The Quiet Man

The Danger of True Things

Greg’s talking to someone behind him. What’s he doing? Who’s that? It’s some man I don’t recognise, he’s is leaning down to whisper something. The Met’s got new PR? Did Sally move on? Get sacked? Give up? Who knows. I’ve never seen this one before. Well, it’s been three years now. Nearly three years. Things change. People move on. New hires, growing departments, that sort of thing. Expansion. He’s wearing a nicer suit than Greg wears. Is that a faux pas? What can we deduce from the state of their suits? I don’t know. Nothing. Maybe he’s gay. Maybe he’s rich. Maybe he’s got a girlfriend with a good eye and an interest in men’s fashion. Or a boyfriend who picks out his ties. Who knows. No rings on his fingers. That doesn’t mean anything. That’s a lot of paper he’s got, he’s handing it to Greg. That’s notes, isn’t it. It’s a script, or something. They’re referring to it. Why have they got a script? Greg doesn’t usually need that much guidance. He’s reading over it now. They’re being careful. Why?

“Do you?” Do I what? Oh. Know Greg? Of course I do. Mary shifts on the sofa beside me. She rests her hand on my knee for a minute. “I’ve never seen him before.”

That’s meant to be a cutting remark, but it’s wrapped in the most innocent silk.

She does that. And you can’t accuse her of anything, because there’s nothing there to point at. She didn’t mean anything by it, that’s what she’ll say. She was just noticing something, she was just remarking. She was only saying something objectively true: she’s never seen Greg before. He’s never dropped by, he’s never invited me out for a pint, he’s never called. We’ve never had dinner with him and his lovely wife. That’s all true, therefore, I’m probably lying about knowing him. Or: I’ve met him once or twice, and I’m making myself seem more important than I actually am. I’m just a writer, I watched an old flatmate do his job for a few months, I got inspired, and now I fancy myself some kind of bodyguard or junior detective. The police don’t consult amateurs, and I am definitely that. Maybe I met the DI once, at a crime scene. But he wouldn’t remember me, would he, Mary. That’s what you mean, isn’t it. That’s what you imagine.

Sherlock was a fraud, and so am I. Even now: even now when they’re holding a press conference to announce the truth, that Sherlock was not a fraud, as I’ve been saying all along, you still don’t really believe it. Believe me. He’ll always be a fraud to you, because you’ve only ever seen him as fictional. Because I present him that way. It’s my fault, really. Not hers. She’s just asking. That’s what she’ll say if I tell her she’s upsetting me. “I was only asking.”

That time, once, near the beginning, after she’s skimmed over my blog and read my manuscript: she had a glass of wine in her hand, she looked so beautiful. I thought, looking at her, I thought I might marry her. She was wearing my t-shirt, and it was tucked over her knees. I could marry her. The polish on her toenails was chipped off, and I thought it was charming. And then she said, you had a crush on him, didn’t you. She smiled. She sipped her wine.

I felt stripped naked, humiliated. I don’t know why. She was joking, she was teasing me. What does it matter? I could have admitted it then, but I didn’t. I just laughed, I said something stupid. I’m not gay, We’re not a couple, no no, he was my flatmate, it wasn’t like that. Things I used to say when people made assumptions. They were rusty, those words, I hadn’t used them in ages. I don’t think they were very convincing, but she seemed convinced. She was only asking. I could marry her, I could. But I would never tell her about that. Because she wouldn’t understand.

There is an incredible loneliness in keeping secrets. I always thought loneliness was being alone too much, but it’s not. It’s really not. It’s knowing there’s no one left in the world who will understand, even as you share a bed with someone you love. Love isn’t understanding, in the end.