Byker Books

 

 

 

She would come when she could. It was usually once a week. Sometimes more.

Occasionally, during holiday times and the like, I wouldn’t see her for a couple of weeks. I
understood. As long as I knew she was coming – that she’d be coming one day soon – I didn’t mind. I was used to it. I knew the score. She's married, you see.

My flat is on the sixteenth floor. About a hundred feet up in the sky. Quite an eyrie. By day,
from my little balcony, you can watch the city going about its business: all noise and hustle and bustle. At night, by far the best time for me, it’s a different picture entirely. A total change of mood, as the good citizens of Liverpool hurry and scurry, hither and thither, in search of pleasure.
She always arrived flushed and a little out of breath. From the stairs. She never took the lift.
Well, she did the first time – but the smell of piss put her off. Also, she shared the ride with Lennie.

I love the city at night. The lights, the colours, the slightly more leisurely pace. A
different atmosphere. A different pattern to the traffic, too; a fascinating, constantly changing pattern. Like that kaleidoscope Uncle Arthur bought me when I was a kid. It was more interesting out there than the telly most nights.

Lennie, if you’re wondering, lives with his mam on the fourteenth. Quite harmless, really.
Wouldn’t hurt a fly. But I knew what Mavis meant. That great lantern jaw of his hanging open, slavering; and those protruding eyes! Not to mention the grunts. No wonder she was frightened. I was at first. Because he could be quite intimidating, old Lennie. On first meeting. She made sure there wasn’t a second.

At night, when it’s dark, I especially like to see the planes taking off and coming in to land.
The international airport’s only four or five miles away, you see. Close enough to be of interest, but not so close that noise is a problem. You get used to hearing them going over, actually; and when you’re inside you hardly notice them at all.

From my eyrie I get endless pleasure watching those giant birds flying in and out, one
after another, carrying folk to and from all manner of exotic places. I know them off by heart, those spots on the map. I’ve memorized the destinations boards and looked them all up in my atlas. Quite the little globe-trotter, I am. In my mind, in my imagination.

You pay quite a price if you don’t take the lift. Eight steps and a turn, then another eight
steps and a wider turn. That’s two times eight per floor: two hundred and fifty six steps altogether.

Plus the turns. Sooner put up with Lennie, any day! Mind you, I’m a swimmer – which means I can hold my breath for sixteen floors easily. If the lift doesn’t keep stopping, that is. And if it does, and the smell is seriously offensive, you can always light up. Not that I smoke. I don’t. Haven’t had one for years. But I always carry a packet. Just in case. Not to inhale, of course. Just to have one burning.

‘It’s all right,’ she said early on, trying to make light of it. ‘I don’t mind, honestly. The exercise does me good. Keeps me fit. Not easy, you know, keeping up with my toy-boy!’

She laughed, and I knew she meant it as a joke; but I always hated it when she called me that. Okay, so she’s twelve years older than me – so what! Nothing, is it? And at twenty-seven I’m hardly a boy, for fuck’s sake! However, we won’t go there. Like I say, she doesn’t mean anything by it. And I’m over-sensitive on this one, I know I am. It’s part of my insecurity, I suppose – me being her ... her whatever-the-word-is: you know – the male equivalent of ‘mistress’? There isn’t one, is there? Is there...? Whatever… The point is I’ve always thought I’d sooner be her ‘bit of stuff’, her ‘bit on the side’ – anything but her toy-boy. Makes me sound like a play-thing – though, come to think of it, that’s what I am really. Because I’ve never been under any illusions about my role in this relationship.

Sometimes, you know, I sit out here for hours on my little pocket-handkerchief of a balcony. Like being at the theatre, it is. You know, watching the scene changes. Letting my imagination twinkle with the lights. Inventing meetings and partings. Imagining moments of tenderness. Violence, too, sometimes. Death, even, on occasions. All kinds of nonsense, I find myself imagining. I’ve written it down, some of it. Got it on disk. It might make a story or two sometime. Just needs a bit of plotting.

It can be a bit chilly out here at night, so I usually wrap myself up in a blanket. If anyone
could see me huddled up like that they’d have a right laugh, I reckon. But I have this really strong feeling – almost a sense of power – that I can look out and see everything that’s going on around me, and below me, but no one can look in and see me. A bit like playing God. You know – looking down from on-high. On balmy nights I sometimes bring a tray of food out here, often getting through the best part of a bottle of wine to wash it down. Get a life, eh!

Of course, I did more of that before I met Mavis.

Before I became a toy-boy.

I knew, of course, that Mavis would never leave Henry. I knew all along. Too nice a guy. I
could tell from the way she spoke about him. You can’t compete with nice. Twenty years, they’ve been together. Teenage sweethearts, they were. Very romantic! Except it wasn’t, apparently. More like comfortable. More like cosy. Like wearing a pair of old slippers. With her Henry, she obviously felt warm and safe and cared for. They had historytogether. Too much history. You can’t compete with history.

Then there’s Anthony, her son. Her only child. Had him late. (Unkind thought: perhaps he
isn’t Henry’s!) Anyway, he’s the apple of her eye, our Anthony. Anthony, with a ‘th’, that is.
Now, why do I find that predictable?

No, I knew where I stood in the scheme of things. I always have. I was the man she came to for a shag! Okay – other things as well. We were good together, Mavis and me. In all kinds of ways.

Shared the same sense of humour, for one thing. But this was my role, essentially: to be here, at the ready, ready for a shag! Not that I ever showed any reluctance to oblige, it has to be said. Know what I mean? All along, I have been ever-ready (batteries charged) to satisfy her need.

And, bloody hell, what a need! Always urgent – but some-times more urgent than others. Sometimes the flush would be deeper, the breathing faster. And I knew it wasn’t just the stairs! Before she was in the door sometimes, her fingers were at my waist, pulling at me, undoing me, groping for me.

‘Whatever happened to foreplay?’ I cried the first time. In mock protest, you understand.

‘Nothing!’ she panted. ‘I’ve done all that in the car on the way over. Foreplay? Four fingers, more like. It’s easier. Saves a lot of time – and cuts out the middleman. So let’s get down to it!’

That’s my girl! Business-woman through and through. She works for Marks and Spencer. One of their senior buyers. That’s how she got to see me so often. Demanding job. Long hours. And so many meetings, poor thing. Staff meetings; buyers’ meetings; area meetings; regional meetings; head office meetings. Oh – such a bore! And courses, too. Courses for this, that and the other. But in her case, mainly the other!

Yes – all very convenient. And dear, devoted Henry never raised an eyebrow. Or so she had me believe. And I suppose it’s plausible. For he’s a busy professional, too. Lectures at the University. In business studies, would you believe! Writes books on the subject. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine how mind-numbingly boring that must be? But
he’s totally absorbed in it, apparently, this work of his. Drains him, it does, of every last kilocalorie of energy – which is where I came in, so to speak.

I became an essential part of their marito-commercial equation. Actually, I’ve just made that up – but it sounds authentic, doesn’t it? They’re fond of jargon in the business world, according to Mavis. Don’t know much about it, myself. I work at home, you see. Computer nerd, that’s me. I live alone, I work alone. Any rules I have are my rules. I have my own code of practice.

To be fair to dear Henry, though, I have to admit to using jargon, too. Matter of fact, the computer world’s bristling with it. And it’s all designed to confuse, to give you power over others. I have very little power over Mavis, mind. Never have had. She’s the one who wields the power – the one who literally tells me when I can and can’t wear the trousers. Yes, a right little control freak, is our Mavis. Likes to have her hands on everything – which brings me to how we met.

‘Is there somewhere I can try these on?’ I enquired of the smart, attractive figure hurrying past me towards the door marked, ‘Staff’.

 
‘Certainly, sir,’ answered Mavis, flashing me a professional smile. ‘The changing cubicles are along there, on the left.’ Then she looked at me again. Properly this time. Sizing me up, like.

‘Here, I’ll show you.’ And she was off, with me in tow, following like a little poodle, mesmerized by her oh-so-sexy wiggle in that tight, black skirt of hers.

‘Here we are,’ she said, and she looked down at the trousers. ‘Should look nice on you, those. Either pair. Good taste, sir, if I may say so? Anyway, give me a shout if you need me.’ She laughed. ‘You know, for an opinion – or anything.’ And she laughed again, more suggestively this time.

So I thought, why not? I’d never really had much success with women. Not that I ever tried very hard. But I thought, well, you never know – worth a try. Good for a laugh, at least. I thought it more than likely she’d been joking, anyway. I wasn’t really taking it seriously; so expectations weren’t high as I changed into the first pair. But when I opened the door, there she was. Still standing there, smiling.

‘So, what d’you think?’ I asked, giving her a poncey twirl. Ridiculous, when I look back!

‘Yes, you ... they look fine,’ she said, her little asp of a tongue flicking across her upper lip. ‘But perhaps we should try the other pair...?’

And suddenly – bloody hell! – to my amazement, there she was inside the cubicle with me, helping me off with the trousers.

Yes, that was it. Talk about a fast mover! Our first meeting – and four minutes later, our first shag. Standing up – a bit uncomfortable really, if you want the truth – with her holding my hand over her mouth with one hand, to muffle the noise, and clutching the trousers with the other, ‘to avoid soiling the merchandise’, as she explained afterwards.

Yes, ever the professional, our Mavis. Tells you a lot, that scene, doesn’t it? But, like I say, I never had any illusions. Irecognized it for what it was, right from the beginning. I knew what she was like, and I was only too happy to go along with it. Nice work if you can get it, my mates would have said – if I’d had any mates to say it. But I haven’t got any mates. Never have had. Don’t know why. Prefer my own company, I suppose. I’ve always been a loner. Till Mavis came along, that is. And even then, with her not being around very much, I was still alone most of the time. But, like I say, I couldn’t complain. I’ve always known the score. She never promised anything. Never pretended that what we had was permanent.

I understand all this. But the problem is – yes, you’ve guessed: you’ve probably even been there – I love her. Oh, I know she’s used me. Always has. And yes, I knew that what she felt for me was lust rather than love. But I didn’t care. I love her – and I want her, want her back here with me.

And it isn’t just a want. No, I need her. For the first time in my life, I need someone. I need to feel my heart skip a beat when I hear the deep sigh of that lift, or when I hear a footfall out there in the corridor and I know that she – that someone; perhaps anyone? – is about to ring my doorbell.

But she isn’t coming, is she? It’s been nearly six weeks now – and not a word. Not a phone call, not a text, not an e-mail. Nothing. Nothing but the whirr of my computer. And silence.

I feel cut off – like the way you do when you get that message flashing at you sometimes when you’re on-line: ‘You have been disconnected’. Yes, that’s me: I feel disconnected. It wouldn’t have worried me a year or so ago, when I wasn’t really connected in the first place. But it does now – particularly when I put the computer to sleep and there’s just me and the furniture. Just me and silence.

That’s the worst part: the silence. That’s why I’m out here now, where I can hear the planes
coming in and going out. Swooping and soaring like giant birds. Transporting people. Taking them out of themselves. Letting them dream awhile. Letting them dream of sun and sand and the company of others.

That’s what I’ve been doing: dreaming. Thinking I was fit for company. And I’m still dreaming. Dreaming what it would be like to fly like those big birds. Must be wonderful, mustn’t it? The freedom. The speed. The rush of air against your cheek.

Yes, how I wish I could stand here – perhaps on this chair – and just take off. Take off and flap my wings, and fly to some place where I can hear laughter, and the sea breaking gently on the sand. Some place where I can feel warmth – the warmth of the sun, yes; but better still, the warmth of someone’s body close to mine, touching me, telling me that I am still of this world. Breaking the silence. Ending this cold emptiness.

Yes, it would be so easy to just take off and fly – and a short time later to touch down, make
contact.

Any sort of contact, really. I don’t think I care any more.