The Sight of His Voice

David Croser

Alan closed his china cabinet, staring through the glass at his mementoes. Plenty of room for more. Summer sounds played around him, birds flew overhead, a river played in the corner by the telly, Eddie Grundy seemed to be leaning over the couch complaining a fault with the combine harvester. The surround sound system had cost him half his savings.
Each little part of the instillation had been utterly painstaking; each speaker adjusted and readjusted until it was in the perfect place. Neighbours complained to the landlord about the hammering. Landlord might create if he saw all the holes from the nails hanging the speakers just so. Don't care. Don't have to listen to him or the neighbours. Only things I like I love. Like Radio 4 now. A station made just for him. Nothing but talk, so many different voices. How long he spent, listening to the sounds of their voices, imagining how they looked.
If you could see their voice in your head then they became whatever, whoever you wanted them to be. A voice you could see could never disappoint you, never let you down because how could you, how would you chose to disappoint yourself? He glanced across at the china cabinet and smiled.
The computer beeped.
Alan turned and watched the Cruise n' Views banner scrolled across the screen. The speakers were on, so It's Raining Men echoed round the living room. Alan jumped, reminded how quiet it was, how empty the flat, without other voices around him. The surround system had cut off Radio 4 once he connected to the web.

< Hi
<acutearse> Hi howre u?
< Fine. U?
<acutearse> cool u up for sum fun?
< Relationship, really.
[acutearse left chat 01:41]

The main chat screen wasn't much more inspiring.

So far there had been four contacts through the chatroom, three initiated by himself. The fourth, <wantowatchushit>, he'd cut off as soon as he'd appeared. All in all, a typical night. Long periods of boredom staring at the same profiles, with the occasional glimpse of interest. The only essential difference between this and Soho was the lack of smoke and that he had to get his own drink from the fridge. Cruise n' Views was a virtual bar.
You opened the chat option and a box appeared. On the right a list of the others in the chatroom. On the left the dialogue section where the same few people chatted. Gossiped seemed a more accurate description; the same bitchy comments, the same knowing asides:
<nite2nite> is st john's wood pub still there?
<bigdikuk> dunno just get Boyz
<robb13> it's as tasteful there as rebecca loos wankin off a pig
<jizm200> this is Cruise n Views not Animal Farm
<bheath> anyone checked out the skinsite?
<sexyhornystud> anyone in belsize park wanna chat
<scififan> in aint that bad
<skintop> most def!!
<paul2911> meet 2morrow nite pvt me
<andy20woking> knew I liked u for a reason scififan
<kbb13> look at some Cazzo or Dick Wadd or Treasure island porn if you want t6o know more
<benji> Muswell Hill lad 19 for fun/ chat with similar age, pvt
<scififan> lol
<pete 1963> I am horny
<sexinslough> any lads near Sutton? cam or meet
<jizm200> anyone goin 2 fridge tomorrow
<maxbig> TOTTENHAM AREA NOW FOR MEET?
<paul2911> slim lad for meet tomorrow nite pvt me nowwwwwwww
<bigdikuk> bit late mate
<skintop> anyone 4 scat?any pigbros there?
<chicolaspalmas> hi room!!!!
<desilad17> ANYONE UP FOR A MEET WITH YOUNG LAD BRENT CROSS? PVT ME
<bigdikuk> in soho tomorrow am

Most of the chatroom users remained silent, like the half seen figures you would see lurking round the dance floor or propping up tables, waiting for someone to approach them, or simply to pass some time, better than sitting home alone. Just. Same crushing boredom.
He was on the point of going to bed when a he saw <desilad17>.
Just up the road. Don't want to bring him here so soon after the last one but the Heath's not far. Wonder what he sounds like?
Sam thought of down Brick Lane.
Summer down under the railway bridge.
Street sign: Grimsby Street - in English and Bengali. Market's finished. Hot.
So hot. Could get a can but this guy's so hot got to see where he's taking me.
So young too. Paki chav in them half cut trackies, showing off bare, taut legs, hairs like black wires up and down them, giving me a - a
Baseball cap barely balanced on a shaved head.
Vest way too small for him, showing that tight belly, smooth n' flat like a mahogany table.
He didn't smile, just looked me up and down, looked away, an imperceptible flick of the head back down Brick Lane towards the tube. Sauntered off and I followed.
Under the railway bridge.
So hot and dark, hot and dark, hot and dark, and the beautiful thunder the lovely scream of a train passing above as he enters me and the scream's louder and I know its me but I'm not screaming Stop it's more yes yes and his beautiful voice hissing get what's comin t'you
His voice I can hear and can see in my head and it's so so perfect and beautiful.
I feel him coming over my back fingers digging so deep into my side I've got ten puce circles in my flesh for days marks of shame of of
Love.
His name's Aryaan. Doesn't sod off after he's done. Shared a joint afterwards. Gives me his mobile number.
Twice, three times we met: cottage up Chilton street, kids playing in the schoolyard while he's doing me asking me if I liked it, wanted more, eh?
That beautiful unseen voice.
Last time was his flat. Dusty summer sunlight glitters on his back, sharpening and blurring in focus as he moved up and down with me. Not swearing, not cursing now, begging, imploring, biting, sucking my fingers that beautiful voice on that golden Friday. It's his voice, beautiful cause I can't see his face. I see his voice in my head and I see his face as I want to see it
Never saw him again. Not to speak to.
Phone never picked up. Live in Cricklewood and I'm taking sickies to wander Spitalfields for him. Propping up the bar down the White Swan every evening looking, listening for him. Yes, listening for the sound of his beautiful voice. Then I hear him.
So dark in this shithole.
"In the darkroom," he whispers, caressing my mind.
But it's not to me he speaks, not for me his voice. I dimly see another man in front of him go into the darkroom. I follow them in and I can just see, just hear the footsteps of the other man. But he doesn't hear me as I listen to them in there. Hear the voice whispering, swearing, imploring as it implored me egged me on, promised me everything, promised to be just mine no-one else but mine.
Afterwards I followed them. Kept my distance so they couldn't see me and I couldn't see them. Only hear them, their voices.
Followed them to some warehouse tarted up into apartment. Entrance down a side alley. Handy. For me.
Struck quick.
Both went down like sack when I hit them with the bottle. Awful sound.
Conscious of every noise, every whisper of traffic, of sirens around me as I work.
Doesn't take long but it seems forever as I cut his throat, fumble inside, twist, cut.
Snip snip. Such a clean sound.
I look at it in the weak neon light of the alley .
It's shaped like a box, ironically enough, with sections of gristly cartilage that glisten in the streetlight. The thyroid cartilage and the cricoid cartilage, just below it, are the most important parts of it. For me the most beautiful part is the glottis. Voice production occurs in this space inside the larynx. The vocal cords, two folds of elastic tissue, lie along the sides of the glottis. Small muscles in the vocal cords are attached to the glottis wall. These muscles can stretch the vocal cords, change their shape, or bring them close together. When the cords are close together, air rushing between them produces the most beautiful sound ever sound.
The sound of his voice.
Mine again, to hear in my mind. To see, preserved unchanging forever.

Alan smiles, and looks at the china cabinet.
They're on the top shelf, in a jar, in formaldehyde. Perfect, unchanging, the sound and the sight of his voice. Not the only one now. Few others in there.
All as perfect, all beautiful. But none so beautiful they can join his on the top shelf. But he'll find someone.
<desilad17> sounds promising. He wasn't going to bother, but maybe he should bring him back here. Alan leaned forward and clicked CHAT.