* * *
There isn’t time to breathe. I’m dressed simply: black designer jeans and a classy blouse that would cost more than most people’s weekly salary. My heels are higher than they need to be for the theatre and my make-up has been applied as if it’s me in the middle of the circular stage.
We ate, went back to the hotel, showered, changed, met with the mayor of the city and then headed to the theatre in the middle of Manchester, the architecture and history of the place being pointed out to us by the mayor.
I sit in my seat, watching the audience as they assemble. It’s a circular stage, the set minimal and the place is casual; this isn’t where you come to be seen, this is where you come to see.
Ben slides besides me as the lights start to dim and a final announcement is made that the play is about to start. His legs are spread and he demands the space, so I angle myself to my right where the chair hasn’t been taken.
The theatre darkens. Music starts. I want to lose myself in the production,This Grave is Too Small for Me. My degree was in history and this is my favourite period: The First World War and what led to it.
The introduction is marred by the need for people to stand as a latecomer sits. I move my legs, facing forward rather than the twisted being I’d taken comfort in, as the man takes the seat next to me.
His scent is familiar. His profile one I know. I don’t see the actors on stage because my sight is filled with a memory of rain and the loch and his laughter.
I face forward, feigning concentration. Feeling a lock between us. I am rooted to my seat, frozen, pretending to watch the players on stage.
Ben is steel, unmoving, his whole body rigid. The lights occasionally flicker across his hair, lightening it, highlighting his face.
I don’t think he’s watching the play. In the time I knew Ben, he didn’t read. Instead, he watched the sky, the trees, the blades of grass as they moved with the breeze. Not the pages of a book.
I daren’t let my leg touch his; I’m scared of the bite that I’ll feel, so instead it tightens up, not wanting contact with either of them.
Isaac is the almost-stranger next to me, engrossed with what’s on stage. There’s no acknowledgement of my presence. Instead, there’s an assumption that I know who he is. That I remember us.
The play is lost and I barely breathe until the interval, eaten up in the distance between the two men who are or aren’t watching the production.
Lights turn on, the audience applauds. We stand and I function.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you.” Isaac looks at me and I try to make only the minimum eye contact required.
Ben is at my side, my back and I can feel his heat and impatience. He hates being trapped; when we were in the maze he knew every short cut his father had created. Here, he has no way out apart from to pass us and he won’t leave me.
He has his job.
“No, I’m just glad you got to see the play. I didn’t realise you were coming.” Because no one had thought to inform me.
He nods, smiles, his black hair curlier than usual. “I was in Manchester on business and I knew you were due to tour here. I contacted your office and they offered me a seat. I’m glad I made it.”
I know behind me Ben is now standing a foot taller and a metre wider. Isaac isn’t looking at him; too much of his focus is on me because he doesn’t want to see Ben.
“Shall we get a drink?”
It’s an out that works and we head to the section of the bar that’s been cordoned off for us, for me. When I was younger, I used to dream of fitting in, of being a ghost in the city who could filter through crowds without a stream of security or eyes analysing every thread I wore. Now I’ve come to accept that’s never going to happen, unless I’m wearing a mask and I’m in the bowels of some taboo club where everyone wears a secret identity.
No one can pass through to get to me, and this isn’t a place where this should happen, but I’m in enemy territory and we know that terrorists don’t wear signs on their foreheads stating their intention. Everything is for my own safety.
The two men walking with me do not make me feel safe.
“I’d offer to get you a drink, but I’m pretty sure that every possible concoction’s been ordered in for you.” Isaac smiles, gestures to the bar.
It will have been. Even though they will have been given the usual list of things I like to drink: tap water, pineapple juice, chardonnay that can be bought from a supermarket, prosecco… They will still have brought in champagne and cocktails that have been designed for the occasion.
“Probably.” There’s no point denying it.
We’re served, Ben shaking his head and taking a bottle of water. Isaac asks for a bottle of beer and I opt for the chardonnay. Our other guests swarm round, asking how I like the performance so far and the theatre. I know what to say, how to compliment without it being too much, what to mention about the actors we saw this afternoon so they might get more funding, and to compliment the city which is one I love anyway.
Ben stands at the edge, watching. There’s no question about who he is. My minder. My security.
