‘You just told me not to.’
‘Do you think this is a game?’ I shouted, forgetting myself and twisting his arm a little further, noting the harsh intake of breath with a grim satisfaction. ‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth from the beginning?’
‘Because… because you asked me not to,’ Stephomi gasped. ‘For God’s sake, Gabriel, let go of my arm before you really do fucking break it! You’re making a mistake! I’ve never been anything but a friend to you!’
I hesitated. He’d spoken so earnestly that the first doubtful butterflies began to flutter uncertainly inside me.
‘I’ll happily explain it to you if you’ll just let me go,’ Stephomi offered stiffly. Reluctantly, I released my hold on his arm and slowly got to my feet. With a sigh, Stephomi did the same and turned to face me.
‘Well, I never liked this shirt anyway,’ he said, a smile twisting his mouth as he glanced down at the dusky red wine staining his shirt, dripping like blood from his sleeve cuff and the tips of his fingers. The hand that had been pinned beneath him was bleeding and I could see small pieces of the broken bottle embedded in his palm. The same feeling of revulsion rose up in me as on the day of the rare steak incident — I could feel the bile rising in my throat and averted my gaze hurriedly. There were even a few flecks of wine down one side of his face and in his hair. He was gazing at the remains of the bottle sadly and, when he glanced up at me, there was a reproachful look in his eye. ‘Really, Gabriel, was all that necessary? If you wanted to know something, you only had to ask. I, er… admit I haven’t been completely truthful,’ he said frankly. ‘The fact is that I have known you for years. I followed you that day to Margaret’s Island and the second time to Heroes’ Square. I just wanted to make sure you were all right, that’s all.’
‘How very altruistic of you! Now can you please explain to me why you’ve been acting like a compulsive liar?’
‘Well, let’s not get carried away,’ Stephomi replied, looking mildly amused. He moved his hand to brush his wine-dampened hair from his eyes, and winced. Holding up his palm, he examined the shards of glass embedded in the skin. With a sigh, he let his hand drop back down to his side and glanced up to meet my uncertain gaze.
‘Look, the truth is you didn’t want me to tell you about your past. You made me promise that I wouldn’t. I’m not even supposed to be here.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ I snapped. ‘I don’t believe a word of it! Just tell me the fucking truth! Is Gabriel Antaeus even my real name?’
Stephomi hesitated a moment and then nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘And how did we know each other before?’
‘I told you, we were friends.’
‘What about this, then?’ I asked, throwing the photograph onto the kitchen table.
Stephomi picked it up and I saw his mouth tighten with displeasure as he took in the quote on the back. A glint of irritation came into his eyes and he tossed the photo back onto the table.
‘We don’t look very friendly to me, Stephomi.’
‘I was telling you something you didn’t particularly want to hear at the time, I’m afraid. I’d like to answer your questions, Gabriel, but I made a promise to you and I have no intention of breaking it.’
‘Who is this?’ I asked, drawing the photo of the mystery woman from my pocket and holding it up.
‘Where did you get that?’ Stephomi asked sharply.
‘What does it matter? Do you know her?’
‘Don’t worry about her,’ Stephomi said quietly. ‘Throw the photo away, Gabriel.’
‘You know who she is, then? You do, don’t you? You know everything about this… this Godforsaken mess! Do you know how I lost my memory? Do you know where my family is?’ I asked, desperately. And then, when he remained silent, ‘Do you know who took the pictures? Do you know who sent them?’
‘I have a fairly good idea.’
‘But you’re not going to tell me, are you? You’re not going to tell me anything I want to know at all!’
‘No, Gabriel,’ Stephomi said with a wry smile. ‘Because you don’t really want to know it.’
I glared at him furiously, maddened by his attitude. How badly I wanted to hurt him in that moment. I could have beaten the truth from him, of course. After that back street incident with the Hungarian muggers, I was sure I would have been physically up to the task; but the thought of it chilled me, not least because it sprang so readily to my mind. That was not how civilised people behaved. That was not something a civilised person would think about doing.
‘You’re thinking about beating it out of me, aren’t you?’ Stephomi asked, with a smile. ‘It won’t work, you know.’
‘Don’t push me!’ I screamed at him. ‘For your own sake, don’t give me a reason!’ He couldn’t know how perilously close I was… but I was determined not to lose control this time… I wouldn’t let him force me into doing anything wrong. ‘Get out,’ I whispered.
He hesitated for a moment and then, with a shrug, he moved past me to the door and I heard it click softly shut behind him. I stood there for a minute after he’d gone, staring at the table and feeling more helpless, more completely alone than when I had first woken up, weeks ago, on the floor of this very kitchen.
The thought of not being in control is disgusting to me. Almost as if the aversion has been ingrained into my soul through years of disciplined habit. So after Stephomi had gone, I sat down at the kitchen table and calmly poured myself a glass of wine in an effort to stifle the urge to destroy my apartment again as I had done the night I’d lost Stephomi’s card. I was even briefly tempted to go out and find some muggers to attack. After all, they were only muggers. The desire to do violence to something strengthened until it was more a craving than a desire. I regretted letting Stephomi walk away like that — perhaps I should go after him? I knew where he lived… But it was no good, not in the mood I was in. It’s a terrible thing to say
… but I was frightened that if I let myself give in to these feelings I might go too far.
So I did the responsible thing and took control of the situation and poured myself another glass of wine. And then another and another. Soon I was opening a second bottle… The truth is that I drank myself senseless, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. It was intentional
… I was the one in control. It was a logical solution to a problem, that was all. It’s not like I intend to do it again — it’s not healthy, for one thing. But alcohol is sometimes useful. If you’re patient… if you drink enough of it… then there is a sort of heaviness, a paralysis that creeps into your limbs so that your fingers go numb and you drop the wine glass with a splintering of broken glass… your head falls back, the chair tips over… and you end up lying there senseless on the floor for the rest of the night where you won’t be able to do any damage to anything… or anyone.
I was woken up at about 10 a.m., rather suddenly, by a lot of very cold water being thrown into my face. I jerked awake, blinking water from my eyes and coughing it out of my mouth. At once, pain started throbbing dully through me — through my head, my neck, my shoulders — my whole body — from the combination of having slept on the hard floor all night and the alcohol that was still coursing through my system. ‘Oh good,’ Stephomi said, some of the concern fading from his face as he looked down at me, ‘you’re not dead after all. Careful, you’ve been lying in broken glass all night.’
I glanced down and saw that he was right. There were jagged pieces of glass all over the floor from the bottle of wine that Stephomi had dropped and the wine glass that I had broken later. The spilt wine from the bottle had soaked into my clothes, staining my shirt and making me smell like an alcoholic tramp.
‘Luckily you don’t seem to have cut yourself too badly,’ Stephomi said, eyeing me critically. ‘Let me give you a hand up.’
I didn’t want to take his hand but standing up would have been difficult and — let’s face it — undignified otherwise, since there was nowhere on the floor I could put my hands without cutting into them. So I took his hand in silence and let him pull me to my feet.
‘What do you want now?’ I asked thickly, carefully brushing crushed glass from my clothes.
My throat felt like sandpaper, my tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of my mouth, and the light beyond the windows hurt my eyes, forcing me to shield them with my hand. There is, after all, a downside to too much alcohol.
‘Oh, a great many things,’ Stephomi answered cheerfully. ‘But for today I’ll settle for not seeing you drink yourself to death. It’s lucky you weren’t sick or you might have choked on your own vomit, you know. You would’ve done better to drink with me last night.’
‘Oh, shut up! I know what you’re thinking but I was in control the whole time. I told you to get out. Why have
