Nocturne (22 page)

‘
Then what?
’

‘
I
don
’
t know,
’
I said again.

‘
Will they arrest him? Give him a warning?
’

‘
I
’
ve no idea.
’

‘
Say it
’
s a warning, say they slap his wrists. If he
’
s as crazy as he
sounds, that
’
ll make fuck-all difference. They might as well not
bother.
’

‘
Thanks.
’

We exchanged looks. I genuinely think it was the first time he
realised I was scared. Saying it, earlier, had been one thing. Now, in the
car, he could see it for himself. His hand found mine and gave it a little
squeeze. When he tried to withdraw it, I wouldn
’
t let him.

Brendan turned out to be an inspired cook. We tucked into a
wonderful Couscous Royale, blessed with a bottle and a half of
Moroccan red. Although the flat was rented, Brendan had added one
or two bits and pieces of his own, and while he was out in the kitchen,
putting the finishing touches to a lavish fruit salad, I wandered around
the lounge, trying to guess which fragments of his former life he
’
d
managed to rescue from the bitch-queen.

One obvious souvenir was a glorious photograph of a bunch of guys
standing knee-deep in snow beside a half-completed igloo. None of
them had shaved for weeks and their beards were matted with ice and I
was still trying to decide which
one was Brendan when I felt a tiny
touch
on
my arm. He told me that the photo had come from a documentary
shoot in the Canadian Arctic. He
’
d been tasked to report on the
devastating impact of welfare hand-outs on the luckless Eskimos and
the assignment had gone way over schedule. Stranded in the back of
beyond, Brendan had realised too late that he
’
d made the wrong film.
The Eskimos weren
’
t, in reality, the helpless, drunken castaways he
’
d
been led to believe. On the contrary, they were still tough, still
resourceful, still proud. Listening to him talk like this, I said that the
Arctic seemed a long way from smart-arse metropolitan quiz shows
and politicians on the make. He shrugged, telling me it was a long time
ago, and I returned to the photo, not the least put off.

‘
So which one
’
s you?
’

‘
Third from the left,
’
he said.
‘
The good-looking bastard.
’

We ate the fruit salad on the sofa while Brendan told me a little more
about his days in documentary. It turned out that he
’
d done stuff all
over the world, and he obviously had the awards to prove it, but to my
shame I hadn
’
t seen a single film of the dozens he mentioned. When I
asked him whether he had dupes on cassette, he said yes but that bit of
the conversation went no further and he certainly made no effort to
offer me a look at any of them. There
’
d be no point, he said, because
the memories he treasured weren
’
t of the movies themselves but of
their making — the locations he
’
d scouted, the people he
’
d met, the
trials he
’
d endured trying to capture reality with a bolshie film crew
and the usual logistic nightmares. These were problems I could talk
about first-hand - my beloved c
ouncil estate overlooking South
ampton Water - and it was gone midnight before it occurred to either
of us that there was still half a bowl of fruit salad to finish.

I was still spooning up the juice when Brendan produced the malt
whisky again. The measures were as huge as ever, though by this time I
was past caring.

‘
To sanity.
’
He grinned, raising his glass.
‘
Whatever the fuck that
might be.
’

He settled beside me on the sofa. We
’
d touched on his marriage
throughout the evening, rueful asides, the odd dig at Sandra, but he
’
d
shown no appetite for the full post-mortem which was just as well
because I was in no mood to play the pathologist. What was beyond
dispute was the fact that he
’
d left her, and that - just now - was quite
enough for me.

‘
You
’
re much too trusting,
’
he said suddenly.
‘
You know that?
’

This, alas, was yesterday
’
s news. My art college lecturer had told me
more or less the same thing. Often.

‘
I
know,
’
I admitted.
‘
I
’
m made that way.
’

‘
It
’
s not a criticism. You should just be careful, that
’
s all.
’

‘
I
s that a warning? Should I take it personally?
’

Brendan laughed softly. He
’
d propped the windsurfing blow-ups
against the wall, like individual frames from a movie, and he was
looking at them through half-closed eyes. I
’
m not as objective as I
should be but they were really impressive, no question. He
’
d caught
exactly the essence of the sport - its exhilaration, its raw excitement -
and that isn
’
t easy. To have been part of that - not just doing i
t, but
having the moments captured
forever - was doubly wonderful and I told
him so. He smiled, accepting the compliment, and then he put his
tumbler on the carpet beside the sofa.

‘
It was a privilege,
’
he said softly,
‘
and I
’
d like to say thank you.
’

I was still wearing the jeans I show up to work in. They have a
buttoned fly. I felt his fingers tugging softly at the clasp on the belt and I
reached out for him, cupping his face. He kissed the palms of my
hands, one after the other, nuzzling the soft little pad inside the thumb,
then he slipped off the sofa, kneeling before me on the carpet. I tensed a
moment, not quite at ease, not quite decided, then I felt the gentlest
pressure as he pushed me back.

‘
Hey,
’
he murmured.
‘
Relax.
’

My jeans peeled off. Then he was running his tongue up the insides
of my thighs. I wear very skimpy briefs. After a while I felt him
nuzzling me, the lightest, deftest touch through the thin cotton. I was
wet, and he knew it. I wanted him. Properly. My hands again, reaching
out. His kisses again, telling me to wait, to be patient. The insides of
my thighs, at the very top, have always been a very special place.
Harvey, my ill-starred Bournemouth lover, once boasted that he could
make me come just by looking at them. He never did, of course, but
some nights - playing - he
’
d count to ten, like the anaesthetist, and if
he
’
d done everything else right I
’
d never make it past five. Harvey was
good, no question, but Brendan, I was beginning to suspect, was in a
different league entirely. Palme d
’
Or. Cannes Film Festival. Standing
ovation.

My briefs,
don
’
t ask me how, seemed to have
gone. Scissors? Smoke and
mirrors? I didn
’
t care. My legs spread, his fingers parted me, wider and
wider. I felt myself swelling, and then my back began to arch, and I
called out for him, all of him, but all I got was the lightest flick of his
tongue, dancing and dancing, perfect control, perfect timing, and then
a deep, deep surge, the big, big waves, my little board at sea again,
abandoned, gleeful, utterly helpless.

Not long afterwards, he did it again. And then again. I
’
ve never
come so often, or so easily, in my life. He didn
’
t want anything back,
the favour returned. He didn
’
t try and fuck me. He didn
’
t even kiss me.
He was simply happy, as he put it, to say thank you.

‘
For what?
’

‘
You don
’
t know?
’

‘
No.
’

He gazed at
me, his face moist and shiny.
‘
I
love you,
’
he said simply.

Later, he insisted on making a bed up for me on the sofa. When I
asked about the outside door, he said he
’
d locked and bolted it. After
he
’
d tip-toed away, I sank beneath the blankets and dreamed about my
father. He was home on leave from the Navy. He took myself and my
brother sailing in a dinghy on Chichester Harbour. Afterwards, we
went to a pub in Bosham and played skittles with those small chicken
pies you can buy at Sainsburys. None of my pies made it to the end of
the alley but it didn
’
t seem to matter in the slightest. It was a lovely
dream and I awoke at dawn with my father still chuckling about how
useless I was at skittles. I lay in the darkness for a while, savouring the
dream, and then I got up and picked my way across the darkened
lounge until I made it to the kitchen. In the light from the kitchen, I
found the door to the hall. Brendan
’
s bedroom was at the end. He was
asleep when I slipped under the duvet but it wasn
’
t hard to arouse him.
He tasted wonderful and we did it again, an hour or so later, together
this time.

Brendan took me to work next morning in the Mercedes. Doubleact
wasn
’
t the kind of place where anything stayed a secret for very long
but even so I was surprised by his indifference to office gossip. In the
car, he
’
d told me I should move in with him. Before he took the stairs
to the third floor, he kissed me on the lips and told me he loved me.
The
phrase would have been relayed to the bitch-queen within minutes. I
expect she looked it up in the dictionary.

After lunch, with Brendan
’
s blessing, I returned to Napier Road. I
’
d
left my number at the police station, and at two o
’
clock, as promised,
the phone rang. I was expecting a woman
’
s voice, Gaynor, but it was
the young guy I
’
d met the previous evening. This time he took the
trouble of introducing himself. PC Hegarty. Or Dave, for short.

‘
Someone
’
ll be round in an hour or so,
’
he told me.
‘
You
’
ll be in?
’

I was still explaining how busy I was at work when he cut the
conversation short. Someone would be calling by, he repeated. Then
he hung up.