When You Are Mine(10)
I make a humming sound. ‘You want a juice?’
‘I’d prefer an answer.’
‘I’m prevaricating.’
‘I can tell.’
Eventually, I tell him the story. Henry asks all the right questions and makes concerned noises, which is why I love him.
‘You’re saying this guy beat up a woman and attacked you, but nothing will happen to him?’
‘Tempe didn’t give us a statement. She was too frightened.’
‘Who is he – Harvey Weinstein?’
‘Not quite.’
I take my laptop from its case and type in a Google search for Goodall’s name. The screen refreshes. There are dozens of stories about the knife attack at Camden Market. A paranoid schizophrenic called David Thorndyke stabbed seven people, three of whom died, before Goodall intervened.
I find the bravery citation:
Sergeant Goodall was off-duty, shopping with his family when he responded to screams for help. Despite having no personal protective equipment, he tackled the knifeman and sustained life-threatening injuries as he wrestled with the attacker and held him until help arrived.
There are more stories and profiles, including a YouTube clip of Goodall on breakfast TV, sitting on a sofa looking stiff and uncomfortable.
‘Do the events of that day feel real to you now?’ he is asked by Susanna Reid.
‘No, it feels more like a dream.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sometimes I wonder if I really did those things. And what could have happened. My wife might be a widow. My children might not have a father.’
‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ says Reid.
‘I guess so.’
Pushed to unbutton his shirt, he shows the scars on his stomach and chest. I recognise the gladiator tattoo and remember the smell of his sweat.
I call up more stories. One has a photograph taken outside Buckingham Palace. Goodall, dressed in a dark suit with his hair gelled into place, has his arm around his wife, a pretty brunette, who is wearing a hat for the occasion and balancing a baby girl on her hip. An older boy, school-age, is holding her other hand.
I don’t know what I should feel. Admiration. Sorry for his wife. Angry. Goodall is doubtless a hero. He saved lives that day; and almost lost his own. It’s also clear that he’s become an important asset for the London Metropolitan Police, to be wheeled out on TV talk shows and featured on recruitment posters.
Henry picks up crumbs with his wet forefinger.
‘Where is his girlfriend now?’
‘At a women’s refuge.’
‘How long are you off work?’
‘A few days, maybe.’
‘It’s a shame I can’t get time off. We could go away.’
Henry is a firefighter stationed at Brixton, a thirteen-year veteran, who is now a crew manager. He works rolling shifts – two days, then two nights, before a three-day break.
He’s tidying up the kitchen, putting jars away and wiping down the benches.
‘You’re almost fully house-trained,’ I say.
‘Where do I fall short?’
‘Occasionally you leave the toilet seat up and the top off the toothpaste, and you put empty milk cartons back in the fridge.’
‘Capital offences.’
‘And you yell at the TV when you’re watching football when the referee can’t possibly hear you.’
‘I’m passionate.’
‘Yes, you are.’
I put my arms around him. We kiss. I feel him grow hard.
‘What time do you have to pick up Archie?’
He looks over my shoulder at the oven clock. ‘Twenty minutes.’
‘We can do it?’
‘Are you giving me permission to hurry?’
‘Just this once. Quick march.’
4
Henry is the fifth most beautiful man I have ever met. I don’t count film stars and boy band members on this list because some of them – Ryan Gosling, for instance – are so handsome they could be aliens. My desert island top five are normal people who I’ve met at parties, or at school or at university.
In chronological order they are:
Rodney Grant
Patrick Hamer
Paul Crilly
David Sainsbury
Henry Chapman
I’ve only ever slept with one of them. The others were like luxury cars in a showroom – high-end models that I wasn’t allowed to test drive in case I lost control on a bend and damaged their bodywork.
Rodney Grant was the first. He fancied me for a week when he heard that I used my tongue when we were playing spin the bottle at Bridget Maher’s twelfth birthday party. I can’t remember what boy I kissed, or whether I used my tongue or not, but that was the sort of rumour that spread like wildfire at our primary school.
Later, playing hide-and-seek at a birthday party, Rodney followed me into a cupboard beneath the stairs, where it was pitch-black. He finished up kissing his mate Chris, thinking he was me. This led to much spitting and wiping of mouths, but strangely, many years later, Rodney turned out to be gay. I don’t think I played a role in his coming out, but who knows.
Patrick Hamer worked at the local hardware store, part-time on weekends and during school holidays. I used to make excuses to buy lots of stuff that I didn’t need, like masking tape, gloves, and a shovel. He probably thought I was disposing of a body.