Craig Stemford’s Imprisonment

A short story by Fletcher Kovich

 

Craig Stemford was a solicitor. On the surface, his life seemed rosy. He lived in a smart house in Chepstow Villas, London W11, and was a partner in a successful law firm, Bright and Stemford Solicitors. But, for some reason, he was not happy.

His law firm practised from Golden Square, London W1, and being close to the red-light district, the firm had evolved a speciality in defending cases involving sex crimes. This work was largely carried out by Craig himself, since the other partner, Dicky Bright, had come to specialize in copyright and media-related law, which enabled Dicky to hobnob with celebrities and aristocrats, while Craig kept company with punters of every sexual activity that Parliament had ever declared an offence to public morality. During his work, Craig would frequently have cause to count his own blessings, but whenever he tried to do this, he would somehow find that his mathematical abilities would escape him. There seemed to be something wrong in his life, though he was not sure what it was.

Several months ago, Craig’s unease had persuaded him to take up internet dating. He had become acquainted with a whole new world, almost an ideal world, an exciting garden of Eden that was divorced from reality. But for Craig Stemford, this divorce was soon due to end. In fact, it would end at 1.15pm that very day at Heathrow Airport. For two months, he had been chatting to a girl called Andrea Segovia who lived in Madrid. Craig was convinced that she was perfect for him. In the first photo that he had seen of her, she had long, dark hair, and dark, Mediterranean looks. When he first saw the photo, it had reminded him of an episode from his childhood, some thirty years ago.

At the age of fourteen, Craig had become infatuated by a boy whom he would frequently see in a television advert. The boy had these same dark, Mediterranean looks, the same long black hair, and in one scene he would be swimming underwater, wearing nothing but a loincloth. Whenever Craig saw the boy, he would feel a pang in his heart but would then dismiss the feeling—as a boy who would glance longingly at some expensive toy in a toyshop window but would then walk on by, concealing his desire for a pleasure beyond his reach. Craig had long-since forgotten about the boy in the advert, until he had seen that first photo of Andrea. Her image had brought back his every recollection of that boy swimming underwater. He felt the same pang in his heart, only now he did not have to conceal it. He cherished it. He cherished her. And now there she was, walking towards him in the arrivals lounge.

They went back to Craig’s house in Chepstow Villas. His front door was reached via a short flight of steps. The next-door house had the same arrangement and as they were climbing the steps to Craig’s front door, they noticed a large van, which was parked in front of his neighbour’s house. Two men emerged from the back of the van, carrying a large wooden frame with various leather harnesses hanging from it, rather like a medieval torturer’s toy. The men were both muscle-bound and one was wearing a tee-shirt, bulging jeans and an unnaturally dark tan, while the other was wearing a leather harness over his naked torso, and a black leather cap. The capped man looked over at Craig and Andrea and winked at them. The other man paused to rearranged his crotch and then they carried their burden towards his neighbour’s front door, which had been left open.

Craig told Andrea, “They must be setting up a new shoot.”

She said, “I will feel at home here. They are holding a Spanish Inquisition next door.”

Craig was not sure whether she was joking. He thought that she probably was, but he found the subject of his neighbour too saddening to manage to laugh about it. They closed their front door behind them and he explained that the next-door house was now owned by a company called Triple Ex Productions, who produced sex videos.

When he had bought his house, an old lady had lived next door, called Mrs Gertzberg. She was a retired French horn player who had Alzheimer’s disease. At the end, her short-term memory had deteriorated so much that she could not remember back more than a few seconds, which meant that whenever she reached the first repeat in whatever music she was playing, she would forget that she had already played that section and would repeat it again. Sometimes she would play the same short section over and over for an entire afternoon. At weekends, Craig had resorted to donning a tracksuit, venturing out into the street and attempting to outrun the range of a French horn. He found himself willing her Alzheimer’s to progress to the stage where she might forget where she had left her French horn; or alternatively, for it to progress to the stage where they would all be released from her torment. But when his wish was finally granted and Mrs Gertzberg had died, he found that her house was then bought by Triple Ex Productions. They filmed porn videos there and also hosted live, internet peep shows. Craig had bought his house at the peak of the previous property boom and its value had steadily decreased since then. But when Triple Ex Productions had moved in, its value had plummeted. His house was now worth around £200,000 less than the amount he owed on his mortgage, and he was imprisoned there for the foreseeable future.

Craig showed Andrea into his living room. From next door, they could hear a thudding sound and various, animal-like groans. Craig nodded to indicate next-door’s and said, “I’m sorry about the noise. I hope you won’t mind it.”

Andrea said, “It is only sex. In my country we do not mind it like you.”

From next door, they distantly heard a man’s voice saying, “You like my big cock in you, don’t you!” and those animal-groans then seemed to increase.

Andrea looked at Craig and said, “Sex is attracted to you. You have sex next door, and your work is all sex.”

“I suppose it is. I hadn’t thought about it before.”

She said, “It follows you around. It wants something from you.”

Craig realized that she was right. Sex did seem to gravitate towards him; or was it just illicit sex that gravitated towards him? He had not realized this before, and yet, having realized it now, it seemed so obvious. He wondered whether it might have just been a coincidence, but on some level he realized that it was not. And looking at Andrea now, his mind connected all these things, including Andrea herself, with his desire for that boy in the television advert.

Andrea said, “Perhaps this is telling you something.”

He felt himself blushing, but blushing within his heart. He felt an uncomfortable heat swelling up within his chest.

She looked at him with her dark eyes and said, “Perhaps you should have more sex.”

He started to kiss her, and within his mind he felt that he was floating underwater with the boy from the advert. He felt her pulling away.

She said, “This is too quick. You will need me to show you how.”

They heard a woman’s voice from next door shouting, “Yes! yes!”

Craig said, politely, “Would you like some tea?”

On the way to the kitchen, Andrea straightened two pictures on the walls, saying, about the second one, “This is in the wrong place.”

“Where shall I put it? I will do anything to please you.”

She told him, “In the bin.”

Later on, they moved some furniture around in his dining room, which she had also noticed was in the wrong place. In that room, they could clearly hear a man’s voice from next door saying, “You like my women’s underwear, don’t you? Can you see through my knickers?”

Andrea giggled. Craig could not see the funny side of it and instead found himself recalling a snippet from one of Mrs Gertzberg’s French horn solos. She had played that thirty-second tune over and over on one Sunday afternoon. At the time, Craig had contemplated murder, but as he recalled it now, he found himself longing to hear it again.

Later that evening, they found themselves in bed. While Craig was holding her naked body against him, he found himself recalling the image of that boy swimming underwater. In his mind, he recalled the boy’s sensuous body gliding through the water and while holding Andrea, the feel of her warm, soft body against his skin seemed to connect in his mind with that image. To Craig, it felt as though he had finally been let into that illicit toy shop that he had secretly coveted for thirty years. Andrea’s face moved over his while her lips caressed his cheek and her dark hair hung over them both like a veil and from next door they distantly heard a man’s voice instructing: “Now, take her from behind!”

They both looked at each other. The adjoining wall started thudding again and a woman screamed out, “Yes! do it to me!”

Andrea lay back on the pillow, closed her eyes, and Craig noticed her nose. Looking at it from that angle, it suddenly seemed erotic to him. He wanted to suck it along its whole length; he wanted to eat it; there was something about its dimensions that excited him. He started stroking it adoringly with his finger and from next door, a man’s voice shouted, “Suck that big cock. You like that big cock, don’t you!”

Andrea opened her eyes and said, “This means something.”

Craig asked, hesitantly, “What does it mean?” and looking at her, he found himself hoping that she would not answer. He placed his hand on her cheek, turned her head towards him and started kissing her. They could hear the muffled activity from next door, then Andrea stopped him, held his cheek, looked into his eyes and said, “You are not using your mouth right. There is a better way to kiss.”

Craig said, “I’m trying. Perhaps we just need more practice——”

From next door, a man’s voice instructed: “Now, turn her over. That’s it.”

Craig started kissing Andrea again and just as he felt as though he were again floating underwater, they both heard a deep, heavy banging against the adjoining wall, as if some large apparatus were being thrust against the wall like a battering ram, and between each thud, they could hear a carnal moan: thud, “huh,” thud, “huh,” thud, “huh,” and then a man started shouting more instructions: “Grab his balls,” thud, “huh,” thud, “huh,” “Yes, that’s it, take him in your mouth,” thud, thud, thud.

Andrea pushed Craig away, “No, this is all wrong. You do not know how to kiss.”

Thud, thud, “Agh! I’m going to explode,” came from next door.

Craig said, “Well, I am a little distracted at the moment——”

Thud, thud.

A man’s voice instructed: “Take his cock again. Let’s do the spit roast.”

Another man’s voice shouted, “No, I’m losing it; it’s no good.”

The first man shouted, “Cut! Take a break. Selina! He needs you again.”

Andrea said, “No, that’s not it. You just cannot kiss. Don’t worry. I will teach you.”

The next morning, they both set out for work. Craig had arranged for Andrea to work part-time in his law firm as a secretarial assistant. In Spain she had done similar work. Craig’s partner in the firm, Dicky Bright had agreed that she could work for them on weekday mornings. They arrived at the office in Golden Square, and as they entered the building, Craig was feeling apprehensive about introducing her to Dicky.

When Craig had first met Dicky, he had merely disliked him, but over the following few years of getting to know him, he had gradually come to loathe him. He had first started to notice that there was something not quite right with Dicky when they were attending a conference together. During the social portions of that weekend, he mingled enthusiastically. The problem was that Dicky’s only social technique seemed to be telling jokes, and most of his jokes involved him ridiculing himself due to his name. He would thrust himself into a group of people and say something like, “‘Dicky Bright’ is the name, but why do they call me ‘Bright Dicky’?” and he might even nudge a few people in the group, “Eh? eh?” nudging them, “—don’t know? Because that’s exactly what I’ve got—a green fluorescent dick! It glows in the dark. In a power cut, they all yell: ‘Dicky, get your dick out’—ha, ha, ha!”

He would then walk off, leaving the group speechless, and Dicky might then spot another opening, so he would appear amongst them, his hand thrust out before him, saying something like, “Richard Bright here, ‘Dicky’ to my friends.” He would then look at them, lean a bit closer, as if  he were about to impart something confidential to them, and say, “But only if they bend down—ha, ha, ha!” And he would go on laughing in his machine-gun-like way while looking around the group, from face to shell-shocked face.

This routine went on the whole evening. Dicky would thrust himself into a group, shock them with his “wit”, and when no-one in the group responded, he would move on to “socialize” with someone who might be more appreciative of him. And as he walked away, he would continue machine-gunning the room with his laugh, and Craig would think that he could see a look in Dicky’s eye that seemed to suggest that Dicky was just as much a helpless passenger in his ghost-train-like ride around the room as everyone else was, as if his eyes were saying “I’m sorry that I’m like this, but I really don’t have any choice; I am compelled to go through this performance every time because that’s how I interact with people and this is all I know. But I can see that it’s not quite right, so I’m sorry for you and I’m sorry for me, and I still have to do it, and we both still have to put up with this,” and his eyes would keep watching them with that helpless, embarrassed look in them as his mouth machine-gunned the room with that raucous laugh of his. And later in the evening, when Dicky was in another room, Craig would hear that laugh every few minutes, knowing that Dicky had just delivered either one of these two standard jokes of his to yet one more gaping victim.

Over the months that followed, Dicky would behave in this same way in the office. Whenever he saw a new client of Craig’s waiting for a consultation, Dicky would enthusiastically appear before them, his hand thrust out, and introduce himself using one of his standard jokes. On several occasions Craig had suggested to Dicky that it was perhaps not altogether appropriate for him to be making jokes about his green, fluorescent dick, when most of Craig’s clients were allegedly involved in sex crimes. Dicky had dismissed these suggestions as “twaddle” and had repeatedly suggested that Craig should send out a search party to try to find his long-lost sense of humour.

It had seemed to Craig that Dicky possessed no sensitivity. He would make these embarrassing comments and yet would not be in the least bit aware of how stupid they made him look.

The tension between them grew steadily, until about three months ago, when an incident occurred that had seemed to cause Dicky to relinquish any precarious grasp that he might have previously had on adulthood.

On a few occasions, Dicky had looked over some of Craig’s work and had made comments to him along the lines of: “I notice that you feel it’s wasting your time to do a good job on clients who are of such low social worth.” Each time he made this comment, Craig had attempted to correct his wrong impressions, but Dicky had seemed incapable of hearing what Craig was saying. And then Dicky made this same comment yet again, and Craig thought that he must simply be stupid, because he had corrected him several times before and yet he was still making the same comment, so Craig replied, “And I notice that you’re thick.”

These words seemed to disturb a hornet’s nest under Dicky’s feet, for he seemed to then find it impossible to sit still. And over the following three months, he would dance around the office, listing the names of his celebrity and other prestigious clients, and leave hanging in the air behind him such comments as, “Nobody who’s ‘thick’ could get a client like that. And here’s you with your low-life clients, and apparently that makes you ‘intelligent’. Oh! what a strange world some people live in——” He would then dance back into his own office, but that hornet’s nest would not let him rest for long and half an hour later he would come dancing back out, singing his own praises and then theatrically wringing his brow as he attempted to calculate the worth of a certain solicitor who could only attract “low-life” clients.

Which brings us up to yesterday. Dicky’s behaviour had been particular intolerable the whole day, since one of his most prestigious clients, Dame Harriet Blewit of Mayfair, was in the office, making her will.

Craig had come to liken Dicky’s personality to a cloud of locusts that buzzed around him, attempting to eat their way into his sanity. It was fair to say that Craig had never hated anyone in his life as much as he had come to hate Dicky Bright. But Craig was imprisoned in his partnership with Bright because he could not afford to buy himself out of it. While Triple Ex Productions owned the house next to his, Craig was, in effect, about £200,000 in debt—a fact that he dared not reveal to Dicky, since Dicky’s cloud of locusts would have descended on that fact as onto a fresh crop of tender young corn. And the fact that Craig had to conceal his financial predicament from Dicky, made his imprisonment in the practice seem even harder to endure because he could not reveal to Dicky that he would have liked to have left. No, he had to pretend that he was content in the practice, lest Dicky tried to force him to leave, which would have certainly led to Craig’s financial ruin, and probably his professional ruin, and possibly even homelessness. Craig was, well and truly, imprisoned.

Yesterday, he had told Dicky that he would be bringing Andrea into the office. He had asked him not to make his standard joke when he met her. Dicky, of course, had dismissed this request as twaddle, but when Craig approached him with Andrea, Dicky did seem to be making an effort to behave normally.

Craig said, “Dicky, this is Andrea Segovia.”

Dicky held out his hand and said, cheerfully, “Oh! do you play guitar?”

Andrea looked sternly at Dicky. She had previously told Craig that people had been asking her this question since her childhood, and she had warned Craig not to ask her this when he met her. When Craig heard Dicky ask her this, his heart sank.

Andrea said, “No, I do not play guitar.”

Dicky glanced at Craig suspiciously, but then resumed his cheerful demeanour and said, “Oh, I am sorry. Welcome to our practice,” and he continued holding out his hand, since he now had no idea what to do with it, until Andrea had shaken it.

Andrea said, sternly, “Everyone thinks I play guitar. It is not polite to make such assumptions.”

Dicky could not believe his ears. He looked down at his hand, which was still held out before him, and he wondered what on earth he was going to do with it now. He looked back to Craig, and the suspicion that had wandered past Dicky’s mind a moment ago, now opened the door, stepped in and took up residence. He was sure that Craig was up to something, that he had coached Andrea in some way and that he was using her to try to make a fool out of him. When Craig had discussed Andrea with him, Craig had been evasive and had only said that she was a friend that he was helping out by offering her this job. Dicky now wondered how much of this was true, and exactly what Craig was plotting. He looked down at his hand, felt cheated and momentarily out manoeuvred, but resolved that he would not be outdone like this. He withdrew his hand and took his resolve back into his office and shut the door.

Craig had not told Dicky that he had met Andrea on the internet, nor that they were now dating. He felt that Dicky would have used this information against him in some way, such as proclaiming it to be a character flaw and endlessly mocking him about it, and for Craig, the light in the office was already darkened by the locust cloud of Dicky’s personality; that cloud did not need any further ammunition.

Craig gave Andrea a desk to sit at and gave her some routine tasks to do. After she had completed those, he then gave her Dicky’s notes concerning the will of Dame Harriet Blewit of Mayfair. Andrea was to type up and bind the will, which would complete her first morning’s work.

Meanwhile Craig spent the morning preparing for the case that he would be defending in court the following day. Though their firm had come to specialize in sex offences, this case was unlike the ones that Craig was used to dealing with. A man called James Jones, who was thirty two and repaired washing machines for a living, was charged with stealing a woman’s dirty underwear from a washing machine he had repaired. When Craig had first met him, James had said, “Just call me J.J.—everyone does. I’m innocent, by the way. I mean, I did it, but they can’t prove it, so that makes me innocent, right?”

There was something about J.J. that had made him instantly appealing. It would have been difficult to dislike him. Craig warmed to him instantly and this had somehow made him even more determined than usual to do his best to help his client.

Andrea completed her morning’s work and left for lunch. He had given her some simple directions on how to get back to Chepstow Villas. It was a ten minute walk between the office and Piccadilly Circus underground, and she was to ride the tube back to Notting Hill Gate underground.

Shortly after lunch, Dicky was called to a local police station to consult with a client. On that day, Dicky was acting as a duty solicitor for the Criminal Defence Service, which meant that anyone who was taken to a police station could consult with him free of charge. Though Dicky would have preferred to be hobnobbing with his prestigious clients, he did sometimes do this type of work, since the firm needed the extra income, and, after all, it was an opportunity for Dicky to flaunt his superiority over the “misguided low-life”, as he fondly referred to them. And the police station that had called him was frequented by a high volume of sex offenders, so the odds were that Dicky would enjoy himself. Craig imagined him greeting the client with something like: “I’ve come to get you sorted out properly now. Now that I’m here, I can correct all your mistakes. Bright by name, brilliant by nature!”

When Dicky returned to the office, he seemed a little pale. He looked suspiciously at Craig, but said nothing and disappeared into his own office. Craig went to his office and sat behind his desk. About fifteen minutes later, Dicky flung open the door, marched in and slapped Dame Harriet’s will down on Craig’s desk.

Dicky said, “I know she’s a prostitute.”

Craig looked down at Dame Harriet’s will, then back up at Dicky’s flushed face. For one moment, Craig felt almost elated. He imagined that Dicky had uncovered some unspeakable flaw in his most prestigious client. Craig concealed his excitement and asked, “What are you talking about?”

“You hired her to discredit me. It all adds up now. I’ve worked it out.”

Craig was confused, “What——?”

“That woman, who wouldn’t even shake my hand. You put her up to that as well.”

Craig now realized that Dicky was attacking him, as usual, and was not complaining about his own precious Dame Harriet. Craig asked, irritated, “What woman?”

Dicky spat out, “Your Andrea——”

Craig could take no more. He shouted, “Have you gone even more madder than usual!”

“Oh! so I’m mad now, am I? as well as thick!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Dicky pointed at the will, “Look at it, just look. Don’t pretend you didn’t put her up to it.”

Craig opened the will and looked at the first page, still having no idea what he was talking about.

Dicky turned over the page, stabbed the next page with his finger and shouted, “She’s changed it. There! there! look at that!” He explained to Craig that Dame Harriet had bequeathed ninety five percent of her estate to one of her sons and only five percent to the other son, but that Andrea had changed this to bequeath them an equal share. Dicky said that it was obvious to him that Craig had done this to try to sabotage his most prestigious client, out of pure jealously. At the police station, he had found that Andrea was being held and that she had pleaded guilty to solicitation. And once Dicky had found out that she was a prostitute, he had checked her work from that morning and found this. It had all then fallen into place. Craig had hired a prostitute to carry out this illegal act for him, because he did not want to dirty his own hands, but now Dicky had the evidence—waving the will at Craig.

That evening, Craig asked Andrea why she had changed the will and how she had managed to get arrested for prostitution.

She said, “She was wrong. I did not want her pension.”

“Who was wrong?”

“I was trying to help the old woman. But she said I wanted her pension.”

“What old woman?”

“The one by the roadside. I was going to help the prostitute. Her dress was wrong. It did not match her shoes. She needed help. Then I saw the old woman and had to help her too. But she said I wanted her pension.”

Craig was lost. He asked, “What prostitute?”

“The one with the red and yellow dress. Her hair was a mess too.”

“How did you meet a prostitute?”

“I got put in a police van and she was sat there.”

“But where does the old woman come into all this?”

“She was not in the van. She stayed by the roadside, telling them I wanted her pension. But I am too young. I do not need a pension. She made a mistake.”

Craig still could not understand how an old woman and her pension came into the story, but he let that alone and asked her: “And what happened in the van?”

“We had a fight.”

“You were in a fight as well!”

“I only told the prostitute that she was a mess. She would not get custom looking like that. I was trying to help. But she started fighting me and the others joined in.”

“The others?”

“The other prostitutes.”

Craig started to picture the scene in his mind but gave up. He had to back step. He could still not comprehend all this. He said, “But it was only a ten-minute walk from the office to Piccadilly Circus tube. How did all this happen so quickly?”

She told him, “It was a fast van. It drove very quick.”

“No, before the van. Oh, never mind; leave that. What about the will; why did you change the will?”

Andrea said, “It was wrong. Both sons should get the same.”

“But you can’t just change it like that; you were just supposed to type it.”

“She was mistaken. It had to be changed.”

“So you just changed it?”

“Of course.”

There was a certain simple logic to this part of Andrea’s story, so simple that he could not see how to respond to her. Craig imagined himself trying out this same simple logic on Dicky and telling him, “It was unfair, so she changed it.” But he knew that this would sound too ludicrous for him to repeat it. It may well be true, but such logic had no place in the real world. And anyway, earlier in the day, Dicky had already said that she would have to go.

Since then, Craig had been thinking about Andrea. The reality of her personality had seemed to bear no resemblance to what he had imagined. And there seemed to be no connection between the Andrea that he had met and his fantasy about the boy in the television advert, which was what had attracted him to her. These two things had seemed close momentarily, but it seemed that something was preventing them from uniting, as though his entry to that sweet shop were still being denied. He thought about the way that she was so difficult to please, was so set in her ideas about how everything should be, regardless of other people’s wishes; and about the way that she had even required him to kiss in a certain way (though he had not been able to see the problem, nor understand what she had wanted him to do); and it seemed to him that perhaps it was this ‘controlling’ tendency of hers that was the problem. It seemed as though this tendency of hers had erected a barrier around her that had kept him out, kept him at a distance and prevented the two of them from getting close. Or perhaps this was not the problem and there was some other explanation, but one thing that Craig was certain about was that she (the reality) was not what he had expected, hoped for, fantasized about.

Craig told her that Dicky wanted to sack her, and he also told her that he himself had been thinking and that he thought that he had made a big mistake and that they should split up.

Andrea said, “You are embarrassed at not being able to kiss. I understand.”

Craig had made some phone calls in the afternoon. He had found her a bedsit that she could move into straight away and he had found her another job. He offered to pay either her first month’s rent or her return flight back to Spain. She took the first option and they parted less than an hour later.

Craig was single again. Later that evening, he found himself walking on Hampstead Heath. The sun was getting low in the sky but there was probably still about half an hour of daylight left. Craig had developed some favourite walks on the Heath, though he tended to watch the activities, rather than take part himself. In the distance, he noticed a man with long black hair and a dark complexion. He was wearing jeans and a sky-blue tee-shirt. Craig was drawn to him and he started to follow him. The man looked round, noticed Craig and then headed into some woodland. Craig followed him into the wood. Amongst the trees, the light was lower. Craig looked round but could not see where he had gone. In the distance, through some trees, he caught a fleeting glimpse of that blue tee-shirt. He followed the path in that direction. His throat became dry and he could hear his pulse pumping in his ears. He turned a corner and he found himself face to face with the man. The man had the same dark, Mediterranean looks that had attracted him to Andrea. He took another step and they were now only an arm’s length from each other. Craig looked into the man’s dark eyes and he found himself recalling that image from the television advert of thirty years ago. In his mind, he could see that boy swimming underwater, his long black hair floating about his head. The man said, “What do you want to do?”

Craig had no idea, could think of nothing to say, and he felt that his mouth was so dry that he probably would not have been able to speak anyway. He just shrugged.

The man unfastened his own jeans, let them slip down, revealing his excitement, and he took Craig’s hand and guided it into place. Craig then felt the man’s other hand pressing down on his shoulder. Craig went down to his knees. He recalled himself caressing the side of Andrea’s nose and wanting to eat it while that voice from next door had shouted, “Suck that big cock. You like that big cock, don’t you!” and Craig began a banquet, right there in the woods, in the dark; he ate the most delicious food that he had ever tasted; he savoured the texture of it in his mouth; his whole mind, body and soul sucked in those scents and sights that had seemed closer to his face than he would have ever guessed possible; and afterwards, they were both stood holding each other, still half naked.

Craig said, quietly, “That was amazing.”

The man said, just as quietly, “Yes, I enjoyed it too.”

“What’s your name?”

“Felipe.”

“I’m Craig.”

Felipe smiled, “Pleased to meet you.”

Craig said, “You have a dark complexion; where are you from?”

“Here. But my father is Spanish and my mother Chinese. It’s weird, I know. ‘Felipe Perez’ is my full name. It’s a common Spanish name. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Shouldn’t really, but I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

Craig said, “You talk a lot.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I like it.”

Felipe said, “Anyway, I’ve gotta go.”

Craig said, “I want to see you again.”

“Sure.”

Craig asked, “Where? When?”

Felipe said, “Anywhere,” and fastened his jeans and was about to leave. He said, “See you.”

Craig said, “Let me give you my number.”

“I don’t have my phone on me.”

“Well, give me your number then; you can put it in mine.” Craig took out his mobile. Felipe went to leave again, but Craig held onto him, “Wait. It won’t take long,” he created a new entry in his phone’s “Contacts”, entered “Phil” and handed the phone over to Felipe, “Just type your number in there.”

Felipe looked at it, paused, then said, “I can’t remember it.”

Craig said, “Well try; what does it start with?”

Felipe entered a few numbers, then paused, “I can’t remember any more,” and went to hand the phone back to Craig.

Craig looked at the four digits and said, “It’s the same code as mine. Is it a ‘6’ next?”

Felipe said, “Oh, yes, I remember.”

Craig entered the “6” then handed the phone back to Felipe. “You must be able to remember the rest. Don’t you want to see me?”

Felipe said, almost in a panic, “Yes!” and he quickly typed the remainder of the number and handed it back to Craig. He stood there, watching Craig for a moment, as if waiting for permission to go, or for instructions as to what to do next. He said, in a childlike way, with no trace of irony: “Can I go now?”

Craig said, “Of course. I’ll see you soon.” And then Felipe was gone.

Craig was stood there alone, next to the tree, next to “their” tree. He wanted to savour the experience for longer, for it seemed to him that Felipe was still there, somehow within his own chest, within his heart; he could still feel his presence there within him. He fastened his clothes, turned, and leant back against the tree. It was now completely dark, but his eyes were adjusted to the dark and he could see dimly into the woodland. There were other men passing by, and bushes rustling from time to time. Craig suddenly felt a clear awareness of his imprisonment; he was imprisoned by those trees and bushes, by the night, by his sexuality, by his neighbours and by his partnership with Dicky. He wondered how much longer his sentence would last, whether it was a life sentence, and what he might have done to deserve it. He thought about the people he defended, the people he kept out of prison. It occurred to him that he was imprisoned and that he could not free himself, so perhaps that was why he had been drawn into a career where he helped other people to avoid imprisonment. This seemed to make sense. And perhaps this was his sentence. He was to remain imprisoned himself and was to devote his life to keeping other people out of prison. It seemed to him that this awareness of his own imprisonment was a valuable insight and that it would somehow enable him to more effectively help other people, and that perhaps his own imprisonment was therefore meant to be. This also seemed to make sense and he could accept the logic of it. He thought about James Jones—or “J.J.” to his friends—the client whose case he had been working on earlier and whom he was due to represent in court in the morning. He recalled J.J. saying, “I’m innocent, by the way. I mean, I did it, but they can’t prove it, so that makes me innocent, right?”

Craig started thinking about this. Maybe J.J. was right. We were all guilty of something, if you dug deep enough, only our crimes were not “proved”, were not displayed in public with the evidence laid out in a logical manner, therefore our guilt remained hidden within us. It was all part of life, of being a human being. We were all guilty, but while our guilt was not proved, we were assumed to be innocent. This was the trick that was applied in order to make society work. It was only the unfortunate few, the ones who had their guilt proved, who had to pay the price. The rest of us, the secret, guilty army that made up society, we kept our heads down and lived a lie. So, yes, he thought that perhaps J.J. was right. J.J. was innocent. It was just left to Craig to ensure that he remained innocent, so that he could rejoin the rest of us, rejoin the ranks of the secretly, guilty army.

Craig put aside his thoughts about his own imprisonment, which he could not do anything about, and focused his thoughts on his defence of J.J. He left the Heath and headed for home.

 

19 June 2008

 

Read Andrea Segovia’s point of view.

See my sketchbook entry on writing this story, which includes an analysis of the characters, and also: editing this story.

 

See readers' comments on this work here