Chapter Four
The guy reared up, glancing around him frowning. “Who did that?”
Oh my God.
“Did what?” I asked, as innocently as I could.
The guy rubbed the back of his skull. “Something hit me on the head. It wasn’t hard —”
What do you mean, not hard? Mike grabbed his dick. Look at this thing!
God, the effort it took not to laugh out loud.
The guy gave me a hard stare. “Wait a minute. I heard you gasp. You must have seen something.”
I shook my head. It wasn’t as if I could tell him the truth. Not unless I wanted him to call for the guys in the white suits to cart me off. “Didn’t see a thing. I did burn my mouth on my coffee though.” I paused. “Are you okay?”
The guy chuckled. “Let’s see. Someone bops me on the head, then when I look around, there’s no one nearby who could have done it.” He shrugged. “I guess I’m as okay as I can be.”
“What did it feel like?” Not that I needed to ask—I was well acquainted with that particular sensation—but I felt it was the right thing to say in the circumstances.
He laughed. “It was like… being struck on the head with a small salami.”
Behind him, Mike rolled his eyes. Oh, you don’t want this guy. He’s a size queen.
Hey, you’re the one who bopped him on the head with your cock. This is nothing to do with me.
This had to be the most surreal conversation ever.
I don’t know what came over me, but I held out my hand to him across the table. “I’m Andy Taylor, by the way.”
He regarded my hand for a moment, then shook it. “I’m Oliver Payton, but my friends call me Ollie.” He gazed at me thoughtfully. “You really didn’t see anything?”
“Not a sausage.”
Ollie snickered. “Hey, that’s good. I still can’t work out who could have done this.”
I held up my hands. “You said it yourself. There was no one anywhere near you.”
“True. So what’s the alternative? I imagined it?” Ollie brought his hand to the back of his head once more. “It certainly felt real enough.”
I said nothing, but busied myself with my latte and the remains of my mince pie. To my relief, Ollie did the same. When he’d finished, he sighed. “Oh well. Time to go.”
I tilted my head to one side. “Wherever it is you’re going, you don’t sound that enthusiastic about the prospect.”
Ollie’s gaze met mine briefly. “Yeah. Long story.” He got to his feet. “Thanks for the conversation.” He made as if to leave, but hesitated. “I’m not gonna explain why, but you made my coming here today a little easier.” He held out his hand.
“That sounds very enigmatic,” I commented. And also intriguing. I shook the proffered hand. “Here’s hoping you find a Christmas tree in plenty of time this year, that won’t scrape your ceiling.”
Ollie flashed me in the briefest of smiles. “See you.” And with that, he picked up the bag that had been sat over the back of his chair, slung it over his shoulder, and left the coffee shop.
It wasn’t until after his departure that I noticed Mike had also left.
What could have possessed him to do that? Then I realized I didn’t want to know the answer. Because that would mean Mike turning up again.
I wasn’t sure I could handle more of that.
By the time I got home, I was in no mood to be creative in the kitchen. The rush-hour sardine can had been worse than usual, and all I wanted was to eat, flop onto the couch, and turn off my brain by watching something mindless on TV.
I scanned the freezer’s contents, chose a ready meal, and switched on the oven.
While I waited for it to heat up, I went into my living room and took a long, hard look around.
What struck me almost immediately was that Mike had been right.
I hadn’t let him go. How could I, when he was all around me?
His books were on my bookshelf, not that I’d even looked at one of them in the last six years.
His DVDs sat on the shelves too, similarly ignored.
Mike’s taste in films had differed greatly from mine, with only a narrow overlap when it came to Star Wars.
The turntable he’d saved up for, its clear plastic lid covered with a sheet to protect it, sat on a cabinet.
Below it in a cupboard were all Mike’s LPs.
Some of them dated back to the first LP he’d ever bought for himself, others were treasures he’d found in second-hand stores and charity shops.
When he had first moved in, I’d pointed out with a smile that there was this wonderful little invention called a CD, and that there was no need for the big black circular discs.
Indeed, I pointed out that some of the people I worked with wouldn’t have the faintest clue what an LP even was.
One shelf held nothing but photos in frames. They were of the two of us, taken over the years, still as they had been the day he died, lightly dusted at the weekends.
Don’t get me wrong. I hadn’t spent the last six years pining for him. I didn’t think about him all the time. But it was true that Mike had never left, and I had never let him go.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s time I did just that.
After checking the oven’s temperature and putting my meal on a tray inside it, I went on a hunt for boxes.
I found what I was looking for in the guest bedroom.
They were the same boxes Mike had used when he’d moved in.
He’d diligently removed all the tape, flattened them, and stood them against a wall.
I picked up three or four of them, and took them back into the living room to reassemble them.
While my dinner cooked, I made piles on the living room floor.
Things of Mike’s I wanted to keep, and things that I could give away to charity shops.
His clothes still hung in the wardrobe and lay folded in the drawers.
They could all go. It wasn’t as if we were even the same size: Mike had always been broader than me in the shoulders and chest, and he was taller.
And as it was, all his clothes were simply taking up space.
I wasn’t about to get rid of everything. This was not a purge. The turntable and LPs were staying: I couldn’t get rid of those. But I had to admit that it was still our flat. Maybe it was time it became mine.
When bedtime came that night, I snuggled under the duvet and closed my eyes.
I did what you asked. That was why you came back, wasn’t it?
To get me to move on? Well, I finally got the message.
I’ve done it. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.
You don’t have to drop in on me to see if I’m getting on with my life.
I pushed as much sincerity into my voice as I could, hoping that wherever he was, Mike could hear me.
Thank you. Thank you for caring enough about me to make sure that I carried on living.
I promise, I’m going to do just that. Goodbye Mike.
A calm settled over me, and I felt it had been the right thing to say. No more tears—I’d shed them all. And with that, I fell into a deep, rich, dreamless sleep.
When I awoke the following morning, in spite of the dull grey beyond my window, inside my room it felt brighter somehow. I got up and trudged to the bathroom. As I lifted the lid of the toilet to pee, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
“I see your aim’s improved.”
I froze. “You’re still here?” Then his words sank in. “And you’re a right one to talk about aim.” How many times had I considered painting a red target just above the waterline? I bristled. “Some things haven’t changed in six years. Such as me liking my privacy.”
Instantly, Mike disappeared, his exit more of a snap than a gentle fade.
I shook my head. One of us had moved on apparently.
I finished what I was doing, flushed, closed the lid, and washed my hands.
Just as I was applying my toothbrush to my teeth, Mike’s voice came from the other side of the door.
“I’ve been thinking. You need to go to a club. A gay club. I mean, I know we never did, but there’s a first time for everything, right? This is a new start, after all. And there are loads of clubs in London. So yeah, maybe tomorrow you should go to a club.”
I was about to spit out my toothpaste when I remembered I didn’t need to speak out loud. Do you ever shut up?
Don’t get shirty with me. I was just thinking, that’s all, that you never know where you might meet someone. Look at us. Think about how we met. He chuckled.
I stifled my sigh. Mike, I am trying to get ready for work.
But that doesn’t mean you can’t think about these things. And what’s wrong with clubs?
You said it yourself. I don’t do clubs. I never did clubs.
“But why not?” Mike asked forcefully out loud.
I wasn’t about to reply. I was brushing my teeth, for God’s sake.
“You’re only thirty-five. You won’t raise too many eyebrows when you get onto the dance floor.”
Bastard.
Mike chuckled. “Or you could go to a gay bar. You know, just one drink on a Saturday night.”
And you know exactly how I spend my Saturdays. First item on the list is shopping. That hadn’t changed.
“Ooh, get you.” I didn’t have to see Mike’s eye roll to know it was taking place. “Mr. Excitement.”
An awful idea slowly dawned. Don’t go getting any ideas about livening up my shopping.
“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
I am saying, do not pull any more stunts like the one you pulled yesterday. That poor man. He must have thought he was going crazy.
“What was his name again?”
I rinsed away the last of the toothpaste, and the word fell from my lips without hesitation. “Ollie.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Ollie. Despite being a size queen, he was cute. I liked his hair. You know, the way he had it blown back from his forehead, and how the rest of it was really short.”
“I can’t say I noticed.” Except now that he said it, I could picture Ollie’s face.
Then I remembered the point of the conversation. “I don’t want to see you in the supermarket. I don’t want to see you at work today. I want a nice, peaceful day with no distractions, and I certainly don’t want to be poked with your dick again.”
Silence, followed by a cough. “I never thought I’d hear those words from your lips.” He snorted.
I groaned. Time had apparently done nothing to mellow his juvenile humour, which, I admit, always made me smile. “You know what I mean.”
“Spoilsport.” The sudden silence told me Mike had gone. And I breathed easier.