My Policeman (19 page)

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.

ALL WEEK, MY
dreams full of his groan as I kissed him. The kick of his cock beneath my flattened hand. And the sound of the front door slamming.

He’s bound to be scared. He’s young. Inexperienced. Although I’m aware many boys of his class are far more experienced than I was. A lad I once met at the Greyhound swore blind a friend of his father’s had had him on his allotment when he was barely fifteen. And that he’d loved it. But I don’t think anything like that has happened to my policeman. I think, perhaps rather romantically, that he’s like I was: he’s spent many years, ever since he was a very young boy, looking at men and wanting to be touched by them. He may already have begun to tell himself that he’s a minority. He may even know that no woman will offer a ‘cure’. I hope he knows that, although it wasn’t at all obvious to me until I was almost thirty. Even when I was with Michael there was a small part of me that wondered if some female couldn’t snap me out of it. But when he died I knew this to be utter folly, because there was no word for what I’d lost other than love. There. I’ve written it.

But I doubt another man touched my policeman before I did. I doubt he’s cradled another man’s head in his hand. His actions have been bold – he’s surprised and delighted me in
this
. But does he feel as confident as he acts? How scared he really is I have no way of knowing. That laugh, those glittering eyes, are good protection, from the world and from himself.

A HUGE SCANDAL
has just broken in the papers about Brighton CID. I believe it was even in
The Times
. The Chief Constable and a detective inspector are in the dock, charged with conspiracy. The details are shady at the moment, but no doubt they involve these men making mutually agreeable deals with various lowlifes of the type found in the Bucket of Blood. I have to say, my heart lifted when I saw the headline in the
Argus
: CHIEF CONSTABLE AND 2 OTHERS ACCUSED – at last, our boys in blue are the ones facing social disgrace and possibly imprisonment – but it sank when I realised what this might mean for
my
policeman. Ordinary, honest members of the force will, I’m sure, have to pay for their bosses’ misdemeanours. Lord knows what pressures they’ll be under now.

But there’s nothing I can do about all this. I just have to wait for him to come back. That’s all I have to do.

A GLITTER OF
frost on the pavement this morning. We’re in for a cold winter.

He has stayed away for almost three weeks. And each day, a little of the memory of our evening together hardens into something lost. I can still feel his lips, but I can’t quite remember the exact shape of that knobble on the bridge of his nose.

At the museum, Jackie’s been eyeing me from behind her glasses, and Houghton’s been droning on about the need to keep the director, the trustees and the council happy by not doing anything too outlandish. Nothing more has been said about the portrait project. But, perhaps inspired by the feeling of being able to seduce a boy in his early twenties, I’ve been pressing on with my reforms. All I have to do now is find a school that’s willing to send its young charges through our doors and leave them under my dubious influence.

Felt I must get up to London to see Charlie this evening. It was already quite late, but I’d have a couple of hours with him before the last train back. Wanted, very badly, to tell him about my policeman. To talk. To shout his name out. In his absence, the next best thing would be to bring him to life by describing him for Charlie. Also wanted, I must admit, to boast a bit. Ever since school, it’s always been Charlie telling me about the thrilling line of some boy’s shoulders, the sweet
way
in which Bob or George or Harry looks up to him and is fascinated by his conversation, as well as providing absolute satisfaction in bed. Now I had my own tale to tell.

Charlie wasn’t surprised by my visit – I never announce I’m coming – but he did keep me hanging about on the front steps for a minute. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Got someone with me at the mo. Don’t suppose you could come back tomorrow?’

He hasn’t changed, then. I told him that I, unlike him, had to work tomorrow, so it was now or never. He opened the door, saying, ‘You’d better come in and meet Jim, then.’

Charlie’s recently had his Pimlico townhouse refurbished throughout – lots of mirrors and steel lamps, thin-looking furniture and modern tapestry hangings. It’s clean and bright and very restful on the eye. The perfect setting, in fact, for Jim, who was sitting on Charlie’s new sofa, smoking a Woodbine. Barefoot. And looking absolutely at his ease. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, sticking out a smooth white hand, not getting to his feet.

We shook, him fixing me with eyes the colour of rust.

‘Jim’s working for me,’ Charlie announced.

‘Oh? Doing what?’

The two of them exchanged a smirk. ‘Odd jobs,’ said Charlie. ‘So useful, having someone live-in. Drink?’

I asked for a gin and tonic, and to my surprise Jim jumped up. ‘I’ll have the usual, darling,’ instructed Charlie, watching the boy as he made his exit. Jim was short but well-proportioned; long legs and a chunky little arse.

I looked at Charlie, who burst out laughing. ‘Your face,’ he chortled.

‘Is he your … valet?’

‘He’s whatever I want him to be.’

‘Does
he
realise that?’

‘Of course he does.’ Charlie sat in a chair by the fire and ran his hands through his black hair. A few flecks of grey there now, I noticed, but still thick. He was forever telling me, at school, how his hair could blunt scissors. And I could well believe it. ‘It’s wonderful, actually. A mutually satisfactory arrangement.’

‘How long’s this …’

‘Been going on? Oh, about four months now. I keep expecting to get bored. Or for him to. But it just hasn’t happened.’

Jim came back in with the drinks and we spent an agreeable hour, mostly filled with Charlie telling stories about people I haven’t seen for a long time or have never met. I didn’t mind. Although Jim’s presence inhibited me from broaching the subject of my policeman, it was wonderful to watch the two of them, so easy in one another’s company. Charlie occasionally touching Jim’s neck, Jim catching his wrist as he did so. Looking at them, I allowed myself a little fantasy. I could live like this with my policeman. We could spend evenings chatting to friends, sharing a drink, behaving as though we were – well, married.

All the same, I was glad when Charlie saw me to the door alone.

‘Wonderful to see you,’ he said. ‘You look better than ever.’

I smiled.

‘What’s his name, then?’ asked Charlie.

I told him. ‘He’s a policeman,’ I added.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Charlie. ‘What happened to the old cautious Hazlewood?’

‘I buried him,’ I said.

Charlie drew the door to behind him and we went down the steps into the street. ‘Patrick,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to come across all parental, but …’ He stopped. Hooked me
gently
around the neck and drew our faces close. ‘A
policeman
?’ he hissed.

I laughed. ‘I know. But he’s not your average bobby.’

‘Obviously not.’

There was a short silence. Charlie let me go. Lit us both a cigarette. We leant together on his railings, exhaling smoke into the night. Just like the bike sheds at school, I thought.

‘What’s he like, then?’

‘Early twenties. Bright. Athletic. Blond.’

‘Fuck me,’ he said, grinning.

‘This is it, Charlie.’ I couldn’t help myself. ‘This is really it.’

Charlie frowned. ‘Now I
am
going to be parental. Go easy. Be careful.’

A spark of anger flared in me. ‘Why should I be?’ I asked. ‘You’re not. Yours is living with you.’

Charlie flicked his cigarette into the gutter. ‘Yes, but … that’s different.’

‘Different how?’

‘Patrick. Jim’s my
employee
. All the rules are understood, by us and by the rest of the world. He lives under my roof and I pay him for his … services.’

‘Are you saying it’s just a financial arrangement? Nothing more?’

‘Of course not. But to outside eyes it could be. And this way it’s clearer, isn’t it? Anything else is … it’s bloody impossible. You know that.’

After we’d said our goodbyes and he was walking back up the steps to the house, I called out, ‘You wait. This time next year he’ll be living with me.’

And at that moment, I really believed what I said.

FROST STILL ON
the pavements, the gas heater leaking fumes into my office, a sweater on beneath my jacket, Jackie shivering loudly at every opportunity, and he came back.

The time: seven thirty. The day: Tuesday. I was finishing a plate of goulash at the flat. And suddenly the buzzer shrieked. DUM-de went my heart, but just once. I’ve almost learned not to expect him to be there.

But there he was. He said nothing as I opened up. I managed to catch his eye for a second before he looked down.

‘It’s Tuesday, isn’t it?’ he said. His voice was calm, rather cool.

I showed him in. This time he carried no uniform and was wearing a long grey overcoat, which he allowed me to take from him once we were inside. The garment was large enough to make a canopy, to take shelter beneath, and I stood for a moment, holding it in my arms and watching him as he made his way to the spare bedroom without invitation from me.

In a fit of tidying, I’d removed the easel and paints, and the chair in which he’d posed was now back in its proper place, next to the bed.

He stopped in the centre of the room and swivelled round to face me. ‘Aren’t you going to draw me?’ His normally pink cheeks were pale and his eyes were stony.

I was still holding on to the coat. ‘If you like …’ I said, looking around for somewhere to discard it. Placing it on the bed seemed a bit too forward. Like tempting fate.

‘I thought that’s what we were doing here. A portrait. On Tuesday evenings. A portrait of an
ordinary
person. Like me.’

I draped his overcoat across the chair. ‘I can draw you, if you like …’

‘If I like? I thought it was what you wanted.’

‘Nothing’s set up, but—’

‘This isn’t even a studio, is it?’

I ignored this. Allowed a small silence to pass. ‘Why don’t we discuss this in the sitting room?’

‘Did you get me here under false pretences?’ His voice was low, a shiver of anger running through it. ‘You’re one of them
importuners
, aren’t you? You got me here with one thing in mind, didn’t you?’

He licked his lips. Pushed back his cuffs. Took a step towards me. In that moment, he looked every inch the bully-boy policeman.

I stepped back, sat on the bed and closed my eyes. I was ready for the blow. For the big fist on my cheekbone. You’ve got yourself into this mess, Hazlewood, I told myself. These toughs are all the same. Just like that boy Thompson at school: fucking me by night, fighting me by day.

‘Answer my question,’ he demanded. ‘Or don’t you have an answer?’

Without opening my eyes, I replied in the softest voice I could: ‘Is this how you treat your suspects?’

I don’t know quite what possessed me to push him like this. Some remnant of trust in him, I suppose. Some belief that his fear would pass.

A long pause. We were still close; I could hear his breathing
slow
. I opened my eyes. He was looming over me, but his usual flushed complexion had returned. His eyes were an intense blue.

‘I can draw you,’ I said, looking up at him. ‘I’d like to. I want to complete the portrait. That’s not a lie.’

His jaw was working slowly, as if he were keeping back some utterance.

I said his name. And when I reached out a hand and hooked it behind his thigh, he did not move away from me. ‘I’m sorry if you think I got you here for one thing only. That could never be true.’

I said his name again. ‘Stay the night this time,’ I said.

His thigh hard against my hand.

After a moment, he let out a breath. ‘You shouldn’t have asked me here.’

‘You wanted to come. Stay the night.’

‘I don’t know …’

‘There’s nothing to know. There’s just these things that you and I must do.’ My cheek was near his groin now.

He pulled away from my grip. ‘I came here to tell you I can’t come again.’

A long silence. I kept my eyes on him, but he wouldn’t return my gaze.

Eventually I said, with what I hoped was a note of mirth in my voice: ‘Did you have to come here to tell me that? Couldn’t you have popped a note through my door?’

When he didn’t respond, I couldn’t help adding: ‘Something along the following lines, perhaps:
Dear Patrick, It was nice knowing you, but I have to put an end to our friendship as I am a very respectable copper and also a coward
—’