Blood Rising - Part Thirty-Five
Title: Blood Rising (Part Thirty-Five)
Author: gregoria44
Rating: 15+ for language and concepts, this part
Word count: This part 6,081
Summary: Deeper Down.
A/N: Same as Part One. All comments and concrit always welcome and actively encouraged. Special thanks to haldoor, rivers_bend, extra special thanks to ladywillin and everyone who's reading and commenting. If you have any trouble accessing any of the previous chapters, please message me and I’ll sort something out for you.
Also, I passed 100k during this section. Thank you for staying with this. To celebrate - a longer chapter than normal.
Warnings: These are teenagers and this is gay fiction. Stuff happens.
Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / Part Eight / Part Nine / Part Ten / Part Eleven / Part Twelve / Part Thirteen / Part Fourteen / Part Fifteen / Part Sixteen / Part Seventeen / Part Eighteen / Part Nineteen / Part Twenty / Part Twenty-One / Part Twenty-Two / Part Twenty-Three / Part Twenty-Four / Part Twenty-Five / Part Twenty-Six / Part Twenty-Seven / Part Twenty-Eight / Part Twenty-Nine / Part Thirty / Part Thirty-One / Part Thirty-Two / Part Thirty-Three / Part Thirty-Four
Even forgetting spur of the moment changing room sex (which I couldn’t, making ordinary life a festival of heated daydreaming), everything was flowing a little easier. Thomas’ fury was in remission, Des was healthier than he’d been for months, and while we were struggling to find chances for more than the occasional kiss, we had the disco to look forward to if nothing else.
The others had their own ways of showing Des they were glad to have him back in the fold.
After one of the last maths lessons of term, Will had been waiting outside the classroom for us. He’d become outraged on hearing the verbal thrashing given by Mrs. Nasby for Des’ three weeks of unfinished coursework.
“Right, you’re coming with me,” he told Des the second he was out the door, grabbing his arm and marching purposefully away.
“We’ve got rehearsals!” Wayne shouted after them.
“You’ve got rehearsals,” Will shouted back.
When Des spoke to me later, he said they’d sat four hours in the library, Will getting him through the lot in one hit. “They should fire Nasby and get Will on the job. He’s something else.”
Mark, meanwhile, was so delighted by the wind change in Des’ attitude, I expected him to burst into an interpretive dance any moment. “It’s what he needed,” he confided, ‘it’ remaining undefined. Whether he credited himself too much or not enough with making me talk to Des, I didn’t care: it had happened, and good things had followed.
The last full weekend before Christmas proper, I was mostly at work, serving customers on the Saturday, spending Sunday cleaning and sorting with Jean while the shop was closed. Des hadn’t been clear about his weekend plans, but since he’d sounded fed up about them, I guessed they’d involved family.
Wayne and his mam called into the shop around dinner time on Saturday, Mrs. Hamilton bringing me a bag of hearty sandwiches. Wayne was rolling his eyes in embarrassment, but I was cheerfully grateful. “How are you?” she’d asked, glancing at my nose which had healed with a permanent (though not massively off-centre) bend. With the confidence of truth, and warmed through by her concern, I told her I was fine. I was fine. Everything was fine.
I rang Des Sunday evening. He sounded tired but otherwise okay, moaning about some great uncle or other they’d had to spend the day with. “I’ve got one relative in England apart from Mam and Thomas, and he has to be a religious nutter.”
“Did he make you all go to church with him?” I laughed, picturing the scene.
“Twice!” Des near shouted, “morning and afternoon service. The first time some mad old biddy was telling Mam how lucky she was to have a son and a daughter, ’cos she’d had six kids and they were all boys, then later on there was some shitty kid kept telling me I looked weird. I wouldn’t have been so pissed off except he had glasses like bottle bottoms and scabs all over his face and no-one was calling him for it.”
“Sorry,” I said, laughing all the more. “Did you get a decent feed out of it, even?”
“No,” he sighed, darkly. “Uncle Godfrey is really down on sinning, so that’s gluttony off the menu. I think it might actually have been gruel we were eating, though he said it was soup. We had a joke about it on the way home mind, so there’s that.”
Thomas cracking jokes? Christmas optimism was some powerfully infectious voodoo.
*
Breaking up from school on a Tuesday meant everyone was already in holiday mode for the last two days of term. Lessons were barely more than an excuse to pass the time. According to unconfirmed reports, Mr. Hargreaves spent his remaining history lessons in solid, contented silence, his coffee mug giving off suspiciously alcoholic fumes.
Other teachers kept themselves sober, but allowed for the silliness of the season: English was given over to imagining the wording of contracts for Santa’s elves; a science lesson covered the explosive element of crackers; even Mrs. Nasby got into the spirit by using sprout preparation to discuss percentages of waste.
By lunchtime Tuesday, there really was no point to the rest of the day, and Wayne was pushing for a skive.
“Cool your boots, man,” Will said to him. “Two and a bit more hours are nothing compared to the glorious two weeks we have ahead of us. We sit it out ‘til three, go back to mine to get changed and eat and have a little snifter, then we’re back here for half five to get the party started. It’s all in hand, my friend.”
To balance out the excess of good cheer, P.E. fell on our last lesson, and naturally Raleigh had to act as though we were already into January. On the slim upside, driving rain kept us inside: it pounded the windows of the old gym like a frustrated army of stone-hurling vandals, while filth-green clouds made the afternoon dark enough to need lights.
Raleigh barked and bawled and screamed his way through the running and jumping (and tripping and skidding) session until, strangled by his own vocal cords, his voice died a horrible, grating death. We were finally released into the corridor, burning and sweating and closely herded towards the changing rooms. Des was behind me, Mark further ahead, panting, heaving team mates all around us.
“I guess Mr. R won’t be hearing from Santa Claus this year,” a voice said, close to my ear. I turned to smirk, assuming it was Des who’d spoken, but instead of sharing a moment of mockery, got to see a fraction of hell breaking loose.
“YOU LITTLE…” Raleigh had taken the same leap of logic as me, and lunging for Des, reached to close thick fingers round his neck. The whole corridor shook as he threw both their bodies into a wall of abandoned lockers. “SAY THAT AGAIN,” he hissed, throat clicking out more stops than sound. “SAY THAT AGAIN.”
No-one had time to take in the outburst, least of all Des. As soon as Raleigh had closed on his final gasp, he appeared to regret his reaction and let go, absurdly pretending to pick a thread from Des’ t-shirt. “Words are needed,” he fizzed, cranking into a grimace. “My office, now.”
The marks on Des’ neck were already vanishing, and the only functioning part of my brain wondered if everyone else was as stupid with shock.
“It’s the end of term,” Des replied, voice strange because it sounded normal, as though nothing freaky had happened at all, “and the disco tonight. You can’t give me detention.”
Raleigh made a disgusting phlegmy noise deep in his lungs, but drew short of spitting up. “I’m not talking detention, but if I was, I’m sure one of your little pals would save you some jelly and ice cream. I want out of here as much as you do, so get into my office and we’ll get it over with.” He barged through the goldfish-like throng of faces and held his door open.
Des peeled himself away from the lockers and headed in, ignoring Mark who’d adhered himself to the changing room doorframe and was goggling worse than the rest of them. Raleigh slammed the door shut. There was a group shrug, and life flowed on.
They were in there less than five minutes, Des trudging out and into the showers without further trouble. He returned to my side and began to get dressed. “Everything all right?” I asked.
“Same old shit,” he muttered, balancing on one leg as he pulled on a sock.
“Should have checked he wasn’t in earshot before you ruined his dreams of being on Santa’s ‘nice’ list.”
“Someone else said it,” he snapped, shifting to the other foot and sparing me a furious glance. “I’m not that bloody stupid.”
“All right, keep your hair on.”
Smouldering, he righted himself and stared at his bag and coat for far longer than it took to work out which went on first. Breath came heavy through his nose as though preparing for a dive or a sprint, but instead he said, “I’ve forgotten my other clothes.”
“You are fucking joking.”
He shook his head, jaw tight. “No. Not joking.”
“How long have we been talking about this evening? You could have put them in your bag last night.”
“Sorry, Mam,” he fired at me, another flash of the anger I’d not seen for a while and hadn’t missed. “I’ll have to go home and pick them up.”
It wouldn’t take him long, and even with a lost half hour there’d be chance for him to reach Will’s before we left, but disappointment hit hard. I’d pictured a night like we’d had at the Tomb before it all went wrong: being together, having a laugh with friends. Anything chipped away from that was a monumental loss.
“I’ll come with you then.”
“No,” he looked away and started putting on his coat. “I can leg it if it’s just me, and you getting changed at mine isn’t a good idea. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I could have argued more but thought about it being Will’s day, and about the rain, and the warmth of Will’s house against the draughty darkness of Des’. I was irritated with him for being stupid enough to forget his stuff, more so because he’d had to ask Thomas’ ‘permission’ to stay out after school without going home first. How difficult did he have to make everything?
“Whatever. We’ll see you later.”
*
Will’s house was the most like mine in size, though immaculately kept. They hadn’t moved after Mr. Green’s pools win because his Mam had never been up to it and wouldn’t have coped well with unfamiliar surroundings. Mr. Green’s big dream was to retire to the farmhouse, but it was hard to judge how likely this was with Mrs. Green’s health constantly up and down.
When we got there after school (Wayne moaning the whole way about Des’ density), Mrs. Green was waiting for us, watery but smiling. In looks, Will was very like her, with the same pale colouring and straight hair; his dad had enormously curly dark hair and a bristling moustache, but perhaps underneath they had more in common than was visible.
“Hello, everyone,” she whispered, so formal and large-eyed she could have been an angel on the front of Mrs. Doran’s books. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” She folded Will into a hug he returned without hesitation, while the rest of us politely gazed elsewhere as though carrying out a feng shui consultation.
Taking Will’s hand (in motherliness, for support, or both) her smile came a few watts brighter. “Dad’s set up the kitchen for food, and the bathroom’s clean if anyone wants to get changed in there,” she beamed at Will who was quashing a tic at her hygienic appraisal. “I’m going for a lie-down. Come and see me before you leave?”
“’Course I will,” he replied, more serious and normal than he ever was elsewhere. “Just so you know, there’s someone else coming in a bit; don’t be worried if you hear the doorbell.” He kissed her hand before letting it go. “Thanks, Mam.”
She blessed him with another smile, nodded around us and excused herself to ghost through the hall and away up the stairs. Will took a quiet breath and led us through to the kitchen.
Mr. Green was far and away the nicest man I knew, and he was practically hopping from foot to foot when we walked in. “Hello! Welcome! Wayne, how are you? And… oh, it’s in here somewhere…” he tapped his temple.
“Mark,” said Mark.
“Mark! And…”
“Steve.”
“Steven! Don’t get old, lads, it’s ridiculous. I could tell you the name of everyone I went to school with, but what’s the point of that? Give me five minutes and I’ll be calling you Gordon and Charles; there’s nothing to be done about it. Now listen in, I’ve MADE pizza! From scratch! I can put it in the oven now and that’s ten minutes, or you can get changed first, but then you’re risking food down your front and that’s no plan at all. Ah, now, there’s kitchen towel, but is everyone going to feel silly with a napkin stuck in their neckline? What do you think?”
“Dad.” Will took Mr. Green by the shoulders. “It’s okay! Get them in the oven, we’ll eat first. We’re not ladies of the evening: it’s not going to take us an hour to strip, change and do our make-up.”
“No, of course not! What am I thinking? Now, would anyone like a drink?”
While the man buzzed back and forth, Mark surreptitiously sidled round him and turned the oven on. I watched him inspect Mr. Green’s Italian-style handiwork and saw his expression shift to ‘impressed’.
Before I had a full grasp on our surroundings, my grasp was filled with a tiny glass and Mr. Green was telling us all about homemade wine. Wayne tried his best not to look sceptical, but cracked after a minute or so. “You’re worried about whether we dress or eat first, but we can drink this on an empty stomach?”
“Oh!” Mr. Green’s bushy eyebrows shot up into his huge hair, “that’s a good point, Wayne. Eh, um… ah!” he produced a bowl of cheesy snacks and handed them round. “Now, erm, Matthew, was it? No, Mark! I know these are hardly hors d’oeuvres, but they’ll have to do. Where was I? Blackberries, yes!”
With the entertainment of his chatter, and the laughter and eating and four different flavours of wine (but only the same miniscule glass each,) the lack of Des passed us all for a while. It was only when Mr. Green suggested a final toast, finding there was one glass over, I thought to check the clock. Quarter to five.
“He’s taking his time, isn’t he?” Wayne grumbled. Mark gave me an uneasy look.
“Be all right,” I said, not feeling it, “he’s got another half hour yet.”
When I went upstairs to get ready, I was in the bathroom for the shortest time possible: everything in there was so clean it hurt my eyes, and I was terrified to touch even the taps for fear of leaving fingerprints. I walked into Will’s room (also unnaturally tidy) to change and found Mark in there waiting.
“Now I’ve mastered buttons and zips, I can most likely dress myself, thanks all the same.”
Ignoring the sarkiness he plunged straight into interrogation. “What exactly did he say after P.E. earlier?”
I repeated what had been said as clearly as I could remember, emphasising my offer to go home with him. Mark blew out his cheeks and moved over to the window, opening the curtains enough to look down into the street beyond. While he was occupied, I nipped out of uniform and into my own clothes.
“You think he was worried about undressing in front of anyone?” Mark said, staying tuned to the view outside. “He’s so thin at the moment, and those scars on his back…”
Trust Mark to find a kinder excuse than any I would have come up with. “I dunno. He was okay getting changed this afternoon; he had more reason to avoid it then.”
“And Thomas? Things are really all right there?”
“Give it a rest, will you? He forgot his clothes: big deal.” Mark’s shoulders went, but he kept himself glued to the window sill. Something about his sagging determination pulled at my patience, and I grumped over at him. “I am decent. You can turn round without burning your eyes out or getting a hard-on; it’s not the effect I have on everyone.”
He turned very slowly, an oncoming storm which didn’t quite break. “He still won’t talk to me, you know. The only way I know what’s going on for him is by talking to you, and after five years that’s a bit hard to take.” He held up a thumb and forefinger to illustrate how much that ‘bit’ was chewing away at him. “You’ve been with him for less than four months. Did you realise that? And a whole month of that the two of you weren’t speaking.”
“Been crossing the days off your calendar or something?” I retaliated, feeling as though we’d stepped into a black hole instead of Will’s room; swallowed back to an earlier row in an earlier time which had been carrying on tetchily without us. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re having a go at me for caring, when you’re acting like you don’t. You don’t think it’s weird he forgot his stuff? You don’t think it’s weird he only realised when it was time to go?”
I knew he was asking the right questions, same as I was avoiding them, but I also knew how ‘if there’s another bloody problem, I don’t want to hear about it tonight,’ sounded.
My own problem was how to get Mark out of my face. All he was doing was reminding me how useless I was; how much of an extra problem my existence caused everyone. I pictured the first time I’d met him: the first day at Bryndleigh Senior, when he’d been small and alone and terrified, and the rest of us had wondered what on earth Des was thinking.
Voice cold, I went for what I hoped was his weakest spot. “He ever try it on with you?”
“Pardon?”
“Did Des ever try it on? He ever try to kiss you; touch you? Did he ever ask you if he could?”
A livid shade of red appeared above Mark’s collar and travelled up his neck. “I… I’m not like that.”
“Congratulations,” I sneered, “but he is, and you’ve been acting like a jealous twat ever since this all kicked off, so I’m interested to know.”
“Not everything’s about sex,” he said, despairing as an R.E. teacher tricked into taking biology lessons, controlled enough to successfully swerve the question. He was excused further evasive action by the appearance of Wayne’s head round the door.
“What are you two messing about at?” he stage-whispered at us, practiced at creating minimum noise when Will’s mam was about. “You’re not the only ones needing a fairy godmother and a magic mirror.” He frowned at Mark’s uniform. “Please tell me you’re planning on wearing a different tie at least?”
“I’m done,” I told Wayne. “You can sort out Cinderella, here.”
*
The cavernous space of the sports hall was reduced in darkness to small pools of on-off colour and brief, searching white. I didn’t know or care where the others had got to in the echoing mixture of Abba, Dire Straits, R.E.M. and ‘party classics’ such as the bloody Birdie Song.
At some point, Will had come grinning into my space and offered to top up my overly-fizzed lemonade, apparently from his sleeve, but I’d shaken my head and he’d gone away again. Later than that, Tina had slid into the seat next to mine and taken a stab at conversation, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying and didn’t much want to. She went away as well. The whole, disaster-bound world span around me in oblivious, holly and tinsel decked joy, and I sat in the middle of it and waited and wanted, and wished I didn’t want at all.
Wayne yanked out the chair Tina had left, fell into it and punched me on the arm, hard. “It’s Christmas, you bastard,” he shouted. “Get on it.”
“I’m going to become a Jehovah’s Witness,” I shouted back, letting the pain run up my leg unchecked. “Shouldn’t you be making up with Kelly?”
Staring at me with one eye narrowed (having not refused Will’s ministrations), the other glinted in the blue light and then the green. He leant in close and examined my face in a way which made me turn slightly to avoid unwelcome ideas forming. He leant again, lips buzzing half a millimetre from my skin. “Doran can be a right dick.” I leant even further, giving myself room to turn back without accidentally meeting his mouth full on.
“Save it for Mark.”
“Pointless, mate. He’s a fully paid up life-time member of the fan club. There’s no hope for him. You, on the other hand, might still make it.”
“Why is everybody having a go at me about Des tonight? I only need Will to start, and at least he’s got a reason.”
“Seems to me, you put up with more from him than you should.”
“People put up with shit from their mates; why do you think I’m talking to you right now?”
“Ha! Clever boy. Very, very clever.” He backed off a small distance, and I took a breath while I could, enjoying nothing about the conversation. “But answer me this,” he started again, both eyes flashing explosions of colour, “how come you’re sitting here with a face like a slapped arse if it’s nothing to do with you? ’Cos right now, you look like someone who’s been stood up, and that’s not a good look in these parts, not a good look at all.”
I stared him out while he grinned at me, and then blasted forwards until we were nearly touching; up close his eyes were focussed and sharp in a way his limbs and body weren’t. He didn’t even flinch. I could as happily have punched him as shoved my tongue in his mouth to prove a bastard point. “You got something to say, Wayne, either say it, or fuck off.”
He grabbed the back of my head with both hands; I tried to twist away, but we were matched in strength, aggravated tension surging both ways. “This is a friendly suggestion,” Wayne hissed, not a trace of humour or the drinks I knew he’d had, “it doesn’t matter what I’ve got to say. It’s other people you need to be thinking about: the ones saying stuff about Des. Not just Davy, not just some girls who’ve been turned down in the past. You keep putting yourself in the firing line, don’t go expecting Des to push you out of it. Or us to keep charging in.”
“The way I remember it, last time we could have done with your help, you went wandering off.”
“Friendly…” Wayne repeated warningly, “…suggestion.” He pushed my head backwards as he let go, standing in time for Will’s alarmed arrival.
“What’s going on?” I saw rather than heard Will ask as he ducked and bobbed in front of Wayne to get his attention. “Why are you grabbing at Steve?”
“He should be dancing,” Wayne shouted, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear, and dragged Will off towards the speakers.
*
It was one dragging, impossible hour after we’d arrived when there was an elongated spill of fluorescent lighting from the double doors and a briefly loud and then muffled discussion. The doors flapped again, separating out a shadowy shape which weaved slowly across to the tables I was sheltering among.
I already knew it was Des, and a heavy tiredness fell through me: the day, the week, the school term and Mark’s opinion of the way we’d spent it, the anticipation of the afternoon, the disappointment of the evening, three tiny glasses of homemade wine and a bellyful of nothing ever, ever going the way I wanted.
Des stumbled before he reached me: held out his hands penguin-style to regain his balance; set off again slower, feet more deliberately placed.
Slower still, he reached for a chair back, leant his full weight on it and then performed a complicated manoeuvre to shift his feet round while holding fast to the chair. He sat down, sucked in a thin breath and blew out a vastly long exhale.
“What’s wrong?” I had to talk to the top of his head as he folded forward and reached across the table to grasp the far side with his fingertips. As he withdrew, the lights brightened in yellow and I saw he was soaked through to the skin, jeans and hair shining with an icing of rain. He had a jacket on, but it hadn’t coped, and underneath, the shape of his body and chest was clear through a soggy white t-shirt I was sure I recognised from his P.E. kit (the only white one he owned.)
A hand flapped out for my arm and then gripped painfully as he swayed, clamping his lips against another round of back-to-front breathing. His head swung to face me. “I’m sorry,” he forced out, wincing as though the words themselves hurt, struggling to open his eyes once they’d passed. “I’m sorry I’m late.” There was something peculiar happening with the side of his mouth as well, but in the circling dark I couldn’t see for long enough to work out what it was.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Of all the questions trying to claw their way out at once, that was the winner. If he’d gone home for a change of clothes (‘the’ shirt, for an obvious example), he’d wasted his time: he wouldn’t have looked out of place in a homeless shelter. “Where have you been for the past three hours?” That was another good one. “Why didn’t you ring Will’s, let us know you’d be late?” And another. “What is wrong with you?” The final one had to slide sideways at the same angle he was slipping; he came to rest with his forehead against my shoulder, still gripping my wrist as it deadened to numbness.
“I had to get here,” he managed, not giving an answer to any question at all. “I had to. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He lifted his head slightly and tried to look into me, eyes drifting left and right but failing to settle.
The circulation in my wrist stopped mattering as the rest of me froze with the plain fact of the matter. “You’re drunk.”
He made a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and folded forward to press his face against the table, taking my arm with him. Suddenly, I was wildly fed up of everyone manhandling me. “You’re off your fucking face,” I spat, and wrenched his fingers from my skin.
Hands freed, he tried to push up from the table, but his skull had become too heavy or his neck wasn’t up to the job. He slurred out words I could only half catch, even after reluctantly moving closer, “…be here and I couldn’t… had to get… and the other… with you… you…”
Giving up, he went down for the last time, arms wrapping round and over his head until he was a pile of bones and sodden clothes. Miss Donaugh was there out of nowhere, leaning down with one hand on Des’ back and the other on my chair.
“What’s going on over here?” The wetness of Des’ clothes registered, and she switched her attention between the two of us with more alarm. “Des, what’s the matter? Steven?”
Distracted from annoyance, the weight of tiredness returned, and I shook my head at her, glad to offer the burden to an adult for a change. She crouched down next to Des and gently pulled at an arm until she could see at least some of his face. I didn’t hear any words, but it was clear Des was full-on crying. I tried to remember, amongst all the dramas, when I’d last seen him do that: not since the farmhouse.
“How much has he had to drink?” Miss Donaugh asked, turning to me with the slightest hint of criticism.
“I’ve not seen him since half three,” I replied defensively. “He’s only just got here.”
“Yes, I know that. I just thought you might know where he’s been; whether he’d planned to have a drink; if he had any alcohol on him at school?”
“It’s nothing to do with me! He was supposed to come out with us, and he didn’t, and now he’s turned up in this state. It’s not my fault!”
“I didn’t say it was,” she pointed out. I noticed another teacher heading in our direction. People were starting to pay attention and accidentally-on-purpose drift towards us.
Des moved sluggishly. “Thinkmgoingtobesick.”
“Not here you’re not,” Miss Donaugh was firm. “Come on.” Taking one of his elbows, she gestured for me to take the other. With combined effort, we got him up, across the dim floor, past the two members of staff in the sickly-lit corridor and into the boys’ toilets. He sank onto the floor of a cubicle with deep self-loathing.
Miss Donaugh coolly regarded the state of the toilets as he began to retch. “At least he can’t get any wetter,” she remarked. I shut my eyes against the miserable sight, but imagination did a worse job. “He can’t stay in those clothes once he’s done,” she went on, “he’ll catch pneumonia. I don’t suppose you’ve got your uniform here?”
“Yeah,” I’d brought it with me rather than leaving it at Will’s; I was unlikely to be round his again before school restarted. “It’s in my bag.” The smell of sick was reaching me, and I turned away, covering nose and mouth with a hand.
Taking advantage of my stretched defences, Miss Donaugh tried again. “You’re sure you don’t know where he’s been, who he’s been with?”
“He told me he was going home.” I’d rather have kept quiet, if only to keep my breathing to a minimum: the rancid smell of second-hand booze was swirling through the whole room, but Miss Donaugh wasn’t going to let up. If there was a reason for the state of Des, it was likely to be found at his house anyway, and if any serious questions were going to be asked, it was past time they were asked in the right place.
“Okay. All right. Go and get your clothes and some water for him while you’re at it. See if anything else comes to mind while you’re gone.”
“’S Miss.” I skulked off to the sound of renewed vomiting.
While carrying out Donaugh-dispensed duties, I had reason to ponder the possibility of teachers having psychic connections amongst their own kind. Although I was sure Miss Donaugh hadn’t spoken to any other members of staff, one had stationed himself outside the toilets to divert kids from wandering in (either obliviously or for the purposes of gossip), and another was flicking through paperwork at the makeshift ‘ticket booth’ to find an emergency contact for the Dorans.
I could have instantly provided a number, but sidestepped past in a spur-of-the-moment interpretation of the never grass rule. Crab dancing along the wall of the sports hall, I found my bag without catching the attention of the others and made it back to the bogs.
Des had finished hurling, and was in a grey heap between the toilet bowl and the partition, worn out from his body’s attempts to purge itself. Miss Donaugh had wrapped the scarf thing she’d been wearing around his shoulders, and he peered exhaustedly up at me from its layers, eye rims red like a particularly woeful bloodhound.
On an off-white background, the welt at the side of his mouth was clear, making his lip look dropped at one end.
The plastic cup of water folded in my grip. He shook his head and wouldn’t take it. I turned to Miss Donaugh for further instruction, but she was more interested in the carrier bag in my other hand. “I’ll step outside for a moment,” she said to Des. “You need to get changed.”
She left. The door closed behind her. Rain pattered on the wire-crossed window high up on the outside wall. A tap trickled into a basin, depositing limescale at a rate of years. Des and I were only just occupying the same space. One of his eyelids was going, the other already shut. He was drifting, and if he went any further, wouldn’t know what he was saying, where he was at, or what was going on.
“Well,” I said, sharp enough to bring him back, not so loud Miss Donaugh might return. “This has turned out brilliantly, hasn’t it? Dunno about you, but this is exactly how I imagined tonight being. Any thoughts?”
He looked as though he might be sick again, swallowing hard instead of speaking.
“She…” I nodded at the door, “…thinks I’m in on some big secret about how you got like this. Care to share?”
Both eyes closed. I kicked at his foot. A response jolted out. “I went home.”
“To get drunk? On your own? Yeah, that sounds likely.”
Nothing.
“That whole ‘no more bullshitting’ thing’s going great, Des. Glad we had that chat.”
Coughing and blowing, he moved to disentangle himself from pipes and toilet bowl and scarf, trying to get up. I didn’t offer any help. He managed to stand, clinging to the partition wall as though it had any sort of hold to offer. “I didn’t do this.”
The line scanned as a sentence, but it could have been alcohol fuelled, or maybe he’d thrown up enough to be making sense and I was the one missing the point. “Come again?”
“I didn’t get like this. I didn’t want it.”
My neck and scalp tightened as the skin there began to creep. Of course there’d been opportunities (Lancashire, Tag’s party, any evening he’d been left alone), but I’d never seen Des drink much. Not really. Not enough to lose control. Not like Thomas.
A dark spinning hole opened between us, something deep and crawling and nasty at the bottom of it: I never wanted to tell you anything that wasn’t true.
I’d demanded honesty like a spoilt kid in a messy divorce, but in reality if Des had lied to me once, I only had his word for it. I’d walked out on him then, and when he’d tried to explain later, I’d told him to shut up.
The hole was the size of our world, immense with its own gravity. I wouldn’t have to jump into its blackness, just summon the courage to believe what it was he was trying to tell me and let go of the rest.
Or I could walk away.
Again.
I paid the price and made my choice. “Who did this to you?”
He opened his mouth to answer; the bottom of the hole rushed towards us in a screaming wind; I braced myself for impact… but a final heave threw Des, and his legs were going, and Miss Donaugh was knocking at the door, and Mr. Groves was coming in and Raleigh, and the bag with my uniform in was being taken from me, along with any chance of understanding Des’s answer, and I was bundled out and abandoned to the squeaking corridor: alone and ridiculous and with nothing else to do.
*
Back at the tables, the lights looped on and on, circling, swirling. Little transformers, tiny switches, wide swathes of colour on our dark night. We accepted Will’s bottle. Edges vanished; invisible things were easier to see. Ruth came to talk to Mark (all the talking those two could do, they were a match made in non-combustible materials) I was taken by the shoulders and shoved into the music by Wayne and there were other people dancing and I was shuffling by myself and unhappy enough with the soothing slow-dance slop of Should Have Known Better pressing down thoughts and an unwelcome hand in mine and a face closer than it should have been and skin over firm bones and a warm wet mouth on a face not as high as mine on a body not thinner or taller or in any way important and that had to go without saying because I couldn’t have explained beyond needing something solid to hold onto and I wanted that warm wetness and the one thing I was good at because Mark was wrong and sometimes it was the only thing and I’d put my all into brave and strong and it still wasn’t enough, so what was one more act of cowardice if, blurred out of my reality, I tried the easier route for a change?
Darkness allows deception. It’s the lights coming up at the end you have to watch for.
*
Promotional Offers
Author: gregoria44
Rating: 15+ for language and concepts, this part
Word count: This part 6,081
Summary: Deeper Down.
A/N: Same as Part One. All comments and concrit always welcome and actively encouraged. Special thanks to haldoor, rivers_bend, extra special thanks to ladywillin and everyone who's reading and commenting. If you have any trouble accessing any of the previous chapters, please message me and I’ll sort something out for you.
Also, I passed 100k during this section. Thank you for staying with this. To celebrate - a longer chapter than normal.
Warnings: These are teenagers and this is gay fiction. Stuff happens.
Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / Part Eight / Part Nine / Part Ten / Part Eleven / Part Twelve / Part Thirteen / Part Fourteen / Part Fifteen / Part Sixteen / Part Seventeen / Part Eighteen / Part Nineteen / Part Twenty / Part Twenty-One / Part Twenty-Two / Part Twenty-Three / Part Twenty-Four / Part Twenty-Five / Part Twenty-Six / Part Twenty-Seven / Part Twenty-Eight / Part Twenty-Nine / Part Thirty / Part Thirty-One / Part Thirty-Two / Part Thirty-Three / Part Thirty-Four
Even forgetting spur of the moment changing room sex (which I couldn’t, making ordinary life a festival of heated daydreaming), everything was flowing a little easier. Thomas’ fury was in remission, Des was healthier than he’d been for months, and while we were struggling to find chances for more than the occasional kiss, we had the disco to look forward to if nothing else.
The others had their own ways of showing Des they were glad to have him back in the fold.
After one of the last maths lessons of term, Will had been waiting outside the classroom for us. He’d become outraged on hearing the verbal thrashing given by Mrs. Nasby for Des’ three weeks of unfinished coursework.
“Right, you’re coming with me,” he told Des the second he was out the door, grabbing his arm and marching purposefully away.
“We’ve got rehearsals!” Wayne shouted after them.
“You’ve got rehearsals,” Will shouted back.
When Des spoke to me later, he said they’d sat four hours in the library, Will getting him through the lot in one hit. “They should fire Nasby and get Will on the job. He’s something else.”
Mark, meanwhile, was so delighted by the wind change in Des’ attitude, I expected him to burst into an interpretive dance any moment. “It’s what he needed,” he confided, ‘it’ remaining undefined. Whether he credited himself too much or not enough with making me talk to Des, I didn’t care: it had happened, and good things had followed.
The last full weekend before Christmas proper, I was mostly at work, serving customers on the Saturday, spending Sunday cleaning and sorting with Jean while the shop was closed. Des hadn’t been clear about his weekend plans, but since he’d sounded fed up about them, I guessed they’d involved family.
Wayne and his mam called into the shop around dinner time on Saturday, Mrs. Hamilton bringing me a bag of hearty sandwiches. Wayne was rolling his eyes in embarrassment, but I was cheerfully grateful. “How are you?” she’d asked, glancing at my nose which had healed with a permanent (though not massively off-centre) bend. With the confidence of truth, and warmed through by her concern, I told her I was fine. I was fine. Everything was fine.
I rang Des Sunday evening. He sounded tired but otherwise okay, moaning about some great uncle or other they’d had to spend the day with. “I’ve got one relative in England apart from Mam and Thomas, and he has to be a religious nutter.”
“Did he make you all go to church with him?” I laughed, picturing the scene.
“Twice!” Des near shouted, “morning and afternoon service. The first time some mad old biddy was telling Mam how lucky she was to have a son and a daughter, ’cos she’d had six kids and they were all boys, then later on there was some shitty kid kept telling me I looked weird. I wouldn’t have been so pissed off except he had glasses like bottle bottoms and scabs all over his face and no-one was calling him for it.”
“Sorry,” I said, laughing all the more. “Did you get a decent feed out of it, even?”
“No,” he sighed, darkly. “Uncle Godfrey is really down on sinning, so that’s gluttony off the menu. I think it might actually have been gruel we were eating, though he said it was soup. We had a joke about it on the way home mind, so there’s that.”
Thomas cracking jokes? Christmas optimism was some powerfully infectious voodoo.
*
Breaking up from school on a Tuesday meant everyone was already in holiday mode for the last two days of term. Lessons were barely more than an excuse to pass the time. According to unconfirmed reports, Mr. Hargreaves spent his remaining history lessons in solid, contented silence, his coffee mug giving off suspiciously alcoholic fumes.
Other teachers kept themselves sober, but allowed for the silliness of the season: English was given over to imagining the wording of contracts for Santa’s elves; a science lesson covered the explosive element of crackers; even Mrs. Nasby got into the spirit by using sprout preparation to discuss percentages of waste.
By lunchtime Tuesday, there really was no point to the rest of the day, and Wayne was pushing for a skive.
“Cool your boots, man,” Will said to him. “Two and a bit more hours are nothing compared to the glorious two weeks we have ahead of us. We sit it out ‘til three, go back to mine to get changed and eat and have a little snifter, then we’re back here for half five to get the party started. It’s all in hand, my friend.”
To balance out the excess of good cheer, P.E. fell on our last lesson, and naturally Raleigh had to act as though we were already into January. On the slim upside, driving rain kept us inside: it pounded the windows of the old gym like a frustrated army of stone-hurling vandals, while filth-green clouds made the afternoon dark enough to need lights.
Raleigh barked and bawled and screamed his way through the running and jumping (and tripping and skidding) session until, strangled by his own vocal cords, his voice died a horrible, grating death. We were finally released into the corridor, burning and sweating and closely herded towards the changing rooms. Des was behind me, Mark further ahead, panting, heaving team mates all around us.
“I guess Mr. R won’t be hearing from Santa Claus this year,” a voice said, close to my ear. I turned to smirk, assuming it was Des who’d spoken, but instead of sharing a moment of mockery, got to see a fraction of hell breaking loose.
“YOU LITTLE…” Raleigh had taken the same leap of logic as me, and lunging for Des, reached to close thick fingers round his neck. The whole corridor shook as he threw both their bodies into a wall of abandoned lockers. “SAY THAT AGAIN,” he hissed, throat clicking out more stops than sound. “SAY THAT AGAIN.”
No-one had time to take in the outburst, least of all Des. As soon as Raleigh had closed on his final gasp, he appeared to regret his reaction and let go, absurdly pretending to pick a thread from Des’ t-shirt. “Words are needed,” he fizzed, cranking into a grimace. “My office, now.”
The marks on Des’ neck were already vanishing, and the only functioning part of my brain wondered if everyone else was as stupid with shock.
“It’s the end of term,” Des replied, voice strange because it sounded normal, as though nothing freaky had happened at all, “and the disco tonight. You can’t give me detention.”
Raleigh made a disgusting phlegmy noise deep in his lungs, but drew short of spitting up. “I’m not talking detention, but if I was, I’m sure one of your little pals would save you some jelly and ice cream. I want out of here as much as you do, so get into my office and we’ll get it over with.” He barged through the goldfish-like throng of faces and held his door open.
Des peeled himself away from the lockers and headed in, ignoring Mark who’d adhered himself to the changing room doorframe and was goggling worse than the rest of them. Raleigh slammed the door shut. There was a group shrug, and life flowed on.
They were in there less than five minutes, Des trudging out and into the showers without further trouble. He returned to my side and began to get dressed. “Everything all right?” I asked.
“Same old shit,” he muttered, balancing on one leg as he pulled on a sock.
“Should have checked he wasn’t in earshot before you ruined his dreams of being on Santa’s ‘nice’ list.”
“Someone else said it,” he snapped, shifting to the other foot and sparing me a furious glance. “I’m not that bloody stupid.”
“All right, keep your hair on.”
Smouldering, he righted himself and stared at his bag and coat for far longer than it took to work out which went on first. Breath came heavy through his nose as though preparing for a dive or a sprint, but instead he said, “I’ve forgotten my other clothes.”
“You are fucking joking.”
He shook his head, jaw tight. “No. Not joking.”
“How long have we been talking about this evening? You could have put them in your bag last night.”
“Sorry, Mam,” he fired at me, another flash of the anger I’d not seen for a while and hadn’t missed. “I’ll have to go home and pick them up.”
It wouldn’t take him long, and even with a lost half hour there’d be chance for him to reach Will’s before we left, but disappointment hit hard. I’d pictured a night like we’d had at the Tomb before it all went wrong: being together, having a laugh with friends. Anything chipped away from that was a monumental loss.
“I’ll come with you then.”
“No,” he looked away and started putting on his coat. “I can leg it if it’s just me, and you getting changed at mine isn’t a good idea. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I could have argued more but thought about it being Will’s day, and about the rain, and the warmth of Will’s house against the draughty darkness of Des’. I was irritated with him for being stupid enough to forget his stuff, more so because he’d had to ask Thomas’ ‘permission’ to stay out after school without going home first. How difficult did he have to make everything?
“Whatever. We’ll see you later.”
*
Will’s house was the most like mine in size, though immaculately kept. They hadn’t moved after Mr. Green’s pools win because his Mam had never been up to it and wouldn’t have coped well with unfamiliar surroundings. Mr. Green’s big dream was to retire to the farmhouse, but it was hard to judge how likely this was with Mrs. Green’s health constantly up and down.
When we got there after school (Wayne moaning the whole way about Des’ density), Mrs. Green was waiting for us, watery but smiling. In looks, Will was very like her, with the same pale colouring and straight hair; his dad had enormously curly dark hair and a bristling moustache, but perhaps underneath they had more in common than was visible.
“Hello, everyone,” she whispered, so formal and large-eyed she could have been an angel on the front of Mrs. Doran’s books. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” She folded Will into a hug he returned without hesitation, while the rest of us politely gazed elsewhere as though carrying out a feng shui consultation.
Taking Will’s hand (in motherliness, for support, or both) her smile came a few watts brighter. “Dad’s set up the kitchen for food, and the bathroom’s clean if anyone wants to get changed in there,” she beamed at Will who was quashing a tic at her hygienic appraisal. “I’m going for a lie-down. Come and see me before you leave?”
“’Course I will,” he replied, more serious and normal than he ever was elsewhere. “Just so you know, there’s someone else coming in a bit; don’t be worried if you hear the doorbell.” He kissed her hand before letting it go. “Thanks, Mam.”
She blessed him with another smile, nodded around us and excused herself to ghost through the hall and away up the stairs. Will took a quiet breath and led us through to the kitchen.
Mr. Green was far and away the nicest man I knew, and he was practically hopping from foot to foot when we walked in. “Hello! Welcome! Wayne, how are you? And… oh, it’s in here somewhere…” he tapped his temple.
“Mark,” said Mark.
“Mark! And…”
“Steve.”
“Steven! Don’t get old, lads, it’s ridiculous. I could tell you the name of everyone I went to school with, but what’s the point of that? Give me five minutes and I’ll be calling you Gordon and Charles; there’s nothing to be done about it. Now listen in, I’ve MADE pizza! From scratch! I can put it in the oven now and that’s ten minutes, or you can get changed first, but then you’re risking food down your front and that’s no plan at all. Ah, now, there’s kitchen towel, but is everyone going to feel silly with a napkin stuck in their neckline? What do you think?”
“Dad.” Will took Mr. Green by the shoulders. “It’s okay! Get them in the oven, we’ll eat first. We’re not ladies of the evening: it’s not going to take us an hour to strip, change and do our make-up.”
“No, of course not! What am I thinking? Now, would anyone like a drink?”
While the man buzzed back and forth, Mark surreptitiously sidled round him and turned the oven on. I watched him inspect Mr. Green’s Italian-style handiwork and saw his expression shift to ‘impressed’.
Before I had a full grasp on our surroundings, my grasp was filled with a tiny glass and Mr. Green was telling us all about homemade wine. Wayne tried his best not to look sceptical, but cracked after a minute or so. “You’re worried about whether we dress or eat first, but we can drink this on an empty stomach?”
“Oh!” Mr. Green’s bushy eyebrows shot up into his huge hair, “that’s a good point, Wayne. Eh, um… ah!” he produced a bowl of cheesy snacks and handed them round. “Now, erm, Matthew, was it? No, Mark! I know these are hardly hors d’oeuvres, but they’ll have to do. Where was I? Blackberries, yes!”
With the entertainment of his chatter, and the laughter and eating and four different flavours of wine (but only the same miniscule glass each,) the lack of Des passed us all for a while. It was only when Mr. Green suggested a final toast, finding there was one glass over, I thought to check the clock. Quarter to five.
“He’s taking his time, isn’t he?” Wayne grumbled. Mark gave me an uneasy look.
“Be all right,” I said, not feeling it, “he’s got another half hour yet.”
When I went upstairs to get ready, I was in the bathroom for the shortest time possible: everything in there was so clean it hurt my eyes, and I was terrified to touch even the taps for fear of leaving fingerprints. I walked into Will’s room (also unnaturally tidy) to change and found Mark in there waiting.
“Now I’ve mastered buttons and zips, I can most likely dress myself, thanks all the same.”
Ignoring the sarkiness he plunged straight into interrogation. “What exactly did he say after P.E. earlier?”
I repeated what had been said as clearly as I could remember, emphasising my offer to go home with him. Mark blew out his cheeks and moved over to the window, opening the curtains enough to look down into the street beyond. While he was occupied, I nipped out of uniform and into my own clothes.
“You think he was worried about undressing in front of anyone?” Mark said, staying tuned to the view outside. “He’s so thin at the moment, and those scars on his back…”
Trust Mark to find a kinder excuse than any I would have come up with. “I dunno. He was okay getting changed this afternoon; he had more reason to avoid it then.”
“And Thomas? Things are really all right there?”
“Give it a rest, will you? He forgot his clothes: big deal.” Mark’s shoulders went, but he kept himself glued to the window sill. Something about his sagging determination pulled at my patience, and I grumped over at him. “I am decent. You can turn round without burning your eyes out or getting a hard-on; it’s not the effect I have on everyone.”
He turned very slowly, an oncoming storm which didn’t quite break. “He still won’t talk to me, you know. The only way I know what’s going on for him is by talking to you, and after five years that’s a bit hard to take.” He held up a thumb and forefinger to illustrate how much that ‘bit’ was chewing away at him. “You’ve been with him for less than four months. Did you realise that? And a whole month of that the two of you weren’t speaking.”
“Been crossing the days off your calendar or something?” I retaliated, feeling as though we’d stepped into a black hole instead of Will’s room; swallowed back to an earlier row in an earlier time which had been carrying on tetchily without us. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re having a go at me for caring, when you’re acting like you don’t. You don’t think it’s weird he forgot his stuff? You don’t think it’s weird he only realised when it was time to go?”
I knew he was asking the right questions, same as I was avoiding them, but I also knew how ‘if there’s another bloody problem, I don’t want to hear about it tonight,’ sounded.
My own problem was how to get Mark out of my face. All he was doing was reminding me how useless I was; how much of an extra problem my existence caused everyone. I pictured the first time I’d met him: the first day at Bryndleigh Senior, when he’d been small and alone and terrified, and the rest of us had wondered what on earth Des was thinking.
Voice cold, I went for what I hoped was his weakest spot. “He ever try it on with you?”
“Pardon?”
“Did Des ever try it on? He ever try to kiss you; touch you? Did he ever ask you if he could?”
A livid shade of red appeared above Mark’s collar and travelled up his neck. “I… I’m not like that.”
“Congratulations,” I sneered, “but he is, and you’ve been acting like a jealous twat ever since this all kicked off, so I’m interested to know.”
“Not everything’s about sex,” he said, despairing as an R.E. teacher tricked into taking biology lessons, controlled enough to successfully swerve the question. He was excused further evasive action by the appearance of Wayne’s head round the door.
“What are you two messing about at?” he stage-whispered at us, practiced at creating minimum noise when Will’s mam was about. “You’re not the only ones needing a fairy godmother and a magic mirror.” He frowned at Mark’s uniform. “Please tell me you’re planning on wearing a different tie at least?”
“I’m done,” I told Wayne. “You can sort out Cinderella, here.”
*
The cavernous space of the sports hall was reduced in darkness to small pools of on-off colour and brief, searching white. I didn’t know or care where the others had got to in the echoing mixture of Abba, Dire Straits, R.E.M. and ‘party classics’ such as the bloody Birdie Song.
At some point, Will had come grinning into my space and offered to top up my overly-fizzed lemonade, apparently from his sleeve, but I’d shaken my head and he’d gone away again. Later than that, Tina had slid into the seat next to mine and taken a stab at conversation, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying and didn’t much want to. She went away as well. The whole, disaster-bound world span around me in oblivious, holly and tinsel decked joy, and I sat in the middle of it and waited and wanted, and wished I didn’t want at all.
Wayne yanked out the chair Tina had left, fell into it and punched me on the arm, hard. “It’s Christmas, you bastard,” he shouted. “Get on it.”
“I’m going to become a Jehovah’s Witness,” I shouted back, letting the pain run up my leg unchecked. “Shouldn’t you be making up with Kelly?”
Staring at me with one eye narrowed (having not refused Will’s ministrations), the other glinted in the blue light and then the green. He leant in close and examined my face in a way which made me turn slightly to avoid unwelcome ideas forming. He leant again, lips buzzing half a millimetre from my skin. “Doran can be a right dick.” I leant even further, giving myself room to turn back without accidentally meeting his mouth full on.
“Save it for Mark.”
“Pointless, mate. He’s a fully paid up life-time member of the fan club. There’s no hope for him. You, on the other hand, might still make it.”
“Why is everybody having a go at me about Des tonight? I only need Will to start, and at least he’s got a reason.”
“Seems to me, you put up with more from him than you should.”
“People put up with shit from their mates; why do you think I’m talking to you right now?”
“Ha! Clever boy. Very, very clever.” He backed off a small distance, and I took a breath while I could, enjoying nothing about the conversation. “But answer me this,” he started again, both eyes flashing explosions of colour, “how come you’re sitting here with a face like a slapped arse if it’s nothing to do with you? ’Cos right now, you look like someone who’s been stood up, and that’s not a good look in these parts, not a good look at all.”
I stared him out while he grinned at me, and then blasted forwards until we were nearly touching; up close his eyes were focussed and sharp in a way his limbs and body weren’t. He didn’t even flinch. I could as happily have punched him as shoved my tongue in his mouth to prove a bastard point. “You got something to say, Wayne, either say it, or fuck off.”
He grabbed the back of my head with both hands; I tried to twist away, but we were matched in strength, aggravated tension surging both ways. “This is a friendly suggestion,” Wayne hissed, not a trace of humour or the drinks I knew he’d had, “it doesn’t matter what I’ve got to say. It’s other people you need to be thinking about: the ones saying stuff about Des. Not just Davy, not just some girls who’ve been turned down in the past. You keep putting yourself in the firing line, don’t go expecting Des to push you out of it. Or us to keep charging in.”
“The way I remember it, last time we could have done with your help, you went wandering off.”
“Friendly…” Wayne repeated warningly, “…suggestion.” He pushed my head backwards as he let go, standing in time for Will’s alarmed arrival.
“What’s going on?” I saw rather than heard Will ask as he ducked and bobbed in front of Wayne to get his attention. “Why are you grabbing at Steve?”
“He should be dancing,” Wayne shouted, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear, and dragged Will off towards the speakers.
*
It was one dragging, impossible hour after we’d arrived when there was an elongated spill of fluorescent lighting from the double doors and a briefly loud and then muffled discussion. The doors flapped again, separating out a shadowy shape which weaved slowly across to the tables I was sheltering among.
I already knew it was Des, and a heavy tiredness fell through me: the day, the week, the school term and Mark’s opinion of the way we’d spent it, the anticipation of the afternoon, the disappointment of the evening, three tiny glasses of homemade wine and a bellyful of nothing ever, ever going the way I wanted.
Des stumbled before he reached me: held out his hands penguin-style to regain his balance; set off again slower, feet more deliberately placed.
Slower still, he reached for a chair back, leant his full weight on it and then performed a complicated manoeuvre to shift his feet round while holding fast to the chair. He sat down, sucked in a thin breath and blew out a vastly long exhale.
“What’s wrong?” I had to talk to the top of his head as he folded forward and reached across the table to grasp the far side with his fingertips. As he withdrew, the lights brightened in yellow and I saw he was soaked through to the skin, jeans and hair shining with an icing of rain. He had a jacket on, but it hadn’t coped, and underneath, the shape of his body and chest was clear through a soggy white t-shirt I was sure I recognised from his P.E. kit (the only white one he owned.)
A hand flapped out for my arm and then gripped painfully as he swayed, clamping his lips against another round of back-to-front breathing. His head swung to face me. “I’m sorry,” he forced out, wincing as though the words themselves hurt, struggling to open his eyes once they’d passed. “I’m sorry I’m late.” There was something peculiar happening with the side of his mouth as well, but in the circling dark I couldn’t see for long enough to work out what it was.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Of all the questions trying to claw their way out at once, that was the winner. If he’d gone home for a change of clothes (‘the’ shirt, for an obvious example), he’d wasted his time: he wouldn’t have looked out of place in a homeless shelter. “Where have you been for the past three hours?” That was another good one. “Why didn’t you ring Will’s, let us know you’d be late?” And another. “What is wrong with you?” The final one had to slide sideways at the same angle he was slipping; he came to rest with his forehead against my shoulder, still gripping my wrist as it deadened to numbness.
“I had to get here,” he managed, not giving an answer to any question at all. “I had to. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He lifted his head slightly and tried to look into me, eyes drifting left and right but failing to settle.
The circulation in my wrist stopped mattering as the rest of me froze with the plain fact of the matter. “You’re drunk.”
He made a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and folded forward to press his face against the table, taking my arm with him. Suddenly, I was wildly fed up of everyone manhandling me. “You’re off your fucking face,” I spat, and wrenched his fingers from my skin.
Hands freed, he tried to push up from the table, but his skull had become too heavy or his neck wasn’t up to the job. He slurred out words I could only half catch, even after reluctantly moving closer, “…be here and I couldn’t… had to get… and the other… with you… you…”
Giving up, he went down for the last time, arms wrapping round and over his head until he was a pile of bones and sodden clothes. Miss Donaugh was there out of nowhere, leaning down with one hand on Des’ back and the other on my chair.
“What’s going on over here?” The wetness of Des’ clothes registered, and she switched her attention between the two of us with more alarm. “Des, what’s the matter? Steven?”
Distracted from annoyance, the weight of tiredness returned, and I shook my head at her, glad to offer the burden to an adult for a change. She crouched down next to Des and gently pulled at an arm until she could see at least some of his face. I didn’t hear any words, but it was clear Des was full-on crying. I tried to remember, amongst all the dramas, when I’d last seen him do that: not since the farmhouse.
“How much has he had to drink?” Miss Donaugh asked, turning to me with the slightest hint of criticism.
“I’ve not seen him since half three,” I replied defensively. “He’s only just got here.”
“Yes, I know that. I just thought you might know where he’s been; whether he’d planned to have a drink; if he had any alcohol on him at school?”
“It’s nothing to do with me! He was supposed to come out with us, and he didn’t, and now he’s turned up in this state. It’s not my fault!”
“I didn’t say it was,” she pointed out. I noticed another teacher heading in our direction. People were starting to pay attention and accidentally-on-purpose drift towards us.
Des moved sluggishly. “Thinkmgoingtobesick.”
“Not here you’re not,” Miss Donaugh was firm. “Come on.” Taking one of his elbows, she gestured for me to take the other. With combined effort, we got him up, across the dim floor, past the two members of staff in the sickly-lit corridor and into the boys’ toilets. He sank onto the floor of a cubicle with deep self-loathing.
Miss Donaugh coolly regarded the state of the toilets as he began to retch. “At least he can’t get any wetter,” she remarked. I shut my eyes against the miserable sight, but imagination did a worse job. “He can’t stay in those clothes once he’s done,” she went on, “he’ll catch pneumonia. I don’t suppose you’ve got your uniform here?”
“Yeah,” I’d brought it with me rather than leaving it at Will’s; I was unlikely to be round his again before school restarted. “It’s in my bag.” The smell of sick was reaching me, and I turned away, covering nose and mouth with a hand.
Taking advantage of my stretched defences, Miss Donaugh tried again. “You’re sure you don’t know where he’s been, who he’s been with?”
“He told me he was going home.” I’d rather have kept quiet, if only to keep my breathing to a minimum: the rancid smell of second-hand booze was swirling through the whole room, but Miss Donaugh wasn’t going to let up. If there was a reason for the state of Des, it was likely to be found at his house anyway, and if any serious questions were going to be asked, it was past time they were asked in the right place.
“Okay. All right. Go and get your clothes and some water for him while you’re at it. See if anything else comes to mind while you’re gone.”
“’S Miss.” I skulked off to the sound of renewed vomiting.
While carrying out Donaugh-dispensed duties, I had reason to ponder the possibility of teachers having psychic connections amongst their own kind. Although I was sure Miss Donaugh hadn’t spoken to any other members of staff, one had stationed himself outside the toilets to divert kids from wandering in (either obliviously or for the purposes of gossip), and another was flicking through paperwork at the makeshift ‘ticket booth’ to find an emergency contact for the Dorans.
I could have instantly provided a number, but sidestepped past in a spur-of-the-moment interpretation of the never grass rule. Crab dancing along the wall of the sports hall, I found my bag without catching the attention of the others and made it back to the bogs.
Des had finished hurling, and was in a grey heap between the toilet bowl and the partition, worn out from his body’s attempts to purge itself. Miss Donaugh had wrapped the scarf thing she’d been wearing around his shoulders, and he peered exhaustedly up at me from its layers, eye rims red like a particularly woeful bloodhound.
On an off-white background, the welt at the side of his mouth was clear, making his lip look dropped at one end.
The plastic cup of water folded in my grip. He shook his head and wouldn’t take it. I turned to Miss Donaugh for further instruction, but she was more interested in the carrier bag in my other hand. “I’ll step outside for a moment,” she said to Des. “You need to get changed.”
She left. The door closed behind her. Rain pattered on the wire-crossed window high up on the outside wall. A tap trickled into a basin, depositing limescale at a rate of years. Des and I were only just occupying the same space. One of his eyelids was going, the other already shut. He was drifting, and if he went any further, wouldn’t know what he was saying, where he was at, or what was going on.
“Well,” I said, sharp enough to bring him back, not so loud Miss Donaugh might return. “This has turned out brilliantly, hasn’t it? Dunno about you, but this is exactly how I imagined tonight being. Any thoughts?”
He looked as though he might be sick again, swallowing hard instead of speaking.
“She…” I nodded at the door, “…thinks I’m in on some big secret about how you got like this. Care to share?”
Both eyes closed. I kicked at his foot. A response jolted out. “I went home.”
“To get drunk? On your own? Yeah, that sounds likely.”
Nothing.
“That whole ‘no more bullshitting’ thing’s going great, Des. Glad we had that chat.”
Coughing and blowing, he moved to disentangle himself from pipes and toilet bowl and scarf, trying to get up. I didn’t offer any help. He managed to stand, clinging to the partition wall as though it had any sort of hold to offer. “I didn’t do this.”
The line scanned as a sentence, but it could have been alcohol fuelled, or maybe he’d thrown up enough to be making sense and I was the one missing the point. “Come again?”
“I didn’t get like this. I didn’t want it.”
My neck and scalp tightened as the skin there began to creep. Of course there’d been opportunities (Lancashire, Tag’s party, any evening he’d been left alone), but I’d never seen Des drink much. Not really. Not enough to lose control. Not like Thomas.
A dark spinning hole opened between us, something deep and crawling and nasty at the bottom of it: I never wanted to tell you anything that wasn’t true.
I’d demanded honesty like a spoilt kid in a messy divorce, but in reality if Des had lied to me once, I only had his word for it. I’d walked out on him then, and when he’d tried to explain later, I’d told him to shut up.
The hole was the size of our world, immense with its own gravity. I wouldn’t have to jump into its blackness, just summon the courage to believe what it was he was trying to tell me and let go of the rest.
Or I could walk away.
Again.
I paid the price and made my choice. “Who did this to you?”
He opened his mouth to answer; the bottom of the hole rushed towards us in a screaming wind; I braced myself for impact… but a final heave threw Des, and his legs were going, and Miss Donaugh was knocking at the door, and Mr. Groves was coming in and Raleigh, and the bag with my uniform in was being taken from me, along with any chance of understanding Des’s answer, and I was bundled out and abandoned to the squeaking corridor: alone and ridiculous and with nothing else to do.
*
Back at the tables, the lights looped on and on, circling, swirling. Little transformers, tiny switches, wide swathes of colour on our dark night. We accepted Will’s bottle. Edges vanished; invisible things were easier to see. Ruth came to talk to Mark (all the talking those two could do, they were a match made in non-combustible materials) I was taken by the shoulders and shoved into the music by Wayne and there were other people dancing and I was shuffling by myself and unhappy enough with the soothing slow-dance slop of Should Have Known Better pressing down thoughts and an unwelcome hand in mine and a face closer than it should have been and skin over firm bones and a warm wet mouth on a face not as high as mine on a body not thinner or taller or in any way important and that had to go without saying because I couldn’t have explained beyond needing something solid to hold onto and I wanted that warm wetness and the one thing I was good at because Mark was wrong and sometimes it was the only thing and I’d put my all into brave and strong and it still wasn’t enough, so what was one more act of cowardice if, blurred out of my reality, I tried the easier route for a change?
Darkness allows deception. It’s the lights coming up at the end you have to watch for.
*
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