Free Corpsing by Toby Litt Page B

long and protective hug.
    ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’
    Wanting to get that kind of question out of the way before we went to the restaurant, I invited Anne-Marie in.
    For a while we sat on the sofa – me telling my body’s story for the last few months.
    From what Anne-Marie said, a few urban myths seemed to have ex-nihiloed up around my name. Various different parts of my anatomy had allegedly been shot at or shot off. It was rumoured that I would never walk/fuck again. That I needed constant nursing from my mother. That I’d gone mental and been sectioned after attacking a doctor.
    ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Go back and tell everyone the rumours are true – or that their own particular rumour is true.’
    ‘Why? People are worried about you. I had no idea what I was going to find when I got here.’
    ‘Is my phone voice that bad?’
    ‘You seem very cheerful.’
    ‘Don’t be fooled. Others have.’
    We walked along to the Taste of Raj, all you would expect and want it to be: formula curries served in faux opulent surroundings to the accompaniment of a crunchy community-radio sitar.
    I seated myself so that I was facing the door. For a moment the rigidity of irrational fear began to creep into me. Perhaps Lily had been killed by the mere fact of sitting opposite me in a restaurant. Perhaps the whole thing was about to happen again – to Anne-Marie, to me.
    We both asked for pints of Kingfisher. We shared poppadams, dipping them into the three different chutneys. We ordered: I had the brinjal bhajee, prawn dhansak and vegetable korma. Anne-Marie had chicken tikka masala and nan bread. We decided to halve a portion of basmati rice.
    Then we got to the interesting bit.
    ‘Actually, I split up with Will soon after you were –’
    ‘– shot. You can say it. It sounds nicer coming from you than anyone else. You make it sound like I’m going to be on the cover of
Vogue
in three months’ time.’
    Yes,’ she said, cracking a poppadam. ‘I think it was pardy
that
– the shooting, not me – which broke us up. Will seemed to think that in some obscure way Lily was asking for it.’ She paused. ‘No, we really shouldn’t talk about this. It’s far too… much.’
    ‘Anne-Marie,’ I said. ‘There’s no-one I would prefer to talk about it with – and it’s good that you feel that we can.’
    The boyfriend was off the scene, that’s what was good.
    The moment this became clear, I’d forgotten everything of the reality of my own situation. I didn’t care if Anne-Marie came to bed laughing or crying, as long as she came. This, I remembered, was how I always used to be when out on dates. Concentrating on one simple objective: sex. Everything else blocked out.
    ‘Will thought Lily was asking for it by being beautiful, by being female, by being famous. He saw the whole thing as some sick kind of fashion statement – granting her a status she hadn’t really earned.’
    ‘I wonder what he said about me?’
    ‘I can tell you. He said, “Hang around her type long enough and you’re bound to get caught in the crossfire eventually.” ‘
    Anger like you wouldn’t believe came over me.
    ‘Please tell Will, if you see him again (which I sincerely hope you won’t) that I had three bullets, all my very own, aimed and fired directly at me. Crossfire had nothing to do with it. Still, if it broke you up with a tosser like that, maybe it was worth taking the odd slug.’
    Anne-Marie ignored the compliment.
    ‘He was almost misogynistic about it. As if a real woman hadn’t really died. As if he were just coming out of a cinema and saying that the violence wasn’t realistic enough.’
    ‘Believe me,’ I said, ‘the young man doesn’t
want to
see realistic violence.’
    ‘But that’s the thing – I think he does. What really broke us up was that he became almost enthusiastic about the killing – taping the news – collecting cuttings –’
    ‘My mother did too. Do you think I should disown her? It