Sottopassaggio (18 page)

My heart starts to race.
Steve
!

It's can't be Steve of course. Wrong town.
“Steve is in Nice not Brighton,”
I think.
“Steve is dead.”

But he has Steve's walk, Steve's hair. He's even dressed in the same casual sporty clothes that Steve wears. “
Wore
,” I correct myself.

He disappears into
Dixons
, and I stand, insanely routed to the red pavement, watching people criss-crossing the space before me.

Realising that I am holding my breath, I consciously force myself to inhale. Then I start to follow him, drawn, zombie-like towards the store.

I peer in through the window and see him swipe a package from the shelves – a pack of blank videocassettes. He places these on the sales counter, glances at his watch and nods and smiles in response to the salesman's joke.

A few minutes earlier I would have been hard put to create a coherent mental image of Steve. It's been months since the accident, and it feels like much longer. Even when we
were
together, well, it didn't last long.

But as I watch him smile, I remember. And the memory makes me smile myself.

I watch the gesture as he nervously runs a finger
around the collar of his tracksuit top as he talks. Every inch of him, every gesture,
is
Steve.

He laughs again and hands over a banknote. I can hear my own heartbeat. He lifts the bag from the counter and turns slowly towards the exit, towards me.

He vanishes behind a huge red
sale
poster in the window, then reappears only feet away.

I step forward. I have to speak to him. “Excuse me?” I say.

He stops and turns to me, raising an eyebrow. And the instant I look into his eyes I see that it is not him. It is not him at all.

“Yeah?” he asks. His voice is deeper than Steve's. The language is English. His accent is pure East Sussex.

“Sorry, I… Have you got the time?” I ask.

He glances at my wrist and frowns. I realise that I'm wearing a watch so I lift my wrist and wrinkle my nose.

“It stops all the time,” I say.

He nods, unconvinced, and pulls a mobile from his pocket. “Five past nine mate,” he says.

I nod. “Thanks,” I say, croakily.

The man frowns at me, forces a smile and then hurries away.

I stand in front of
Dixons Biggest Ever Sale
and watch him walk away; watch the man who is exactly like Steve, and yet is nothing like Steve slowly disappear from view.

I feel a sting behind my eyes, a tremble in my hands, in my lips. I push my hands into the pockets of my jeans and force my teeth tighter together and squint and swallow.

I stare silently into the middle distance and slowly my heart slows and I am left feeling stunned and thought-less as if brain function has been momentarily suspended. I take a deep breath and start towards home.

I pass the clock tower again and decide to head right, to head straight down to the sea. A sit on the beach will clear my mind. I can come back and tackle
Sports World
another time.

As I cross the pelican crossing, a horn sounds. I pause momentarily, wondering if I have stepped out at the wrong time but pedestrians continue to cross, flooding either side of me.

I step forwards, but the horn sounds again, so I turn and peer at the car – a red Mini – but a reflection on the windscreen prevents me from seeing inside.

The side window slides down and a head appears, spiky hair jutting into the daylight.

“Mark!” he says.

I half smile, half frown at Tom's eager face.

“Here, jump in!” he orders.

“I…”

“Get in, we can talk. I'll pull over further up,” he says.

He leans over and pushes the passenger door open.

The lights change, and without thinking I get into the passenger seat and pull the door closed behind me. Heat is shimmering from the bonnet of the car, but the inside is cool and crisp with air-conditioning.

“But I…”

Tom glances in the rear view mirror and accelerates away. I reach for the dashboard, brace myself in the seat.

“Nothing can happen,” I tell myself. “We're in town travelling at…” I glance at the speedometer. “10 miles an hour.”

Tom swings right and parks the car in a loading bay. He pulls on the handbrake.

“That's better,” he says, reaching for the keys and switching off the engine.

He turns to me and his smile fades. “What's wrong with you?” he says. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

His keys swing and bump against the plastic.

I snort ironically and raise my hand to rub the bridge of my nose. Tom peers at me enquiringly.

“I have,” I say. “Kind of.”

He releases his seatbelt and turns his body slightly towards me, squeaking on the leather of the seat.

“You have?” he asks.

“I'm sorry,” I say, smiling weakly. “I just saw someone… Someone who looks like someone I know, someone I knew. A friend.”

Tom nods slowly.

“A
dead
friend,” I explain.

Tom scrunches his eyebrows into a look of concern and strokes my knee. “Oh…” he says. “Poor you.”

I nod and give a little shake of my head. “It's nothing, I'm fine really; I just…” I shrug. “He
really
looked like him that's all.”

Tom nods.

“Like Steve, my ex.”

Tom nods again and blows through his lips. “Your ex,” he repeats. “God!”

He glances at his watch. “Look… You fancy a coffee? I have time. Just about.”

I glance around looking for coffee bars.

“My place is just round the corner,” he says.

I grind my teeth together in hesitation.

“It's
literally
two blocks,” he says.

I shrug. “OK,” I say. “Sure.”

I sit in silence as he drives to the flat. It really is two blocks away but all the same I grip the side of the seat. It's weird sitting on the right, in what should be the driver's seat, but with no steering wheel.

As I get out of the car, I say, “That was OK actually,” and Tom frowns at me in amusement.

I shake my head. “Don't listen to me,” I say. “I'm just being weird today.”

Tom walks to my side and touches my shoulder. “Yeah,” he says in a concerned tone. “You're a bit NQR today aren't you.”

“NQR?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Not Quite Right,” he grins.

I laugh lightly. “Yep. That would pretty much describe it,” I say, following him down a flight of steps. “
NQR
,” I repeat.

Tom pushes open the door to the basement flat. “It's a mess,” he warns. “I've been too busy to clean.”

He looks back at me sheepishly. “Actually, I'm
always
too busy to clean,” he laughs.

The flat is big, but being underground it's fairly dark. The lounge is filled with an eclectic collection of character-full antiques, a Louis XV meridian covered in purple velvet sits in the window, an ornate carved white armchair opposite.

Along one side of the room an alcove contains a big double bed covered with satiny quilts and cushions providing both bed and seating.

“Sit,” he instructs me. “I'll make coffee.”

I perch on the edge of the meridian, actually wondering how strong it is, and look up through the window.

A pram passes, followed by a pair of feet in black leather, high-heeled boots.

“Cool flat,” I say. “It reminds me of that Almodovar film.”

Tom pops his head around the corner. “
High Heels
?” he laughs. “That's what I thought when I moved in. Every time I see a woman walk by, I think of the opening sequence from that film.”

“Sorry I was weird,” I say.

“Uh?” he shouts from the kitchen.

“I'm sorry I was weird,” I say loudly. “I had a funny morning, that's all.”

“Sure. You take sugar?” he asks.

“Yeah, two,” I say. “I feel OK now.”

I stroke my hand along the carved armrest of the meridian. “I love your furniture,” I say, running my fingernail around a red sticker.

“Yeah,” Tom laughs, his voice getting louder as he returns with the coffees. “Most of it will have to go probably,” he says, placing them on a side table.

“Antonio is into minimalism in a big way,” he says, sitting opposite me. He nods at the red sticker. “That's what the stickers are for. Red means
no go
.”

I frown at him.

“The stuff he hates has red stickers on. The stuff he likes, green ones.”

I pull a face. “How strange,” I say.

“I suppose if we're going to live together...” Tom shrugs. “It's only stuff.”

I nod. “I suppose so, but well, stuff's important isn't it?” I say. I stroke the back of the meridian. “And this is really nice,” I add.

Tom nods. “Yeah, well, you can have it when I move if you want.”

“But that seems really…” I am about to say,
controlling
, but I hear Jenny's voice in my head, telling me not to be negative. “Strange,” I say.

“That's just the way it is I guess.” Tom sighs and looks around the room. He strokes the padded arm of his chair. “I covered this myself,” he adds.

I nod. “It's lovely.”

He laughs. “It's very throne like. Very Queen Victoria.”

I smile. “But Antonio is not amused.”

Tom shakes his head and taps a sticker on the chair back. “Yellow. Means possibly. If I'm good.”

I nod. “How… Organized,” I say. I scan the room, playing spot-the-dots. Every piece of furniture truly does have a dot. Most of them are red.

Tom follows my gaze, then sighs, and says, “So do you want to talk about it, or are you OK?”

I frown at a large, black, clasped case in the corner.

“Sorry?” I turn back to face him and shake my head. “Oh, no, I'm fine. What's that in the corner?”

Tom glances over. “The blob lamp?”

I shake my head. “The black…”

“Oh, the sax. It's my saxophone,” he says.

“Sax,” I say. “Do you… um... play?” I ask. My voice rasps. I try to control my expression and end up pulling a pained, tight-lipped smile.

Tom nods. “Sure,” he says, adding with a shrug. “I'm pretty good really. I learnt to play when I was eight, well, clarinet. And sax when I was, oh, about twelve I suppose.”

I bite my bottom lip and shake my head and picture Steve's sax sitting in the corner of my flat in Nice. My vision is blurring, wrinkling as water fills my eyes. My throat is swelling making it hard to swallow.

Tom frowns and then moves across the room, dropping to his knees before me.

“You're not OK at all, are you?” he says.

He puts a hand on my knee and looks up at me. I smile and actually manage a laugh, despite the tears in my eyes.

“I'm being stupid,” I say. “I don't know what's wrong with me.”

Tom wipes a tear from my cheek with his thumb and smiles sadly. “You really don't like saxophone huh?” he laughs.

I smile and snort at the same time. My nose runs, so I wipe it on my hand. “This is all daft,” I say.

Tom nods, encouraging me to continue.

“Steve had a sax,” I say. “I have it,” I shrug. “At home.”

Tom nods. “Steve?”

I nod. “The guy who died, I never heard him play though.”

My voice quivers and fails. I sigh and force a smile. “Sorry, I don't know what's going on. It's Steve day today or something,” I say.

Tom smiles warmly. His eyes seem to be glistening too. “That's the trouble with the dead,” he says. “You never know quite when they'll surface.”

I shake my head. “This is all just a bit melodramatic.” I manage a little laugh.

Tom pulls me towards him and hugs me, rubbing my back. “It's OK,” he says. “My mum died recently, and, well, I know what it's like.”

I hear his voice cracking too, and it pushes me over the edge; I snort and release a snotty sob.

Tom rubs my back. “It'll get better,” he says. “You just have to know that it'll get easier, and wait.”

We remain like this for a couple of minutes. My sadness fades and to my shame, the hug starts to make me feel horny. Embarrassed, I push away and head to the bathroom to wash my face.

When I return, Tom is on his mobile. I watch him for a minute or so. He shrugs an apology at me and moves to the window.

“Yes,” he says. “I know.”

“…”

“I'm just going back.”

“…”

I stand and look at his CD collection.

“It's lunch time,” he says.

We have a surprising number of identical CD's.

“Well I think he's OK,” Tom is saying. “So why shouldn't…”

I run my finger down the spines: Japan, Kid Loco, David Sylvian, Everything But The Girl... I grin. Tom even has Kate Bush.

I glance over at him but he's frowning as he listens. He glances up at me, then says, “Hang on,” and lowers the phone to his chest.

“Sorry Mark, I think this is gonna take a while if you know what I mean. Work shit. Could you just see yourself out? Would you mind?”

I nod. “No problem,”

I drink down the last of my coffee, and push out the front door.

As I climb the basement stairs I look regretfully back in through the window at Tom.

“For god's sake,” he's shouting.

I make a grimace as I climb the stairs and think,
“Poor Tom!”

Just as I reach the top, I hear one last phrase.

“He's a friend for fuck's sake.
Uno amico
!” Tom says. “I bumped into him in the street!”

At 2pm when I get back up, I feel revived and normal. My theory of going back to bed in order to start the day over has worked.