No need for possessions

It wasn’t everyday I went out for an extravagant lunch, but on
this day I went with a group from my department to lift morale, and Sean came,
too.  Despite the call for cheer,
everyone clock watched.  Everyone ordered
fast and ate quickly in time to get back to work within the allocated hour but
Sean and I moved slowly over our meals and conversation.  One by one my colleagues left and by the time
they’d all gone, Sean and I were left alone.
‘How about it?’ Sean said.  His eyes raised, his lips moist.
I thrilled at the thought of such
unspeakable behaviour, the stuff of novels, and fell in.  We booked a room in a hotel over the road
from the shrine.  I even paid the
bill.  Why should the man always pay for
the woman? I reasoned.
‘Possessions,’ Sean told me, ‘weigh
you down.  It’s better to live with
little more than the clothes in your suitcase.’
Sean and his partner lived like this he told me as we peeled off our
clothes and I wondered what she might have thought about my taking possession
of her man on this crisp autumn day near the shrine on St Kilda Road where the
ghosts of soldiers long dead once gathered. 
It was a small room in a low cost
hotel with only a view of the sides of office buildings but the sheets were
crisp and clean and privacy was guaranteed. 
He bedded me without ceremony.  In those days I operated on remote control
much of the time, a woman disappointed in her relationships, and in her chosen
career as a social worker; a woman who had wanted to help people but found
herself in need of help instead.  I did
not know this at the time. At the time I thought only of how wicked I had
become and what excuses I could offer back at work.
Nina, the deputy social worker,
called me into her office the next day, not long after I had arrived, a little
less bold than the day before when I made the decision to leave a message with
the secretary to say I’d fallen ill after lunch and would not be in for the
rest of the day.
‘You can’t do things like that,’ Nina
said.  She did not buy the line I had
been ill the day before.  She’d been with
us at lunch.  She’d seen me stay behind
with Sean.  He also failed to return to
work, but she was too polite to put two and two together, other than to tell me,
it must not happen again. 
Within a week, I resigned my job at
the hospital.  Not because of Nina or
Sean or that stolen afternoon but because I could no longer tolerate the idea
of being a handmaiden to the doctors who saw social workers as their secretarial
assistants in matters of health benefits and first port of call on where to go after
discharge when a person is too old or frail to go home alone.  This was not what I had studied for.
As for Sean, I never saw him again,
but his name popped up ten years later when a Commonwealth policeman knocked on
my door. 
‘Do you know a Sean McCloud?’ he
asked.  I nodded my head and he told me
the story.  For the several years now, they
had been investigating a certain Peter Hill, alias Sean McCloud, wanted by the
Canadian police for extortion.  Interpol
were on the lookout and they had contacted Sean’s ex-colleagues. 
‘Did you know he was not a qualified social
worker?’ the policeman asked.  I shook my
Sean was an imposter who took on
professional disguises wherever he travelled as a way of funding his life style,
the policeman told me.  He lived off the
largesse of others.  He took possession
of their possessions and left them wondering.