Page 68 of The Elements

The resolution to what I have come to think of as my Middlemarch problem arrives more easily than I expected.

George texts me on Sunday following Louise’s retirement party, demanding sex, as usual.

I tell him it won’t be possible, that I have a complicated surgery scheduled for the following morning.

A four-year-old child whose legs were badly burned when a deep-fat fryer fell on him from a kitchen counter.

(Which is actually true.) He grumbles a bit but, showing a little decency at last, accepts this.

On Tuesday afternoon, he tells me that he wants to come over at seven o’clock, but once again I don’t reply. I have a plan in place, but I need to wait until Wednesday, which is always the quietest night at work.

Annoyed by my silence, he texts later to say that, as much as he’d like to hook up with me later in the week, he won’t be able to, because there’s a girl called Holly in his year and they’re going to a film together, and he’ll probably fuck her afterward, so I’ve missed out, and I’m going to spend every day for the rest of my life regretting that I lost him, but I have no one to blame but myself.

I don’t reply.

Thirty-four minutes later, he texts to tell me that Holly doesn’t exist, that he made her up, that he loves me and only me, and that eleven months from now, when he turns sixteen, we can get married, and that he’ll do anything I ask of him if we can just meet up.

I don’t reply.

Seventeen minutes later he texts to tell me that he’s going to report me to the police for having sex with him when he was underage. He’s planning on taking me to court and making sure that I’m sent to prison, then suing me for ten million pounds for emotional distress.

I don’t reply.

Eight minutes later, he sends me a dick pic.

I don’t reply.

Fourteen minutes later, he tells me that he’s really sorry for everything he’s said so far, it’s just that he knows that he and I are meant to be together, like in that film Romeo and Juliet .

I don’t reply.

Two minutes later, he tells me to go fuck myself.

I don’t reply.

Eighteen minutes later, he tells me that the only reason he fucked me was because he felt sorry for me.

I don’t reply.

Thirty seconds later, he tells me I’m a prick-tease.

I don’t reply.

Seven minutes later, he tells me that a teacher in school called Miss Woods blew him in the art room during first break.

I don’t reply.

Eleven minutes later, he sends me a video holding the second and third fingers of his right hand in front of his mouth, his tongue pushing through.

I don’t reply.

Four minutes later, he tells me he’s going to tell his dad everything.

I don’t reply.

Twelve minutes later, he sends me a link to a YouTube video of Billie Eilish singing “Bad Guy” and says this is his favorite song of all time.

I don’t reply.

Six minutes later, he asks whether I’ve watched the latest season of The Summer I Turned Pretty .

I don’t reply.

Nine minutes later, he says he’s always wanted to go to Venice and maybe we can go there over the summer.

I don’t reply.

Twenty-one minutes later, he tells me that I’m a pedophile and I should be castrated, which is too baffling a suggestion to even consider replying to.

Six minutes later, he tells me that he’s never loved anyone as much as he loves me.

I don’t reply.

Thirty seconds later, he tells me that I’m an incredible person and I should stop running. (I have no idea what I’m supposedly running from.)

I don’t reply.

Five minutes later, he tells me that if I don’t call him, he’s going to take a taxi to the American embassy, then run as fast as he can toward the guards standing outside holding his PlayStation controller in his hands, and they’ll be so freaked out that they’ll probably shoot him dead.

I don’t reply.

Nine minutes later, he sends me a video of a dog whose master has come back from serving in Afghanistan and the dog goes completely crazy when he sees him. I love dogs but I don’t have one, he tells me.

I don’t reply.

Four minutes later, he says he’s about to take a piss and can we FaceTime while he does it.

I don’t reply.

Eight minutes later, he tells me he’s going into the hospital tomorrow to report me.

I don’t reply.

Twenty minutes later, he says he’s just ordered a Deliveroo. Chicken nuggets, cheese-loaded chips, and a Sprite.

I don’t reply.

Nine minutes later, he tells me he’s been watching Joe Fazer videos online and do I think he should work out more and build bigger muscles like Joe, who, he tells me, is inspirational.

I don’t reply.

Fifteen minutes later, he tells me that if I was with him right now, he would strangle me with his bare hands.

I don’t reply.

Twenty seconds later, he tells me that when he kills me, it will be painful, it will be with a knife, that he’ll stab me slowly, repeatedly, pushing the knife in and out of different parts of my body, and he’ll get away with it too, because he’s too clever to get caught.

I don’t reply.

Four minutes later, he asks me which female movie star I’d fuck if I had the chance.

I don’t reply.

Seven minutes later, he says that if it was the other way round, he’d fuck Penn Badgley.

I don’t reply.

Nine minutes later, he tells me that he was only joking, he’s not gay.

I don’t reply.

Twelve minutes later, he tells me that he doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with being gay, that one of his best friends has already come out and he’s cool with it, but it’s not something he’d be into himself.

I don’t reply.

Eight minutes later, he tells me he’s thinking of reading The Mill on the Floss , so he’ll have something to talk about when people mention his name.

I don’t reply.

Six minutes later, he says he’s stoned.

I don’t reply.

Two minutes later, he tells me that he’s not stoned at all, that he was just making that up to impress me. He asks whether I remember him refusing my offer of a cigarette on that “incredible” day when we first met.

I don’t reply.

Seven minutes later, he tells me that he thinks there’s something wrong with him because he’s never not horny.

I don’t reply.

One minute later, he tells me that I’m a cunt.

I don’t reply.

Eighteen minutes later, he tells me that I mean absolutely nothing to him, that he’s had a lot better.

I don’t reply.

Three minutes later, he asks what’s it like to be a frigid bitch.

I don’t reply.

Four minutes later, he tells me that I’m obviously a lesbian.

I don’t reply.

Eight minutes later, he says that he’s thinking of getting a tattoo of my name on his arm.

I don’t reply.

Ten seconds later, he asks can he come over.

I don’t reply.

One minute later, he tells me that if I don’t answer his call, he’s going to phone the Daily Mail and tell them how he was sexually abused by an old woman.

I don’t reply.

Seven minutes later, he sends me a photo of a ham, cheese, and onion toastie he’s just made. Just call me Gordon Ramsay! he adds.

I don’t reply.

Eleven minutes later, he tells me he’s thinking of signing up for the army when he turns sixteen, even though his dad wants him to take his A-levels and then go on to uni.

I don’t reply.

Four minutes later, he asks me what the fuck are the royal family all about? Like, it’s 2024.

I don’t reply.

Two minutes later, he asks me whether it’s difficult being so fat and ugly.

I don’t reply.

Nine minutes later, he says that in his film studies class in school they’re watching Death in Venice and have I seen it?

It’s, like, a hundred years old, he tells me, but it’s pretty good.

Last week, they watched Chinatown , which he says was fucked up.

He’s not sure, but he thinks the dad had sex with the daughter, but it was too confusing and there were no action scenes other than when some little French guy slit the main guy’s nose open with a knife.

You’re a very nosey fellow, kitty-cat, the French guy said.

That’s how I think of you, Freya. My kitty-cat.

I don’t reply.

Thirteen minutes later, he says he feels sorry for my patients because I must be the worst doctor in the history of the universe and anyone I treat will probably die.

I don’t reply.

Two minutes later, he tells me I have cellulite all over my face.

I don’t reply, but at least this makes me laugh.

Eight minutes later, he says he’s going to sleep, that he’s tired, but that he loves me.

I don’t reply.

One minute later, he texts:

Talk tomorrow, luv ya sexy x

I don’t reply.

When the night of the long texts finally comes to an end, I realize I have no choice. I can’t allow this to continue any longer.

They say that the easiest way to hide something is to do it in plain sight.

Which is what I do. The following evening, I message to apologize for not responding to any of his messages, telling him I had an emergency surgery, turned my phone off, and just fell into bed exhausted when I got home.

I feel the same way, I tell him. That the age difference between us doesn’t matter.

That he’s the best lover I’ve ever had. That when I look to the future, all I see is me and him together.

That I only want to be with him. And then, finally, I tell him that I want him to come to my flat at nine o’clock tonight and that I’ll make it up to him for keeping him waiting so long.

He replies with a series of indecipherable emojis that I don’t have the energy to translate into English, but I assume they mean he’s pleased by my suggestion, then throw my phone on the sofa, make some pasta, listen to some music, do some prep for an operation coming up three days later, and wait for him to arrive.

“Hi, bae,” he says when I open the front door, and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to rip his throat out right then.

“Beer?” I ask.

“I’m not in the mood for a beer,” he says. “Do you have any Jack Daniel’s?”

“Sure,” I say.

“I’d, like, literally kill for a JD,” he says.

I try not to laugh at his utter absurdity and make my way toward the kitchen.

“How do you like it?” I shout, as if he’s a whiskey connoisseur.

“On the rocks,” he says, and I wonder does he even know what that means. I pour a healthy measure into the glass, add some ice, then a substantial amount of the oxycodone and morphine I lifted from the hospital’s dispensary earlier, before bringing it out to him.

“I’m sorry about all those messages,” he says, looking a little embarrassed. “I was just… having a bad night, that’s all.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, smiling. “I was flattered. They made me realize how much you like me.”

“I don’t just like you,” he says, and I notice that he’s sipping his whiskey in tiny amounts so he doesn’t have to actually taste any of it. I need him to actually drink it. “I love you, Freya.”

“And I love you, George,” I say. He beams.

“We’re really going to make this happen, aren’t we?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” I say. “It’s time to tell people. Your dad. Your mum. Your friends. Everyone.”

“They’re gonna lose their fucking minds,” he says.

He tries for another sip of his Jack Daniel’s, but he’s losing the battle.

“Oh wait,” I say, standing up. “I forgot the Coke.”

“What?”

“No one drinks Jack Daniel’s straight,” I tell him. “You need some Coke in it.”

I reach out to take his glass, and he nods. “Yeah, I didn’t wanna say,” he replies, looking relieved.

I go to the kitchen and open the fridge, where my trusty cans of Coke are waiting for me, and pour a decent amount into his glass.

When I hand it back to him, he sips it cautiously, but the Coke overpowers the taste of both the whiskey and the opioids, and he makes much better progress now.

It only takes about thirty minutes before he starts to have difficulty breathing and then, as I watch, he falls to the ground and suffers a stroke.

I do a little work on my laptop, answering a few emails and updating some events on my calendar as he stares at me in terror.

His eyes are focused on mine, consumed by fear, but I do nothing to help him.

As it happens, I become so involved with the case studies I’m reading that I don’t even notice when he dies.

A doctor wearing a white coat and carrying the appropriate lanyard can get through any door in the hospital.

I’ve worked there for years. I know where the CCTV cameras are and where they’re not.

I know the circuitous if rather convoluted journey I can take to wheel a gurney from the loading bay into one of the service elevators and bring it to the morgue, where there are thirty cold lockers, only half of which are ever occupied, without fear of my actions being recorded.

When George’s body is eventually discovered, no one will have the slightest clue who he is or how he got there.

When I get home, I scrub the flat clean of his presence and have a drink myself, finishing the bottle of whiskey.

This whole experience, coupled with what happened with Rufus, has forced me to rethink my lifestyle completely.

How many boys’ lives have I ruined, anyway?

A hundred? Two hundred? That’s probably enough.

Maybe it’s time to stop.