My mother Agnes, and I.

The scene with Thom had left me agitated. So I took a glass of brandy and wandered around the rooms of my house, trying to see something, anything, from a new angle. Nothing sufficed so I pulled the ladder down and went into the attic. It was here I found a few old photos, including this one of mother and I. An observant reader will notice the soft, oval face of the Kent- Sussex border. I prefer to dwell on the monstrous headgear, clearly indicative of that regions lunacy. Looking closer, you will find that while your attention is directed towards my mother's exposed left breast, I am quietly pointing in the other direction, doing all I can to subvert your interest in my Mum. There is a distance between us, though. She seems to be leaning away from me. Already, the lake is freezing over. You will notice, too, that my back seems a little stiff. Although I am bollock naked, I am trying to look my best. Of course it was thirty years, followed by seven years of therapy, before I loosened up a little. I closed the attic door on myself. In the pitch blackness, I lay down and curled up between the suitcases and the black plastic bags.

We were stuck. Thom didn't have a key, his mother wasn't home until six and Serena ( I wasn't listening at this point ), was at a pottery class. So, back in the car and continuing our mutual abasement, I took him for a Drive- Thru burger which, at the last minute, I told him to pay for. Even though he was stunned by my miserliness, he also glimpsed the possibility of his own independence ( or individuation...) and, in seconds, found the money. Beyond the mist of his guilt, he knew it was the strong thing to do. It occurred to me after all the thousands of pounds  I have spent buying him whatever he wanted, this is the moment he would always remember. He will forget it was the day I discovered he was a drug fiend. He'll only remember his stingy bastard father who wouldn't stretch to a Drive-Thru burger. He leapt out of the car, desperate to pay, to consolidate this as memory. My training tells me this is the moment every father of boys' secretly relishes, their own good-riddance.

And so there we were, man and boy, driving in circles. Nowhere to go. The reason Thom and I didn't speak for four months is...One day over the Christmas holidays he got stuck ( not having a key ) for places to go and so he bought Lyra, his first ever girlfriend, back to my house...It was awful. And he hasn't spoken to me since. But that, dear Reader, is a story Thom can tell...Silence...The cannabis had permeated, to be replaced by the perfumed smell of Drive-Thru burger. Only the sound of him eating. The noise of other people....why have I never analysed this..? Chewing, I can tolerate. But depending on my mood, the sound of swallowing makes me rage. So where are we going, Thom? 

Ich WeiB nicht, he said.


Well we cant go to your house. And you won't come to mine..

No way...

I contained the moment, took a breath, and felt very dangerous. It was as though I had resolved to do something without having any idea what it was...Is this how it went with my insane ancestors? I drove faster. There was no way on this earth that my son was going to take from this situation  the memory of buying his first ever burger. Will he think this was the day he became a man? No, I was not done yet. No good riddance to this paternity, not yet. I was not doing any dying today. I drove faster. In the rear view mirror, there was fear on his lips. It was good. Right, we are going to back to the station, back to your friends...In seconds we were there. The five boys leaning against the wall of the waiting room. Well get out then...! I reached over, unlocking the door. My body was so tight, there was no give...GET OUT...!  He didn't say anything. He tried to move, but couldn't..No, no..I'm sorry..Just get OUT...!!! For all my anger, I could see he was too shocked to move...To make it worse, I took to whispering...Get out...Thus began Thom, screaming. And he wailed, and wailed. He kicked the passenger seat and when he'd done kicking, he smashed his head against it, over and over...Finally, when he'd done, I whispered again...Get out. And he did, very slowly and without shutting the door. I drove off, leaving my son where I had found him.

And he stank...Firstly, plumping himself on the back seat sent a wave of cannabis over to the front. Thereafter, every gesture sent another wave. I opened the window. Didn't want him having any funny ideas about opening his window. If he was going to escape, it would be at speed. If he doesn't want this conversation then he can smash his head on the A 27 and roll into some hedges. Turning round to look at him I  expected to see a middle aged drug addict. The hooded eyes, the dull and implacable stare. This expectation was so fierce, Thom was just a blur...Cromwell Road...too slow...Wilbury Ave... slow...Sod it, up Dyke Road...I had no idea where to go. Eastbourne...London. There must be somewhere for these conversations to occur...A grey Nissan hut somewhere, off the M25, perhaps next to the Asylum Seeker Unit...I wouldn't mind handing in my weapons to the sentry guard...before being led to G Block, the Father- Son Amnesty...YOU'VE BEEN SMOKING SKUNK...!!! 

It's not skunk, it's just normal..

Oh, just normal... I weighed that, then, gently... So, have you any idea what...just normal cannabis can do...?

There's no schizophrenia in our family.

HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT'S IN THE FAMILY..? 

I slammed the brakes, turned round and, mad as loon, stared into his eyes. Imagining generations of madness wasn't difficult. These mad ancestors were coming mainly from my mother's side, centuries of soft, oval faces from the Kent- Sussex  border, hiding unfathomable lunacy. Breathing deeply, I returned to the wheel, the car, the road. There was a job of work to be done here. And that was driving. Steering this family back into the right direction. I hadn't meant to trap him. Denial would have been easier because, frankly,  I had no idea what to do next. But worse, I wasn't sure he felt trapped. He was stoned, and the passivity could destroy us. It became very clear I should take him back to his, mercifully, sharp jawed  mother. A quick left, back onto Wilbury Avenue. We were making a perfect circle.

Anyway, you used to drink opium...

What?

I said, you used to..

I WHAT...?

I blinked rapidly, trying to peel my mind from the windscreen. Was I in the absurd position of denying my drug use to my stoned, but open and honest son? And then, as if to help me out, the mad ancestors returned. 

THOM! Have you any idea? Have you?

Did he shake his head?...

I'm carrying the weight of...

Of what?

THE WEIGHT OF....

Glaring at him. I was about to say...Europe. At last he flinched, looked away. I didn't say it, or even know why I nearly said it. But I was thankful for the generational madness, the insane drug addled, oval faced ancestors from the Kent- Sussex border, because I knew they would wash away the memory of this moment. As Hamlet knew, when you cannot give a straight answer to a straight question, be mad.

And then, God's turn. It was late afternoon in the kitchen with Gareth. We were finishing early and, gamefully, decided to wind down together over a mug of tea. He spoke of his sister back in Wales, his mother. As a militant homosexual, he had disowned his family twenty years ago, their disapproval clearly too painful. However, it transpires that someone with a Welsh telephone number has been trying to contact him so now, aware that his mother or father could have died, Gareth is unsure what to do. With all my height and girth, I wanted to bear down on him and say, with the force of self evident heterosexual and patriarchal truth that, you call back. You just call back.  But instead, with an ache in my heart for Thom, I found a more poetic and, seemingly, gentler response. Look, you've been walking away from your family all these years. If one of them has died, you'll be running from them. Gareth smarted, but stood his ground. Initially,  in the silence that followed, it felt as if our heads were banging against each other. As the feeling eased off, I began to wonder if we would soon be talking about the crucial subject of the availability, or otherwise, of my room. But no, Gareth really was elsewhere. It's good about Helen, he said, she seems happy. I let that fall between us...Was it possible that Gareth was jealous, possibly as much as me?  Was I going to bond with him over it...? Or was he goading me into, what, a racial transgression...? I tapped the phone in my pocket. Clearly some messages were coming through...Within two minutes I was on the A27, the fast road home, doubling back past the station until, WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK ARE YOU FUCKING.....?

I slammed the brakes.

Six of them standing in a circle. Anywhere from twelve to sixteen, all hair and trousers and pale, ironed faces. Smoking cannabis was surely the most animated activity they'd ever known. They smoked, puckering their lips like girls. And while Thom was not the smallest member of the gang, he was surely the youngest and so, while not the runt, he was still WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK WAS HE DOING

I slung open the back door, smiling at all of them, especially Thom...And docile, too, like he'd always been expecting me to turn up after four months of no contact and pick him off the streets for a few chips and movie. He got into the car, as if it were yesterday.

I arrived at work to find Helen in the kitchen. She had pinned a leaflet to the notice board. What do you think? Her tone was light, yet precise. It was the familiar warm, but wavering invitation to enter her space. Only a few months ago this scenario would have concluded, later in the day or when Gareth was at lunch, back in her room. But things had changed and, as if I had to continually register my acceptance of this, I took a deep, audible breath and peered over at the leaflet. In fact, I peered over as if the whole concept of leaflets, notice boards, kitchens, as if the whole lot were beyond me. A meditation class? Can't make Tuesdays, I'm afraid. Well it's not meant for you, is it? The warmth in her voice remained, as if to pass on to me some of the domestic calm she enjoys with her African lover. Did I detect a hint of pity? Well, you know what I think of meditation. Polishing a pair of shoes is more therapeutic. I was missing something. I looked again at the leaflet. Oh, you are running the meditation class! Was she qualified? I kept that to myself, or thought I had. I did a two day workshop, she said.  And as she spoke about the lack of regulation in the practice of meditation, I followed the rhythm of her words, but not the meaning. In this mild trance I looked again at the leaflet as if to ground myself. Instead, I pictured Karen doing the camel. Without knowing why I thrust my hands into my pockets and, scooping up some coins said, Ok, I'll come to the meditation class. But it's not for you, she said again. I sensed her keen pleasure in saying this. Were her lips tingling? I leaned towards her, laughing. And maybe this moment contained everything between us- her rejection of me, her preciousness, my persistence, my absurdity- for she laughed too. For a moment, we were racked with it. And somewhere, between the back of my closed eyes and my heaving belly, soul cleaved in. A moment later I straightened up, opening my eyes, sharply aware that I would, actually, be at the meditation class on Tuesday.



                 

Love the book, absolutely, just love it. Axel was lying. Turn of phrase, everything, love it. I hadn't expected Axel to call so soon. Leaving me to stew for a while was the form. Nevertheless, he was still lying. A few months ago- I had barely started the second chapter- Axel called saying that Germaine Greer was prepared to call my book the greatest work of feminist literature since Simone De Beauvoir. I wasn't aware Axel owned any publishing houses. Possibly he owns Hamish Hamilton. More likely, he owns the man who owns Hamish Hamilton. Hence, Germaine Greer. I was appalled. But this is beyond gender! This book changes the language! He hadn't a clue what he was saying. At this point, he hadn't read the book, and I hadn't written it. It's none of that post-feminist, don't really give a shit stuff, this is messianic feminism!  Goddammit, this is gangs of women raping men in forests ! This is Amazonian! It was this kind of talk that inclined me, over the winter, into writing a more academic work than was expected. Yet he was still saying how he loved it, absolutely.  Most likely, he was priming me for another confrontation at a later date, possibly face to face. I changed the subject. Axel, those photos, the boat party photos? Where have they come from? It had been an article of faith, right from the inception of the boat parties, that no cameras or photographic equipment of any kind were allowed on board. It was almost the founding principle of the whole enterprise. It had even survived the explosion of visual culture over the last twenty years. We just did not film ourselves. Apart from appealing to an earlier generation of sensual humanists, it was also, plainly, to avoid blackmail. How could Axel guarantee the safety of the politicians, the European delegates, the African diplomats, not to say the occasional cricketer, if there was even a single camera on board? Dear boy, those photos are the only ones that exist of the boat parties. That's is why I had them. Having heard of their existence, I have paid , often considerable sums, to ensure they didn't circulate further. And now you have them. Safe keeping, he said. We spoke a little more. He asked about Thom. I made up some nonsense about cannabis, and my fears. He spoke, truthfully, about Gertrude. Her mobility issues, her painful hip. It was a quick goodbye. On ending the call I realized that I was so convinced of Axel's complete corruption that, over the years, it has blinded me to individual instances of it. Equally, I wasn't sure how much I wanted to think about it, either. 

Saturday night, I fell asleep with one of Spengler's later works, Jahre der Entscheidung, splayed open on my chest. In the morning I was woken by a message from Rachel. She'd been drinking the previous evening and had woken up with the hangover horn...Would I come over? Why do I let women treat me like this..? Yet, for all my experience, I had never heard that phrase before. Nevertheless, approximately twelve minutes later I was standing at her door. Hangover horn...I suppose this is the language of normal people. And Rachel is so...normal. The use of that word could imply, of course, the projection of my own weakness. So when I say Rachel is normal what I mean, probably, is that she is so practical. And she is practical. But what I mean by normal is, actually, a contraindication of a different order. By which I mean, unlike everyone else I meet, Rachel is...well balanced. Anyhow, I am happy to succumb to whatever it brings...Or am I..? Hangover horn...it suggests a rather detached yet infantile need that could be satisfied by a pill, or a decent bagel, as much as by sex. Of course, I don't regret a second of it but I was reminded of client T. She is a married woman in her forties. Her affair with a man ten years younger was troubling her and she came to therapy to resolve the situation. Before long, she was referring to her lover as the boy, finding in the maternal erotic a category not without issues, but less troubling. Last week she burst into tears. After a silence of several weeks, her boy lover had sent her a text, R U Happy..? It took me twenty minutes to pick this unhappy creature from the floor. But after she had left I wondered what vain, craven feeling that boy, that child, would've felt if he had seen the effect of his lazy, stupid text. R U Happy...? This is the zonked out language of a dying species. Later that sunday, however, I received another text from Rachel. Her hangover was history. That was nice, she wrote, x. And yes, for a minute, it warmed my heart.

Mm..a one word message from Gertrude: danke. Last week, I sent the manuscript to Hamburg. Dear reader, I have not been idle. These last six months I have been writing the book Axel commissioned me to write ( though at the boat party at  Christmas I overheard him saying to a rather listless Spaniard how he'd bribed me to write it ). Nevertheless, Axel has proved himself  a worthy mentor. To spur me on, he sent a few other books, including a 1st edition of Josefine Mutzenbacher, a chronicle of the life of a Viennese prostitute by Felix Salten, better known for writing the children's book Bambi. However, as the winter dragged on and I worked deeper into the book ( it was around this time that Thom and I stopped speaking ), Axel began to ask questions. He considered the book to be a work of social anthropology. Dear boy, the boat parties! The boat parties ! What about last year's Indonesian girls? But I was sticking to the brief, and I made that clear to Axel. This was a work of academic criticism about My Secret Life, a long neglected masterpiece of Victorian literature, by Sir Henry Spencer Ashbee. Yes, I would make a case for the ejaculating servant girls, I would hint at the implications of vaginal eruption, but this would not necessarily include a chapter about Axel and his boat parties. Oh dear boy, but this is our evidence! It became clear that Axel wanted a starring role in the book. Did he see himself as the ringmaster, inciting us into exertions that would shatter the last, great, last taboo? By February, in mock exasperation, I offered to write his autobiography instead. We didnt speak for two weeks. Our next communique, consisted of a brief note and fifty 6' x 4' colour photographs. I was stunned . They were all pictures taken at Axel's boat parties over the last thirty years. There was the one with Madame X off the coast of Corsica in '89, there was Dubai in '94, Monrovia in '97, there were pictures off the coast of Los Angeles in '99 ( the one Max Hardcore and his gang tried to gatecrash ), and there was even  a  picture from this year on the Caspian sea, off the Iranian coast. Mercifully, there were no pictures of me en flagrante. But there was, instead, lots of  money shots. But not the male orgasm, no. It was the female money shot. Women, shrieking, buckled over, ejaculating over Persian skylines.  And yet, there was actually a picture of me. It's from behind, fully clothed. I can be seen smoking a cigar, leaning overboard, blowing smoke over to Bandare-e-Anzali, on the Iranian coast.

Friday, Gareth's group.

Of course, he made a point of greeting every member in a voice so loud, so fortissimo, a voice yodeling with the intent of shattering my windows and reminding me of his request...But with Helen on a day off there was no point taking the bait and, also, client A. had cancelled ( a young man who I  think of as my doomed boy such is his impossible predicament ), so as a relief from Gareth's hysterics, I took a drive to the seafront and decided to have lunch in a worker's cafe called Diana's. The moment I sat down my mistake was clear. It was a white, formica table. A communal thing. Within seconds I found myself with egg and chips, and thirty seven serviettes...( How dirty do I have to be to eat here..? With that thought, I found myself hankering for my father. He would've been at ease here and, therefore, so would I...). No matter, I was eating with Roger, Pete and the Polish, Maxim. I knew all their names because of the badges pinned to their donkey jackets. All of them, to a man, worked at the gas plant up the road. Or the timber yard. I couldn't be sure. With a crabbed finger, I pulled over the house copy of The Sun. I haven't read this paper for nearly thirty seven years, but my interest now was not an attempt to ingratiate myself with Roger, Pete, and Maxim. No, by the time I was holding the paper in my hands, settling and re-settling myself in the chair,  I was set with a genuine curiosity to see the girl on Page 3. It was Debbie, 19, from Preston, and she was, let's be clear, lovely. It was only when running low on chips that I sensed Debbie was also a girl in some need of cash for a first deposit on a flat to be shared with a man that, to be fair, she wasn't sure about. I closed the paper and returned it to the centre of the table. Within seconds, Roger had nabbed the paper and was appraising himself of Debbie's situation. And so it was, I leaned over to gulp the last of my Breakfast tea, and to go. Instead, as if someone had hit me in the belly, I took an aborted sip and felt an enormous, transcendent pity for myself, Roger, Peter, and the Polish Maxim because, of course, where once all of us would have enjoyed the pleasures of Breast worship on a hillside in Athens with thousands of others, or would have spent days in rapturous celebration of the divinity of the Breast in Egyptian or Canaanite ceremonies instead, here we were shuffling, in silence, a paper image on a formica table. And with that, I nodded, and took my leave.

5pm, home.

It had been a fucking awful day in every aspect. I wasn't aware of my anger but, pushing open the front door, I sent my post sliding the length of the hallway. There was parcel, a book. With equal aggression, as if by continuing it I could make the anger ironic, or normal, I tore the jiffy bag into tiny pieces. It was Anti-Oedipus by Deleuze & Guattari. I remembered this book. I once read a few pages as a student, in the early eighties. Wasn't it a rant, an hysterical attempt to turn Freud into Marx? Or Marx into Freud...? But why was it here? Here, in softback...Why..? Was it Gareth? Perhaps this was his apology for wanting my room. Was he saying no, really, I am not Oedipal, not at all. I am just...

Thom?

Oh, please...I exaggerate. This is no ordinary stalking. You think I go round town panting like a dog? Well, I may have done that now and again, but this time I had done my research. I wanted to see the camel pose. Preferably, I wanted to see Karen do it. But first, having seen a few clips ( kneeling on the floor, head thrown back, hands clutching feet, hips forward ), I skyped George. He said, rather mournfully, that he wasn't in the mood to demonstrate the camel. Now, at his peak- both professionally and intellectually- George wrote a masterpiece on the history and practice of modern warfare. I never read it. But at the time, those who did, said it was the most penetrative work on warfare since Clausewitz. Now, if I had skyped George while he was two thirds of the way into the penultimate chapter in the long awaited follow up to that book, he would have said, of course, dear boy...Why didn't you ask sooner? He'd have whipped off his apron, done the camel, and we would both have been back at our computers with our screens, and our lives, intact. But, in fact, George has fallen into the pit of middle age and, like me, hasn't been seen for years. He is no longer expected to return to his post as Head of History, and his colleagues and peers no longer expect another book. So of course, any chance he gets to refuse someone the camel, he'll take it. So these were the events prior to my vigil on Franklin Road last night. I wanted to know about the camel, and Karen, preferably together- and I had made the mistake of asking the assistance of one the great historians of the late 20th Century. And so while I may have looked, and felt, like any common pervert - I suggest that is not entirely the case ( though I reserve the right to be considered such at any previous or future time). So what I saw was this: a room of wall to wall mirrors with sixteen people, all of them standing on separate, coloured mats. Another woman, with a headset, the ringleader. She was barking instruction the entire ninety minutes. And there, near the back, another woman. She wore a black two piece, top and pants, bare arms. It may or may not have been Karen. Let's call her X. Or, rather, Ex. Indulge me, we have time. George said it would be an hour before they do the camel. And so I watched as the sweat poured off these poor creatures. God, if I were to have a woman ordering my body into cartoon postures, it would be in a London basement...Such tired thoughts filled the time until I saw Ex, on her knees, her head thrown back, her hands on her feet. She thrust out her hips, extending her solar plexus, offering it as the centre of herself. Holding, stretching, further, stretching. Then, in a blizzard of birthing, as if her body had made a promise to the universe, she lifted herself slowly back, into her back. I had steamed up the glass. Had I even seen anything clearly...? I stood back. It was getting dark. I could have stayed longer but wanted to be alone...Wasn't I, already? To be alone, to think. So I said goodbye to Karen, who may or may not have been Karen, and went looking for my car.

What is wrong with me? It was barely nine in the morning and I was trying to seduce Helen. A few months ago she would have been flattered but now she has a serious boyfriend ( an African of few words going by the name of Sky ), she views my manouevres as deranged, not to say disrespectful of her relationship. And yet, as she puts her head to the pillow at night ( Sky is twenty years younger and probably out clubbing ), I know it is the flattery that stays with her. So, inevitably, and sometimes for pity, I will never stop making a move on Helen. And yet, saying that, I do feel a bit deranged. Have I nothing better to do? As a student, lanky with a wispy beard and bad hair, no discernible prospects, no money and no sporting ability, I still found it very easy to talk women into bed. I didn't care for female feeling, but I was very interested in talking about it and, too young to know the difference, many women slept with me. Of course, I have refined my interests, my mission, over the years but sometimes it collapses into moments like this; moments, standing here, when I feel I would do anything to get closer to their bodies. As for men, my interest in them was solely as a means of understanding myself better and, thereby, getting even closer to a woman's body. If I have any redeeming feature it is this: I knew at an early age that I was a man of no qualities. While all my friends were busy fashioning themselves into novelists, teachers, artists, bankers, I had no illusions about myself. I had no talent for anything and, perhaps more concerning, I was of no actual use to anyone, either. I couldn't fix a car, prepare a meal. Couldn't put up a shelf sans crisis. No, if there is any redeeming feature it's that I knew all this as a teenager. I was only ever interested in my own mind and, even then, only to the extent it served the seduction of women. The one, perhaps, a release from the other. And so it was, with these thoughts, I waited in the dark on Franklin Road, peering into the browned out window, to see if the yoga class had begun.

I didn't intend to spend the whole night with Rachel ( more about her later). Suffice to say her flat is so spotless, it fooled me into thinking I was presentable. I left her curled in bed, straightening the duvet as I went. And so I wafted into work, into the kitchen, tranquil as a ghost. Gareth entered, nodding. Sensing my calm, he said exactly what he was thinking. Will you swop rooms with me...? Hitching his neck up, trying to find that difficult, errant zip, possibly one that I too had difficulties with. Will I what..? His voice quivered on the me. Will you swop rooms with...? He instantly regretted the question. What does he think we are, brothers? But I had to give him hope. I chewed on my lips a while, as if imagining the panoramic vista of his window, all my own at last. Hah, there are months of advantage in this. Of course, you're doing a friday group. You must need the space, I said, with empathy. He looked down at his shoes, as if remembering something. I stirred my coffee slowly and, as if remembering some sadness myself said, you know, I always knew you would be good at group work. For a moment, my belly felt a weighty, soulful sense of balance. It seemed possible to refuse Gareth's request with a kind, but straight answer and possibly our working relationship would be the better for this clarity. But no, instead, with a stirring of libido- almost certainly relating to Helen- I said, let's talk later.

1pm. In town with George. I had a burning desire to hear everything about Bikram yoga so we clasped shoulders, sat down slowly like men of weight, ordered a Moroccan salad, each, and talked about Margaret Thatcher. And it will come as no surprise to anyone to remember that George and I first met in a club for sexual fetishists. At that time, endeavouring to overcome our respective divorces, George and I went on to share six or seven women in various states of agony, and undress. Quietly, we used to appraise each others' technique. Though, as an academic historian, I am not sure that George knew what he was appraising, exactly. As a therapist, he accepted my greater, possibly intuitive understanding. ' But I am not sure it was Karen...' What? I couldn't stop the colour draining from my face. So is she doing Bikram Yoga or not...? Inevitably, the lunch became alcoholic. I ordered banoffee pie and beer, George had gin. But we made a fist of it. George flapped around, searching for a mutual acquaintance to denigrate. With our opening gambit still on my mind, I laid waste to contemporary politics. Three hours later we were two large, airy bags of fire and bombast. We clasped shoulders again but then, as if an afterthought, hugged for real.

And so it was, buttering my toast this morning, I couldn't help but see my rods, standing all polite and miserable in the vestibule. Agh... Haven't fished for months. But why bother, without Thom? Of course, aside from losing my fishing pal and overall best friend the other loss in our not speaking is I don't get to hear about his mother, Karen. Naturally, I sometimes drive the longer way to and from work, just in case I spot her jogging on her usual routes. Let's be clear. My interest is not romantic but she fascinates me, still. I often fantasised about her when we were together and that didn't change when we parted. Occasionally I wank myself to sleep, remembering some of our more prosaic, lazy encounters ( as if in some occult way I am saying, God, I do not ask for much...) Sometimes I elevate this interest into a paternal concern for her. She had an alcoholic, somewhat itinerant father, and I always felt a keen need to protect her from the world and its shabby men, even though she never asked it of me, and was always capable of dealing with anything. More than me, possibly. But I have news of Karen. George called last night. He was in a fever, having just returned from a Bikram Yoga class. Karen was there! And so I walked to work this morning, the better to reverie a little. Is running not enough for her? Does she now need a physical experience more closely tuned to the emotional and, if so, what bearing does this have on her life with Serena? In particular, their sex life? And if, just possibly, it transpires their sexual life is neither expressive, nor harmonious, then what does that portend for the future of their relationship? And if, just possibly, this discord is transmitted to Thom, then what effect will this have upon him, a boy already estranged from his own father? And if, just possibly, the romantic relationship ends then what is the future for this boy, Thom? Will he need to build bridges with his father and, if so, how will he feel when he finds out his father has removed their fishing rods from the vestibule and stored them away in the attic because, frankly, they destroyed his peace. Especially at breakfast. And so I swung open the door, arriving at work in a vibrant, demented mood.

Well I tried, yes I tried. I stayed away. I allowed speculation to fill the silence but, finally, the soul insists. Contrary to all the evidence, and the attempts on its life, it will not die. But I am not here to narrate a return of the soul. While that is an ending to nearly every story, frankly, who needs another fiction? No, we may yearn for everything to end but there is no ending, not here. After a lifetime attending to the souls' of my clients, my own soul is as elusive as ever. Elusive...from the Latin ' elus '. Yes, correct. I have nothing to teach you and, I fear, nothing very much to amuse you with, either. I hear Gareth, the scrape of his chair. Has nothing changed? Oh, plenty. Thom is not speaking to me. More of that later. But listen, the scrape of Gareth's chair, the silence. Then the screeching, like a flock of gulls, of seven other chairs. Yes, Gareth is doing group work. What orchestral fantasy has the man embarked upon? It does appear, does it not, that at last he is more interested in his own ruin, than that of mine.

Mmm..

sixteen

15