Read Three Steps Behind You Online
Authors: Amy Bird
‘I may be on the rebound,’ she giggles.
When we get to her building, a block in Old Compton Street, I note. Opposite an off-license.
‘This is me,’ she says, stopping.
‘The castle gates,’ I say. ‘Sure I can’t come up?’
‘Not tonight,’ she says. ‘I’m a lady.’
‘How’s tomorrow?’ I ask.
‘I might have thought better of it by then,’ she says.
‘Oh, but remember the abs!’ I say, gently fastening her fingers round my torso. ‘And the fun. Here, I’ll write it down for you. Give me your lipstick. And a tissue.’
‘What!’ she protests. But she rifles through her handbag and produces what I ask for.
I write on the tissue in bold pink capitals. ‘We had fun and laughed a lot, and under the tails there are abs. Signed, Posh Luke. PS I will come round tomorrow at 7 and bring something special.’
She reads it over my shoulder and laughs. I put the tissue in the pocket of my jacket.
‘But how I will I find that tomorrow, if you’ve got the jacket?’ she asks.
‘Keep it overnight,’ I say. ‘It’s your insurance not to get stood up. And my insurance you won’t be out when I come round – after all, you couldn’t keep a gift from a stranger. What would your mother say?’
‘I think my mother would have a lot to say right now,’ she says, leaning in to kiss me. There is no coyness this time. The tongue is straight in there. Then she breaks away.
‘Until tomorrow,’ she says.
‘Until tomorrow,’ I say.
She enters a code, as I watch, into the front-door panel, pushes open the door, and disappears.
Till tomorrow, then.
As I turn away, I catch sight of Nicole.
Nicole is across the street, looking into the window of the off-license. She is wearing the beret, of course. She has professionalised her following, increased her skill in being covert – all night, she must have been watching me, without me seeing her. Mustn’t she?
I approach her from behind. Before I can get too close, she turns.
‘Dan!’ she says. ‘What a surprise! What are you doing here?’
I hadn’t thought about that before I crossed the road. Perhaps deflect.
‘Rather than in police custody?’ I ask.
She lowers her gaze.
‘Adam said he’d speak to you,’ I say. ‘Did he?’
She nods. ‘He said we needed to move on.’
‘And you agreed?’
There is a slight pause, and then another nod. That’s all I’ll get from her, for now.
‘So, what were you doing here?’ I ask.
‘Oh, you know,’ she says, ‘just mooching. Bit of window shopping.’
‘For wine?’ I ask.
She looks at the shop window she was gazing at, as if for the first time. I see Ally’s door mirrored in it.
‘For ale,’ she lies. She has been window shopping for reflections. ‘Adam likes unusual ales. Thought they might have some.’
I’ve never seen Adam drink ‘ale’. Premium lager, single malt whisky, vintage wine, maybe. Not ale.
‘He offered me champagne earlier,’ I say. ‘To draw a line under the past few days. All the misunderstandings.’
She says nothing.
‘Lobster, too,’ I say. ‘I could come round, to yours, again, if you don’t want to go out.’
Nicole shivers. It must be the cold. Shame I have no jacket to offer her.
‘No, don’t worry about coming to ours. Let’s go out. The three of us. You boys can have a good drink. Really relax, have a chat. How about tomorrow?’
‘I’m busy then.’
‘Day after?’ she asks.
‘It’s a date,’ I say. And it could be. Because by then, Luke will be ready.
Nicole turns to leave. Before she does, I catch hold of her arm, and kiss her on the cheek.
‘Bye, Nicole. Nice to bump into you.’
‘Sure,’ she says.
As she walks off, I see her rub her face with her sleeve.
Rub away all you like, Nicole. But soon you’ll be covered by me. Inside and out.
To be effective, research must be focused. I could spend the day reading about bubonic burlesque, visit a Black Death roller disco, or frequent a church for atheists. I am not naïve. I know those things are, or may be, out there, in our capital. That there may clubbers who buy black felt-tip pens especially to dot an attractive plague mark underneath their usual beauty spot, or under their arms, clean shaving their arm-pits to allow closer inspection. I know there may be honour killing, female genital mutilation. Pop-up bars, caviar spas and people driving naked in Maserati cars. I know this goes on. I once read
Time Out
. I know, even, that there is or was an acre in London reserved for the devil. It’s not too far from here. A quick run to Westminster would take me there.
I could research research itself – test the limits, see how far I can go. I could see if I can outfox the police, unlike that other author, imprisoned for child pornography offences, after accessing sites that required his credit card number. I could see if entering Luke’s details made a difference. I could, when they come to arrest me, proffer his wrists; sacrifice my character instead of myself.
Or I could research a full relationship. Love, marriage, children. Like those undercover police, always in the news, for wrecking lives (of criminals? We are all criminals, for them, even if there is no ‘crime’).
But that is not the point. The point is to find out only exactly what I need to know. I already know love, its desperation, its delight, its devotion. What I need to know now is different. This is a dry run, an (un)dressed rehearsal – it’s no good behaving like a novice. I must text-research, and then I must flesh-research and then I can act.
The point today is about un-mutilated women, women at their purist.
I head to an Internet café and find a computer screen that’s not overlooked. No one else needs to see me trying to get experience.
Then I start to Google. Within an hour, I have printed all I need. A woman’s body, broken down into segments, showing erogenous areas. A large anatomical picture of female genitalia. And details of the nearest Boots that provides Viagra over the counter.
Because here’s the thing: I don’t know if I will respond. I know I will be researching for Luke, and that Luke in the book likes women. But I can only take imagining so far. That’s why I need the research. And I cannot imagine myself into arousal. Not with Ally, anyway.
I take my printing and bundle it into my rucksack. I can look at it more later, on the bus. My bag is largely empty so far, but it will fill up, as the day progresses.
It turns out, at Boots, they won’t just give me the Viagra. I have to make an appointment to return in an hour, so they can ‘assess’ me. I wander round the shop, making a list in my mind of what Luke would buy: Whey, Weight-loss magic, Wholly Oats! (exclamation mark included for extra energy). I wonder if I could get Boots to sponsor my book. Protein shakes, ab-masters, Lucozade. Alpha-male, alpha-male, alpha-male. Luke could still buy
Men’s Health
, but probably not stick Adam’s face onto the cover model.
I approach the scent counter. What would he smell, of, Luke? It’s scent that attracts us to people, some researcher has said. My nostrils detect whiff of Adam. But which one? There are too many scents. Tom Ford? No. James Bond? No, he would not wear that. Even James Bond would not wear that. Calvin Klein, Adam used to wear, when we were younger. CK One. We all used to wear it. I grew used to noticing it, when we hit puberty. Essence of Adam. Then in Feltham I grew used to a new essence, an earthier, essence. If they sold that, I’d buy it. But they don’t. So I spray myself – or rather Luke – with Armani. It smells of Adam because everything does.
I move on to ‘family planning’. Not relevant. Oh, but condoms. Yes. Luke would need lots of those. In fact, I could buy some now. All sorts though. Which to choose? I have never tried, before, for a woman. There’s no tester pack, no opportunity to sample, like with the scents. Some are branded ‘play’ and claim to heighten female arousal. Some are studded with dots. I move my index finger in and out of my hand and imagine my finger is covered with warts. It would be like that, surely? I pick some that say extra strong. Then I return to the appointment counter. Given that I am here for a Viagra appointment, I wonder if they think my purchase optimistic.
They have an antidote to optimism, though. It is called the blue pill questionnaire. A man in a white coat starts asking me questions.
‘Are you able to maintain an erection unaided?’
It would be a good chat-up line, in some cases. Sexual due-diligence, checking an evening will be well spent.
He looks up at me hopefully.
‘No,’ I sort-of-lie. Am I ever unaided? I always have Adam. Or my hand. Both help.
‘How long has this problem been going on?’ he asks me.
‘It feels like forever,’ I say.
He smirks and says, ‘I know what you mean.’ This does not give me much faith in his merchandise.
Then he asks me if I have been to the doctor about it. I do not go to doctors. At Feltham, they told me to. That I ought to check in with them, every so often. Specialist doctors. Take some pills. Smile a lot.
‘Yes,’ I fully lie. ‘They say there’s nothing wrong.’
‘Do you have any history of heart conditions?’ he asks. I expect love is omitted so I say no.
‘Does anyone in your family?’
My parents are dead, so they don’t count. And it doesn’t make sense to mention my aunt.
‘No,’ I say.
We go through some more ‘routine’ questions. Then they give me a small pack of blue tablets and tell me to let them know I get on.
I want to say ‘You’ll read about it’. But I don’t. Instead, I grin at him and hold up the condoms.
Next stop, Soho.
Soho is not for Ally’s flat, not yet, but other supplies. I promised I’d bring Ally a treat, and I also have to think about what Luke would like. About his style. And, of course, about Nicole’s style. Because practice makes perfect.
I have a few hours to kill, after my purchases are complete. I could do a bit more studying but, really, women don’t seem to be that complicated. Instead, I get out my notebook, and sketch out how the evening might go.
It’s a bit different from book three. But with the same end goal, I suppose, if I’m honest.
Although I haven’t been entirely honest so far. About book three being my third book, or rather ‘my’ third book. Because actually, one of the other two was co-authored. Adam and I started the first one together. When we were eleven, we used to sit beneath a tree in the school playing fields at lunch. That was before ‘big school’, and Adam would tolerate just being with me. Before everything got complicated with his knowledge of the second book.
That was when Adam said it: ‘You have the best writing.’
He thrust a crayon at me. ‘You do it,’ he said. I took him up on the invitation. From then on, I was the scribe. Adam would tell me stories about what life would be like and I would write and illustrate. I had a red pencil I was very proud of. I drew us both in a house with a nice white (ok, red) picket fence and a pretty red garden. Adam got cross because he’d told me to draw him a castle, just for him. He seized hold of the notebook and drew big flames engulfing the house, then drew a castle next to it. To try to get back into his good books, I drew him a pretty queen in the window of his castle. He crossed her out, threw down the book and ran off down the playing field. I put the picture in my pocket then followed him.
We carried on the story in Feltham.
I thought book two would have been such a strong sequel to that. But Adam had made it very clear that he wasn’t interested. That if I wanted to stay close, I would have to do it in a different way.
So I did. I only wish I could tell him. Sit him down and read book three to him – the perfect trilogy. But then I doubt I’d ever be allowed close to him again. So he must never know.
Besides – where would that leave book four? And this evening?
I open up one of the packets and take a blue pill.
Then I begin to walk round to Ally’s.
As I stroll, I think. I find that a walk helps my brain start to work creatively. I didn’t get a lot of strolling, outside, when I was inside, in Feltham. Nor did anyone else. Sure, there was exercise, running around, at allocated times. But you wouldn’t stroll in a relaxed way between sessions. And you wouldn’t be outside – always under a walkway. Always barred. No mental space. It meant our creative writing sessions were rather uncreative. Probably the leader’s fault as much as anything – the premise set was never very imaginative. ‘What things could I be doing if I wasn’t in here?’ was one. Or; ‘What do I think my victim must have felt like?’ I guess someone had told them writing was about moral responsibility, not just craft.
And when they did try to teach it, they were so contradictory. We were told ‘Beware giving a character knowledge of something they cannot possibly know. They cannot know what the other characters are thinking.’ But that is surely nonsense? If it weren’t nonsense, why would they give us that exercise on imagining what our victims felt like? And why would they put The Bible in our rooms? A classic work of fiction, as I knew it was by then, about one character who claims to know everything. I reread it to remind myself how the author, whoever it was, had handled it. Not as convincingly as I thought when I was a child, before I realised how flawed the protagonist was, that it was not he who was my saviour. There are some nice phrases about Adam, though. Made me think I shouldn’t have burnt my copy.
Then, lo! Another contradiction, from our tutors. Despite being asked to write about what our victims felt like, we were told, only weeks later: ‘People do not feel. They do not walk around thinking “I feel sad today.” If you write that, you are doing Bad Writing. Instead, you must say that they stand next to the Grand Canyon precipice and all they can see is the bottom.’ Half the people didn’t know what the Grand Canyon was. If the tutors had used the analogy of ‘They stand on the edge of a bed with the sheet around their necks and all they can see is the jump between them and the floor’ then it might have made more sense. But we didn’t talk about that.