Lust. Geoff Ryman
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looked bruised. ‘You do,’ he insisted.
Michael began to talk for the benefit of the guard. ‘I’m sorry if you got that idea. Look, you’re in a bit of a state. My advice is to try to get back home and sort yourself out.’
The guard suddenly trooped forward, his smile broadening to a leer. ‘Bit off a bit more than we can chew, did we, sir?’
‘I think he’s on something and he’s been following me,’ said Michael.
‘Must be your lucky day,’ said the guard. He began to hustle Tony back from the barriers. ‘Come on, let the Professor be. He probably can’t afford you anyway.’ The guard had the cheek to turn and grin at Michael like he’d said something funny.
‘He’s not well,’ said Michael. Gosh, did he dislike that guard. But he needed him. The guard herded Tony back towards the lifts. Michael saw Tony look at him, with a suddenly stricken face. It was that panic that frightened Michael more than anything else. The panic meant that Tony needed Michael. For what? Something was out of whack.
Michael fled. He turned and walked as quickly as he could, away. He doesn’t know where I live, Michael thought, relieved. If I get away, I find another gym, and that’s the end of it. Michael’s stomach was shuddering as if he had run out of petrol. The tip of his penis was wet.
It had been raining, and the pavements were glossy like satin. A woman bearing four heavy bags from Tesco was looking at her boots; Michael scurried to make the lights and bashed into the bags, spinning them around in her grasp.
There was a shout from behind him. ‘Oi!’
Michael spun around, and saw the Cherub sprinting towards him. Michael knew, from the way his athlete’s stride suspended him in mid-air, that Tony had jumped the barriers.
Michael backed away, raising his arms against attack, terror bubbling up like yeast.
Keep away from me! Get back, go away!
And the street was empty. Tony was gone.
Michael blinked and looked around him, up and down the pavement. When he looked back, he saw the guard hobbling towards him, pressing a handkerchief to his face. He’d been hit.
‘Where did he go?’ the guard shouted at Michael, strands of spit between his lips. ‘Where the fuck did he go?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘Bastard!’
Michael tried to look at the guard’s lip.
The guard ducked away from Michael’s tender touch. He demanded, snarling, ‘What’s his name, where’s he from?’
Michael did not even have to think. ‘I’ve no idea. He just followed me.’
‘Oh yeah. Just followed you, did he? If I press charges, mate, you’ll bloody well have to remember.’
The guard pulled the handkerchief away and looked as if expecting to see something. He blinked. The handkerchief was clean, white and spotless.
This seemed to mollify him. ‘You better watch the kind of person you pick up, mate.’
Then the guard turned and proudly, plumply, walked away. For all your arrogance, Michael thought, in five years’ time you’ll be bald and fat-arsed.
Michael stood in the rain for a few moments, catching his breath. What, he thought, was that all about? Finally he turned and walked up Chenies Street, mostly because he had no place else to go, and he began to cry, from a mix of fear, frustration, boredom. Christ! All he did was go to the sauna. He didn’t need this, he really didn’t. He looked up at the yellow London sky. There were no stars overhead, just light pollution, a million lamps drowning out signals from alien intelligences.
Michael lived in what estate agents called a mansion block: an old apartment house. It was covered in scaffolding, being repaired. He looked up at his flat and saw that no lights were on. Phil wasn’t there again. So it would be round to Gigs again for a takeaway kebab and an evening alone. Involuntarily, Michael saw Tony’s naked thighs, the ridges of muscle.
He clunked his keys into the front door of his flat. The door was heavy and fireproofed and it made noises like an old man. Michael dumped his briefcase on the hall table and snapped on the living-room light.
The Cherub was sitting on the sofa.
‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Michael, and stumbled backwards. ‘What are you doing here?’
Tony sat with both hands placed on his knees. ‘I don’t know,’ he said in a mild voice.
‘How did you get in!’ The central light was bare and bleak.
‘I don’t know,’ Tony said. He still hadn’t moved.
The scaffolding, thought Michael. He climbed up the bloody scaffolding. ‘Get out of here!’ Michael shouted.
The eyes narrowed and the head tilted sideways.
And then, Oh God, he was gone. The air roiled, as if from tarmac on a hot day. It poured into the space Tony had suddenly vacated. There was no imprint left on the cushions.
The Cherub simply disappeared. Not even a flutter of wings.
Michael stood and stared. He kept staring at the sofa. What had happened was not possible. Or rather it made a host of other things suddenly possible: magic, madness, ghosts.
Michael sat down with a bump and slowly unwound his scarf. He stood up and poured himself a whiskey, swirling it around in the glass and inspecting it, yellow and toxic. Whiskey had destroyed his father.
In a funny kind of way, it felt as if Tony was his father’s ghost come back to haunt him.
Michael took a swig and then sat down with his notebook and Pilot pencil to answer every question except the most important.
In a very few photographs, Michael was beautiful.
Most photographs of him were short-circuited by a grimace of embarrassment or a dazzled nervous grin that gave him the teeth of a rodent. If someone short stood next to him, Michael would stoop and twist and force himself lower.
In other photographs, Michael looked all right. In those, he would have taken off his wire-rimmed spectacles and combed his hair and stood up straight. By hazard, he would be wearing a shirt that someone had ironed, and he would have left the pens out of the top pocket. It would be a period in which Michael was not experimenting with beards to hide his face, or pony tails to control his runaway, curly hair.
The best photographs of all would be on a beach, on holiday, with something to occupy his awkward hands. It would be apparent then that Michael had the body of an athlete. He was a big, broad-shouldered man. Because of the flattening of his broken nose, his face was rugged, like a boxer’s. Michael could look unbelievably butch.
There was one photograph from Michael’s youth.
It was hidden away, unsorted. Michael would not be able to find it now. He didn’t need to. Michael carried it around with him in memory. He could always see it, even when he didn’t want to.
His father had taken it from a riverboat in California, during their last summer together. In the photograph, Michael is sixteen years old and is quite possibly the best-looking person on the planet. He is certainly one of the happiest.
In the photograph Michael sits in a dinghy. He’s laughing and holding up a poor pooch of a dog. She was called Peaches the Pooch. Peaches gazes miserably out from under a thick coating of river-bottom mud. Michael’s thighs and calves are also covered in mud. Even then he was a big lad, with wide shoulders and lines of muscle on his forearm. His black eyes are fixed directly on whoever is taking the photograph and they are wide with delight. His face is nut brown, like an Indian’s,