Lust Or No Harm Done (47 page)

Someone, completely naturally, placed a hand on his shoulder and left it there. It was padded and hot. Michael turned around and it was Lee.

They toasted the New Year. They toasted absent friends: the mathematician had lost his partner two years before.

Michael liked them all. He hadn't known one of them, but before the end of the evening, he passed around his card, and got three in return, including Lee's. About one in the morning, the first guest stood up to go. Michael remembered the tubes, and was thinking about leaving as well, when the doorbell rang.

Philip and Henry each cocked an eyebrow. A voice barked up the answer phone. It sounded sinewy and smooth and reassuring. Philip looked back at Henry, his eyes wide and gleaming, and Philip nodded quickly, yes. He waited at the top of the stairs. 'Hello, hello!' he said.

'Sorry, but I had my sister's party to go to,' said a breathless voice, and Philip seized a hand and pulled in Henry.

Only this was Henry with slightly longer hair, wearing a brown sweater with a hole in it.

This is him,' said Philip. 'Michael. Meet the real Henry. This is Stumpy.'

Stumpy perked up. 'So. You're the magic man,' he said. His cheeks were redder than Henry's and the mushroom smell was stronger.

'Ah. Ah, yes.' Michael looked back at Henry, and all three of them – Henry, Philip and Stumpy – laughed.

'I told you once that Stumpy would love to know about this,' said Henry.

And Henry and Stumpy gazed at each other, grinning and slightly dazzled. Stumpy wobbled slightly in place and Henry had to catch him, and they were brotherly in each other's arms. And Philip cuddled Stumpy too, partly to keep him standing.

'I had a bit too much at my sister's,' Stumpy said, chuckling.

'He's staying with his sister. She lives in Camden Town too.'

'It's a long trip from Camden Town,' said Stumpy.

Michael asked, 'How did you get together?'

'Henry wrote me a note and said he was my long-lost twin, and sent me a photo of one of Philip's paintings of him.' Stumpy mimed amazement. 'So we met, and he told me all about you. How does it work?'

Michael heard himself say, 'The universe is twisted out of nothing by gravity. And I think I will be able to prove that thought and gravity are the same thing.'

'Wow!' Stumpy's eyes widened and he laughed with a kind of pleasure, while shaking his head. Michael realized he hadn't told Henry anything about his new research. He wanted Henry, particularly, to understand. 'I've got a new project. I think I can describe what has happened using equations.' Henry reached forward and gave Michael a kind of hug that turned into a shake of approbation. Michael looked at Stumpy and found he was embarrassed. 'I mean, I
think
I can do it. I don't know yet. I've still got to do the work.'

'It sounds fairly mind-blowing,' said Henry.

'I wish my head was a bit clearer,' said Stumpy.

'We've got other guests,' said Henry pointedly to Philip. When Philip didn't move, Henry pulled him away.

And for some reason Michael regained his old clarity. He had forgotten his talent for turning science into words. Michael sat with Stumpy on the futon sofa. He explained how he would apply the equations used to describe black and white holes. He explained that in the fifth dimension the equations that describe electricity also describe gravity. 'And thought is a matter of changing electrical charges.'

'Oh!' said Stumpy, and fell forward holding his head. He sat back up. 'If you did that, you might end up proving that God exists.'

'I might end up proving that He doesn't,' chuckled Michael.

Stumpy was younger than Henry. His smile was brighter, his enthusiasms more overbearing, his words more common and less distinct. Michael looked at Henry and pondered what that meant.

You're wiser than your original model, Henry. Of course, you're timeless. You are as wise as you will ever become. And does that mean you know what will happen? Or, rather what is likely to happen?

Michael looked back at this bright and cheerful, confident 24-year-old. It was like looking at old photographs of friends. You would need me more, Michael thought. I could even help you grow into becoming Henry.

It was nearly two o'clock. 'Well, I've really got to go,' Michael said. He kissed them all on the cheek, and hugged Henry and Phil together in a heap. 'Thank you, thank you, thank you!' he said. Stumpy looked a little wistful as he shook Michael's hand.

And suddenly Michael was back out in the night. Luck was with him: the evening seemed somehow warmer than the day and he did not have a long wait for the train. He heard it whining towards him, even as he climbed the station staircase.

The train doors whooshed open to show a car that was nearly empty. Past Canary Wharf, it began to fill with people. A gang of Indian lads in fleece jackets and trainers got on at West India Quay. They all had helium-filled balloons. The balloons were metallic, in the shape of dolphins. At the next stop, a merry black girl bounced in as lightly as the balloons, turning and laughing with her elegantly groomed friends. At Westferry two groups arrived, ebullient new City lads in modern fabrics who sang Abba songs against a competing group of what looked like nurses.

Michael was one of the oldest people there. He watched secure and detached from his early found seat, and settled into a kind of contented concentration.

He seemed to go on settling deeper and deeper. The settling almost made a sound. It would have been a sound like rain.

What were falling were impressions. The black girl had done her hair in perfect rows. The Aids-awareness ribbon on her coat was in fact an enamelled broach. Michael pondered the generosity that impelled her to take up permanently a cause that many people would think was someone else's. The Indian boys began shyly to offer people their balloons. They gave one to Michael.

Michael thought of his chicks. 'We ought to let them all go free,' he said to one of the lads.

'That'd be great. People'd look up and see all these dolphins up in the sky. They'd go like, oh wow, the sky is full of dolphins.'

It seemed to Michael that it was an inspired thing to say. 'I wouldn't let this one go if you don't want me to.'

'Do what you want, man. It's a party.'

Everyone, Michael included, got off at Bank to change onto the Central Line tube. There was a long, long wait for the train. A raucous bevy of young women stood near Michael. They were plump, pale and nearly nude, all in the common fashion of tight trousers, peel-off tops with little straps and shortish hair parted in the middle. They showed off pastures of perfect white shoulders, a sacrifice in winter. They had all written on pieces of paper, which they had taped to themselves. 'Innocent,' said one, 'till proven guilty!' Another said, 'Free to Good Home.' They were all more than a bit pissed and had done something extremely daring in either a pub or a party and couldn't stop talking about it.

When the train came, the girls all ran, though they didn't need to, the thick heels of their shoes clopping like horses' hooves. They swept themselves and Michael into the carriage on a gust of giggles.

Michael sat down and let everything rain around him.

A fat businessman with bags under his eyes like croissants was gently going to sleep on the shoulder of a young man with slicked-up hair. The young man gently tapped him.

A girl was standing fast asleep against her boyfriend as if slow-dancing. She was thin and pale, almost translucent, with a slight contented smile. It was the smile she would wear lying next to him in their own bed.

And the settling seemed to stop, and Michael came to rest finally on the floor of the ocean, where it was deep and cool and calm and silent.

He loved them all. It had nothing to do with lust, or feeling safely superior, or being merely drunk. He was clear-headed, more clear-headed than he had been in a long time. He saw the girls wanted fun and friends and to be noticed and not to be dull before their time. Michael wished they would always be friends, and always go out, and never go sour from bitterness. He yearned for the sleeping man finally to find family or friends. The young man with the slicked hair had decided to let him go on sleeping, and that it did him no harm to leave him be. Michael wished that people would give the lad the same leeway, and that he would lose his slightly tense, pinched air.

In the quiet, in the peace, it seemed to him that he knew their stories and could guess how far they could go, and loved them like a father loves: from a distance, with best wishes.

It was promiscuous this love, it went beyond lust and romance and making families. Michael moved beyond biology.

The train pulled into the next station and Michael saw its notice slip past like someone trying to sidle unnoticed into the bathroom. He sat and waited for a while as the engine whirred, and he saw the sign partially obscured by the window frame: '… ourt Road'.

Jesus Christ, it's Tottenham Court Road! His stop. Just before the doors closed, Michael jumped off. It's 2.30 in the morning, Michael, you can't go missing your stop. He was tired and strolled towards the Northern Line. The balloon bobbed along after him, still tugging at his hand.

Just beyond the arch to the northbound platform, he heard doors rumbling shut. Oh shit, he'd just missed the train. He jumped forward in time to see the grey and red train sigh away, moaning gently.

The platform was empty.

And there was a rush of wind as if another train were coming, and someone stepped out of the moving air. Michael's body knew the green gym uniform before his mind did. He jumped with recognition.

'Hello there,' said a familiar voice. 'You've stopped coming in for your workout.' It was the Cherub.

'No time, I'm afraid.'

'You've managed to lose some weight though. It suits you.'

'Thank you.'

The Cherub stirred, looking chagrined, and glanced about him. 'I'll try to keep my clothes on this time, shall I?'

It was good to see him. 'So, how is Tony?'

'Tony's fine,' said the Angel. 'Him and the girlfriend are going to move up North. She wants to open a restaurant. You might like to pop in and say goodbye to him. Since, you know, you liked him so much.'

'Thank you. Maybe I will.'

The Angel chuckled. 'Maybe you won't.'

Michael ventured, 'And how are
you?'

The Angel looked pained. 'Me. I'm a bit different.'

Michael nodded. 'You become different.'

The Angel had a pleading look.

Michael felt love. 'Just ask me,' he whispered.

'I don't want my life to be just working in a restaurant, showing people to tables.'

Michael asked, 'Does that mean Tony doesn't want it either?'

The Angel shook his head. 'No! No way, he loves Jacqui, he wants a family. So, he makes sacrifices. But that doesn't mean that part of him… me, I guess… part of him wants adventure. He wants to go places, see things. And… and I thought I could go there for him. And he could see it, in his dreams, like when we made love, he saw that in his dreams.'

'He saw it for real.'

'Right. He saw it for real.' The Angel had passionate eyes. Need.

'Where,' Michael asked. 'Where do you want to go?' I can do this, Michael realized. My God, what a thing to be able to do.

The Angel's face was set. 'I want to go to Tibet. I want him to see one of those big monasteries. He wants to see Tibet, and, well, I know he never will. I can see all the way to the end you see.'

'Tibet…' agreed Michael. Lust pulls you out, pulls you into becoming someone else.

'Can I go now?' the Angel asked, glancing at his watch.

'Yes, now,' promised Michael. 'All you have to do is leave the platform, and when you turn left at the Way Out sign, you'll be in Tibet.'

'Brill!' said the Angel, and shook his hand. 'You're a star, mate. Thanks. Thanks a lot.'

'Say hello to Tony for me.'

'Sure,' the Angel promised. 'I'll make sure he sees it.' The Cherub looked anxiously at his watch and he turned, and broke into a half run. Michael watched his broad back retreat down the platform. The Cherub stopped and waved just outside the exit.

'Do you know why I called you up?' Michael shouted to him.

The Cherub nodded. 'Because you know it's not going to last much longer,' he called.

'Thanks,' said Michael, to the Cherub, to the miracle itself. Michael held a little hand up, a gentle sigh of a wave. He still held the dolphin balloon and it dipped in farewell.

The Cherub turned left and was gone.

Someone tapped Michael on the shoulder. He turned, and there was Henry, red-faced and panting. 'Gotcha,' Henry said, grinning.

Michael was expecting to see an Angel. This Henry's hair dangled differently and he wore a brown sweater with a hole in it. But there was no doubt in Michael's mind that he had called this one up too.

'You're Stumpy,' said Michael, and he found he was grinning.

'As much as anyone is,' replied the Angel. His cheeks glowed silver and sweaty, as if he had run to catch up with Michael. They both grinned and their grins latched as though their braces had locked.

'My God, you're pretty,' said Michael. He couldn't help himself. He took the Angel's hand and to his delight it squeezed back, and the Angel's cheeks glowed even brighter. Michael was a bit pissed and that allowed him to feel his own delight. He glanced up the platform. What the heck. There was no one there, and anyway, it was New Year's Eve. Without any doubt that the Angel would want him, Michael pulled Stumpy to him and kissed him. The Angel shuddered in surprise, and then his mouth worked.

Stumpy was delicious. He tasted of cinnamon. He tasted of celebration. Michael was slightly stunned. He had never kissed someone and felt taste as communication. He pulled back, and looked into Stumpy's beautiful nut-brown eyes.

'I'm embarrassed,' said Stumpy.

'I'm not,' said Michael.

'I didn't say I didn't like it.'

'I'm enraptured,' said Michael, and it was true. He laughed and pulled back and bounced the dolphin balloon up and down in his grasp.

There was answering laughter. Two men settled next to them on the platform and it took a moment for Michael to realize who they were. The Chinese Thai who had danced and grown up to run a plant nursery cradled Mustafa the Afghan. Michael laughed.