Read by Becky Hands-Wicks
When I answer the front door, there are two policemen standing there.
"Your name is Katie…?" asks the taller of the two.
"Katie is actually my middle name," I lie. "My name is Lucy Darrant. What can I do for you?"
"Are you an acquaintance of Ian Smith?" he asks. Of all the names that could have come from between his thin lips, this was the one I was least expecting.
"Yes?" I reply.
"We'd like to ask you a few questions. Mind if we come in?"
They follow me up two flights of stairs. I turn the key in the door, and I give it the slight shoulder barge you need to open it. Inside, he introduces himself as PC Worley; his colleague is WPC Reeves. I gesture for them to sit down.
"Can I ask you … how you know Mr Smith?" he says.
"He was a very good friend." I reply, drawing my bare feet up in front of me and hugging my legs. People tend to be nicer to you when you've got bare feet.
"And what exactly … was your relationship?" he asks. The pauses in his speech seem to be the same length every time. Maybe this is his 'thing' that makes him stand out from other policemen. I imagine his subordinates doing impressions of him, in the locker room and the canteen.
"Well, we met .. wow. Ages ago." I begin. "It was at the opening of Amelia's exhibition … she's my friend, a photographer." Already, I've tucked my feet back up, under my body. "Everybody was milling around in groups," I continue, "and of course Ian had come on his own, so …I just got talking to him. We got on really well."
I try to think of Ian in this situation, parked up in front of a frame on a white wall, then me shimmying over with my free champagne. It's ridiculous. Ian's house is the only place I ever meet him, and he's only ever let me see the front room. He says that he's embarrassed of the rest of the house, and I've always found that kind of touching, the way he wants to make a good impression. After all, I've seen the bathrooms and kitchens of single men; the concentrated depression that can gather there.
"Your number was the most recent one to be called by his mobile phone," says the policeman, leaning forward in his seat. "He called you at ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />eleven o'clock last night…"
"Yes, he called to cancel," I reply quickly. "We were supposed to meet today, actually. Sometimes he cancels though, if he's having a bad day, if they've changed his medication or something."
I look from one to the other then ask: "You know he's disabled, right? I mean … quite severely disabled?"
"Yes," replies the WPC.
This doesn't surprise me. It was one of the first things I'd found out about Ian. When he emailed my web site to ask for his first booking, he'd told me straight off about his speech impediment, and the fact that he couldn't use his legs. 'But the rest of me' he'd written, 'is as frustrating as the next man.' I can remember standing in the kitchen that night, looking out at the trains while I did the washing up, and deciding whether or not to visit him for the first time. With outcalls, the first-time fear is reversed – you never know what'll be waiting for you on the other side of the door. Sometimes it's not much, you're marched to the bedroom, jousted at for a minute or two, apologised to, then snuck out again. Ian, though, was totally open – I had a feeling that he'd let me in to his whole life.
"And what exactly do you do together?" asks the woman. She has a warm, honest smile that I know will be hard to lie to.
"We … meet up," I say. It sounds weak. "I mean, you know. We just talk and…"
There is a cross-fire of glances between them.
"I just feel like he must be so lonely," I say, my voice a little louder now. "I mean, he has nobody to listen to him, and ... he's my friend."
At this the guy turns towards me, looks down at the floor and sighs. Immediately I know. It's always a worry, especially with the older ones, the people who have nobody.
"Did Ian have any reason to be … upset with you?" he asks. "Do you know if he'd received any … bad news recently?"
"Well, just at the end of our meeting, I told him that I was going away." I say. "I did notice that it made him quite sad."
"You mean a holiday?" asks the WPC. The idea seems outrageous now.
"Yes," I answer. This is the weirdest possible time to start talking about my travel plans. "Morrocco," I say, "at least to begin with. It's sort of more travelling than a holiday. I want to go somewhere as different as possible, that's what I told him. Then I thought I might carry on into Algeria…I don't know."
"And how did he react?" asks the guy. He seems a little tired now. He slips his notepad back into his pocket.
"He went quiet," I say. "But he'd been quiet the whole time." Suddenly, I raise my hand to my mouth. From behind it I ask, "Is he okay?"
The policeman stands up, and gives me the impression that he's going to recite something he's learned by heart.
"I'm afraid to tell you," he says, "that at four fifteen this morning, Ian Smith took his own life. He was found with an empty jar of sleeping tablets. We assume that he died during the night."
I don't think to ask who found him. Instead I hear the words "Good God," being said by my own voice. It's an expression I've never used before – something that my father used to say when a family disaster occurred; when the ski instructor turned up drunk or the school called to say that I'd been caught with a boy in my room. I notice I'm making soft whining noises.
The policeman offers his condolences and his colleague nods, but I wave them away and walk quickly to the bathroom. The floor is cold under my feet. I lean over the sink and give in to tears, and I can hear one of them, positioning themselves just outside the door.
I look at my reflection in the small, round mirror, and my face is shiny with dried sweat. How could I ever explain to these people what I do with Ian?
He's always paid £200 for two hours, and it's usually the same thing. We talk for a while, with me laying my head on his shoulder, as if I was his girlfriend. He smells strongly of shower gel and deodorant, like my Dad used to when he came home from what he told us was a squash match and hovered guiltily in the doorway of my room. Then I take off Ian's t-shirt, and begin to stroke his stomach, which is like some great translucent egg because he can't leave his house much. Next I slide his jeans down to rest on his white trainers, and then for however long it takes, sometimes only seconds and sometimes an hour or more, I suck him very gently and he strokes my hair. Even though this makes my neck ache and my mouth go numb, there's something hypnotic about it, something that leaves us completely alone with our thoughts. I imagine being cradled in his arms while he carries me though a darkness that hides no threats, like a parent might carry a drowsy child from the car to their bedroom. And sometimes I imagine how vicious I could be with him, screaming insults at him, spitting in his face, or slipping my hand around his throat and beginning to squeeze.
He doesn't know any of this of course, just as I don't know what he's thinking as I feel his hands stroke my hair, or the sudden warmth of him filling my mouth. There's something precious and unique about what happens between us, as if we're the only two people in the world. But you can't explain fantasies or friendships to other people. As soon as you try, they start to look dirty, predictable and everyday.
I look down into the sink, and feel doomed. I take a deep breath, throw some water on my face, and walk back out into the living room. When I get there, the guy says "we're very sorry for the loss of your friend," and nods. He's decided it's over.
I show them out, and when we're on the doorstep, the woman adds: "Of course, his family are devastated." I have no idea what distant cousin or half-uncle she's referring to, so I nod and sniff, hoping this will be enough and they'll leave. But then she says, "He's been very depressed ever since their son died, according to his wife."
I hold on to the door frame for support, and manage a weak smile when they say goodbye. They have no way of knowing that this is the first time I've heard about Ian's family. I don't know why it comes as such a shock. After all, my clients all lie to people about seeing me. Why shouldn't they lie to me too?
For a while, I stand there in the doorway, remembering things that clients have told me, trying to work out which ones are true. But it's cold, and goose pimples rise on my skin. I go back inside, and close the door behind me.
For the next two days, I clear my diary and sit around the flat watching DVDs. Eventually, I gather the strength to think about going away. I pack light, then sit for hours in a bath that's long gone cold, imagining all the places I can go.
"Yes?" I reply.
"We'd like to ask you a few questions. Mind if we come in?"
They follow me up two flights of stairs. I turn the key in the door, and I give it the slight shoulder barge you need to open it. Inside, he introduces himself as PC Worley; his colleague is WPC Reeves. I gesture for them to sit down.
"Can I ask you … how you know Mr Smith?" he says.
"He was a very good friend." I reply, drawing my bare feet up in front of me and hugging my legs. People tend to be nicer to you when you've got bare feet.
"And what exactly … was your relationship?" he asks. The pauses in his speech seem to be the same length every time. Maybe this is his 'thing' that makes him stand out from other policemen. I imagine his subordinates doing impressions of him, in the locker room and the canteen.
"Well, we met .. wow. Ages ago." I begin. "It was at the opening of Amelia's exhibition … she's my friend, a photographer." Already, I've tucked my feet back up, under my body. "Everybody was milling around in groups," I continue, "and of course Ian had come on his own, so …I just got talking to him. We got on really well."
I try to think of Ian in this situation, parked up in front of a frame on a white wall, then me shimmying over with my free champagne. It's ridiculous. Ian's house is the only place I ever meet him, and he's only ever let me see the front room. He says that he's embarrassed of the rest of the house, and I've always found that kind of touching, the way he wants to make a good impression. After all, I've seen the bathrooms and kitchens of single men; the concentrated depression that can gather there.
"Your number was the most recent one to be called by his mobile phone," says the policeman, leaning forward in his seat. "He called you at ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />eleven o'clock last night…"
"Yes, he called to cancel," I reply quickly. "We were supposed to meet today, actually. Sometimes he cancels though, if he's having a bad day, if they've changed his medication or something."
I look from one to the other then ask: "You know he's disabled, right? I mean … quite severely disabled?"
"Yes," replies the WPC.
This doesn't surprise me. It was one of the first things I'd found out about Ian. When he emailed my web site to ask for his first booking, he'd told me straight off about his speech impediment, and the fact that he couldn't use his legs. 'But the rest of me' he'd written, 'is as frustrating as the next man.' I can remember standing in the kitchen that night, looking out at the trains while I did the washing up, and deciding whether or not to visit him for the first time. With outcalls, the first-time fear is reversed – you never know what'll be waiting for you on the other side of the door. Sometimes it's not much, you're marched to the bedroom, jousted at for a minute or two, apologised to, then snuck out again. Ian, though, was totally open – I had a feeling that he'd let me in to his whole life.
"And what exactly do you do together?" asks the woman. She has a warm, honest smile that I know will be hard to lie to.
"We … meet up," I say. It sounds weak. "I mean, you know. We just talk and…"
There is a cross-fire of glances between them.
"I just feel like he must be so lonely," I say, my voice a little louder now. "I mean, he has nobody to listen to him, and ... he's my friend."
At this the guy turns towards me, looks down at the floor and sighs. Immediately I know. It's always a worry, especially with the older ones, the people who have nobody.
"Did Ian have any reason to be … upset with you?" he asks. "Do you know if he'd received any … bad news recently?"
"Well, just at the end of our meeting, I told him that I was going away." I say. "I did notice that it made him quite sad."
"You mean a holiday?" asks the WPC. The idea seems outrageous now.
"Yes," I answer. This is the weirdest possible time to start talking about my travel plans. "Morrocco," I say, "at least to begin with. It's sort of more travelling than a holiday. I want to go somewhere as different as possible, that's what I told him. Then I thought I might carry on into Algeria…I don't know."
"And how did he react?" asks the guy. He seems a little tired now. He slips his notepad back into his pocket.
"He went quiet," I say. "But he'd been quiet the whole time." Suddenly, I raise my hand to my mouth. From behind it I ask, "Is he okay?"
The policeman stands up, and gives me the impression that he's going to recite something he's learned by heart.
"I'm afraid to tell you," he says, "that at four fifteen this morning, Ian Smith took his own life. He was found with an empty jar of sleeping tablets. We assume that he died during the night."
I don't think to ask who found him. Instead I hear the words "Good God," being said by my own voice. It's an expression I've never used before – something that my father used to say when a family disaster occurred; when the ski instructor turned up drunk or the school called to say that I'd been caught with a boy in my room. I notice I'm making soft whining noises.
The policeman offers his condolences and his colleague nods, but I wave them away and walk quickly to the bathroom. The floor is cold under my feet. I lean over the sink and give in to tears, and I can hear one of them, positioning themselves just outside the door.
I look at my reflection in the small, round mirror, and my face is shiny with dried sweat. How could I ever explain to these people what I do with Ian?
He's always paid £200 for two hours, and it's usually the same thing. We talk for a while, with me laying my head on his shoulder, as if I was his girlfriend. He smells strongly of shower gel and deodorant, like my Dad used to when he came home from what he told us was a squash match and hovered guiltily in the doorway of my room. Then I take off Ian's t-shirt, and begin to stroke his stomach, which is like some great translucent egg because he can't leave his house much. Next I slide his jeans down to rest on his white trainers, and then for however long it takes, sometimes only seconds and sometimes an hour or more, I suck him very gently and he strokes my hair. Even though this makes my neck ache and my mouth go numb, there's something hypnotic about it, something that leaves us completely alone with our thoughts. I imagine being cradled in his arms while he carries me though a darkness that hides no threats, like a parent might carry a drowsy child from the car to their bedroom. And sometimes I imagine how vicious I could be with him, screaming insults at him, spitting in his face, or slipping my hand around his throat and beginning to squeeze.
He doesn't know any of this of course, just as I don't know what he's thinking as I feel his hands stroke my hair, or the sudden warmth of him filling my mouth. There's something precious and unique about what happens between us, as if we're the only two people in the world. But you can't explain fantasies or friendships to other people. As soon as you try, they start to look dirty, predictable and everyday.
I look down into the sink, and feel doomed. I take a deep breath, throw some water on my face, and walk back out into the living room. When I get there, the guy says "we're very sorry for the loss of your friend," and nods. He's decided it's over.
I show them out, and when we're on the doorstep, the woman adds: "Of course, his family are devastated." I have no idea what distant cousin or half-uncle she's referring to, so I nod and sniff, hoping this will be enough and they'll leave. But then she says, "He's been very depressed ever since their son died, according to his wife."
I hold on to the door frame for support, and manage a weak smile when they say goodbye. They have no way of knowing that this is the first time I've heard about Ian's family. I don't know why it comes as such a shock. After all, my clients all lie to people about seeing me. Why shouldn't they lie to me too?
For a while, I stand there in the doorway, remembering things that clients have told me, trying to work out which ones are true. But it's cold, and goose pimples rise on my skin. I go back inside, and close the door behind me.
For the next two days, I clear my diary and sit around the flat watching DVDs. Eventually, I gather the strength to think about going away. I pack light, then sit for hours in a bath that's long gone cold, imagining all the places I can go.
--
Lovers and Liars was read by Becky Hands-Wicks at the Liars' League Lovers & Liars event on 12 February 2008.
Robin Marsden started writing because he wanted to be a famous writer. He carried on because he discovered that writing is actually really fun. His work has appeared in the Tonto Press New Writing anthologies, and been long-listed for the Fish Prize for short stories. He is currently working on a novel, Why the City Never Sleeps.
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