My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

In the end, people always found you out. And when they did, it would be worse than if you’d simply told the truth in the first place.

We hadn’t yet become lovers, and in that photo there is something of the promise—and the threat—of what was to come. I stood behind my policeman, thinking all this, and said, “That’s me. In another life.”

Same time next week. An age until then.

Even when I was with Michael there was a small part of me that wondered if some female couldn’t snap me out of it. But when he died I knew this to be utter folly, because there was no word for what I’d lost other than love. There. I’ve written it.

“You’re not a coward. It’s brave of you to come here at all.”

I thought it even then, holding his poor, beautiful body in my arms. They’d won. He’d let them win. I’m still furious with him for that.

“For a policeman, you’re very romantic.” “For an artist, you’re very afraid,” he said. My answer to that was to kiss him hard on the mouth.

I’d almost forgotten the joy of waking up and, before you’ve even opened your eyes, knowing by the shape of the mattress beneath you, by the warmth of the sheets, that he’s still there.

I say I do everything possible to avoid thinking about Tom, but, of course, Tom is mostly what I think about. And it is hell. Not least because the more I think about him, the more I cannot remember the reasons why we could not be together. The more I think about him, the less I remember anything that was wrong, or difficult. All I remember is his sweetness. And that is the hardest thing to bear.

We sat together in a front pew. Utterly alone. And we kissed. There in the presence of all the saints and angels, we kissed. I looked at the altar with its image of the miraculous Virgin—reputed to have brought a drowned man back to life—and I said, “We should live here.” After just two days of the possibilities of Venice, I said, “We should live here.” And Tom’s answer was, “We should fly to the moon.” But he was smiling.

“It was his problem, but it was also his joy,”

Tom’s pride and his fear stopped him from ever seeing the man again. Despite this, the man went on loving him. He will always love him.” All the time I talk, more men gather round, summoned by Bert’s silent rage. And I know they’ll have made sure the screw is looking the other way while Bert punches me quietly in the stomach until I fall to the floor. I’m talking all the time, even as the punches take the air from my body. He’ll always love him, I say. Over and over. Then Bert’s kicking me in the chest and someone else is kicking me in the back and I cover my face with my fists but it does no good because the blows keep coming. And still I’m getting the words out. He’ll always love him. And I remember the time Tom came to the apartment and was so angry with me for lying to him about the portrait and I imagine it’s him kicking me again and again and again and I keep whispering his name until I no longer feel anything at all.