or not. But I could still feel the pressure of Robin’s body against me, and it held me back.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Sure.”
“Couldn’t you do it? Couldn’t you treat me?”
He gave me a smile. I was outside the flat, he was inside it, keeping that space between us. “Conflict of interest,” he said.
I must have looked confused.
“If we’re going to be friends,” he said, “I’m too involved. It would be unprofessional.”
Before I had a chance to react to this, he’d given me a smile, said good night, and closed the door. I went all the way downstairs to the front door, and started the checking.
Monday 17 November 2003
In the early hours of the morning, just before it got light, just as I was about to fall asleep, he pulled himself closer to me, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“Catherine,” he whispered, close to my ear.
“Mm?”
A pause. I opened my eyes, making out the shape of him, close to me. “I lied to you,” he said.
I tried to sit up, but he held me down. “Just listen. I lied to you about what I do. I’m not just working on the door at the River; there’s other stuff I do as well.”
“What other stuff?” I murmured.
“I can’t tell you, not yet. I’m sorry, and I promise I will never lie to you about anything ever again.”
“Why can’t you tell me?”
“Lots of reasons.”
“Will you ever be able to tell me?”
“Probably. Just not yet.”
“Is it something bad?”
“Sometimes.”
There was a pause. I felt his hand stroking my hair, stroking it back from my face, incredibly gently.
“If you ask me about anything else, I’ll answer it,” he said.
“Are you married?” I said.
“No.”
“With someone?”
“No.”
I thought about this for a moment. “Am I going to regret falling for you?”
He gave a small laugh and kissed my cheek, very softly. “Probably. Anything else?”
“Are you a good man or a bad man?”
“That depends on whether you’re a good woman or a bad woman.”
I considered this response and decided it was a clever one.
“Are you going to turn up on my doorstep with injuries on a regular basis?”
“I hope not.”
“What happened to the other guy?”
“What other guy?”
“The one you were fighting with.”
A pause.
“He’s in the hospital.”
“Oh.”
“But he’ll be okay.”
“Am I going to be able to introduce you to my friends?”
“Not yet. Soon, I guess. If you want to.”
His hand ran from my cheek, down the side of my neck and over my naked skin, touching me softly, tenderly. “Any more questions?”
“Do you think you could make love to me again?”
His mouth against mine. “I think I could give it a try.”
Saturday 24 November 2007
The panic attack hit me just before four this morning. I’d been trying to sleep, but of course I hadn’t been able to. I was lying on the bed, thinking about it all and trying not to think about it at the same time. I’d put myself in danger by going out. The flat felt violated just as I did, even though it had happened outside in the street. I could sense his presence everywhere. There was only one thing that could possibly help me feel better, so I got up and started checking.
The first set of checks didn’t alleviate the panic, and I realized it was because I was still contaminated by him, so I stripped all my clothes off and put them into a black garbage bag. I tipped the contents of my handbag out onto the kitchen counter and stuffed the handbag into the bag too. I put it outside on the landing.
I went into the shower and scrubbed myself from head to foot, trying to get the feeling of Robin off me. My skin was red by the time I’d finished. I brushed my teeth until my gums bled, gargled with mouthwash, dressed in a pair of clean jogging pants and a sweatshirt.
After that, I checked the flat again. It was no good. Half an hour later, when I was still standing on the toilet seat, checking the stupid bathroom window that didn’t even open anyway, I realized I still felt dirty. It was the tears, flowing down my cheeks, contaminating my hot skin.
I stripped again. Clothes that had been clean out of the linen cabinet, shoved into the hamper.
Back into the shower. For a full thirty minutes I stood there, letting the water flow over my skin, aware that it stung from the last time I scrubbed it, trying to make myself believe that this meant I was clean.
There’s nothing