Undone (26 page)

I cried out, complained, begged for less, begged for more. I was an incoherent mess, full of contradictions.

‘This should keep you going for a week or two,’ said Sol, huffing and grunting. He hammered into me with ruthless excess, his cock slamming high, his hips battering my raw, bruised buttocks. ‘You going to remember this, Cha Cha? Remember who you belong to?’

My breaths rose to a pitch, the tension inside me becoming too dense to contain. I wailed as he banged away until I climaxed with an intensity that shocked. My orgasm flung itself out from a deep, hidden part of me, taking possession of my body. I pitched, jerked and shuddered, sobbing with bliss.

Sol grabbed a bunch of my hair, making me arch my neck backwards. ‘That’s my girl,’ he cooed, slowing his thrusts. ‘Coming from my cock. Taking it like a whore.’

He released me and I slumped against the table, my nerves simmering, my calf muscles tingling. With a harsh, mean grip, Sol sunk his fingers into my buttocks, exacerbating my soreness as he began fucking with increased brutality. The table legs dragged against the slate floor and Sol’s noises grew loud and wild. He gave a long roar, a pained cry, and then his body was spasming against mine, fingers clawing me.

His roars dropped to groans and then a final gasp of pleasure puffed from his lips. He stayed there awhile, catching his breath. His size dwindled inside me, the movement sending out little pulses.

‘Oh God, Cha Cha.’ His voice was quiet, loaded, remorseful.

He withdrew from me and I twisted around on the table, fearing he was upset. He heaved me to him so I was perched on the table edge and he held my face in both hands, staring into my eyes. I was confused.

‘Sol?’

He shook his head and leaned in to kiss me. His lips were warm and pliant, his mouth wet, and all the time he held my face in his cupped hands. When he broke away, he said, ‘I’m going to miss you.’

‘It’s only a week,’ I replied. ‘It’ll be over before we know it.’

Since then, I’ve been thinking about that kiss, how he held my face in his hands and looked at me, his eyes clouded with emotions I couldn’t decipher. I thought I saw desire and tenderness there but also sorrow. I can’t recall if the kiss troubled me at the time or if, only now, I’m perceiving it as a goodbye because he’s barely been in touch these last few days. When he left early the next morning, he woke me with a kiss on my lips. He was travelling on Sunday and had a ton of stuff to organise so I wouldn’t see him until he returned. He stroked my hair from my forehead, smiling affectionately. I gazed up at him through sleep-bleary eyes.

‘Shalom, sweetheart,’ he said gently. ‘Catch you on the other side.’

‘Safe journey,’ I murmured.

He texted a few times over the weekend and said he’d phone before he left yesterday but didn’t. And all I’ve had since then is silence. He’s only been away one day, I know, but it’s unlike him. I’ve called, I’ve texted, I’ve emailed but no reply so far. Technology is my only means of reaching him, and the connection feels fragile and tenuous. He’ll be in Birmingham now but I have no details of where he’s staying or working. I know the name of the road he lives on in Brighton so I could drive over there and loiter. That might make me feel a degree or two closer to him but it’s of no practical use. I try telling myself he’s been too busy to get in touch but I’m fooling no one. He used to be reliable but then he changed, grew erratic and cagey. If it weren’t for that change, weren’t for my growing suspicions he harbours a secret, I might have been more worried he’d come to harm.

I can only conclude he wants out of the relationship but doesn’t have the balls to tell me. So now we’re going to go through a fraught painful period where he treats me badly in a bid to make me finish what we had. Perhaps his inability to bring this to a decent close is related to his history of bereavement. He’s unable to instigate a breakup after suffering so much from death imposing loss upon him. Or perhaps he’s a callous, lying bastard, and I’ve been fooled.

Safe journey, Sol Miller, whoever you are. Shalom.

Tuesday 2nd September

There’s a page missing, I know. I wrote something I shouldn’t have done but it’s OK now. It’s gone.

This journal’s looking ragged and worn. The spine’s broken from me leaving it splayed open too often, and some of the pages are coming unglued. It’s a cheap thing. If I’d known I was going to record so much, I would have thought more about the object in which I was writing. I’m considering asking Kat to bind it in leather, although I wouldn’t want her to read any of the content. Perhaps she could mend it while I was there so I could ensure my words were safe from her eyes. A cover with a lock would be good. If Sol’s going to go rooting around in my drawers looking for towels, who knows what else he might stumble upon. Well, assuming he ever comes back, that is. But I’m starting to think he will. I over-reacted yesterday. He probably forgot his phone charger, that’s all. And the hotel Wi-Fi is down.

The digital era makes us expect constant communication, making modern silences louder than those in the past. I’m glad I decided to record my thoughts longhand. This journal has a reassuring physicality. Nonetheless, its shabbiness is a reminder too that paper is vulnerable.

I’m drawn to the idea of having my story contained in a sturdy binding, whole, neat and orderly. No looseness, no words escaping, no narrative slipping its moorings and coming undone.

Wednesday 3rd September

Something’s desperately wrong, and I’m scared. I think Sol’s in trouble. And I think I might be too.

Today, just after five, a guy walked into The Blue Bar, tall and broad-shouldered, looking like trouble. His dark, silver-threaded hair was swept back in an oriental-style bun, scruffy, silky wisps framing his face. Salt-and-pepper bristles shaded his jaw and neck. Mid-forties but aging well despite the hard look of cynicism on his face. I see a lot of customers. Some strike me, some don’t. I’m always pleased with myself when I remember a previous customer. If someone appears familiar, I’ll usually opt for a friendly, ‘Hi, how are you doing?’ in a tone that suggests I know them but, if they’re newcomers, doesn’t sound too weird.

I’d never seen this man before. I would have remembered him.

He wore good, lived-in jeans, and his black T-shirt hinted at the contours of a powerful chest. His arms were athletically strong and his skin had the deep olive tones of someone from a country where it seldom rains. On his feet were dulled army boots and the overall effect was of a guy so brutishly masculine that I had to wonder if The Blue Bar had been recommended in a gay listings magazine.

He approached the bar, glancing quickly about the empty room, and ordered a bottle of Czech pilsner. His eyes dazzled. They were a deep turquoise-green, of such dark, compact brilliance it felt as if they could cut into you like a laser. Their colour, like the iridescence of petrol and peacocks, wouldn’t quite settle. Bluish-greenish-blackish eyes under jutting brows heavy enough to cast shadows.

At a guess, I would have said East European. His cheekbones were high, his nose was on the beaky side and his lips, as if in defiance of those angular features, were full and rich, their colour comparable to the ruddy-purple skin of plums. His stubble was heavy, bordering on a beard, and around the chin, greyish, angular patches gave the suggestion of an unkempt goatee. As I flipped the lid from his beer I mused that if he were an actor, he’d always be cast as an alien or a replicant, a creature from other worlds. I practically had to brace myself to look at him again.

I noticed then, on one side of his face, a scar running near enough parallel to his jaw. The stubble broke apart in a jagged line, giving a glimpse of a seam of shiny, pinkish, puckered skin. Wow, I thought, that’s taking the rough-trade look a little too far.

Ordinarily, I’d exchange a bit of chit-chat, especially for the first customer of the day when the place was empty, but something told me this guy didn’t do small talk.

He withdrew a wallet from his back pocket, paid with a note and then, with a slow, precise gesture, placed a pound coin in the silver tip saucer on the bar. He allowed his thumb to press on the coin for a moment too long, fixing me with those glimmering eyes and a cold smile. Then he strolled away onto the balcony with his bottle of beer.

I couldn’t help but feel insulted.

He stood between the open wings of the stained-glass doors, glancing up and down the street. His man-bun was loose and artless, strands dangling and tufts sprouting from the knot at the back of his head. The fine silvery tones in his hair were pure and bright, off-white and platinum swirling in soot-black richness. His wide shoulders tapered to slender hips and his jeans hung from a backside I could barely take my eyes off. I told myself I wasn’t being disloyal to Sol; I was simply appreciating a man’s arse as I might do a piece of art. I admired the suggestion of muscularity beneath soft denim, and the carelessness of having one pocket made bulky by the square of his wallet. I fiddled needlessly behind the bar, sliding my eyes towards him or glancing at one of the wall mirrors reflecting the side of his head and the curve of his nose when he turned. Slung on one shoulder was a small rucksack, a cheap nylon affair in black with garish flashes of electric blue, and a nasty, orange, net sidepocket. I figured a gay man wouldn’t be seen dead with a bag like that.

He stepped fully out onto the ironwork balcony, stood his bottle on the table, and took a pack of cigarettes from a rucksack pocket before dropping the bag on a chair. The packet was gold. Benson and Hedges. He was becoming less gay by the minute. He turned aside, head low, and cupped a hand to the flame of a lighter. An amber-rose reflection lit his profile. On the building across the road, sunlight glinted on the rows of pigeon spikes, making them seem as sinister as prison walls. I wanted to say, ‘Hold it right there, mister,’ so I could whip out my phone camera. He looked iconic, his stance and attitude putting me in mind of Brando’s urban swagger and sexiness.

He smoked with a leisured pace, standing solidly with his feet apart and gazing out on to the street, sometimes left, sometimes right, sometimes at the redbrick offices opposite. I kept glancing his way and not just because he was hot. He unnerved me. Why was he here? Why come to a cocktail bar for a beer? Was he meeting someone? A woman, perhaps?

When he’d finished his cigarette, he dropped the end to the balcony floor and briefly rubbed his boot over it. He took a swig of beer and returned indoors, his stride slow and threatening. My heart rate galloped as he approached the blue counter. I had one of my occasional thoughts where I wondered if it was wise for me to staff the bar when I’m alone.

What had Kat said? ‘Something coiled about him.’ Was this the guy who’d been looking for me?

He stood his bottle on the bar and perched his cute butt on the edge of a stool. ‘I’m wondering if you can help me,’ he began. ‘I’m looking for a guy who usually drinks here around this time. Russian guy.’

My heart skipped a beat and sweat stabbed like needles under my arms.

‘The chemist?’

He laughed. ‘Yeah, the chemist.’

I looked at him, considering how to phrase my reply and where this was leading. His gaze was anchored on me, and I fought the instinct to recoil from his scrutiny. I noted a purplish tint in the shadows beneath his eyes, and how they picked up the deep pigment of his lips. His colouring made it seem as if bruises were beneath his skin, waiting to surface.

‘He’s dead,’ I replied.

The flinch was barely perceptible. He raised his craggy brows. ‘Oh? What happened?’

My heart was thumping so hard I felt dizzy, my head thick with expanding fire. I cleared my throat. ‘He drowned a few months ago. An accident in a swimming pool.’

The man nodded to himself and made a ‘how interesting’ sort of pout. Evidently, he wasn’t too upset. He lifted the beer bottle to his lips and drank the remaining liquid. I watched his Adam’s apple bob in his stubble-dark neck. I thought of Sol, and wetness pooled between my thighs but, even now, I can’t say who the desire was for. He placed his empty bottle on the counter and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He flipped it open and removed a business card.

‘Do me a favour, will you?’ he said. ‘If anyone comes in here asking for him, let me know.’

He set his card on the blue counter. I didn’t pick it up because why would I if he’s not going to give me the courtesy of handing it to me directly? I looked down. The card was blandly minimalist, low on style. It read: Ilya Travis, Consultant.

I laughed. ‘Consultant what?’

He gave me a twisted half-smile. ‘Just consultant.’

With that, he gave the bar a goodbye tap and walked towards the exit, rucksack on one shoulder. I was captivated. I didn’t want him to leave.

‘I was with him the night he died,’ I called. I’d hoped to sound casual but I heard my voice, frantic and eager.

He stopped in his tracks and turned. In the ensuing pause, I wondered if I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life. Sol and I had agreed to put this behind us, to stop playing detective and let Misha rest in peace.

‘You knew him?’ he asked.

God, but my heart wouldn’t regulate. My palms were moist and I was struggling to think straight. ‘Kind of,’ I began. ‘But not really. Initially as a customer here.’

Ilya Travis took a step closer. ‘Go on.’

‘He’d visit every week, every Wednesday.’ I gulped. ‘Then we were at the same party and well, you know, that night…’ I knew what I was about to say, and even though my rational self was begging me to shut up, to say no more, some idiotic compulsion urged me to throw caution to the wind. I wanted to draw this stranger into my world. As far as everyone was concerned, everyone, that is, except Sol, Nicki and Ian, the threesome hadn’t happened. We’d lied to the police, had concealed the fact the three of us had been fucking in my turret room. All I needed to do was perpetuate that lie and I was safe. And Sol was safe with me.

‘At the party, before he died,’ I said. ‘I was
with
him.’