Dog Roses - Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

I did not cry for Billy. I wanted to. I tried. Oh, how I tried! I’d think about him and tears would prick my eyes, but none fell. I’d blink them away, and with them all sense of Billy’s face, his touch, even his kisses. I learned the hard way what is meant by the expression, living on autopilot. Oh, I went through the motions of everyday life, but all the time felt remote from them, as if I were watching someone else functioning in my body.

It was nearly two weeks before Billy’s body was released for burial. I didn’t attend the funeral. How could I? I would have to pretend I was just a friend, another face in the crowd.

Keeping busy at the café did not help take my mind of Billy. How could it? He had died there. Every cup, saucer, plate, tear on the Formica here, scratch on a table there…reminded me. In spite of giving the floor a good scrub, there were still faint bloodstains where Billy’s body had lain. Bananas told me I could replace the entire floor, but somehow I never got around to it. Oh, it was good for business, that cruel patch on the vinyl. But that wasn’t why I didn’t replace it. Whenever I looked at it, I saw Billy. Not the Billy I’d known and loved, but a lifeless, waxwork Billy. Somehow, it was easier to live with that than remembering the warmth and vitality and love in him.

So, I didn’t cry. Who has tears for a waxwork dummy?

On the day of the funeral Bananas told me I could close if I wanted as a mark of respect. Instead, we stayed open all day and did a brisk trade. I was a mess, my feelings chaotic. At the café, though, I could keep a lid on them. It was at home that I felt close to breaking point, clinging by my fingertips to the edge of a Black Hole and longing (Oh, how I longed!} to let go, drop into infinity and bring an end to this parody of existence.

The hardest thing of all was that I could confide in no one. The loneliness was worse than knowing Billy was dead.  It made me angry too, and resentful, especially on the day of the funeral. People would be there grieving; his mother and surly brother, Ed; Shaun, Maggie, and all his friends. Meanwhile, I had to try and pretend it was just another day. I hated them all, especially Maggie. It was if all my pain focused on her, reinventing itself as hate. Now, hate was something I could understand; that alone made sense of sorts, lent me an inhuman strength to keep from falling into the Black Hole from whose fathomless depths I seem to hear Billy calling my name as he had on that fateful evening, “Rob!”

One evening, Nancy Devlin, Shaun’s mum, came into the café at closing time. “Sorry, I’m shutting up shop,” I explained apologetically.

“That’s okay. It’s you I came to see.”

“Me?” I became slightly alarmed. Had Billy said anything about us to Shaun, and Shaun to Nancy?

“It can’t have been easy for you lately,” she said kindly.

“No.” I couldn’t argue with that.

“I thought maybe you might like someone to talk to. Your mother...”

“My mother…?” My hackles rose.

“She’s worried about you, Rob. She thinks you’re bottling up too much and you need to talk, lighten up a bit.”

“Lighten up a bit? After everything that’s happened, my mother thinks I need to lighten up a bit?” I was angry.

“Keep you hair on. She’s worried about you. Shaun is, too. . He told me so himself only this morning.”

“So why is he ignoring me?” I demanded.Nancy shrugged, playing with her raven hair in a gesture that so reminded me of Maggie Dillon it put me on my guard. “Sometimes it’s hard to know what to say for the best. Rather than make things worse, we say nothing at all, which does make things worse, and don’t I know it! So, if you want to talk…

“I don’t.”

“So how about you walk me home and I make you an Irish whiskey like you’ve never tasted in your life?”

I wanted to refuse. But Nancy Devlin had a way of smiling that brooked no argument. So I locked up and we walked back to the house I knew so well, having played there often with Shaun when we were kids. Nancy was as good as her word. I had never tasted an Irish coffee like it nor have I since.

“Where’s Shaun?” I asked conversationally.

“Oh, out. Don’t ask me where, I’ve no idea. He doesn’t tell me, and I don’t ask. His father has gone to a reunion ‘do’ with some old drinking buddies and won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“You didn’t want to go?” I was curious.

“Believe me, wives and their husbands’ old drinking buddies don’t mix.” She gave a fruity chuckle. “Besides, reunions tend to drag on. I’m too old for all that these days.”

“You’re not old!” I protested, laughing, “You're gorgeous."

“Why, thank you kind sir.” She laughed, too, and I suddenly felt more relaxed than I had since…

But I shook my head as if that would shake bad thoughts away. It was a trick that usually worked too, one Nancy herself had taught Shaun and me years ago.

“I had better go.” I stood up. “Thanks for the coffee, it was great.”

“You’re welcome. And you don’t have to go…unless you really want to?”

I swallowed hard. Nancy’s expression left me in no doubt that my friend’s mother was propositioning me. But I was past caring. If it was good enough for Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate movie, it was good enough for me. Besides, I had never slept with a woman, only Billy. Conveniently, I chose to overlook the fact that I had no interest in women. Maybe that was because Nancy Devlin was unlike any woman I had ever met.

Nancy was gentle, kind, and acted as if the clumsiness of my lovemaking was par for the course. Deftly, without a trace of embarrassment, she showed me how to fit a condom and guided me into her as a Good Samaritan might a blind man. My orgasm when it came was sheer relief. Into it, I poured all my intangible, inarticulate grief and loneliness. Exhausted, I lay my head against the silky smoothness of her breasts and promptly fell asleep.

“Come on, Rob. Wake up sleepy head. We both have to get to work, and I don’t do breakfast in bed.” Nancy Devlin’s mischievous chuckle washed over me, a sensuous sound that recalled the night before and made me sit bolt upright, blushing furiously. “Now don’t go spoiling things by doing something stupid like apologising. I enjoyed last night, didn’t you?” I could only nod. “Good. Sometimes we need to be close to someone, anyone. It worked for me and it worked for you so there’s no harm done. It will be our little secret, okay?” I nodded again. “I’ll say cheerio then. Help yourself to a shower and whatever you fancy for breakfast. Oh, and thanks for the memory,” with which she gave a girlish giggle and was gone.

I lay in that warm, sumptuous double bed until I heard the front door slam. Later, I showered and briefly considered my feelings for Nancy Devlin. To my astonishment, there were none, except a warm, pulsating gratitude that had nothing to do with sex.

Life at home, never easy, grew progressively worse. Typically, it was my brother who made me aware of my shortcomings although not, it has to be said, out of any compassion for me.

Mum was out. I was sprawled on my bed listening to my dad’s Elvis cassettes. Paul entered without knocking and kicked the door shut by way of, ineffectually, making his presence felt. “Can we talk?”

“Not now,” I said irritably, “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Oh, sure, busy doing damn all!”

“It’s called relaxing,” I muttered, “You’d want to relax too if you’d had the kind of day I have.”

“I’ve got exams coming up,” he protested.

“So run along and revise for them,” I retorted, “just stay away from me. Mum’s out so you think you’ll cadge a few quid off me, is that it? Well, you’re out of luck.  I’m flat broke,” I lied.

“Mum is still seeing Peter Short,” Paul persisted.

My patience, such as it was, snapped. “She can see Dracula for all I care. Now, push off!”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. He bit hard on his lip with a prominent front tooth. I was reminded of Brer Rabbit in childhood tales I’d read time and again. Laughter rose in my throat but stuck there, threatening to choke me. “Get lost Paul,” I hissed between clenched teeth as one of Billy’s favourite Presley numbers sucked the breath out of me.

“You make me sick!” yelled Paul. “You’re not the only one having a hard time you know. Okay, so some idiot gets himself stabbed in your precious café, so what? Is that my fault or Mum’s?  Don’t we deserve some consideration? You treat this place like a hotel and us like we’re your employees, for crying out loud! You may be bringing in good money, but that doesn’t give you the right to play God Almighty. We’re a family. We’re supposed to matter, right? You, me and Mum, not some yob like Billy Mack.”

“Billy was no yob,” I said quietly.

Paul winced, seemed to sense that he was treading on thin ice and reached for the door handle without turning round. His voice shook…with rage, hurt? I didn’t even care enough to hazard a guess, so wrapped up was I in a curiously painless, formless nothingness, rather like the mummy buried alive in that old Boris Karlof movie I must have watched on late night TV half a dozen times. It was scary, yes, but even my fear had yet to take shape.

“It’s not as if you’ve got anything to complain about,” Paul sneered, “Let’s face it. Mack’s death has been damn good for business. You’ve done a roaring trade since it happened. Who do you think you’re kidding, prancing around as moody as hell like some stupid drama queen? Get real, Rob, and then maybe we can all get back to normal.”

I sneered, “Whatever ‘normal’ is…”

“You are such a prick!”  He turned and would have flounced out of the room, but I was having none of it. His appalling insensitivity had scored a direct hit. I catapulted myself at his back, caught him completely off balance and managed to twist my body as we fell heavily to the floor, landing astride his panting chest. Then I laid into him like a man possessed, oblivious to his yelling or mine.

For a few seconds, Paul lay inert. Suddenly, he found the strength to fight like a tiger. Tapes and furniture went flying. I didn’t give a damn, even when we crashed into my dad’s old record-cassette player and it, too, crashed to the floor.  The intensity of loathing between us was evenly matched by the ferocity of blows exchanged.  He grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked my head backwards, driving one knee into the small of my back and seizing my arm in an excruciating half nelson.

That was how our mother found us. We sensed her presence in the room rather than saw or heard her enter. Springing apart with shame-faced alacrity, we met her stern, injured expression.

The silence was devastating. “You make me sick, the pair of you.” she said at last, and surveyed the wrecked room with a mixture of anger and distress. She took in Paul’s tearstained face and a bloody mouth already starting to swell. To my bleak expression and busy Adam’s apple, she appeared indifferent. The look she flung me was murderous.

A growing dismay took hold of me. I hardly recognized the woman in the doorway. My mother and I were strangers. I glanced at Paul who glared back with such bulldog ferocity that I burst out laughing. Everything was too much and too appalling to contemplate. I became hysterical.

“Shut up, damn you, just shut up.” said my mother coldly without raising her voice. But it was her sharp, stinging slap on my cheek that silenced me. I hugged my chest and rocked to and fro on the edge of my bed as if, somehow, it might ease my incredulity, my shame, and a fresh resurgence of what I only vaguely recognized as guilt. I wasn’t seeing clearly in those days and it would be a while yet before the fog began to clear.

“He started it,” Paul sobbed, instantly smothering any vestige of repentance in me.

“Sort yourselves out, and tidy this room,” Mum said in a choked voice before retreating to her bedroom and closing the door quietly behind her. It crossed my mind that she must have realized how much better Paul and I would have felt if only she had ranted and raved at us, and slammed that door.

Paul left without saying another word. I heard him go into the bathroom and the sound of taps running as I crossed to the dressing table to examine my face in the mirror.  I grimaced, but couldn’t resist a chuckle. He may have ended up getting the better of me on this occasion, but the damage I had inflicted on my brother was far worse.

Later, I went for a walk. It was a little after midnight, the air hushed and clear. A post-rain freshness cooled my simmering temper and I began to experience a renewed sense of freedom and release. While it could hardly be compared to having sex with Nancy Devlin, it was a good feeling all the same. For a while I had felt guilty, even ashamed of being in Nancy’s bed. But if she doesn’t, why should I? Moreover, I was beginning to understand what she meant by needing to be close to someone. If it hadn’t felt right, it hadn’t felt wrong either. I began to think of it as a kind of mutual therapy. Whatever, it had helped me and I could only hope it had helped her too, whatever her motives. I found myself wondering about those as I wandered along, hands in the pockets of my jeans. What could make a woman like Nancy Devlin feel so bad that she had to drag her son’s mate off the street and take him to bed? I grinned inwardly. I could not in all honesty say I’d been dragged. Even so, I reflected morosely, I’d rather have been in bed with Billy. I cheered up. At least I’d got something right. I was no hot-blooded heterosexual.

I stopped, sat on a low wall and remained there for some time, taking perverse solace from its damp, uneven surface clawing at my backside. I saw and heard, but failed to register an approaching motorcycle.  It seemed to veer and stop in the weirdest slow motion. The rider’s familiar voice performed an adroit somersault in mid-air then dropped to hover at my right ear.

“Hi Rob.”

I regarded Shaun without seeing him at first. It was as if my thoughts concerning his mother had thrown a veil over my eyes. As the veil lifted, mixed feelings began to accommodate the crop of braided hair and ever-friendly if pensive expression. I tried in vain to think of something to say, but couldn’t even manage to say, “Hi Shaun”. I could only watch as he clambered from the machine and came and sat beside me on the wall, stretching his long legs almost to the kerb. I listened to him sucking in deep breaths of air and exhaling with a tantalizing slowness for what seemed ages. “I couldn’t sleep,” I said at last, and felt his scrutiny under the intrusive glow of a nearby street lamp.

“So I see,” he responded dryly after a long pause, “Not another run-in with a reporter, I hope?”

“Worse,” I mumbled between bruised lips.

“There’s worse?” He raised his hands in mock horror. I laughed, felt marginally better (although my ribs did not appreciate the effort it required) and related the bare facts of my fight with Paul. I also found myself talking about my mother, and how confused I felt about her apparent relationship with Peter Short. “There may be nothing in it of course. In which case, why be so secretive?”

“Maybe she thinks you and Paul won’t approve,” Shaun commented wryly.

“I suppose so,” I could only mutter, feeling suitably abashed.  Having started, I couldn’t stop, and kept talking…about nothing and everything, except Billy. Shaun had always been a good listener. Although he said little, merely prompting me now and then, I became very aware of his physical presence. Once, he laid a hand on my knee and squeezed gently. It was nothing more than a reassuring gesture, but the sweat gathered on my brow.

For the first time since his death, I resurrected Billy in my mind’s eye; twinkling eyes, broad grin, sensual mouth, everything about him.

Not even with Nancy had I let my body speak for me. Oh, we’d had sex, but that was almost an afterthought. My body had functioned and even derived some satisfaction from that. But it hadn’t cried out and begged for more, not as it always had when Billy and I made love. Nor had it acknowledged a passion to be kissed and caressed. Nancy and I had comforted each other in much the same way as her son was trying to comfort me now. The same, yet nowhere near the same.

 I felt myself blushing for speculating about Shaun’s reaction if he ever found out I’d slept with his mother.

As I’d lain in Nancy’s bed, my body had strained only to be rid of the various wrappings of outward appearance in which it had been bound for so long. I’d shed them like a second skin; lies, deceit, the raw pain of a grief I could share with no one.

Under the gentle pressure of Shaun’s unknowing hand on my knee, my body wept for Billy the only way it knew how, in secret.

I talked for dear life. After a time, I began to hear the words in my head. Eventually, I could make out the sound of my own voice again. My dissembled senses regrouped. My body’s hunger felt assuaged, in part at least, for having heard its confession.

My orgasm came as a blessed relief. At the same time, the reality of it hit me. Wriggling with embarrassment, I felt a sticky wetness against my thigh. 

“Fancy a ride?” Shaun had to repeat the question several times.

I glanced at my watch. It was already past 1.00 am. “Where did you have in mind?”  I wasn’t yet ready to go home.

Shaun merely shrugged. “Somewhere, anywhere, nowhere…Who cares?”

We ended up in Forty Acres Wood. By accident or design, I never knew. Well over the speed limit, we tore through a deserted town centre, regimented suburbs, and leafy outskirts. Token chestnut trees between cheerless, fluorescent street lamps gave way to sprawling patches of green gradually assuming a finer density and character. Road and street surrendered to lane and dirt track as we kept company with oak and birch, larch and sycamore, all asleep. Finally, we slithered to a halt beside Caitlin’s Pond.

My favourite among many tales told about Caitlin was that she had been the daughter of a travelling gypsy family who fell in love with the landowner’s only son. Their affair blossomed, in spite of fierce opposition on all sides. It’s said they spent many happy times sitting by the pond. Then the youth fell ill with a fever. No one believed he could survive. His distraught father blamed Caitlin and, led by a mob of townsfolk, had her burnt at the stake for a witch. The young man recovered, eventually married well and was revered for leading an exemplary life. No one heard him speak Caitlin’s name again. Nor was he ever seen to visit the pond. Even so, it was there they found him on the day he died after a heart attack at a ripe old age.

Shaun and I sat on a gnarled tree trunk so old that Caitlin and her lover may well have done the same long ago.

It was just like the old days. When Shaun and I were kids, we would often sneak out on summer nights to go stargazing from the roof of a shed in my grandfather’s allotment, armed with a pocket book on the constellation and sustained by liquorice all-sorts and lemonade. My parents and Paul never knew about these outings nor had Nancy as far as I knew. It had been our secret and remained something of an in-joke between us. I hadn’t even mentioned it to Billy. It struck me now, in that leafy moonlight beside Caitlin’s Pond, how much I had missed Shaun’s friendship as he proceeded to confide plans to marry Lou Simmons.

“I love Louise,” he said simply. I never heard him call her Lou.

“Good luck to you both,” I said and meant it.

“Will you be my best man? Billy said he would, but…”

In spite of a dark shadow that had fallen across his face, I could see he was in earnest. I was simultaneously gobsmacked and flattered. Yet, filling Billy’s shoes…How could I do that?  Even so, I had the feeling Billy would have approved. Whatever my misgivings, and in spite of butterflies in my tummy, an almost forgotten light-heartedness washed over me. “You bet!” I grinned if a trifle sheepishly and we shook hands on it.

An owl swooped low and hooted. We both nearly jumped out of our skins, laughing to cover our embarassment. We watched the bird glide low and gracefully across the pond after briefly casting a giant shadow across the moon. Idly, I sought out Cassiopeia and then, nearby, the star I had chosen for mine and Billy’s own.  At the same time, I was amazed to realize that I’d done so spontaneously, without having to prepare myself for after-shock.  “I miss Billy,” I said aloud.

“Me too,” Shaun sighed. He didn’t seem surprised and asked no questions.

I began to hurt again. For a fleeting moment, I was tempted to tell Shaun about Billy and me. It had crossed my mind that he knew already, although I doubted it.

It was my turn to sigh; so many lies, half-truths, uncertainties, hovering in the wind like the owl’s cry.

Along with that bird of prey, the moment passed. Could it be, I wondered, that it was homing in on its next meal, talons poised to strike even as we sat there?

I shivered.

“Come on, let’s go,” said Shaun, already on his feet.

Dog Roses - Chapter Four

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

CHAPTER FOUR

My mother had a boyfriend?  Paul’s outburst had hit home, and no mistake. I was gobsmacked. Wordlessly, I watched my brother making a brave attempt to get a grip on himself. For my own part, I resorted to taking deep breaths as I struggled with the implications of what I’d just heard. Indigestible at first, the notion of my mother having someone special in her life other than us became slowly less offensive. The longer I thought about it, the more I almost warmed to the idea. She was, after all, an attractive woman. Well, not bad for forty plus. It was inevitable, I supposed, that she would get lonely sometimes.
     I started with surprise. It hadn’t even entered my head before that my mother might be lonely. My thoughts strayed to Billy. I found myself reflecting how empty my life had been before we discovered each other. Worse, I tried to imagine how it would be without him. Panic spread to my bowels. An old saying sprung to mind that I had always thought rather silly, but which now assumed a new, awful significance. I felt, indeed, as though someone had walked on my grave…
     “It’s Peter Short, the creep!” Paul blurted and caught me off-guard with a short, sharp shock to the brain cells.
     “Peter Short the librarian, her boss? I was incredulous. That my mother should have landed her boss of all people, assigned her to an altogether different category than I would have placed her in. Not that Short was a big fish, he wasn’t. This was not, however, a scenario I’d have attributed to our homely if sometimes over fussy Mum. I couldn’t resist an appreciative whistle. Paul’s glowering expression only intensified.
     I shrugged, “You have to hand it to her, I suppose.”
     “I was right. You don’t give a damn!” he yelled, leapt to his feet, and stormed out of the room. Wearily, I watched his disappearing back. Seconds later, I heard the door of his room, the one next to mine, slam resoundingly. Mum had gone to church or the crash would have brought her at the double, doubtless prepared to do battle (as usual) with me. At the same time, I vaguely recalled some past mention of Short’s being a lay preacher, and a wicked chuckle tickled my throat.
     I went after Paul and promptly made matters worse between us by failing to knock on his door. If looks could kill, I’d have dropped dead on the spot. By this time, tears were streaming down his face. I snatched box of tissues from where it lay on a cupboard beside the bed and tossed it into his lap. “Suppose you blow your nose and pull yourself together, eh?” I muttered, not unsympathetically. Slightly mollified, he followed my advice. “Now,” I began after he had used up several tissues, “what’s with Mum and this Short character?” He merely kept sniffing. I sprawled in an armchair chair that was taking up far too much room in the opposite corner and waited. It had been our father’s favourite chair, but no one could face seeing it in its old place downstairs so it had found its way to Paul’s room, although no one could quite recall how or when exactly.
     As a woman without a man, Paul proceeded to insist, our mother was vulnerable, especially as it wasn’t quite three years yet since Dad died. I shrugged and was inclined to agree while also trying hard to be fair.
     “She was bound to meet someone sooner or later,” I put to him. But Paul was having none of it. He glared, wrinkled his nose in disgust and went on to relay a list of known assignations, late homecomings and various other miscellany concerning our mother and Peter Short. Among these were tables-for-two bookings he’d overheard mum discussing on the phone as well as concerts at the Town Hall and occasional tea dances at the Community Centre. I hid a smile. The way he told it was pure soap opera. Unfortunately, Paul misread my body language.
     “You couldn’t care less, could you?” he accused me again with renewed vigour. By now he had recovered a vestige of self-confidence, the more so for turning the full blast of his misery on me. “I dare say it wouldn’t even bother you if she went and married the bastard!”
     We both lapsed into a shocked silence. I may have been thinking I could get used to the idea of my mother having a boyfriend, but that was all. Any suggestion that she might marry again was inconceivable.
     I felt physically sick.
     Neither Paul nor I were into religion. Even so, the prospect of our mother being married to anyone but our father struck as both as a kind of blasphemy. I sought bleak refuge in a glossy portrait of Kylie Minogue on the wall.
     “We can’t just sit back and do nothing,” I agreed. Kylie pouted approvingly, although I dare say it was a trick of the light. “We’ll have to show an interest, get involved. Better to know what’s going on than rely on guesswork. We could be making wild assumptions here.”
     “Are you calling me a liar?”
     “No, just that…”
     “Do you honestly think I’d make something like this up?” he flung at me. “It’s true, I tell you. If you don’t believe me ask Hayley’s mum. She saw them together at that posh new restaurant in Bridge Street, the one that charges for a glass of bloody tap water!”
     It was indicative of how distant we had become with each other that I had to rack my brains to place Hayley, let alone her mother. Oh, yes, Billy’s cousin. I seemed to recall a pretty but loud type with whom Paul had gone around a lot at one time. Ah, but hadn’t they quarrelled? Now I remembered also that he’d wasted no time replacing her with a girl called...Oh, yes, Kelly.  Whatever happened to poor Kelly, I wondered and did this mean Hayley was flavour of the month again?  I studied my brother, supposed he wasn’t bad looking in spite of his acne, but still couldn’t see for the life of me what girls saw in him. It had to be the athletic build and all-round sportsman factor, I decided. Even so, Paul had attracted girls like a magnet since he was a toddler. I, on the other hand, had never felt comfortable with the opposite sex, not in that way anyhow.
     I had an idea. “We’ll get mum to invite him round for supper,” I declared. Paul stared at me in wide-eyed disbelief. “What better way to get things out in the open without being too…”
     “Obvious? You are joking?”
     “I was going to say, judgemental. Maybe they’re just…”
     “Good friends? Huh!”
     “At least we should hear what they’ve got to say, not jump to conclusions. This way, we can keep an eye on things and…”
     “Put the boot in, yeah, right!”
     “Take one step at a time,” I had to correct him yet again, “Mum won’t thank us for charging in like bulls in a china shop and telling her how to run her life.  No, we’ll show her we’re cool about it. It’s worth a shot, surely?”
     “But supper…?” he groaned, “Imagine sitting round the table with a librarian! What do we talk about, Harry Potter?”
     “Why do you always have to be so damn negative all the time?” I snapped, “We don’t know if Mum’s serious about this Short guy or not. For all we know, he may turn out to be a nice bloke who’s…”
    “Lonely?  Yeah, yeah, I dare say. So who wants to be saddled with some stick-in-the-mud librarian, for crying out loud?  But Mum, she’s a big softie, right?  Worse, she’s vulnerable since dad died. If that isn’t a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is!”
     “There’s no talking to you!” I flared and ran out of the room. I was angry, but not with Paul. I had been on such a high after Brighton. Now I felt as though I’d been ripped to pieces by the cut and thrust of everyday life. And I hated it. At that precise moment in time I hated my mother and brother only marginally less than I loved them.
     Business at the café that afternoon was steady enough, but hardly brisk.  I was not expecting to see Billy. He’d rarely shown his face in the café since distancing himself from his biker pals although, to my dismay, he continued to see Maggie Dillon on a regular basis. I kept telling myself they were old friends, after all, and he was entitled to see whomsoever he liked. I wasn’t jealous. No?  Who am I kidding, I demanded of a patch of stained Formica on the counter? Even so, I easily convinced myself that I meant far more to Billy than she ever had. Sex aside, he and I were discovering new levels of companionship all the time.
     A few nights earlier, Billy and I had gone to The Black Swan. Shaun Devlin was there with “Loopy” Lou Simmons. (Everyone called her that, presumably because she gave the appearance of being slightly retarded. It was cruel, but such is human nature. No one understood what on earth Shaun saw in her.) Billy and I would have sneaked away. but Shaun spotted us, came loping over with a huge grin on his face and insisted we join them. As things turned out, it was a good evening. Shaun was a fun character to be with, especially after a few pints. Lou surprised me. She was a quiet sort, but when she did choose to make a contribution it was with a dry humour that had us all in stitches.
      Billy opened up to me that evening. I realized how much of him had remained closed to me, how little I really knew. He plainly enjoyed playing stooge to Shaun’s drollery, and I discovered that he also had a rare talent for mimicry. Neither Shaun nor Lou displayed the slightest curiosity at my being with Billy. Shaun and I were, of course, old friends. Lou, I hardly knew, but felt as if I had known her for years after just one evening in her company. Later, as the four of us parted, there were hugs all round and much vowing to do it again sometime. As things turned out, though, we never did.
      “Are you going to serve me, young Rob, or do I have to serve myself?”  The gravel voice of old Marge, the town’s bag lady, voice broke into my thoughts and hauled my consciousness back to a dreary Sunday afternoon. She had wandered in as she did every Sunday, rain or shine, clutching a shopping trolley piled high with bulging black bin bags; on top of these, sprawled Clancy, her devoted, ever-watchful dachshund. At the counter, she went through the customary ritual of searching the huge pockets of an old greatcoat. As usual, I gave her a large mug of tea on the house and a saucer of water for Clancy. Beaming broadly, she proceeded to heap the blessings of all the saints on my head in a singsong Derry brogue before shuffling away to a corner table.
     For the first time, I took a step back and attempted to rationalize my feelings for Billy. What exactly did this heat in the blood mean whenever I saw him? Moreover, given that it was the same for him, what happens next? Do I tell the world I’m gay, confide in Mum and Paul?
     Shivers ran down my spine, and I felt physically sick.  So what did it really mean to me, to us, Billy and me, this ‘coming out’ business at which I’d shaken my hips on my eighteenth birthday and loved every passionate second of it? Was I in love with Billy Mack?  Guiltily, I suspected not.
     I needed to talk to someone, but to whom? My mother would be devastated, and I couldn’t imagine Paul being supportive. The only person likely to understand was Ben Hallas, and we hadn’t exchanged so much as a cursory nod in the street for weeks. I experienced a sharp stab of conscience at the way I had treated Ben, but it quickly passed. My thoughts turned to Nora Mack. What would Billy’s mum say if she knew about Billy and me, or the surly Ed? What of Billy’s mates, too? And where did Maggie Dillon fit into the picture? How can Billy say he loves me yet go on seeing her?
     These questions and more continued to streak through mind and body like a succession of electric shocks all day. It was a relief to have the occasional rush; a gang of noisy kids clamouring for milk shakes; three old ladies taking forever to decide on toasted teacakes or buttered scones with their pot of Earl Grey; two youths vying for the favours of a bubbly blonde in tight shorts who was plainly feeding the situation with relish and couldn’t keep her eyes off a third youth bandying suggestive looks with her over a cappuccino at another table.
     The girl was Liz Daniels, who had fallen foul of Nick Crolley’s boisterous advances only days before. Had she finally split up with Crolley, I wondered? Good luck to her if she had. There was a general consensus locally that the Crolleys were a bad lot.  So how had Ed Mack become involved with them, I wondered?  “Like attracts like, I guess…” I muttered aloud. I glanced at Liz again, couldn’t help but notice ample breasts heaving under a skin tight tee shirt, scarlet lips pouting provocatively. I chuckled as one of my mother’s favourite remarks sprung to mind. “Mark my words, Rob,” she’d say, “it will all end in tears.” True enough, I mused idly. Even so, I had no sense of foreboding or the slightest premonition of what lay only hours ahead.
      The third youth approached the jukebox and lingered over his selection. Liz joined him. Casually, she told the others, Get lost!”  A token flow of verbal abuse all round followed, and then the two other youths left. Minutes later, the third youth also left, Liz tugging on his arm as if reluctant to leave. If that were true, he paid no attention.
     Gay. The word wouldn’t go away. It bounced around in my head, treating my brain like a squash court. Pouf. Queer. Shirt lifter. Perv. These were ugly, dirty expressions I’d picked up in the school playground and on the streets. They left a nasty taste in the mouth.
     I got angry. There was nothing ugly or dirty about the way Billy and I felt about each other. As for sex, it had to be the ultimate intimacy, surely? What better way for two people in love to express their feelings than by sharing their bodies?  Oh, the sheer freedom of it! Two people on an adventure, resolved to find, shoot back the locks and fling open… What exactly, Pandora’s Box?  Why should it matter to anyone that we were two men?
     As the day wore on, I began to feel better about myself and marginally less anxious. I resolved not to discuss my feelings with Billy. Self-consciously, I reflected that Billy and I discussed very little. We had never sat down and talked in any depth about what it meant to be gay, let alone the multiple implications of our own relationship.
     Gay. I played with it again on my tongue. Not a bad word, that.
     So what‘s going on between Billy and Maggie Dillon, I asked myself for the umpteenth time? It even intruded on our lovemaking. Once, I’d asked Billy directly if he ever imagined I was Maggie when we had sex. He’d tossed back his blond mane and roared with laughter. I felt inches high. He saw that he had hurt me, and tried to make amends. “Haven’t you noticed you’re a different shape, Rob?” He couldn’t keep a straight face, but there was kindness and love in his eyes. He kissed me and held me close for a long time. “Maggie’s a good sort, Rob,” he murmured in my ear while tickling the lobe with his tongue, “We’ve been good mates for a long time. If I want to be with Maggie, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you. Forget Maggie. There’s no competition, believe me. I want to be with you like I never thought I’d want to be with anyone in my whole life.” He’d rolled me on my back and kissed me again, his gaze more intense than I had ever seen it. I’d longed to say those words that kept eluding me, I love you. But the moment passed, overtaken by his habitual grin while Maggie’s presence slipped away during the hectic possessiveness of our lovemaking. Gone, but never quite forgotten.
     So it was we’d wrestle with our sexuality, Billy Mack and I, seeking to confirm it with a sense of shared identity.
     Oh, how that Sunday dragged on! My reverie was interrupted by the arrival of a customer I did not recognize although I had a sneaking feeling I should. He was chubby and dressed entirely in black; black, expensive-looking suit; black shoes, polished to an impeccable shine. Even his hair was a greasy black, combed forward to a silly fringe that did nothing for him at all. In complete contrast, he had a ruddy complexion and piercing blue eyes.
      “Is Bananas about?” He had a quiet, dreary voice. Two plump hands spread stubby fingers on the counter. A gap-tooth smile did nothing to ease my growing irritation. Above an incongruously hawkish nose, shrewd eyes appraised me as a fox might a chicken run.
     “No,” I said shortly, “Who’s asking?”
     “Rider’s the name, Clive Rider. And you’ll be Rob, his right hand man so I’m told.” It was not a question.  I nodded, hackles rearing and kicking at his smarmy manner. “So, Rob, where will I find him?”
     “You could try his house or...” I glanced at my watch, “…the hospital.”
     “Hospital…?” A look of genuine concern darted across the smooth, round face. My hackles relaxed a little. A twitch of the fat lips, a nervous drumming on the counter with podgy fingers and I thawed sufficiently to relate the tragedy of Ma B’s illness. “That’s a crying shame,” he commented after a long, thoughtful silence. Even so, I didn’t get the impression he meant much by it. “I can’t stand hospitals myself. I’ll not disturb him. No, it can wait.” He reached inside his jacket, retrieved his wallet and extracted a business card. “Tell him I called and I’ll be in touch soon. Oh, and tell him I’m sorry…” he added but, again, not with any real feeling. I was reminded of our grandfather clock at home. It hadn’t chimed the quarter or half hours since Dad had taken it upon himself to tinker with its delicate mechanism because it sounded ‘tired’. The hour chimes had now lost all their ponderous resonance, and were now reduced to a brief, cracked monotone.
     At that moment, a flustered Doreen arrived full of apologies for being late, which she was not. I glanced at the printed card in my hand and read Clive Rider’s name, curiously hypnotized by it to the extent that I didn’t even notice him leave. Something about the little man disturbed me. But I had a café to run and no time for such fanciful misgivings.
     Looking up, I gave Doreen my full attention, absently tucking Clive Rider’s card into the pocket of my apron.
     Doreen was breathless and not at all her usual cheery self. She was close to tears. When I suggested that I manage on my own and she might like to go home, they broke into a flood. Nonplussed, I issued a stunned but delighted Marge instructions to watch the counter and call me if needed. She may have been the town’s bag lady but I’d have trusted her with my life. Clancy barked as if to show his appreciation too as I led a sobbing, incoherent Doreen into the staff room; so-called, that is, although it was nothing more than a converted broom cupboard.
     It was only as we entered and I sat her down on the only chair that I noticed Doreen was carrying a small suitcase. What on earth’s the matter?” I demanded, sympathetically I hoped, but with some urgency. I had never left the counter before, and my faith in Marge’s ability to hold the fort was strictly limited.
     I could get little sense out of Doreen. Between sobs, she mumbled something about Harry and the kids being better of without her, and I recalled Sarah’s gossipy comments about Doreen having an admirer with growing alarm. Had she left Harry? My first thought was for the café. I needed Doreen. “You should go home,” I said firmly, “and talk things through with Harry.” She turned as bleak a gaze on me as I had ever seen and burst into a renewed fit of weeping. At this point, Marge came through with a cup of tea. Doreen accepted it with such gratitude that I felt positively aggrieved. Clearly, even old Marge had a more intuitive grasp of what the situation called for than I could muster.
     “Who’s watching the counter?” I snapped at Marge as the significance of her presence suddenly hit me.
     “Now, don’t you worry about a thing. If anyone tries to help themselves to so much as a speck of dust, my Clancy will go for ’em. You can rely on that, young Rob, God’s truth you can.”
     In my mind’s eye, I pictured Bananas dropping by and finding his beloved café in the hands of an elderly dachshund. Appalled, I left them to it and retreated to rejoin familiarity and Clancy.
     Just as I returned to the counter, Billy’s former confederates arrived, noisily.
     Nick Crolley, an expressionless Maggie Dillon on his arm, ordered coffee and cheese ‘n’ pickle ‘doorstep’ sandwiches, adding instructions loud enough for everyone to hear that I get my finger out and bring them over to his table. Making a mental note to leave his order until last, I scribbled it on my pad. Shaun then greeted me with warmth, and Lou smiled pleasantly. Someone yelled an order from the jukebox and the rest gathered round the counter, each shouting over the other while I struggled to make sense of it all and got stuck in.
     It was not until all of them, Nick Crolley included, were eating, drinking and chatting at their various tables that Doreen and Marge emerged. Clancy gave an excited yelp upon seeing his mistress, but would not desert the various bags she had deposited in the dog’s care. Doreen gave her unlikely comforter a mug of tea and the obligatory saucer; she seemed composed, almost her old self. I heaved s sigh of relief.  She flung me a tight but reassuring smile, and the reddened eyes managed a muted twinkle in response to my enquiring glance.
     Less than ten minutes later, the subject of Sarah’s title-tattle arrived. I had since discovered that his name was Bryan Chester, but that was all I knew about the man.  He made a bee line for that end of the counter farthest from the door and Doreen rushed to serve him; not that, as far as I could tell, he had any intention of ordering anything. They had their heads close together for a good quarter of an hour, she rabbiting earnestly in staccato whispers, and he gesticulating exasperatedly from time to time without( or so it seemed to me) having much to say. He was a lot younger than Doreen. I heaved another sigh if less relieved than curious, and kept busy.
     I was carving more ham when I felt rather than heard the general din become ominously muted and looked up to see Billy approaching the counter. He was dressed in full leather gear and grinning from ear to ear. To my dismay, I saw that he was carrying a crash helmet under his arm. The grin stretching even wider, he tossed me a knowing wink to which I could not bring myself to respond. I was furious. He had said nothing to me about getting another bike, damn him. Now he would revert to being leader of the pack. Yes, and what about me?
     Billy gave his usual order in confident, ringing tones. He looked more than slightly miffed, however, when I acknowledged it with a curt nod and simply got on with the task in hand.  Only Shaun hailed him across the room. Then, as if given the all-clear, all heads swung towards the window. The sight of a garishly customised and obviously second-hand but by no means second rate 1000cc machine quickly raised whistles of appreciation, envy and delight. A few people went outside to take a closer look. Most, though, wasted little time in switching their attention to the corner table Maggie shared with Nick Crolley.
     As if on cue, Maggie rose, sauntered up to the counter and perched on a stool beside Billy without saying a word. “Hey, make it two coffees!” Billy yelled, and I winced involuntarily, hurt to the quick because he hadn’t called me by name. I blamed Maggie Dillon (who else?) and my loathing for her brought a lump to my throat.
     Nick Crolley wasted no time vaulting across the room. “You’re with me,” he growled at Maggie.
     Maggie merely shrugged. “Maybe I was, sort of. Now I’m with Billy. Isn’t that right, Billy?” She laid a hand on his arm. Both Crolley and I saw red. Silently, I gave thanks to the God I wasn’t even sure I believed in that no one was paying me any attention.
     I needn’t have worried. All eyes were on those three.
     “That’s right,” Billy agreed, adopting a deceptively amiable expression in the face of Crolley’s fury.
A tense silence was suddenly shattered by the arrival of Harry Styles. I heard Doreen cry out. I glanced in her direction and saw the boyfriend brace himself. In that same instant, Styles spotted them. Doreen’s husband stood stock still in the doorway, fixing the hapless pair with an expression of purple rage. By comparison, the look on Nick Crolley’s face might have been due to mild indigestion.
     Doreen joined her pale-faced companion on the other side of the counter.
     Clancy growled.
     Styles moved with unexpected speed. Coolly, wordlessly, he confronted the younger man before rounding on poor Doreen. “You’re coming home with me!” He grabbed her by the wrist.
     “No, Harry, no, let me go!” she sobbed and tried to pull free without success.
     “Leave her alone!” said Billy.
     “Mind your own damn business!” yelled Styles without giving Billy so much as a glance. Still gripping Doreen’s wrist, he spat in his rival’s face. The younger man continued, nevertheless, to keep a possessive hold on her free arm.
     “I don’t want any trouble,” I said. Abandoning the ham doorstep I was making for Shaun, and only vaguely aware that I still held a carving knife in one hand, I moved briskly to the other side of the counter.    
     “Wash your dirty linen somewhere else, not in my café.”  I tried to inject some authority into my voice, but even to me it sounded hollow and ineffectual.
     Someone snickered. Others broke into a slow handclap.
     Giving no hint of his intention, Styles gave such a jerk on Doreen’s wrist that it not only wrenched her away from the younger man but also sent her flying across the room. She hit a table. Its occupants jumped up, yelling abuse. Doreen went sprawling on the floor, the table crashing after her. Among cries of protest and concern, over and above the sound of breaking crockery, Harry Styles ignored his wife and launched himself at his rival with a vicious head butt.
     Bryan Chester could have given Styles a good ten years. But he was no match for an outraged husband. At one point, he seemed to lie utterly passive while Harry Styles proceeded to kick the living daylights out of him.
     Shouting at me to help him, Billy attempted to drag Styles away from the bloody mass of human flesh on the floor. Shaun waded in and it took all three of us to hold the man down.  Doreen had staggered to her feet by now. Rushing to kneel at Chester’s side, she kept sobbing his name and kept a tight hold on his arm even as he tried to stand.  He pushed her aside with an impatient gesture that spoke volumes. After several attempts, he finally made it to his feet, swaying in all directions. Clothes torn and his face covered in blood, he grunted something unintelligible at Doreen before picking his way to the counter and leaning his whole weight against it for support. Sometimes, though, we don’t need words; a gesture says it all. No one, least of all Doreen, was left in any doubt as to what he meant. This relationship was going nowhere.
     Without any warning, Doreen leapt at her husband and began screaming abuse at him while clawing at his face. Shaun relaxed his hold on the man, as we all did, and tried in vain to ward off the full force of Doreen’s savagery with his free arm.  Styles saw his chance to break free and took it. A large hand seized one of Doreen’s wrists, another yanked at her hair. At the same time, he kneed her in the stomach. For a second time, she lay sprawling on the floor. Barely pausing to take a breath, Styles went for Chester again. Chester’s back was turned, but he must have sensed the other’s intention and swung round.
     I swore aloud. In Bryan Chester’s hand was the carving knife I must have carelessly laid down on the counter at some stage during the worsening fracas. To this day, I have no memory of doing it. Yet, neither will I ever forget.
     Harry Styles, nostrils flaring, stopped short, his sweaty face a chalky white.
Chester waved the knife at his enemy, who took a few shaky steps backwards. “Stay away from me Styles!” he screamed, “Take the silly cow and welcome, but leave me alone!”
     “I’ve had enough of this!” I shouted ineffectually, “Give me the knife. Don’t worry about Harry. We’ll make sure he doesn’t hit you again. Just give me the knife and let me patch you up before you bleed to death. Call an ambulance, someone.” I moved forward and held my hand out for the knife. Nor was I trying to act the hero. Doreen, the café, the knife…All were my responsibility. It seemed the right thing to do. Chester’s hand shook. His body seemed to slacken. The knife came towards me. For a split second, I thought he was going to hand it over.
     Suddenly, Clancy started barking. Everyone’s attention fractionally diverted, Harry Styles lunged at Chester who struck out blindly with the knife. I felt blood running down my cheek and heard Billy yell my name, “Rob!”
     There would be numerous versions as to what happened next, who said what, did what, and in what order; all minor details, coming together on a surrealist canvas to hang permanently in a secluded cavity of my mind labelled, ‘For private viewing only.’
     I recall being pushed and falling to the floor. As I fell, I was aware of being crowded, and also of a blurred flurry of movement. Someone screamed. Out of the corner of one eye, I saw Billy lurch past me. Chester lunged forward. Billy appeared to trip. The scream petered out…
     An awful silence descended like a fog. As it began to clear, a lurid tableau emerged, its central characters dimming into view. Chester, his expression frozen in a horrible grimace; Shaun, looking dazed, his mouth wide open; Harry Styles, his face ashen; Doreen, Maggie Dillon at her shoulder. All were staring down at a crumpled heap on the floor.
     I looked. By now the fog had lifted. Only a clammy sensation remained, making my flesh crawl.
     Billy lay on the floor, horribly still. The tableau began to disintegrate before my eyes. Although there was no doubt in my mind that he was dead, all that mattered during that terrible instant of comprehension was that the carving knife protruding from his chest was the same one I had been using only minutes before.
     An uncanny silence was shattered by the wail of fast approaching sirens. Of us all, only Lou Simmons had shown sufficient presence of mind to call the police on her mobile phone. It was the act of a caring person, but it earned her a good few enemies that day.
     Maggie was kneeling over Billy now, feeling inside the bloodstained shirt for a heartbeat. Shaun was crying. Lou came and stood beside him, hands resting lightly on his shoulders, but her eyes as if hypnotized by the sight of that inert figure on the floor.
     Billy’s face, usually so animated and full of life, already resembled a wax imitation.
     Everyone had gathered around the body. I glanced up at Doreen. She clung to Harry Styles as if for dear life, her face buried in his jumper. Blue, it was, with a pattern of yellow diamond shapes. It would haunt me forever, that jumper. My gaze swivelled, without any prompting, to where Billy’s killer stood wild-eyed. Beneath the puffy flesh, streaked as it was with bruising and bloodstains, Chester’s boyish face was grey. I caught and held his eye for the barest fraction of a second.  Unbidden, unwanted, a surge of pity infiltrated the bile in my throat.
     I swallowed, gagging. My nerve endings began to tingle. Slowly, surely, the tragedy I had just witnessed began to penetrate my stricken senses, and with it an awful perception of my own part in it.
     The sirens stopped.

Dog Roses - Chapter Three

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

CHAPTER THREE

My eighteenth birthday came and went. I upset my mother by refusing point blank to mark the occasion in any way. My brother Paul and I had a blazing row. He kept on about how Dad would have wanted me to have ‘a bit of a do’. But I stood my ground and told him to mind his own damn business. It was my birthday and I would do as I damn well pleased. Not that I didn’t feel as guilty as hell, I did. They meant well. But how could I tell them I wanted to spend my birthday with Billy? They wouldn’t have understood. Or perhaps I was afraid they might?

Mum left a present on my bed and a card. Paul did not bother with either. For weeks afterwards, the three of us barely spoke. I seriously considered moving out, but not for long.  A cursory glance through the local newspapers told me I couldn’t even rent a room on my wages. Besides, I was the main breadwinner (for now, anyway). Pipe dreams, too, were a luxury I could not afford.

Billy and I went up to the West End. He treated me to meal at The Spaghetti House in St Martin’s Lane. Later, we danced at a gay club called the Half Moon. It was the first time we had gone public, and I needed a good few pints to persuade me. There was precious little likelihood of bumping into anyone we knew; neither of us was quite ready for that yet.

While we were dancing, Billy gave me my present; a platinum eternity ring on a chain that must have cost the earth. It meant the world to me, and still does. He had attempted several times to take me in his arms, but I’d always resisted the temptation, content to let myself go with the music and feast my gaze on Billy’s theatrical gyrations. After he hung the ring around my neck, though, I took the initiative. I put my arms around his waist, and pulled him close without either of us losing our rhythm. Seconds later, he bent and kissed my neck. I closed my eyes. Billy’s lips found mine and his tongue aroused a heat in me as it always did. We clung to each other, still keeping time with the frantic beat. Our bodies joined as one, we were like any two people in love. How could this be wrong, the music demanded? I shook my head. I didn’t know or care.

I had never been so happy. Our kiss lasted ages, ending only when the need to draw breath overtook us. We continued to dance cheek to cheek. I tongued the lobe of his ear as a special thank you because I knew he loved it.

We never discussed our feelings for each other, Billy and I. While acknowledging the necessity for local subterfuge, we simply set out to make the most of what was, after all, an unlikely intimacy. Even now, I find myself staring at the platinum eternity ring, and wonder what on earth Billy Mack ever saw in me. (The chain broke, by the way. I wear it on the third finger of my right hand now).

If people had known about us, we would probably have struck them as the oddest couple. We had little in common apart from Elvis Presley and a frantic, physical need to be together.

It was more than sex. We were soulmates.  Subsequently, we learned to anticipate and respect each other’s moods, and feel completely relaxed in each other’s company without becoming bogged down with words or besotted with sex. This, even though we didn’t see anywhere near as much of each other as we’d have liked, Billy being apprenticed to a local print firm and my having to work most evening as well as day shifts at the café.

We had some wonderful times that spring, Billy Mack and me.

I managed to cajole Doreen into swapping some of her evening shifts for my afternoons. At first, I felt indebted to her until Sarah confided that, on these same evenings, a man came into the café who was not Doreen’s husband, Harry. They would chat at the counter for hours. At closing time, Doreen would invariably drive off with him in a hatchback. I was surprised, to say the least. Doreen and Harry had always struck me as the epitome of married bliss. But it was none of my business, I kept telling myself, especially after Sarah conceded, when pressed, that Doreen was in no way falling down on the job. In those days, I had precious little conception of staff management. As long as everyone pulled their weight, that was more than enough for me. Besides, I was far too preoccupied with my feelings for Billy to care much about anyone else’s. If Doreen was having an affair, who was I to pass judgement?

One Saturday afternoon, Bananas turned up out of the blue and gave me the rest of the day off. I deserved it, he said. He looked ill, his face as battered as the old trilby hat he always wore. I sensed he would have liked to chat. But I was young, in love and anxious to be off before the gaffer changed his mind. I asked hastily after Ma B as I shed my apron. His only response was to scratch an ear and concentrate his full attention on a tiny pool of spilt tea on the counter. He grabbed a cloth and began scrubbing furiously away at the Formica. I gladly left him to it. It was a glorious day and I wanted to spend it with Billy.

I called for Billy at his home. I was not an infrequent visitor by this time and got on well with Billy’s mother. I felt guilty about deceiving Nora Mack. More often than not, we would chat a while before I went up to Billy’s room, and again afterwards. As it turned out, she knew my mother slightly. It was she who told me that Billy’s cousin Hayley was my brother’s girlfriend. I hadn’t met the girl, nor had Paul ever mentioned her. Not that we talked much, Paul and I, in those days. Certainly, we didn’t exchange confidences.

On this occasion, someone I did not recognize opened the front door. He was a slump-shouldered, scruffy individual with close-cropped black hair and smouldering grey eyes who looked me over and grunted. He continued to puff on a cigarette, and raised a bushy eyebrow enquiringly without saying a word.

“Is Billy in?” I asked more defensively than I intended.

He motioned me inside, and Billy himself appeared on the stairs. He was jubilant when I told him I had the rest of the day off. “I thought we might jump on a train or something,” I suggested.

“We’ll go to Brighton!” Billy made a fist and punched the air with undisguised glee. His enthusiasm prompted a repeat exercise of the eyebrow from our dour observer. “We might as well,” Billy reiterated but shuffled his feet and looked acutely uncomfortable as if caught off-guard. “Rob, this is my brother Ed. Ed, this is Rob Young. He’s a mate of mine.”

“Pleased to meet you, Ed.” I offered to shake hands. Ed Mack ignored the gesture and continued his bleak appraisal of my appearance from head to toe. Was it obvious, I wondered? Were we so transparent, Billy and I? My stomach gave a sickening lurch. Ed Mack’s expression stopped just short of open hostility.

“Ed is…” Billy began.

“On parole,” growled his brother. A light in the grey eyes flared as if daring me to comment.  My hackles rose to the challenge, but a warning glance from Billy kept me silent.

“I’ll be right with you Rob. I’ll just get my jacket.” Billy disappeared. Ed and I regarded each other warily. It was hard to believe that this morose, unshaven ape was Billy’s brother.

“Have you managed to find a job yet?” I asked when I could bear the heavy silence no longer.

“What do you think?” he snapped.

“Just asking…”I floundered, desperate to ease the tension between us, wishing he would take himself off to watch TV or something. Eventually I gave what I hoped would pass for a sympathetic shrug. “I hope things work out okay for you.”

There was something indefinable about Ed Mack. I didn’t care for his surly manner, but neither did I find myself actively disliking the man. He began puffing hard to rekindle the cigarette.

“Maybe they will, maybe they won’t,” he volunteered at last, “What’s it to you?” He glowered at me, and then blew a derisory cloud of smoke in my face. More hackles snaked up my spine just as Billy came dashing down the stairs, arms wrestling with the sleeves of a faded denim jacket. I noted, inconsequentially, that he rarely wore his leather biker jacket when we were out together. On impulse, I held out my hand to Ed Mack a second time. We parried baleful expressions. Suddenly, he smiled and took my hand. The grip was firm. His smile, not unlike his mother’s, transformed the craggy features that shed years on the spot and even took on a certain charm.

Ed withdrew his hand, turned abruptly and headed towards the kitchen without another word.

“A bundle of laughs, your brother,” I remarked dryly as Billy slammed the front door behind us.

“He’s not so bad,” was the short response.

“So how come he went down for a robbery?” I was curious.

“It’s usual if you get caught,” said Billy gruffly. His mouth tightened and he ran a hand through his hair. I changed the subject. It didn’t take a genius to understand that Billy did not want to be reminded of the Crolleys. Even as we talked, Nick Crolley was not only usurping Billy’s place as leader of the biker pack, but had also attached himself to Maggie Dillon as her self-styled consort. Billy adamantly refused to discuss the situation with me. Maggie Dillon remained, by tacit agreement, a strictly taboo subject.

All that day, I had the feeling of shutting and bolting a door on the past; the two of us were in a world of our own. Even so, at heart we both always knew the bolts hadn’t quite shot home.

Nothing, though, could spoil that day in Brighton. We swam and splashed in the sea wearing only our boxer shorts, and then let the sun dry us out on the shingle while we exchanged banter and giggled a lot. We buried our noses in candyfloss, played fruit machines on the pier, shared a Ploughman’s lunch and drank real ale in a shadowy bar whose brass horseshoes on its walls and low oak beams would catch the sun and make us blink.

To help us sober up, we took a bus to the Devil’s Dyke, and strolled for a good half hour before lying down in the long grass to watch hang-gliders and multi-coloured kites vying for supremacy in a dreamy cumulous sky. His hand reached for mine. We were happy, contented. Adrenalin flowed through our fingers. We made love, without even wanting sex.

Twilight found us scoffing fish and chips as we wandered along the beach at the water’s edge. The sun was a ball of fire, slowly but surely burning itself out as darkness crept up on us. In no time at all, a full moon was queening it over starry clusters, having torn the last thin veil of sunset to shreds and disposed of those on the horizon.

We kept an easy, companionable silence as we walked. I was conscious of waves rising and falling; now rushing to lick my bare toes, now beating a hasty retreat as if anxious not to disturb our reverie. There was an intrusive yet splendid inevitability about it all, Mother Nature at her kindest.

Only once, as I regarded the burnt out shell of the West pier, did a profound sadness come over me, but it quickly ebbed, washed away by the sheer delight of my being there, incredible and surreal an experience though it was; the sea, moonlight, Billy Mack, and me pre-empting eternity.

Two gulls screeched overhead. We watched them glide, descend and ascend again in a wide, graceful arc, like wistful angels, curious about us but reconciled to no longer having a part to play in the comings and shortcomings of humankind. Anonymous shadows of all shapes and sizes kept us company, and I had a sense of participating in a grand, celebratory event.

“A penny for them…?”

I confided my whimsical thoughts to Billy, expecting him to roar with laughter. Instead, he drew me close, held me tight and kissed me full on the mouth with a passion so intense it scared me. Breathless, I broke away.  “What was that for?” keeping my tone light with some difficulty.

Billy shrugged. “Life, death, love, you name it.” Only then did he burst into peals of laughter. But I wasn’t fooled. There was more, much more to Billy Mack than met the eye.

In seconds, this tangible but not uneasy tension had lifted. In its place, a comfortable silence spread over us like a snug duvet at bedtime. Simultaneously stifling a yawn, we made our way to the railway station.

On the return journey, Billy dozed. He rested his blond head on my shoulder, snuggling closer whenever the train gave an unexpected jolt. The silky caress of his hair against my cheek was very reassuring. I amused myself by imagining the likely reactions of our fellow passengers had I been unable to resist a mounting desire to slip a hand inside my lover’s shirt, tease a nipple, plant a long, passionate kiss on his slightly parted lips. Confidently, I predicted that the old dear sitting opposite, busy at her knitting, would drop a stitch or two while an elderly ex-army type next to her might well attempt to shield her eyes with his flat cap before blustering his way into a state of apoplexy.  A young couple in the corner, I decided, would probably not even notice; the girl’s tongue was clearly as intrigued by the youth’s own as his left hand with her breasts.

We reached my house first. It was late, and we ducked behind some garages to kiss goodnight. I showed Billy the stars and he recited their names after me; The Plough, Great Bear, Little Bear and Cassiopeia.

Once we heard a noise, and it crossed both our minds it might be an inquisitive copper. Billy burst into a fit of giggles. I held a hand over his mouth, panic-stricken. He promptly found a ticklish spot under my armpit. Seconds later, we collapsed upon each other in a heap of uncontrollable but silent mirth, tears stinging our eyes.  Hugging, kissing, holding each other tight, we soon forgot any fear of being arrested for indecent behaviour, or whatever.

By the time we had adjusted out clothes and put on a public face again, it was well into the early hours of Sunday morning. We touched only briefly before going our separate ways. As I turned the key in my front door, I glanced up again at the night sky. It struck me that the same stars winking at me would be winking at Billy, at other lovers too, gay and straight alike.

The stars, I reflected wistfully, did not discriminate.

I looked away and put one foot inside the door. Yet, I could not resist one final glance at that starry heaven, found myself responding to its sheer magnificence in a way I never had before. It was as if, in the course of one incredible day, Billy and I had won a place there. Whimsically, I chose a star among those that formed the Milky Way. Tomorrow, I would show Billy. This was our star, I told myself, for as long as we both shall live - and beyond. Instantly stifling a peal of self-ridicule, I closed the door quietly behind me.

The next morning, it was business as usual over the breakfast table with Mum and Paul occasionally exchanging a few sentences, and leaving me feeling as if I was invisible.

I doubt whether anyone outside the family appreciated that my brother’s natural flair for sports did not apply to the academic world. He was bright enough, but homework was a slog. Since our mother seemed to think he could do no wrong, the role of taskmaster invariably fell to me. There were endless rows that invariably followed the same predictable pattern. Paul’s fresh complexion would turn puce, and then Mum would intercede, sobbing, on his behalf. She would rail at me for bullying him, and proceed to rant on about how different things would be if our father were still alive. In other words, I was making a poor show of filling my father’s boots, as if I needed reminding! It was hardly surprising, therefore, that the tension at mealtimes was unbearable.

“Sarah phoned,” Mum informed me matter-of-factly, no inflexion in her voice whatsoever, “She’s not feeling well and won’t be able to do the evening shift. She said she thought Doreen would be able to cope on her own, but that’s up to you of course.”

“Did she say what was wrong?”

My mother shrugged. “Women’s problems….”

“That time of the month, eh?” I responded lightly. My mother, however, chose to make heavy weather of the remark, glowered at me as if I had uttered a profanity and left the room. “So what did I say?” But it was a rhetorical question and I did not expect my brother to answer. Nor did he surprise me by doing so, but continued to tuck into his cornflakes.

I sighed. It had been such a wonderful weekend. The prospect of working on a Sunday did not appeal in the least, especially as I would be working the afternoon shift too. Although I often worked evenings on my own, the same did not apply to the women. Bananas absolutely forbade it. Nor was it an issue with which I felt inclined to argue. Only the week before, a young woman working in the local fish and chip shop had been badly slashed with a knife at around 11.00pm by a drunken lout attempting to avoid payment. Sadly, this kind of incident was not unusual once the local bars began to empty.

Paul left the table without a word and my mother did not reappear. For my own part, I tucked in hungrily, much preferring to be left alone. Imagine my surprise and discomfort then to find Paul sitting on my bed when I returned to my room. He was pretending to study my posters while chewing on his nails, a habit that never failed to get under my skin, not least because it inevitably meant there was trouble brewing.

“What are you doing in my room?”

“I live here too, remember?”

“That doesn’t give you the right to come into my room without asking, and poke among my things.”

“I’ll go then, shall I?”

“Suit yourself.”

I suspect neither of us really expected him to leave, and nor did he. I waited. Eventually he turned our father’s hazel eyes on me, like twin pistols, firing accusation and dismay. “Mum’s got a boyfriend,” he flung at me. Tremors ran visibly through his rangy, muscular frame. Suddenly, he looked very vulnerable. I could see he was close to tears and was forcibly reminded that this pain-in-the arse brother of mine was, after all, still a freckle faced school kid.

“Oh?” I responded thoughtfully. I was playing for time. My insides were churning over, and I felt sick. But I had no intention of handing over my own vulnerability on a plate, only to have it thrown back at me the next time we had a blazing row. “So who is he?”

“What do you care?” Paul glared. His face wore a look of sullen hostility that was no stranger to me. “You haven’t even noticed what’s going on.”

“So tell me.” I sat on the bed beside him but he wouldn’t look at me, keeping his eyes instead on the floor. “Who is this guy?”

“Like you give a toss,” he growled and glanced up at me, “I can’t believe you haven’t noticed a damn thing!”

“Like what?”

“Like…Everything.” He was choking back sobs now. “How she’s started to have her hair done again, for a start, the way she did before Dad died, instead of doing it herself. How she often goes to work dolled up like a dog’s dinner and gets home really late. For crying out loud, she’s only a part-time Library Assistant.  Since when did public libraries open till nearly midnight, eh? Honestly, Rob, are you blind or what?” His expression hardened. “Sorry, I forgot. You spend more time at the café than you do at home. How can you be expected to have a clue about what’s going on under your nose? You care more about that dump than you do your own family!”

I winced involuntarily. Paul’s outburst had hit home. Even so, his anguished expression managed to covey more of a challenge than an accusation. His face was very flushed now, and I couldn’t help noticing how spotty it had become. “Getting your knickers in a twist won’t help anyone,” I remarked acidly, “so suppose you calm down and tell me what you know?”

I waited patiently, apprehensively.