Live and Let Die

With deliberate intention, Adrian Wallis had not answered the door to a caller in 30 years. Unless he needed a plumber to fix a leaking pipe or the gas man to read the meter, there was no reason to take visitors. And if a faucet did need mending, then Adrian supervised closely; no need for wandering eyes or feet, stumbling across a man's secrets. So, when the doorbell did ring on a Sunday morning towards the end of November, the jolt of surprise was enough for Adrian to drop the newspaper he read onto his lap. Several pages came loose and fell to the floor. "What the Dickens!" He exclaimed. "Who could that be Ant, on a Sunday of all days?"

Adrian's attire was a retired gentleman in a hurry to go nowhere. He saw no need to remove his pyjamas before lunch and was unapologetic. His feet were snug in a pair of camel hide slippers, purchased on a recent visit to Botswana and to stay warm, he wore a thick, woollen robe. He took breakfast in the reception room that occupied the ground floor of his four-storey Georgian mansion, built a little after the great fire of London in 1666. The room was not heated and hadn't been in 30 years. Later renovations added a compact yet functional kitchen which overlooked his small, well-tended vegetable garden and a ground floor bathroom. 

"Coming, coming," he raised his voice and hobbled down the hallway to the door. Ant would tell him he was getting old beyond his years, but Adrian would dismiss him with a cheeky, "Bugger off, I am walking like an old man because I feel like an old man." Adrian would later tell the police he was 71. 

He did not unlatch the door. That would be unwise, all things considered. This was London, and though Notting Hill was so gentrified the streets had the charm of a Starbucks, one had to be careful. "Yes, yes, what do you want? It's Sunday, and Sunday is the day of newspapers and crumpets with jam.”

He opened the door to be greeted by a gush of fresh air and the warm smile of a young, well-assembled and attractive woman. She clutched, in one hand a phone, which no doubt provided her with directions and in the other, the handle to a small suitcase, the type one did not need to carry but could simply roll on its four casters. "Mr Wallis?" the lady said in an American accent. "I'm Sandra. I received your letter last week and came as quickly as possible."

Adrian thought the resemblance was remarkable. “All the way from New York?”

“From Manhattan.”

“Without calling first? To arrange a date, a time? Would that not have been the appropriate way to approach this? Instead of just turning up, on my doorstep, without so much as an appointment. It’s a little impulsive don’t you think, not to mention rude.”

Sandra felt awkward. Adrian was right, she was impetuous. Sandra had considered calling and dialled his number twice, and both times hung up before reaching the last digit. What if he told her not to come? Then what would she have done? Gone anyway? "I am sorry, it's just you wrote and said you knew my father, and I've never met anyone who'd met him, except my mother. I let the excitement get the better of me. I am really sorry.”

Adrian rolled his eyes, aware that Sandra would notice. Did he feel rude doing so? No. Adrian had stopped caring what others thought a long time ago. He told Sandra to meet him on the High Street, at a Caffe Nero. “It’s one of those ghastly chains, but what choice do us Londoners have now?” he complained. She asked to leave her bag, and he replied, "there's no need to."

Once she was gone, he turned inside and changed into a well-worn tailored suit. He said goodbye to Ant, then hesitated as he reached the door, deciding he needed a little fortitude before meeting the American. A decanter of brandy displayed on an occasional table would do the trick.

At the cafe, he ordered an Americano and she a flat white. 

“I thought you may have drunk tea, being British," Sandra quipped. Adrian was in no mood for small talk and offered no excuse. "You knew my father?" Sandra continued, a little on edge. Sandra hoped to hear a story unfold like a map leading to her past. Adrian was not surprised at her eagerness for word and was content to indulge her. He considered for a moment if he should omit any details and decided against it. "He told me he had a daughter on the first night we met," Adrian said.

“Please tell me everything.”

“This is hard for me, you know?” Adrian didn't wait for an acknowledgement. He just wanted to be done. "We met in Rome. 30 years ago. It was August. Hot. I had lived in Rome as a postdoctoral fellow in Roman Antiquity. I am, was, an archaeologist, you see. He was in Rome for a fashion photoshoot. Vogue, I think. He had just finished his degree in Fine Arts at NYU and freelanced as a photographer's assistant. Do you know any of this?

Sandra shook her head. “No I don’t.”

Adrian cleared his throat with a slight, deliberate cough. "You do know that he liked men? Your mother did tell you that, I hope."

Sandra did know. This time Adrian let out a short laugh. "You'd think he would have loved fashion, but no. He lived in New York; it was the work offered, and it paid his bills. He longed to be a wildlife photographer and hoped to live in southern Africa one day.

"Behind the Colosseum, there is a narrow cobbled street fronted with three or four gay bars. It was a lot of fun, especially on a Friday and Saturday night when the revelry spilled out onto the street. I would go to a bar, sit, read, and have a spritz before it all became too; how should I say it? Predatory. He arrived with friends, I assume from the shoot. They were New Yorkers, loud and obvious. 

“I spotted him as he walked in. How could one not? He was tall, dark and all smiles. He was handsome beyond my mere words. As cheesy as it sounds, he took my breath away.

“He came to the bar, next to where I sat, to order drinks for his group. His shoulders rippled under his tight white t-shirt. His faded denim shorts, the rage back then, were so tight as to hug his gluteus maximus, his rectus femurs - I’m sorry, anatomy is a hobby of mine - let’s just say his butt looked great in a pair of tight shorts.”

Sandra giggled.

“But my eyes didn’t stay down there long and were soon drawn to his face. He was ordering drinks from the bartender and caught me staring. He smiled. ‘Have we met before?’

"I blushed. I had been caught. I was embarrassed. 'Oh, I'm…." 

"I returned to my book, which lay face down on the bar counter when his hand reached out and gently touched my forearm. 'It's just that you look so familiar like we have met before.'

“‘No, no, I don’t think so.’ The words I spoke sounded like they came from a giddy 18-year-old version of me, a little pathetic considering I was past 40. Yet here I was, dumbstruck by this Antinous. 

“He wears the rose of youth upon him. Shakespeare. I’m sorry, The memories are so vivid. 

“The bar tender delivered his drinks. He motioned to the empty chair beside me. ‘Let me take these to my friends, and then if, you don’t mind, I could join you for a drink. You are here alone?,’” he asked.

"Words fell from my mouth like scrabble pieces, jumbled and making no sense. He didn't care. We spent the next four hours getting drunk, talking about archeology and photography, Quintin Tarantino movies and the New York - London rivalry. He liked baseball and hot dogs. I enjoyed cricket and pork pies. This was his first time outside of the USA, and he told me how hungry he was for more. 

"I was staying in a small pension in the Jewish quarter which we walked to in the balmy, Roman night, the streets filled with the residual energy of thousands of years of history. Rome truly is the eternal city. We made love. Later he told me his work had finished, and he was due to return to New York the next day but asked if he could stay on. Of course, I said yes. 

"We spent our mornings eating pastries and drinking espressos from a small cafe I favoured before playing tourist, exploring the Colosseum, the Pantheon, and the Sistine Chapel. He was drunk on the history of Rome, and we were intoxicated on each other. He taught me how to laugh and be silly and view the world as a photographer.

“We caught the train to Venice, lost ourselves in the narrow callis, dined on plates of risotto di sepias in cosy osterias and drank cappuccinos overlooking the Piazza San Marco. Our last evening, we ordered cicchetti by a canal, drank Apero spritz and watched the sunset in the west. He started to cry, 'I now know what it is like to fall in love,’ he turned to me, and we kissed.

"He went home two days later, and a week later, he arrived in London with a suitcase packed. He fell for the city, the juxtaposition of old and new. He asked what I thought about him staying if he could find work as a photographer, and I told him yes. I, too, was in love for the first time in my life.

"He had been with me for five days when we had dinner at a small Italian restaurant just a few blocks from here. We got very drunk on Chianti and fell asleep on the sofa at home. I remember him waking me, telling me he would go and buy some cigarettes. I mumbled something and fell back to sleep. 

“In the morning I awoke and he was gone. So was his case. There was no note, no nothing. He had simply vanished. I was devastated and powerless. This is why so many are put off by the idea of falling in love. Love disables you, and you are at the mercy of another soul. I had no address for him, no way of finding him. I assumed he got cold feet, changed his mind and slipped away. Days turned to weeks and they turned to months. I would check Vogue, looking for bylines. I would buy National Geographic, to see if he had fulfilled his dream and nothing. Soon, crazed with despair, I began to doubt myself, did I just dream it all?” He stared hard at Sandra. "Is he still alive?" 

Sandra saw his hands tremble. “My mother and I never heard from him. He never returned to New York. His parents had disowned him when he came out to them. Plus he lived in Manhattan, no one really noticed he was missing. Eventually my mother filed a missing person report but the police were of no help. Did they ever contact you?”

“No one did.”

Sandra finished her coffee. “There is something I don’t understand. It’s the reason I guess I came, instead of calling. How did you find me? And my mother?”

Adrian pushed his coffee aside and steadied himself on the table. "Do you have time to come back to the house? I want to show you something. I need to show you something."

Sandra followed Adrian into his cold home. The air was musty and stale, and despite the sunny winter’s day, heavy drapes concealed the large windows that looked out onto the street. Dimly lit by several ornate lamps of differing styles, the room was cluttered, in an organised manner, with the care of a museum curator. African spears, shields and a collection of carved wooden masked adorned a wall, alongside antique maps of Africa. The room itself was large, with high ceilings, polished floorboards, woven rugs scattered to deaden the sound of feet. Another rug was draped over a large rectangular box raised off the ground to be waist-high. This is where Adrian stood. “Come here dear, let me show you.” 

Adrian, she thought, seemed ill at ease.

Sandra moved to where he stood.

“Please keep an open mind,” he asked as he partially revealed what was in the box. 

Sandra screamed. 

Inside the glass box - the coffin - was the decomposing body of Ant, the father she had never known. His features were still that of a young 25-year-old, she could make that much out. But his skin sagged off his sunken cheeks, tearing in places to expose muscle tendons and bone fragments. His hair was steely grey, his jaw open as if he screamed. Thankfully his eyes were shut. Sandra realised she was making a gurgling sound, deep from her throat. She keeled over, a cramp punching her hard in the stomach. "I'm going to be sick."

“That way, to the right and through the kitchen.”

Sandra bolted towards the bathroom, where vomit exploded from her mouth. She missed the toilet, and her insides splashed on the tiled floor. She vomited again and again until she believed she was about to turn inside out. When she was done, the tears began. She gathered her wits, steadied her shaking legs and walked back towards the room. She searched for her phone but did not know how to call for help in London.

“Tell me how I phone the police.” She exchanged a look of horror with Adrian. 

Adrian had pulled the rug back over the coffin. “We can call the police together, in a moment, but first, let me explain. Would you like to sit?”

Sandra was torn between standing and listening to the ravings of a disturbed old man or fleeing outside where she knew she could breathe again. She chose to stay but refused to sit. 

Adrian wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and told her a story unspoken for 30 years. "We had been to that Italian restaurant like I told you. We were a little drunk. We walked back to the house, holding hands, and as we neared the front door, we were startled by a group of youths across the road masquerading as skinheads. They began yelling obscenities at us, calling us faggots and queers. I felt concerned for our safety and told Ant to get inside quickly. But he was young, feisty, and yelled out for them to say it to his face. One youth crossed the road. ‘Please,’ I begged Ant, ‘let's just go inside.’ But he wasn't listening. The youth walked up to him and, without hesitation, headed butted him. The blow was hard, and Ant fell onto the pavement, the back of his head catching the gutter's edge. He landed with a sickening crack as his skull split open. He died instantly. The youths ran off, and I was, well, you can't even imagine. 'No,' I screamed, 'no, no, no,' over and over again. I knew I should have called the police, but it began to rain and, well, I know this sounds odd, but I didn't want Ant to catch a chill.

“So I dragged him inside and laid him here on the floor. I sat on that sofa, stricken with pain. I didn't want to let him go. I didn’t want him to be my past. I told myself I'd call the police in an hour or so. I wasn't ready for him to be zipped up in a body bag, to be buried and forgotten.

"An hour turned to two then three. By dawn, I was on the internet learning how to embalm someone. The procedure was quick, simple almost. All I needed was the necessary equipment, all available, no questions asked. In a city like London, you can procure anything you desire.

“And it worked, although it took care. I constantly had to inject chemicals into him and nurse the skin. I had the box made and I went about our life, together. I spent the next 30 years doing the things we would have done as a couple. Safaris in Namibia and Botswana, renewing subscriptions to National Geographic; cooking Italian food; growing vegetables, week-ends in Paris with his trusted Leica. Walks in the London rain. I did think about his family and as you said, I expected the police to one day knock but they never did.”

Adrian had stopped crying and longed to sit, his legs light beneath him, now the weight of his burden had lifted. He moved to the phone and dialled the police. He then sat and waited. In a state of shock, Sandra, puffy-faced, leaned on the doorway, trembling.

“Do you think I’m a monster,” Adrian was barely audible. Sandra heard footsteps approaching the front door.

She did not know what to think. She was horrified beyond anything life had prepared her for and deeply sorrowful.

“What about you Adrian? What sort of life was this, living with a corpse.”

There was a knock at the door. Adrian lifted himself from the armchair and made his way to answer.

“It was my life,” he said with no remorse. “For the briefest of moments I knew what true love was and I did what I could to hang on to that. Some people never get to experience love, but I did, and I didn’t want to let it go. It is that simple. Like the Roman emperor Hadrian, I did not want to let my Antinous go.”