affairs and beach stones

12th November, 1957

FROST STILL ON the pavements, the gas heater leaking fumes into my office, a sweater on beneath my jacket, Jackie shivering loudly at every opportunity, and he came back.

The time: seven thirty. The day: Tuesday. I was finishing a plate of goulash at the flat. And suddenly the buzzer shrieked. DUM-de went my heart, but just once. I've almost learned not to expect him to be there.

But there he was. He said nothing as I opened up. I managed to catch his eye for a second before he looked down.

'It's Tuesday, isn't it?' he said. His voice was calm, rather cool.

I showed him in. This time he carried no uniform and was wearing a long grey overcoat, which he allowed me to take from him once we were inside. The garment was large enough to make a canopy, to take shelter beneath, and I stood for a moment, holding it in my arms and watching him as he made his way to the spare bedroom without invitation from me.

In a fit of tidying, I'd removed the easel and paints, and the chair in which he'd posed was now back in its proper place, next to the bed.

He stopped in the centre of the room and swivelled round to face me. 'Aren't you going to draw me?' His normally pink cheeks were pale and his eyes were stony.

I was still holding on to the coat. 'If you like ...' I said, looking around for somewhere to discard it. Placing it on the bed seemed a bit too forward. Like tempting fate.

'I thought that's what we were doing here. A portrait. On Tuesday evenings. A portrait of an ordinary person. Like me.'

I draped his overcoat across the chair. 'I can draw you, if you like ...'

'If I like? I thought it was what you wanted.'

'Nothing's set up, but—'

'This isn't even a studio, is it?'

I ignored this. Allowed a small silence to pass. 'Why don't we discuss this in the sitting room?'

'Did you get me here under false pretences?' His voice was low, a shiver of anger running through it. 'You're one of them importuners, aren't you? You got me here with one thing in mind, didn't you?'

He licked his lips. Pushed back his cuffs. Took a step towards me. In that moment, he looked every inch the bully- boy policeman.

I stepped back, sat on the bed and closed my eyes. I was ready for the blow. For the big fist on my cheekbone. You've got yourself into this mess, Tomlinson, I told myself. These toughs are all the same. Just like that boy Thompson at school: fucking me by night, fighting me by day.

'Answer my question,' he demanded. 'Or don't you have an answer?'

Without opening my eyes, I replied in the softest voice I could: 'Is this how you treat your suspects?'

I don't know quite what possessed me to push him like this. Some remnant of trust in him, I suppose. Some belief that his fear would pass.

A long pause. We were still close; I could hear his breathing slow. I opened my eyes. He was looming over me, but his usual flushed complexion had returned. His eyes were an intense green.

'I can draw you,' I said, looking up at him. 'I'd like to. I want to complete the portrait. That's not a lie.'

His jaw was working slowly, as if he were keeping back some utterance.

I said his name. And when I reached out a hand and hooked it behind his thigh, he did not move away from me. 'I'm sorry if you think I got you here for one thing only. That could never be true.'