The Tourist

The Tourist

The Tourist 512 512 Brian Kirk

I’d been living in London for over six months when I met Gary in a bar. I’d left a job, my girlfriend and family behind me in Ireland and gone to a place where I knew no one. If I thought it would be exciting, I was hugely mistaken. I was nineteen years old, searching for something I could not describe, and not about to admit my mistake.

The bar was in Soho, just off Shaftesbury Avenue, a long narrow room lit by ultraviolet tubes that reflected designer white shirts and brittle expensive smiles. The music was electronic, but nothing I knew, album tracks from little known emerging artists. Tired of the maudlin pubs of Kilburn and Cricklewood, I’d taken to spending my Saturdays walking around the West End and Soho before finding a bar and getting slowly drunk. I was drinking Dutch lager straight from the bottle – those gimmicky swing top bottles where the cap was hooked up to the neck by wire. The place specialised in cocktails, but I had a fear of them; I preferred to lose control gradually, over hours as the evening passed into night.

It was late when I noticed him at the bar. He seemed to have trouble putting together enough money to pay for his drink. He carried a rucksack on his shoulder and was wearing a green military jacket. It was summer, a warm evening after a blistering hot London day. It was obvious he didn’t belong here, no more than I did. How had he managed to evade the black-suited guys on the door? He was older than me, face tanned by the sun, blonde hair. He reminded me of some of the older guys at secondary school, the ones who were never intimidated by the teachers, who talked about music and books with authority, who had girlfriends and smoked hash at lunchtimes at the back of the bike sheds. I’m not sure what I expected, but I was surprised when Gary spoke with a provincial accent. In fact, nothing about Gary was quite what it seemed.

“Do you mind if I squeeze in here?” He swung his bag down from his shoulder and settled himself on to a couch beside me. The furniture was unsuitable for a bar – armchairs with wide wings and hulking, understuffed sofas that were almost impossible to get up out of when you sat down.

I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I’d grown used to being on my own. I always carried a novel in my jacket pocket which I only read occasionally; there was always so much going on around me, taking my attention. I didn’t own a TV and spent hours standing on my balcony looking out or reading books the details of which I could never remember later. Consequently, I often read the same page many times over. I liked to walk the city and look at things: buildings, streets, people. Some weekends I didn’t speak at all between work ending on Friday at half past five and the following Monday morning.

“I’m off tomorrow,” he said, indicating the rucksack. “Well, tomorrow or the day after. I have a little bit of business to see to first.”

I nodded, determined not to engage in conversation. He didn’t look much like a tourist to my mind, more like an explorer or certainly a traveller, which is a very different thing. Up close he looked older than he seemed at first and kind of haggard, as if he had been sleeping rough or not sleeping at all in recent days.

“You live in Soho?” He asked.

“No,” I said. That was the beginning of the end.

He must have thought he’d struck gold. Once I started talking it all came rushing out. Maybe it was the lager or the enforced weekend silences but I began to tell him all my business: how I was living in a Council flat illegally in Canning Town, how I’d left home months before without any plan at all, only wanting to get away at all costs; how I’d left my girlfriend behind too and how I hadn’t kept in touch. I mean, I said to him, what was the point of leaving if you were just going to bring it with you anyway? I didn’t know what I was saying, what he thought of me. A troubled youth? A broken home, maybe? Abuse? If he did, he couldn’t have been more wrong. We didn’t have much money when I was growing up, but I was never short of love or support. I just couldn’t stand the inertia anymore. I was almost twenty for God’s sake. I wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere at all, it didn’t matter where. Sometimes I imagined I was wicked – perverse, ungrateful, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to be my own person, to strip everything else away and reveal who I really was.

“You know,” he said, “I admire your resolve.”

I liked that word. Resolve. I liked the way he said it. I smiled. I knew I must be getting drunk.

His glass was almost empty, and he was fishing in his pockets, trying to put together the price of another drink. It was late now, and I knew I should have said goodbye and left, but instead I heard myself offer him a drink.

He rubbed his hands together when I placed it in front of him.

“Thanks, mate,” he said.

“Pat,” I said and held out my hand to him.

He took it in his grip.

“Gary,” he replied. “You know, Pat, I think we have a lot in common.”

 

That night we took the night bus home to my place. He told me all about his life, about his wife and three-year-old daughter and the house they rented in Glastonbury near the standing stones. I remember how he stretched himself out on my sofa when we got in while I went to fetch him a spare pillow and an old sleeping bag. That night I lay awake, conscious of the presence of another person in the flat. I felt uneasy. I’d grown used to being on my own. At one stage I heard him go out to the kitchen and run the water. A cupboard was opened, and I imagined him taking down one of the tall glasses from the top shelf and filling it with cold water from the tap. Later again I heard the toilet flush, his footsteps coming back into the living room. I imagined they stopped outside my bedroom door for a few moments before retreating to the sofa once again. Maybe I dreamed that. I was so tired by then.

The next morning I got up for work as normal and tiptoed around his sleeping mass on my way to the kitchen to eat breakfast. Just as I was about to leave, he appeared in the doorway wrapped in the sleeping bag. I found myself staring at his bare legs and hairless chest. I wondered did he shave or wax it.

“Thanks again for this, man,” he said. “I just need a day or two and then I’m gone.”

I nodded. I took a spare key from the drawer and gave it to him.

“Could you spare a few quid, so I can get us some grub for later?” he asked.

I handed him a tenner, which he took and folded into a small purse that he took from his jeans which were lying on the floor.

“I won’t be back till half past six or so,” I said as I went out the door.

“Have a good day at the office,” he called after me. I thought I heard him laugh softly as I made my way down the concrete steps.

The man on the landing below was drinking his morning coffee outside his front door as usual. I nodded hello. I thought he looked at me differently that day, but he didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t concentrate at work all day. Luckily my job was not too taxing, but my workmates must have noticed that my mind was elsewhere when they repeatedly had to call my name to get my attention. But I was a quiet type who didn’t share his private business with his colleagues, and it’s not as though any of them were friends.

When I got home that night my senses were immediately accosted by the pungent smell of strange spices cooking. Billows of steam rose to the ceiling in the small kitchen that I rarely used. Gary, stood at the cooker in shorts and vest, with a fork in his hand his face flushed and smiling.

“It’ll be ready in five,” he called over his shoulder to me.

I went to my room and changed out of my work clothes – blue trousers, white shirt and striped tie – and into jeans and a t-shirt. Gary had moved the coffee table closer to the sofa and placed two knives and forks beside two cans of lager on the table top. I sat on the sofa, listening to the sound of plates rattling and water running from the kitchen. He emerged with two plates piled high with curry and noodles, a tea towel draped across his shoulder.

“Ta-dah!”

He put the plates down carefully before sitting down beside me and taking up his fork.

“I learned this dish from a guy in Vietnam a few years back. They had almost everything I needed down the market,” he said.

I picked up a fork and studied the pale brown mixture with suspicion.

“You don’t have much in your cupboards in the way of essentials,” he said, before taking a large mouthful.

“No,” I said. “I don’t cook a whole lot, to be honest.”

I speared a piece of chicken and put it in my mouth and forced myself to chew. It felt slimy and tasted of salt and fish. I was hungry but not hungry enough for this. Gary paid no attention to me; he was more concerned with feeding his face as quickly as possible. I tried some noodles, but they tasted equally bad.

When he had cleaned his plate, he looked at me.

“Not to your taste then?” he asked.

“I’m just not hungry,” I lied. I pushed the plate away and lit a cigarette. Gary’s eyes opened wide and I understood that he wanted one too. We sat on the sofa for a while smoking in silence.

“You know, you should be able to enjoy new things,” he said after a while. “Life has so much more to offer if you are a little more adventurous.” He turned to look at me as he stubbed out his spent cigarette.

“Like I said, I’m just not hungry. I had a big lunch earlier today.”

“Sure. Okay, suit yourself.”

He took the plates into the kitchen. I could hear him scraping my meal into the bin and the water running, rinsing the plates. I was tired, still hungry, wishing I was on my own. I lit another cigarette. After taking two drags I stubbed it out and took my jacket down from its hook in the hall. Gary appeared from the kitchen just as I was opening the front door.

“Are you going somewhere?” he asked.

“I just need some air.”

“Hang on and I’ll keep you company.” He ducked into the living room and emerged wearing his battered jacket.

“So where are we headed?” he asked as we made our way down the concrete steps into the courtyard. I didn’t reply.

“Jesus, this place is depressing,” he said. Weeds grew up between the cracks in the paving and the few trees that were planted were broken or dying or both. All the colour seemed to leech out of the place. Gary, in his shorts, vest and jacket, looked so out of place in this monochrome world.

I walked out onto the road and on through the underpass that led to Barking Road. It was still bright out but most of the lights were broken along the subway; we crunched glass under our feet and breathed in the stink of piss, mingled with the smell of rotting veg from the market. I hadn’t got the heart to go any further. There was no destination, no green space or park that might offer some sort of respite from the concrete, graffiti and general ugliness. I turned around.

“Hey, where are you going now?” Gary jogged along beside me.

“Slow down, slow down,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Pub,” was all I said.

He fell silent for a while. I waited for him to speak and he did just as the lights of the pub came into view.

“You’ll have to sub me, mate. I’m smashed.”

“I know,” I said.

Inside I felt just as bad, but at least I had a drink in my hand. Gary eased himself into the situation and was soon engaging various people in conversation. I’d become a regular over time, but generally kept to myself. He was talking about the times he’d spent travelling in Thailand and Vietnam, the beauty of these places, the amazing people he met, the crazy things he’d seen. The locals loved him.

The locals were just that, local, with ages ranging from twenty somethings up to pensioners and all of them white. I never saw a Black person in the neighbourhood in my time there. I didn’t ask. I was living there illegally, paying cheap rent to a Council tenant who was subletting, so I wasn’t in a position to judge people.

“This place is great, Pat!”

I nodded and ordered two more drinks.

We left at closing time. The alcohol had mellowed me a little, but I was anxious because I knew how hard it would be to get up for work in the morning. Back at the flat, Gary made tea while I sat on the sofa. When he put our mugs down on the table, we sat together in silence for a time before he spoke.

“You got work in the morning?”

I nodded.

“I just want to say thanks, Pat, for everything. You’ve been really generous, and I will pay you back you know.” He turned to me. “If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know. Okay?”

He put his hand on my knee for a moment and then withdrew it quickly. He stood up then and went to the bathroom, stretching and yawning as he went. When I heard the toilet flush, I stood up and took the mugs to the kitchen and washed them. He put his head around the door.

“I’m done in,” he said. “I’m going to get some kip.”

“Okay. Me too.”

I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and take a piss before bed.

When I came out, he wasn’t on the sofa in the living room. I felt a momentary panic as I opened my bedroom door. He wasn’t there. I quickly undressed and got into bed. Moments later he opened my door. He was holding a tall glass of water, and with the light from the living room behind him he was in silhouette so I couldn’t see his features clearly.

“You’re going to be dehydrated if you don’t drink some water,” he said.

He put the glass down on my bedside locker and sat on the side of my bed.

“Go on,” he said. “Take a drink.”

I reached over and lifted the heavy glass awkwardly.

“Here, let me help you.” He put his hand on the glass as I held it. His fingers felt hard, worn out like leather.

“You know, I was thinking about what you said about leaving home, leaving your girlfriend and all that. We’re really alike. I love Emma and my little girl, but every now and then I just need to get away. She understands, she does. She knows what I’m like. She knows that I’ll be back when I’m ready, when I’ve done whatever it is I need to do.”

He smiled at me.

“We don’t want an ordinary life. We don’t want to be in the audience, we want to be part of the show. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

I put the glass back down on the locker and he took his hand away and let it rest on the top of the duvet. My body recoiled beneath its weight, but I couldn’t move. The breath left my body in a rush, making it hard for me to speak.

“I need to sleep,” I managed to say.

He stayed where he was for a moment, his hand still resting on my thigh. Finally, he sighed deeply and stood up.

“See you in the morning, Pat.”

“Goodnight.”

I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about Alison and the way things ended with her. That weekend when my parents were away, and she’d come to spend the night. She wanted us to sleep together but I couldn’t. I liked her, I’d gotten used to having her around. I kept making excuses, saying that I didn’t feel well, that my parents might arrive home at any minute, but she just laughed, determined that we do it while we had the chance. When she stripped off in front of me I couldn’t look at her. She held me close and kissed me, pushing me onto the bed, lowering her naked body onto mine. It took her only a few moments to realise that I wasn’t responding. I lay in the dark and relived in acute detail that horrible moment when everything changed; how she scrambled around for her clothes with tears in her eyes unable to look at me. I heard a noise from the living room and saw a light come on through the crack in the door. I’d forgotten all about Gary. The door opened and he stood framed in the light from the doorway.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

I said nothing.

“Me neither.”

As he walked towards me I could see that he was naked. He pulled the covers back and put his hand on me. His touch was like an electric charge, but I said nothing. I don’t know why I didn’t ask him to stop. He pulled down my shorts and took me firmly in his hand. I could feel myself grow hard against his calloused fingers. His hand moved slowly at first, then rhythmically, getting faster and faster. I don’t know how long it took, but all the time I looked away, listening to the traffic sounds from the street outside, watching the pale glow of silver moonlight break between the gaps in the uneven curtains. He kept at it till I finished, then wiped his hand on the bed sheets and turned back towards the door. Before he closed the door, he spoke over his shoulder.

“That’s us even, then, I reckon.”

I didn’t sleep again that night. I got dressed while it was still dark outside and left him sleeping on the sofa. I took the tube to town as usual, but I didn’t go to work. I walked the streets around Victoria, ending up in St. James’s Park. I sat on a bench in the morning sun and tried to tell myself that nothing had changed. The world was still the same; people went to work and drank coffee and complained about their lives and argued and watched television. Something had happened that was out of character, for sure, but it meant nothing. It was something that had happened and that was that. It was a fact and couldn’t be changed, but it signified nothing.

I grew restless sitting there. I felt like people were staring at me, so I walked on through the park along the Mall to Trafalgar Square. Light rain began to fall and I took shelter in the National Gallery. The foyer was thronged with tourists from all over the world, a modern babel, so I made my way through various rooms until the art became less popular and it was quieter. Here among mainly religious work, my eye was drawn to an image of a half-naked Christ being greeted by crowds and heralded by trumpeting angels. I thought of Gary the other morning standing before me bare chested, the sleeping bag barely covering him.

I spent hours sitting on benches in different rooms, watching the people coming and going, gauging what they were like or what kind of lives they lived. I suppose I was looking for someone who might be approximate to me in some way. I found no one. Everyone seemed other.

I got home at the usual time. There was no smell of cooking. The sleeping bag was rolled up neatly in a corner of the living room and for a moment I thought that he’d gone. But he was out on the balcony smoking a cigarette. I could have simply ignored him and gone to my room, but instead I stepped out onto the balcony too and he turned to me and smiled.

“Hi,” he said.

He looked young now, sheepish, the way he had that first night I’d seen him in the bar. The evening sunlight reflected on the golden down of his unshaven cheek.

“Hi,” I said.

He dropped his cigarette on the ground and stood on it.

“I’m just heading off now,” he said. “Thanks again, for everything.”

He smiled again as he moved past me. Our bodies brushed against each other and I was frightened by the tremor of anxious excitement that passed through me. I threw my arms around him and then I was kissing his mouth with such force that our teeth knocked together. I wrestled him into the living room, the door left swinging in our wake. I pinned him up against the wall, his mouth still fastened to mine, my hands clutching at his trouser belt.

He slapped my hands away and pushed me back against the arm of the sofa causing me to lose my balance momentarily. I steadied myself and looked at him, confused.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He said nothing.

“I thought you wanted this. What about last night?”

He shook his head and smiled at me.

“You don’t get it. You just don’t get it, do you, Pat? I have to go.”

“Go on then, get out!” I said.

He laughed and shook his head again.

“I’m going, man. Jesus!”

He found his rucksack and threw it across his shoulder. I watched him until he reached the front door. He put his hand on the handle, but he didn’t open it. He turned to me.

“A piece of advice, okay. You should get out more, Pat.”

“I don’t want your advice,” I said.

“Maybe you don’t,” he said, “but I’m giving it anyway.”

I looked down at my shoes and by the time I looked up again the door had slammed shut. I was on my own again, but I couldn’t seem to shake off Gary’s ghost. All evening I moved around the flat, unable to be comfortable anywhere. The place was marked. He was a slug who’d left a trail of slime all over the place.

Later I went to the pub and sat at a table on my own sipping a pint of sour lager, pretending that everything was okay, putting all the little broken bits of my life together again in my head so I could start again tomorrow like nothing had happened. In the toilets just before last orders an older man I knew to see stood behind me while I washed my hands.

‘How’s it going, mate? Not with your pal, tonight?’

I watched him in the mirror as he stood behind me. Then I looked down at my hands, the water running over them.

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