Killing Cupid. Mark Edwards

this mental noise was a single thought:

      I wanted to see Siobhan. I wanted to be close to her.

      I was like a moth that had been battered by the weather, and was bewildered and lost. But one thing was clear – the urge to follow my instinct. To head towards Siobhan’s light.

      I put my hand in my pocket and felt the key: solid, warm, like a talisman. It gave me strength. It made me feel safe.

      I didn’t go straight towards Hampstead, though. First, I came back here. I needed coffee and cigarettes. And there was stuff I wanted to take care of first.

      I called Simon’s name as soon as I came through the door, knowing that I was going to have to break the news to him. On the way home I’d stopped at the bank and checked my balance. I had enough to see me through a month and that was it. I’m so crap at saving. There’d been the new computer (and I can’t sell that; I need it to write this journal and my pieces for college, for Siobhan) and my half of all the bills… and the rent here is so bloody high and my wages so pathetic that it didn’t leave me anything to save anyway.

      Simon wasn’t in, which was a big relief. I came straight to my room and sat down at the PC, logging straight onto the internet. First, I subscribed Martin to a load of hardcore porn sites. I found these really disgusting coprophagia sites and added his email address to their mailing lists as well. I added Jackie’s too, for good measure. Well, they enjoy crapping on people, don’t they? I felt it was apt. Even if I did make myself feel really sick.

      I tried to think of something bigger I could do – something that would really fuck them up… and then realised I couldn’t be bothered. The sick subscriptions were enough – for now, anyway. What’s the point in trying to get further revenge? It will make me feel good for a few minutes, and then it will fade and I’ll still be in the same place. I felt really mature and virtuous coming to that decision. Siobhan would be proud of me.

      I wish I could have been there to see her face when she saw the flowers I left her. She must be so intrigued. I can imagine her talking about it with her girlfriends, excitedly wondering aloud who her mysterious admirer is. But she’s so clever, I’m sure it won’t be long before she works it out. And by then she’ll be hooked. She’ll be mine. But before that, I can’t risk telling her how I feel; can’t risk her rejection. Not that it matters too much. Because in the meantime I can still be close to her.

      I’ve just had a horrible thought. What if my employer – or should I say former employer – contacts Siobhan to tell them I looked up her records? I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want a customer to know that their details were not 100 per cent secure. But there’s a chance they might. They might have a legal requirement to do it, to warn her.

      Maybe I should talk to her first. Explain why I did it. Because if they tell her it will make me look bad and she might kick me off the course.

      I left the flat and headed towards her light. London felt so grey and cruel today, a dry wind blowing between the buildings where all the drones laboured away, chained to their workstations, and for what? I’m not a drone any more – and, thinking that, I felt liberated, momentarily free of my worries. The sky might be dim, the buildings may be bleak, but there’s beauty in this city. And I was going to be near it.

      I didn’t know exactly what I was going to say to Siobhan. I thought I might tell her that I looked up her address because I was originally planning to send the review of her book to her house, but that I’d decided that would be a breach of her privacy and that I really regretted looking her up.

      But then something happened:

      I went into a newsagent’s to buy some fags. And just as I was about to open the door to leave the shop, I saw her. Siobhan; coming down the road towards me. Her eyes were downcast, and she didn’t see me, so I hid behind a card rack until I felt it was the right moment to come out. But when I did, she was gone. She had been heading down the hill, away from her house, towards Camden Lock. Suddenly, I had a decision to make. I could either follow her down the road, trying to stay out of her sight. Or I could go towards her house – where I might be able to check if she’d received any messages about me.

      I pushed open the newsagent’s door and headed up the hill.

      I was sweating by the time I reached Siobhan’s house. There was a guy with a black dog coming along the road towards me. I stopped just before Siobhan’s gate and pretended I was trying to find something in my pocket. After he’d passed, I had one more look around then went up her front path. My palms were damp and the key almost slipped from my grasp as I pushed it into the lock. I didn’t want to look furtive, so I didn’t look around again. More aware of my heartbeat than ever before, I turned the key and went through the door.

      It was utterly silent inside the house. I couldn’t even hear a clock ticking. Which was why I jumped when my footsteps made the floorboards creak.

      I laughed; the noise very loud in the silence. I guess it was just my conditioning – a voice telling me that this was wrong. But really I knew I wasn’t doing anything bad. I was just checking out Siobhan’s territory, exploring the place where she lives. Pretty soon I knew she would be inviting me inside anyway (oh God, I like the way that sounds: inviting me inside), so, telling myself this, I relaxed. There was a Modigliani on the wall inside the front door, a dark-haired woman stretched languorously on a bed, naked, gazing out intently at the artist and the viewer. Looking at the curve of her breasts and the shadow of her pubic hair, I felt myself become aroused. Why had Siobhan put such an erotic picture just inside her door? What did it signify? I held my hand up in front of me, yearning to touch the glass that screened the print. I held back. I didn’t want to leave any marks.