THIS BUSINESS WITH Mother has been most distracting. On Sunday night, lying in bed wide awake, I was convinced she had only a few days left and I should prepare myself for her death. But on Monday I thought perhaps, at the very worst, she was in for a long illness and I should bring her to Brighton so I could nurse her. I even had a look in Cubitt and West’s window on the way home from the museum, to see if any flats were available near mine. By this morning, though, I reckoned Mother to be the surviving type who’d probably see a good few years before my intervention was required. Nevertheless, I’d decided I should at least ask her to come here, if only to show willing. And I was sitting down this evening, gin and tonic to hand, to write a letter to that effect when the buzzer went.
Same time next week. I smiled. Despite the distraction of Mother’s illness, I’d been waiting for him, of course, and had prepared the spare room. But only at the sound of the buzzer did I admit to myself that, despite sending him away last time, I had been expecting my policeman to return.
I sat for a few moments and relished the anticipation of his appearance. I took my time, and even read through what I’d written. Dear Mother, I’d begun, I hope you won’t think I’m interfering, or that I’m panicking about your condition. I was, of course, doing both.
Then it went again. A long, impatient trill this time. He’d come back. I’d sent him away, but he’d come back. And this meant everything was different. It was his decision. He was the insistent one, not me. There he was, outside, pushing my buzzer again. I gulped back the rest of my gin and went downstairs to let him in.
On seeing me, his first words were, ‘Am I early?’
‘Not at all,’ I said, without consulting my watch. ‘You’re right on time.’ I showed him up the stairs and into the flat, walking behind him so he wouldn’t see the irrepressible spring in my step.
He was carrying his uniform again, and wearing a black sweater and jeans. We reached the sitting room and stood together on the rug. To my surprise, he gave me a small smile. He didn’t seem as nervous as I’d first thought. For a second, everything seemed so simple: here he was, back at the flat. What else could matter? My policeman was here, and he was smiling.
‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Shall we get going?’ There was a new confidence, a new determination in his voice.
‘I think we should.’
And he turned, walked into the spare bedroom and closed the door behind him. Trying not to dwell too much on the fact that he was undressing behind that door, I went into the kitchen to fetch him a beer. Passing the hallway mirror, I checked my appearance and couldn’t stop myself giving my reflection a sly grin.
‘Ready,’ he called, opening the door to the ‘studio’. And there he was, all dressed for me, waiting to begin.
After I’d finished drawing him, we came through to the sitting room and I gave him another drink.
The beer must have relaxed him. He unbuckled his belt, took off his jacket, slung it across my armchair, and sat himself on the chesterfield without being invited. I looked at the shape his jacket made on the back of the chair. Thought how limp it looked without his body to fill it.
‘Do you like the uniform?’ I asked.
‘You should’ve seen me when I first got it. Kept pacing up and down the front room, looking at myself in the mirror.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t realise, then, how heavy it would be.’
‘Heavy?’
‘Weighs a bloody ton. Try it.’
‘It wouldn’t fit me …’
‘Go on. Give it a go.’
I picked it up. He was right: the thing was weighty. I rubbed the wool between my finger and thumb. ‘It is a little coarse …’
His eyes glittered as they met mine. ‘Like me.’
‘Not at all like you.’
There was a pause. Neither one of us looked away.
I hauled the jacket on to my back, my arms floundering to find the sleeves. It was too big – the waist too low, the shoulders too wide – but still warm from his body. The smell of carbolic and pine talc was strong. The roughness of the collar prickled my neck and I shivered. I wanted to bury my nose in the sleeve, pull the fabric tightly around me and breathe in his smell. His warmth. But instead I bobbed at the knee and said, rather feebly, ‘Evenin’, all.’
He laughed. ‘Never heard anyone say that. Not in real life.’
I took off the jacket and poured myself another gin. Then I sat next to him on the sofa, as close as I dared.
‘Do I make a good subject, then?’ he asked. ‘Will I be a good portrait?’
I sipped my drink. Made him wait for the answer. My trochaic heart flapped in my chest.
I didn’t look at him, but I felt him shift. He gave a little sigh and stretched out an arm. It went along the back of the chesterfield. Towards me.
Outside the window, the sky was black. All I could see was the glow of a few street lamps, and the watery beginnings of the room’s reflection in the glass. I tried to reason with myself. Here I am, I thought, with a policeman in my flat, and I’m really going to have to touch him soon if he keeps behaving in this way, but he’s a policeman, for Christ’s sake, and you can’t get much more risky than that, and I should remember Jackie’s knowing comment, and Mrs Esme Owens, and what happened to that boy at the Napoleon …
I thought this. But all I felt was the warmth of his arm on the back of the chesterfield, very close now to my shoulder. The smell of ale on him, a bread-like smell. The creak of his belt as he moved his hand a little closer.
‘You’re going to make a wonderful portrait,’ I said. ‘Quite wonderful.’
And then his fingertips grazed my neck. Still I did not look at him. I let my eyes glaze over, and the reflection of the room in the window warped into a soft mass of light and dark. It all warped, the whole room, into the feeling of my policeman’s fingers in my hair. He was holding the back of my neck now, cradling it, and I wanted to let my head rest there, in his large, capable hand. His touch was firm, surprisingly sure, but when I finally turned to look at him, his face was pale, his breathing quick.
‘Patrick …’ he began, his voice barely a whisper.
I flicked off the table lamp and placed a hand over his beautiful mouth. Felt the fleshiness of his upper lip as he drew breath. ‘Don’t say anything,’ I told him.
Keeping one hand on his mouth, I pressed the other down on the top of his thigh. He closed his eyes, let out a breath. I rubbed him through the rough wool of his police trousers until he was swallowing hard and my fingers were wet with his breath. When I felt his cock kick up towards me, I took my hand away and loosened his tie. He said nothing, kept gasping. I unbuttoned his shirt, working quickly, my heart banging out its upside-down rhythm, and he began to lick one of my fingers, lightly at first, but as I brought my mouth to his exposed neck, then to his chest, he sucked greedily at my flesh. And when I kissed the tiny hairs that crawl up to his belly button, he bit down, hard. I kept kissing. He kept biting. Then I pulled my hand from his mouth, cupped his face and kissed him, very gently, pulling back from his straining tongue. He made a little noise, a soft groan, and I reached down and took his cock in my hand, and I whispered in his ear, ‘You’re going to be wonderful.’
Afterwards, I lay with my head in his lap, and we were silent together. The curtains were still open and the room was dimly lit by the street lamps outside. A few cars droned past. The last of the seagulls wailed into the evening. My policeman rested his head on the back of the chesterfield, his hand in my hair. Neither of us spoke for what seemed like hours.
Eventually I lifted my head, determined to say something to him. But before I could speak, he’d stood up, buttoned his fly, reached for his coat and said, ‘I’d better not come again, had I?’
It was a question. A question, not a statement.
‘Of course you should.’
He said nothing. Buckled his belt, pulled on his jacket and began to walk away from me. I added, ‘If you want to.’
He stopped in the doorway. ‘Not that simple, is it?’
Just like Michael, every Wednesday night. Leaving. The door slams and that’s it. Let’s not have this conversation now, I thought. Just stay a little longer.
I couldn’t move. I sat and listened to his footsteps, and the only thing I managed to say was, ‘Same time next week?’
But he’d already slammed the front door.