting there. We were naked, with sweat drying on us, and Lucy was smoking a cigarette.
It was dark outside, but still early enough for me to be out for a drink after work with colleagues, or working late ... or whatever, really. If I needed an excuse, I'd think of one later. Right then, I wasn't thinking of much.
Cars were rushing past the window: their tyres crackled on the wet tarmac outside; their headlights came through the cheap, pale curtains and went quickly around the room in a sinister circle.
'Yes,' she said.
I knew it wasn't me, but I was stupid enough to think it might be.
I said, 'Who?'
'No, it's weird. You'll think I'm strange.'
'I already think you're strange,' I said. 'That's why we get on so well.'
'Well, you might be right there.'
'Go on.'
'No. I don't know if I should tell you.'
'Don't if you don't want to.'
She smoked the cigarette until it was nearly down to the filter, and there were a few seconds of silence while she did. Two cars went past, and then she said:
'It's someone I've never slept with.'
'Okay.'
'I've never even kissed him.'
'Wow.'
'Someone I don't even see anymore.'
She stubbed the cigarette out then. Twisted it methodically into the glass base of the ashtray by the bed.
'Who?' I said.
'Can you keep a secret?'
'Sure.'
'Seriously, I mean. None of my family even know.'
'I am serious,' I said. 'I didn't even know you had any family. But I can keep a secret, I promise.'
'Okay.' But then she thought about it and shook her head. 'It's something you need to see. I can't explain it very well. I'll let you know later.'
'Wow,' I said again.
It had seemed like a simple enough question, and now I was really curious - something I would actually need to see. I wondered what it could be, and also whether I'd regret finding out. When you're getting to know someone, questions can open trapdoors.
You fall into them - unsuspecting - and suddenly you're in a world you never knew existed. Often without a ladder.
The next day, a mid-shift break found me in an internet cafe, sitting in front of an old, battered monitor. I was just one person in a sea of plastic that was dotted with the tops of heads. There was no way I was risking logging in to this at home, because Rachel used the internet and she wasn't stupid. I straightened out a piece of paper in front of my mouse. There were two lines of text written on it in shitty biro, which was all she'd had in her handbag last night.
The first line was an email address: richjohnson@theleftroom. Com.
The second was the password: truelove.
I logged on to the account and then clicked on the inbox.
24 new messages
There were actually
Similar Books
Unidentified Funny Objects 2
Robert Silverberg, Jim C. Hines, Jody Lynn Nye, Mike Resnick, Ken Liu, Tim Pratt, Esther Frisner
