CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I lived at my mother’s house for several days or, rather, grabbed the occasional sandwich and slept there. The unsocial hours I worked meant I could easily avoid seeing anyone. I did exactly that. Even so, I regularly checked the telephone pad for any sign that Matthew had called. Nothing! Neither did my mobile screen once spell out his name. Every so often, I’d start to dial his number, but a stubborn streak always caused me to change my mind.
Early one afternoon, I returned to the flat after convincing myself that I needed a change of clothes, although I had more than enough at home. I expected Matthew to be at work so it was with some surprise and not a few misgivings that I saw his car parked nearby. Even so, I was not fully prepared for the shock to my system of seeing his precious motorbike standing, without its usual protective cover, outside the house itself. I managed a terse grin. He loved that bike. Shaun had helped him choose it and I’d bought him a leather motorcycle jacket for Christmas. My present from him had been the same. We had each yelled, “Snap!” before embracing in tears of laughter, slid slowly to the floor and let passion take its course.
I sighed. We hadn’t even shared a kiss for weeks before I left.
If I was sorely tempted to turn away, my stubborn streak was having none of it, and provoked the question why the hell should I? After all, didn’t I have as much right to be there as he did? We were partners, for crying out loud, partners. I tried the word out on my tongue and it came as naturally as it always had. A sudden resolve to take the bull by the horns came over me. It was time to get things sorted once and for all.
The front door had been left ajar. I turned my key in the flat door and assumed what I hoped was a purposeful expression. Matthew lay sprawled in an armchair taking swigs from a bottle of vodka. He did not appear to notice me at first, so I was able to observe him dispassionately. He looked terrible, as if he hadn’t bothered to wash, shave or even change his clothes for days. His eyes were red-rimmed, grey and baggy.
There were empty bottles, greasy plates and mugs everywhere.
Poised to take another swig from the bottle, he suddenly sensed my presence before proceeding to drink, dribble and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, and only then, did he lift his head and look directly at me. “Well, well,” he shouted in a choked, slurring voice I scarcely recognized, “The prodigal returns! What the hell for, eh? Tell me that, if you can.” He took another swig but his eyes never left my face.
So shocked was I by his appearance that I couldn’t speak but continued to stare at this ghastly apparition that bore precious little resemblance to the Matthew I knew and, yes, loved.
I froze. My God, I thought, you look like a bloody tramp. It was true. His face was not only unshaven but a blotchy red. His nose as well as his mouth was dribbling, unchecked down a stubbly chin.
“Cat got your tongue, eh?” he taunted me, “So much the better. I’m in no mood to listen to you pontificating about this, that, and the kitchen sink! So just clear off and leave me alone. Leave me alone, damn you!” he yelled and tried to stand but fell back in the chair so heavily that it almost upturned.
“I’ve come for some clothes,” I said stiffly.
“Oh, only clothes, nothing else? Like maybe you’d like to apologize for fucking up my life?” averting his head and throwing up over the chair arm.
I swallowed bile and still could not move.
Wiping his mouth, this time on the sleeve of a grubby shirt, he flung me a long, accusing look that chilled me to the marrow. “I love you. I love you, for fuck’s sake!” he screamed and kept repeating in the same shrill, drunken, falsetto voice.
I could not bear it and left.
I walked for miles, trying to make some sense of that awful scene at the flat. I failed, miserably. I only knew one thing for sure. I should have stayed, tried to help or at least cleared up the mess. There would have been no point in even trying to talk things through. But I could have cleaned him up, put him to bed. So why didn’t I? Before I could attempt to answer my own question, the full lipped, smiling face of Billy Mack superimposed itself on Matthew’s grim, dishevelled image in my mind’s eye. “Oh, Billy, why did you have to die?” I murmured, loud enough for a passer-by to throw me the strangest look. Billy, though, just grinned. Then his face became a blur. It seemed to spread, the blur, and suck me under like quicksand.
I have no clear recollection of how I made it back to the house, only of stumbling, along, floundering, trying to call out, Help me. Please, somebody help me, if unable to make a sound.
The next day, Matthew called at the house. He looked almost his old self, having washed, shaved and changed into a clean jumper and jeans, but wore no coat even though it was bitterly cold. His face was pinched and drawn. His eyes seemed to squat uncomfortably in dusky sockets. But he had evidently assumed some responsibility for himself again and I felt encouraged, especially when he managed a wry grin that I returned, effortlessly, with one of my own.
“Can I come in?”
I nodded, stood aside to let him pass and wondered what I could expect as I followed him into the front lounge. Mum always insisted that we kept it ultra-tidy for the benefit of unexpected callers. Consequently, it had an air of the artificial, even surreal. Friends and neighbours usually gathered in the sitting room or, better still, around the long, wooden table in our kitchen. “Not there. Go on through.” I said, but Matthew either did not hear or chose to ignore me.
For a long, awkward moment we just stood there, staring at each other, fumbling for something to say without any success. “Take a seat,” I said at last and he perched on the edge of an armchair. I sat on an arm of the sofa and kept remonstrating with myself for feeling so…Nervous? No, not just nervous. I was scared stiff. There was something strained and altogether wrong about Matthews’s manner above and beyond that of a lover seeking…What, reconciliation? Even as I began to hope so, a sinking feeling warned me to expect nothing of the kind. His eyes were unnaturally bright, his lower lip quivering. This is it, I told myself and struggled to stay calm, this is where I get dumped once and for all.
“I have something to tell you,” he said at last. His voice was quiet but clear and determined. He paused then, “I’ve been tested.”
“You and me both,” I retorted.
“You don’t understand. What I mean is, I’ve had an HIV test,” wincing at my involuntary gasp, “I don’t know why I had it really. I suppose I thought it was a responsible thing to do, just to be on the safe side and all that. I swear, I had no idea I was…”
You’re HIV positive?” The room swam.
He looked away, appeared to think better of it and swung round to meet my appalled gaze. “I had no idea, honest. You have to believe that, Rob. I’ve always been so careful. But I guess low risk is never one hundred per cent no risk.” His voice dropped to a barely audible murmur, “Apparently, it isn’t easily passed on so…You might be okay. But here’s where to go, the times and everything.” He took a leaflet from his jeans pocket and handed it to me. When I refused to take it, he leaned forward and laid it on the mahogany coffee table.
I followed his movements like someone hypnotised. The neat print on the leaflet leapt out at me. Blood spots began dancing before my eyes. Say something, Rob, I kept telling myself. Say something damn it! But my throat felt parched and my mouth obstinately refused to unlock a single word.
“Say something,” he pleaded as if reading my thoughts. “Please, Rob, say something,” he sobbed. The sound completely gutted me. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, you know that. I love you.”
I wanted to go to him, give him a big hug, kiss him and tell him it didn’t matter, that nothing mattered because I loved him too. Instead, anger flickered and flared in me, finally burst into life on my dry, foul-tasting tongue. I slid off the sofa arm and shakily confronted him. My expression must have said it all. The pleading expression vanished and a look of pain cut me to the quick but did nothing to contain a rage in me like a storm-lashed river bursting its banks.
He glanced panic-stricken at the door, even took a several faltering steps towards it. “I’ll go,” he mumbled, ‘I’ll go! I’ll get out of your life. I will, Rob, I will!”
It took only two strides to block his path. “You’re not going anywhere until I’ve got this absolutely straight, you bastard!” I insisted, “You’re saying I could well have AIDS, and you may have given it to me, right?” I was screaming in my head, but could barely muster a harsh whisper.
Being HIV positive isn’t the same as having AIDS,” he mumbled again, “It means you have the virus, not the disease. And people are living so much longer with HIV now, like ten, fifteen, twenty years with the right medication. It doesn’t even follow that because I’m positive you are too. We won’t know until you get the results of the test.”
“Oh, yes, the test, let’s not forget the test, “ I said acidly, “It’s a pity you didn’t think about that sooner, you bastard!” Even as I did yell at him this time, I knew it was fear, not anger, getting the better of me. But I couldn’t stop. “Of course I’ll have the bloody test. What choice do I have? But we both know what the result will be, don’t we?”
“No, we don’t,” he sobbed.
“Of course we do!” I screamed hysterically, “I’m going to die because of you. Because of you, you bastard! You bastard! Bastard, bastard...!
He slapped my face hard. My cheek stung. Perversely, it was a comfort.
Matthew seemed much calmer all of a sudden. He took a tentative step towards me and would have placed a hand on my shoulder if I hadn’t stumbled backwards.
“Don’t touch me,” I yelled, “Don’t touch me!”
“I love you Rob.”
The misery in his voice managed to penetrate the sheer chaos of whatever I was feeling (I couldn’t even put a name to it) but it made no difference. “Don’t touch me,” I hissed. At the same time, I so wanted his arms around me. “Get out,” I yelled, “get out! Just…GO” I could not stop shaking.
Matthew left, head bowed, without another word or look passing between us.
Slowly, my shaking eased. A leafy pattern on the carpet wholly occupied my mind for several minutes. Gradually, I resumed the role of a thinking human being albeit my humanity took a while longer to reassert itself. Knowing, if loath to admit I had behaved so badly towards Matthew was nothing compared to the realization that I might be HIV positive. I gritted my teeth. I’d have the damn test, of course I would. (I had a choice?) Nothing, after all, was certain. I might be clear. But my senses homed in on that word ‘might’ and I began to shake again.
Even going to make a cup of tea required all the self-control I could muster. I kept thinking, ...but I love Matthew. He would never intentionally hurt me. So where has all this hate suddenly come from? But hate was something real. I could get a grip on hate. For now, at least, it would have to do. I wasn’t ready (would I ever be?) to contend with a naked fear of the unknown.
Hours later, my thought processes, such as they were, began to focus again on Mathew. His face, ravaged with pain, loomed larger than life and refused to budge. I began to feel as guilty as hell. Not so guilty though that I could bring myself to reach for my mobile and dial his number. Hate had been sidelined; self-pity now occupied the space it left.
It was another week before I summoned the courage to arrange a test. I looked up a Walk-In Centre on the Internet that was neither local nor too far away, and called in the next day. Everyone was very nice and I felt curiously at ease and nervous at the same time. I only had to wait ten minutes to be seen and less than half an hour for the results, but it was the longest timeline of my life.
I was HIV positive.
I barely remember what followed, only someone being very kind and reassuring. Information leaflets were pressed in my hand. I found them in my shoulder bag later, but don’t remember putting them there.
Somehow, I found myself on the street again. It seemed to me that everyone was looking at me, giving me funny looks, talking about me, judging me...
The next thing I recall was a sensation of being caught up in massive jaws, rows of gleaming teeth, poised to chew me up and spit me out. I broke into a cold sweat.
It was only when I heard someone shout my name that the excruciating hum of conversation in my ears stopped. Startled, I turned to see Baz Pearce hobbling towards me on crutches. Liz Daniels was with him, her hair a spiky blue. We greeted each other like old friends although we were hardly that. They belonged to another time, another world. Billy’s world, one that had never been mine. Besides, I had moved on. (Well, hadn’t I?)
“Had a run-in with a lawnmower,” Baz laughed, “How about you? What’s new with you these days?”
“Oh, the usual stuff, you know…” I mumbled.
“Fancy a pint in the pub across the road?”
“You’re not supposed to drink,” Liz scolded but a cheeky smile took the sting out of her words.
For a second or two, I was tempted. They made an odd couple but seemed genuinely fond of one another and the offer of some light, cheerful company was like manna from heaven. I had barely opened my mouth to agree when panic struck. I glanced at my watch. Was it really only two o’clock? “Sorry, I have to get to work,” I blurted and walked hurriedly away. A bemused expression on their faces stayed with me all the way to a pub several streets away and I couldn’t stop giggling even as I ordered the first of several large brandies.
I did not get drunk, although not for want of trying. I kept thinking how cute the barman was in his sunny yellow shirt, polka dot bow tie and smart green waistcoat. He had to be gay, surely? Then he caught me watching him. I grinned. His answering scowl warned me I was mistaken but struck me as so comic I burst into another fit of giggles. A mouthful of brandy went down the wrong way and I nearly choked. An enormous black women n a flowery dress gave me a heart slap on the back. I could have sworn I heard bones crack. As it was, I toppled from my stool and slithered half the length of the bar before ending up in an untidy heap beneath the probing nose of a startled Labrador.
“My, that was gracefully done!” boomed the black woman between peals of laughter. Soon the entire bar joined in, including the disapproving barman and me. I got to my feet, patted the dog, wrestled manfully with the knowledge that I was stone cold sober again and left with a round of good-humoured applause ringing in my ears.
Outside, a subtle warmth and freshness in the air (harbingers of spring?) reminded me that, for all I knew, subsequent seasons were likely to sell me short.
.
