John Lyttle

The answer machine surges into La Boheme, but I don't want to hear Derek's voice

The clouds have been the colour of slate all afternoon, the light failing early in true winter fashion, the sky dropping rain, but when I open the bedroom curtains there is illumination enough to see dust motes swirl in their strange slow motion, little galaxies dancing their hypnotic dance, regardless.

I have tasks, a timetable to keep; I need to work through the list folded away in my back pocket (let's see: to Steve goes the Westwood suit, Karl gathers the opera CDs, Peter is promised the lotions, potions, eau-de- Colognes). I know I have to locate scattered supplies of AZT and morphine - in the medicine cabinet, on the coffee table, hidden away under the king-size - for return to the hospital, and that I must pack bulky boxes full of flute glasses, free weights and old school ties, tear off and apply sticky brown tape. Yet here I stand, transfixed, watching months of accumulated, near-invisible shed skin spin and bob on draughts I'm too lumpen and insensitive to feel.

I'd open a window, pointlessly air the place, but it's cold enough already, though the first thing I did when upon entry was to head for the kitchen and switch the heating on. A wasted gesture: Derek's dilapidated boiler takes an age to distribute its largesse, so I flex stiff fingers, shiver, clamp chattering teeth, flash-frozen despite layers of T-shirts and a thick jumper. And I think: begin, keep warm. The gas and electricity terminate tomorrow. Don't waste precious time.

Except, I push the inevitable away. I walk from room to room, move through this indifferent silence, touch tables, lamps, books, coats hanging like discarded skins in the hall, remove and read "Get Well" greetings from the riddled corkboard, do the things I told myself I would not do.

Such crying for the moon: I want this house to be haunted, when the fact is, residences die with their owners. I have seen this, over and over, and should have learnt my lesson; an animating force flees the floors and ceilings and brickwork the very moment the Great Whatever takes leave of wasted bodies. What remains is of mere archaeological interest - souvenirs and trinkets that become talismans, because that's what we superstitious survivors wish for. Today I wear Derek's watch wrapped around my wrist, but I'm not wearing Derek, not summoning some essence, or even a trivial part of him, not in a metal timepiece, a sad keepsake that will callously continue to tick steadily long after Derek's own beat has wound down. Ergo, home is not where his heart is.

Still, I break into Derek's wardrobe, a sentimental burglar, try on shirts and jackets of primary and pastel shades. Beneath a gaudy sofa cushion I discover a splash of dried blood. I wash with his soap, dry myself with his towel, lift framed photographs and don't hesitate to kiss his smiling features. In one drawer, under a heap of unopened monogrammed hankies, I find pictures of Derek as a child - at a birthday party, on the beach, winning a school race - even then wearing the amused look he will take with him into adulthood; and, tucked beneath these, faded Polaroids of our long-ago day in the park, a day I have dreamt about, the day Derek said that we enjoyed complete happiness and didn't know it.

Only I don't appear happy. My face is fraught, close to anxious. See: this shot shows me with arms tight around his waist, my hands almost claws, as if I had caught him in mid-flight. It is a gesture of restraint: I am holding him back.

The phone rings. I jump, drop the Polaroids, stifle the sound I was about to let loose, suddenly register how disturbing the quiet really is, and how swiftly evening has arrived. I haven't thought to turn on the lights, so I've been peering dimly at Derek's past, working in the dark, nearly as blind as he was in those long, last days.

From the answering machine comes a romantic surge of La Boheme. I dash from the kitchen into the hall, because I don't want to hear Derek's voice, only I slam a knee into a door and shout and stop and hop, and Derek talks, brisk and bright: "Now that the fat lady has sung, leave a message and I'll get back to you."

I pick up the phone: "Yes?" "John?" "Bill. Hello." "How's it going?" "It's not." "Don't forget the sister sends the van tomorrow." "For her ill-gotten gains." "She may be a shit but Derek wanted her to have his ..." "His worldly goods. Don't worry. I want her to get everything that's coming to her, too." "Yes. What did you think of Alex?" Alex is Bill's latest. "Your usual. Young, gorgeous, remedial." "Alex is not stupid." "Bill, if he went on Mastermind he wouldn't be able to find the chair." "I'll tell him that." "Then speak very s-l-o-w-l-y." "You are in a mood. Give me an hour." Pause. "I hate doing this. But with two of us it won't be so bad." "I miss him." "I know. Me too. In about an hour, all right?" "Sure. I love you, Bill." "I love you. Bye." "Bye."

I replace the phone, limp into the absent master's chamber, sprawl on the bed, bone tired. The pillows, white cotton and surprisingly clean, smell of my friend: his true signature scent, sweet and sour and something indefinable, something uniquely him. I bury my nose, draw him in, hold my breath, hold it, hold it, until I'm forced to release my lungs in one loud, foolish rush, exhaling, releasing, letting him gon