Ten Stories About Smoking (18 page)

I was supposed to be in work the next day. I left a message for my boss claiming violent stomach cramps. It was the first time I had ever called in sick.

Things changed then. We were sucked
–
willingly perhaps – into a darker orbit of which I was desperately unsure. I did not like the drugs, nor the effect that
they had on you and James, Johnny, Jimmy, Davey, Mickey, Jane and Iola. This new crowd, these new people, were moneyed and classless. They took to you immediately, and placed you at the heart of
their little group. Unlike your other friends, they saw no need for me. The odd dry comment was insufficient. They were too dry themselves. They eyed me with superstition, like I was a spy in their
ranks.

You would not have a word said against them, though. These people. This group who hunted the darkening streets looking for something, anything, to give them the slightest bristle of excitement.
They said they admired Michael Alig, a club promoter who had killed his lover and cut him up into pieces. There was no trace of irony when they mentioned his name.

You called them a support network; you called them friends. And it was hard not to see the effect that they had on you. You were being taken seriously, you were being listened to and considered.
When you were with them you were, though it hurts me to say this, incandescent. I have never seen such beauty, such conviction, such passion in anyone. But that was tempered by a newly found
cynicism. You began to talk differently: harder, more direct. You saw the illness in people more, you looked for their dark places. At night, in bed, when you were drunk or stoned, you asked me to
bind you, to strike you just to see what it would feel like. One evening you asked me to put a cigarette out on your arm. I didn’t want to do it, but you insisted. I thought the smell would
never leave me.

We were invited to so many parties and openings. These people. This James, Johnny, Jimmy, Davey, Mickey, Jane and Iola. They probably didn’t expect me always to be there, but I
couldn’t trust them to have you all to themselves. You never complained about my presence, not to me at least. Davey used to call me Minder. I disliked and distrusted him the most.

You expected me to keep you informed of when and where we were supposed to be going. I bought you an electronic gizmo to help you get organized, but you destroyed it and made it part of one of
your works. I only discovered this when I saw its metal insides and wires glued to a piece of parquet flooring. You thanked me with kisses for the inspiration. It was the second piece you sold.

After that you sold two more pieces. One for a relatively large amount of money. It was a portrait of the building in which we lived, but inside each of the windows there was a
tiny crime scene; a dead body, blood spatter, a murder weapon. James, Johnny, Jimmy, Davey, Mickey, Jane and Iola said that it marked the beginning of a new phase for you. They said you were big
time; that you had a rare understanding of society and art. At home your work was taking over the communal areas: there were paint splashes on the walls, flecks on the floorboards.

I suggested that with the money we take a holiday, get away from the sweat and temper of the city for a while.

‘Are you fucking
crazy
?’ you said. ‘I’ve just sold four pieces, I’ve got to keep going, keep the momentum up. Look, you go if you want, please go. But I’ve
got work I’ve got to do here, okay?’

‘It’s just for a week, love,’ I said. ‘Just seven days.’

‘I don’t have seven days,’ you said. ‘I’ve got to keep working.’

I flew out to Cyprus the following week accompanied by Tom. He was surprised by my offer – we’d not seen each other for a good few months – but seemed to
appreciate it. You gave me a thoughtless, distracted goodbye and suddenly I was cut adrift, on my own once again.

Tom had shaved off his beard and was wearing shorts and flip-flops. He already looked relaxed, his well-padded frame wedged into a metal chair. We were drinking Guinness in the airport bar and
he was talking about an old school friend – Rebecca Johns – whom he’d recently met. Apparently she’d got divorced and was now living with a fifty-year-old lawyer and his two
children. Tom began reminiscing about the time Rebecca and the two of us had gone to get tattoos. We’d all chickened out.

‘I’ve got a tattoo now,’ I said.

Tom paused. ‘A tattoo? Really? Where?’

I took off my jacket, hitched up the arm of my T-shirt and showed him the green-black symbol at the top of my bicep.

‘When did you get that?’

‘Six months ago.’

‘Did it hurt?’

‘Wrecked. Cara got one at the same time. She was fine though.’

‘What did she have?’

‘Same thing.’

He shook his head and laughed. He took off his glasses and wiped them on his T-shirt.

‘What’s funny?’ I said. ‘I like it.’

Tom looked across the table. The place was lit unforgivingly by the large window. The drone from the airfield gave the room a humming kind of tension. Tom picked up his drink.

‘Here’s to holidays,’ he said with a smile that exposed the fat wriggle of his tongue.

I wrote on the postcard
you would love it here
, but knew that you wouldn’t. The light was sometimes unbearable: the sun insistent, the sea star-tipped and roiling
green. We went down to the beach every day. I lay under a parasol and read cheap thrillers, leaving the difficult novels and biographies back at the hotel. Tom spent most of the day asleep beside
me, toasting his flesh a salmon pink. We played football when the tide was out and others joined in. I swam in the sea, the water as clear as gin.

In the evenings we would eat at a beachside restaurant then head for the bars. Most nights there was live football and we played a lot of cards. We did not talk about art or books or culture or
politics. We talked about the old days, about films we liked, quoted lines from television shows we used to love. We discussed football tactics and made up impossible quizzes. We did not talk about
you. We never talked about you. Tom would change the subject whenever your name was mentioned.

We took a trip to the Troodos mountains. There was snow on the peaks even at that time of year, and the views were humbling. We stopped at a monastery and Tom and I did not
talk. For several moments I thought about becoming a monk. I’m sure every man there was thinking the same thing. Simple brown robes, a pair of sandals and that deep, longing silence. The
smell of wax candles and incense, the taste of home-made wine, the warm sound of a tolling bell. I watched a line of them shuffle across the courtyard, their bent heads exposing their pale white
tonsures. To m took a photograph. It felt like stealing.

During lunch both Tom and I were quiet. The restaurant looked out over the mountain range, scrubby brown grasses, verdant trees and the occasional farmhouse. The kleftiko was tender and the wine
dry and cold. Two women sat down at the next table. They were fair-haired and curvaceous, Irish-looking. Tom asked them what they thought of the monastery. They paused for a moment as if selecting
the minimum amount of words necessary.

‘It was very calming,’ the woman to my left said. Her accent had a hint of Lancashire; her name was Emma. Tom smiled.

‘I was tempted to join the brothers,’ he said. ‘But I hear it’s habit forming.’

They laughed at the weakness of the joke and joined us. I found myself flirting. I thought of this Emma in my bed, her large breasts, her throaty laugh, her appealing spray of freckles. And then I thought of you.

As soon as we got back to the villa, I called you. You sounded wired; wired but pleased to hear from me.

‘What’s it like there? Is it hot?’

‘It’s hot, yes,’ I replied, ‘but there’s a breeze. It’s beautiful actually. We’re right by the sea.’ I could not recall whether I’d already
told you this.

‘I’ve had a great idea. For a piece. I started today.’

‘That’s good.’

‘When are you back?’

‘Saturday morning.’

There was a pause, like you were working something out.

‘Okay I’ll see you then. I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

‘Oh and Ben?’

‘Yes?’

‘I miss you. I miss you so much.’