The Weazl Paradox: Prelude to a Weazl (story 1)
He hears his housemate talking to a private guest in the adjacent bedroom. His voice may be in low private whispers, but Robert can identify Vincent anywhere. He wishes it weren’t true, especially now when he strains to listen while desperately avoiding hearing. The increasing discomfort in his chest is matched by that in his underwear. His head presses back, heavily, into his hands to prevent fingers straying down to provide relief. He shouldn’t feel this way about Vincent, it’s wrong.
The whisper in the next room is answered by another voice, a masculine voice! Something rustles. Oh God!
“How?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t either.” The voice that owns him is shyly honest and that makes it more alluring. “We can just,” a mutual sigh, “touch.”
“I want more.”
Robert keeps his hands pinned and raises his elbows to cover his ears and muffle the stranger’s request - “Can I hold you in my mouth?” - only to lower them again because he has to hear. He squeezes his eyes closed in an attempt to block out the vision of Vincent in this room, in this bed, answering the same question from Robert’s lips.
It doesn’t work.
Eventually Robert rolls over, clutches the pillow to his tear-streaked face, and humps the bed with excruciating slowness until he comes with a frustrated exhalation, while the men on the other side of the wall please themselves with each other.
Wrong, it’s all so wrong.
The next morning, Robert ignores Vincent’s regular ‘wake up sleepy head’, then the following enquiries ‘are you alright in there Robert?’ and hides in his room until he knows Vincent has gone to lectures. He packs his belongings and leaves without a note of farewell.
Before he leaves, he presses his lips to Vincent’s decorated door.
“I love you,” he murmurs, knowing it’s wrong. What happened last night in both rooms was wrong. What he wants to happen with his friend is wrong.
Everything is all wrong.
Δ 1939-1958 Δ
They establish a comfortable routine from the day they marry. Abigail rises early, makes herself presentable, fixes breakfast for Robert and the children then sets about maintaining family and home whilst Robert is at work, has the children washed and the evening meal prepared when Robert arrives home, bathes as the children relay their daily adventures to their attentive father, then once they are tucked into bed snuggles next to her husband with a novel or - better yet - simply snuggles with her husband.
Their routine changes once the children reach adolescence, but only slightly.
Robert is a considerate and attentive lover, not at all as expected from those women’s magazines that had been given to the nervous bride-to-be by her mother and friends. Robert is gentle and calm yet focussed. Sometimes Abigail might be in the mood for something more energetic, something similar to her favourite scenes of that book Father and his political party succeeded in banning perhaps, but at least her husband is never late for supper. Rarely late home for supper, at any rate and if he is late, he telephones first, always. Then her father telephones directly after Robert, complaining that he could not get through earlier to inform Abigail that the Party was working late on some policy or campaign or equally tedious political jargon and not to expect Robert home any time soon.
“Have you telephoned Mother?”
“Doing that now,” Father responds gruffly every time. “I shall telephone when Robert leaves.”
Approximately fifteen minutes after receiving that second phone call, her husband walks through the door. Abigail always greets him with a welcoming kiss and something hot or cold to eat, accompanied by a hot or cold beverage depending on the weather.
So why after nineteen years of marriage, is he almost an hour late?
The telephone rings.
Δ 1958 Δ
Robert sees them kissing under the awning of a tea house as he walks through the rain to his car; two men embracing and kissing. In public! He shortens his stride but the kissers show no sign of hurrying along. He sits in the car and tries to slow his heart rate. He turns the key in the ignition, starts the windscreen wipers - and they’re still at it.
Robert wants to shout at them, toot his horn, anything to make them stop. Instead he watches and remembers…
… and regrets.
The men finally decide to catch their breath but Robert cannot release his until a familiar voice berates the couple caught in their embrace.
“How dare you pollute our hearts and minds with your sin?”
The young men respond to Abigail’s father with silence as they continue on their way. Robert’s father-in-law sends a verbal tirade after them that goes equally unheeded and all Robert thinks is ‘Such courage!’
The offended older man recognises Robert’s car, strides over and taps on the window.
“I am sorry you had to witness that, Son. People like that have no right being people like that yet seem to think they do. Worse yet, they want to inflict their immorality on us. I was going to let you go home to Abigail, I know your wife will be waiting for you, but perhaps we should discuss this issue now. Come back to the office. Henry is still there so we won’t need to call him.”
Henry is Party Leader and hoping to become Prime Minister at the next election. Robert believes the only way the Party can gain power is if they select a less hateful leader. Henry appears to stand for nothing and against everything. Robert would have left the Party once Henry ascended to power if not for Abigail and her father. At least Abigail recognises Henry for what he is:
“Stand sure, dear. Father’s too old to take over from that old drone, which makes you heir apparent to the Party throne and then on to Prime Minister. You were born to live at Number 10. Is the Prime Minister given a Bentley, or does he have to purchase one?”
The phrase ‘that old drone’ reminds Robert of Vincent, being the phrase with which Vincent referred to their Latin and Mathematics tutors. The younger men kissing remind Robert of Vincent. Songs of heartache and love remind him of Vincent. He knows it’s wrong, suspects it’s wrong, questions whether or not it’s wrong.
He reflects on the behaviour of the young men under the awning instead of listening to Henry and Wilfred drone on about the immorality of homosexuality and how they intend to keep it illegal. There was nothing lewd or erotic in the couple’s actions; stirring - oh yes - but their kiss stirred something in Robert’s heart, not his trousers. They were not aggressive or abusive toward Wilfred. In his mind’s eye, Robert sees himself at nineteen: opening his bedroom door and answering Vincent’s concerned enquiry with “No, I am not alright. How dare you bring another man home when you already have me?” But he didn’t have me, not that he knew. Now he’ll never know.
“They’ve reportedly established an underground, constantly mobile ‘entertainment district’, whatever that means!” Henry throws a fountain pen in outrage. It splits and bleeds on his antique desk. He snaps his fingers for Robert to blot the ink and dispose of the pen. “They’ll be taking over television and radio next!”
“Jews?” Robert catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. When did I get so old?
“Queers!”
Robert drops the pen and blotting paper into the wastepaper basket. There is ink on his finger, a thick indigo stain. He looks at his surroundings, taking in the morally offended faces of his mentors. How did I arrive here, in a dry and dusty room with a pair of dry and dusty drones, in a damp suit with an inky finger? Where did my life go? Where did I go?
“Are you top of the weather there, Son?” Wilfred asks. “Drat and beasties, I forgot to telephone Wife and Daughter. They will be worrying themselves silly. You head off Robert, home to Abigail.”
Robert doesn’t want to go home to Abigail. He wants to go home to 1935, to Vincent.
Δ 1958 - July 1969 Δ
He has a daily routine: wake up; lie to wife and family; go to work; lie to colleagues, electorate and general populace; go home; lie to wife and family some more; sleep. On weekends he skips the ‘go to work’ segment and adds some more lying to family and friends.
His life is wretched.
His wife is unaware.
Δ July 1969 Δ
He adds a new lie to his routine, except it’s also a truth.
There are streets where young men - too young in his opinion - stand like merchandise on a shelf. He drives through and browses but never stops, he never buys. They are all too young, too hopeless. All they can offer is sex. Robert needs hope.
He needs love.
Δ 1970 Δ
They have sex less, a lot less. As the change was so gradual, Abigail did not realise until now just how Robert’s libido has …gone down. Their children have left home and the grandchildren do not sleep over very often. Surely they should be having more sex, not less? Perhaps he has problems with - perhaps Robert can no longer get properly erect.
There are specialty stores with specialised …tools to keep things active if that’s the case. Perhaps she should mention it. Abigail blushes at the thought.
Stop thinking like a silly girl! You’re a grown woman!
Oh no! A younger woman!
Do be sensible Abigail, when have you ever seen Robert so much as look at another woman?
Soothed by the honest answer - never - Abigail picks up the invitation to their daughter’s Tupperware party and accepts.
Δ September 1970 Δ
“There’s a bungalow within our electorate, Robert,” Oswald says after being elected Party leader, “a Bed and Breakfast rumoured to be a brothel - without women.” Oswald pauses for effect and is pleased by Robert’s startled reaction. He’s honestly never heard of such a thing and must harness his erratic thoughts as Oswald speaks again. “You’re the most inoffensive chap on God’s earth. No-one could possibly mistake you for an undercover policeman or procurer of sexual favours, so do us a favour, ferret out the truth and report back.” He chuckles. “I feel like we’re in the spy novels I read as a boy. All that’s missing are the codenames and beautiful female nemeses. Ah well, can’t have everything.”
“Speaking of beautiful female nemeses, the future daughter-in-law demands to know, or should I say ‘persistently enquires’ as to whether you will be attending the celebration this evening?” Robert asks.
“Unfortunately not, I’m having tea with the undersecretary.”
Having tea under his secretary is more likely if Oswald is anything like his predecessors. Robert hopes not. He likes and respects Oswald.
λ
The engagement party for Samuel Gordon is a large, overdone affair and his parents cannot wait to get home.
“What a lot of nonsense that was!” Abigail declares as they prepare for bed. Cold cream is applied to her face as she despairs over the excesses of their future in-laws. Make up comes off before hair is brushed with one hundred strokes. Robert watches from his usual place in bed and counts along as always. The regularity of this routine helping soothe any tensions acquired during the day. Unfortunately, Oswald’s quip about ‘beautiful female nemeses’ undoes all that. ‘Husband’ is Robert’s codename and he has been on the same assignment for thirty-five years.
“You’re still beautiful,” he says sadly. “I don’t love you nearly as much as you deserve.”
Abigail misunderstands. “Oh Robert darling,” she declares sweetly before kneeling beside him on the bed, holding his face tenderly in her hands and kissing his lips.
“Not tonight, perfect wife, please.” He calls her that because Abigail is the perfect wife - for a heterosexual man.
“Not even if we play pretend?” she urges seductively.
Robert laughs with a derisive snort. “Too much pretend is precisely my problem.”
“Oh, I know! My cheeks are in agony from an evening of feigned smiles. That girl and her family are horrible!” Abigail flops back onto the bed and berates them with such jolly enthusiasm that Robert hasn’t the heart to set her straight. Instead he joins in and feels better for it. Perhaps he can see this assignment through to the end after all.
λ
The dreaded and anticipated Thursday arrives. Robert is greeted discreetly by the smartly attired proprietor. This meeting could see his project slaughtered or supported, and Rupert conducts it accordingly.
“The Peacock does indeed provide services of an intimate nature, Mr Gordon, which is why no man under the age of twenty-one is permitted to work upstairs, not even to perform housekeeping duties. You are aware that particular part of the establishment is not its main purpose?”
Robert admits that he is not.
“We are first and foremost an educational facility - not that kind,” Rupert adds bluntly and begins a comprehensive tour of the ground floor. The Peacock’s community centre consists of a large games room with three pinball machines, two miniature snooker tables and a jukebox; a smaller common room lined with bookshelves and second hand couches arranged in a semi-circle; and a tiny store in an alcove beneath the stairs with items for sale. Wrist bands, head bands, badges, shirts - all manner of things people can wear to display their support for Gay rights. Rupert uses the funds raised to get boys out of the rent game.
“They all start in the shop or kitchen while I find them a proper job out of the industry. The men who work upstairs do so of their own volition and with each donating what portion of their earnings they see fit. Some have families to support, mostly younger siblings or parents but occasionally a wife and children. Primarily, Mr Gordon, I provide a refuge, a place where gays of all ages can be gay without shame. The majority of adult visitors are inexperienced, lonely and seeking companionship. Members of the younger set are confused and afraid of their homosexuality…”
Robert assures Rupert that this community project will be brought to Oswald’s immediate attention with the recommendation that the Party support his efforts.
“…Apart from donations, The Peacock is financed by Rupert’s inheritance and running at a loss. It will close of its own accord in three years without assistance. We can’t let that happen.” Thankfully Oswald agrees without question.
Δ October 1970 - 1971 Δ
Robert has since visited The Peacock a number of times and always donates money but never makes use of the services on offer. He continues to use his role as deputy leader of the Party as the purpose for his visits. “Those old drones held some dangerous prejudices close to their chest. When they tried to unleash them, well we all know how that affected our community. I assure you we will never see the likes of that bigotry under our current head.”
“So why doesn’t he come here then?” one of the servicers asks. “It’s always you. Although, you don’t cum here either, do you?” he asks provocatively, leaning in close then turning away and bending over to needlessly retie his shoe.
Robert reaches out and touches the denim clad bottom so temptingly offered, then immediately pulls his hand back and apologises, hastening to the door.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. Will I see you this same time next week?” the man calls.
Robert believes he’s teasing but cannot be sure, so he returns a week later.
“I’m glad you came.” The same man practically leaps off his seat and claims Robert’s hand before his colleagues speak. “This one’s mine.”
He introduces himself as Terry and leads Robert upstairs. Terry is ten years younger than Robert and enjoys his job. “I get to have sex as often as I want, with whomever I want, and get paid for it. Dream career! I feel sorry for those corner boys. Rupert tries to rescue a few, convince them to work here instead but…” he shrugs. “Don’t be nervous, we can just talk. It doesn’t pay as well and isn’t as much fun for me but I want my visitors to feel comfortable. If I wanted rush and pump with no chat I’d be down at the park. Just so you know that I don’t mind a bit of both.” Terry closes the door behind Robert and stands close. “Can I kiss you?” he asks with a smile. “May I kiss you?”
This isn’t love but it’s friendly and hopeful. Robert nods. Terry kisses him with a playful open mouth and Robert finally feels the electricity he’s heard about but never experienced. He asks to feel it again. Terry consents.
“Would you like me to touch you?” Terry asks.
“I haven’t, I’ve never…”
“I know. I won’t hurt you.” Terry kisses Robert again, briefly this time. “Cecil’s the one to go to for that. I won’t tell anyone what we do, either. Rupert likes a clean workplace, professional yet enjoyable. Unlike Major Major’s - the night club, you heard of it? Steer clear of there, even in daylight hours - yuck.”
Terry’s chatter puts Robert at ease and, sooner than Robert expects, he allows Terry to touch him. ‘Touch him’ touch him, like Vincent and the faceless nemesis touched each other. Terry’s hand is warm, his fingers wrap around Robert firmly but not tightly, and Robert supresses a gasp at the contact. Only Abigail has touched Robert like this, and yet it never felt like this.
“Would you like to touch me?” The whispered invitation echoes in Robert’s mind but in Vincent’s voice.
“Oh yes, yes please.”
For the first time, Robert touches a penis other than his own. He inhales sharply as Terry exhales gently.
“It feels so different!” Robert exclaims. Terry’s amusement is not mocking.
“Do I feel good? You feel good.”
“You feel wonderful.”
Terry moves carefully so they’re positioned cock-in-hand to cock-in-hand. “Do what I do, come with me.”
They squeeze and tease, stroke and pump. They breathe faster, shallower and then they climax.
Terry’s praise and kiss reaffirm his friendly introduction. Robert is given no opportunity to feel humiliated or dirty in his presence. The way Terry casually smiles as he cleans up and passes a disposable wet wipe to Robert for his hands is so comfortably ordinary. Robert wonders why he waited so long.
“Will you come back? When you’re ready, will you let me be your first?” Terry asks.
“Do you get a bonus for that?”
Terry laughs.
“So my assumption that you fellows work on commission with a scaled rate from ‘touch up’ to ‘pop that virgin’ is incorrect? We’ll have to completely restructure our backing proposal now,” Robert quips and Terry laughs again. Robert misses Vincent more than ever.
“Tell me about him.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m pretty sure I wear that look when I think about the one I should have come out to. That’s why I do it this way - it’s the closest to a first time with Nick I’ll ever get. Too many of us miss out on being treated like someone special because for some reason admitting you want a man to have sex with you is easier than admitting you want him to be in love with you.”
That’s exactly the way Robert feels. For the first time he understands that all his fears, insecurities and desires are normal. So he tells Terry about Vincent, then pays and schedules a regular weekly appointment.
Terry helps him feel normal. Robert cannot put a price on that.
Δ 1971 Δ
Robert routinely lies.
He lies to his wife, his colleagues, his family, his friends, and once a week he lies to himself.
He knows he is Terry’s customer, not visitor. He knows he isn’t the only man Terry is with on that day, let alone through the week.
He knows Terry isn’t Vincent.
Terry isn’t Robert’s lover in the romantic sense of the word, neither is Robert Terry’s. For a certain time on a certain day of every week, the illusion holds.
And it’s wonderful.
λ
For the first time they will have penetrative sex.
They have talked about it as though they were true, romantic lovers. Who will top, who will bottom, what preparation is involved. At first the amount of detail is intimidating but with each discussion it makes more sense, feels more natural. There is one question that no true lover would need to ask: how much will I pay for that pleasure?
This first time Robert will give and Terry receive. It is a dynamic Robert is more familiar with - although all the fumbling with prophylactics and cooking oil is completely foreign. Terry prepares himself before Robert arrives and helps Robert with his responsibilities, keeping him hard so they don’t have to begin again.
Robert cannot believe how different it feels being with Terry. What they share is more instinctive and natural than any acts performed with Abigail. Whenever Robert is alone he ponders how wonderful it could have been with Vincent - and then wonders if the associated regrets will ever stop taunting him.
Δ 1972 Δ
Terry does not tell Robert his muscles remain loose from another man’s cock hours ago. This business relationship is stronger than with his other clients because he and Robert admit to living lies almost every waking moment. Under different circumstances they would be genuine friends, they may also have casual sex, but they would never be a couple because they’re missing that indescribable something each needs from a truly romantic partnership. Terry has started seeing a man he met during his holidays. If it becomes serious like Terry hopes, he will start a new career. He doesn’t know what, he doesn’t care, but he doesn’t want to keep doing this. He wants to be in love and live a normal life with one partner, no more double life.
No more.
He keeps all of this to himself while he’s on the clock. He lies with his body. Even though the sex is good and he enjoys it, they both know they’d rather be doing it with someone else, someone permanent. Terry is genuinely fond of Robert for this reason and it pains him to cancel their standing arrangement after months of friendship and mutual fucking.
λ
“Have I done something wrong? When the prophylactic broke…” Robert is mortified by the concept of sexually transmittable diseases that he may have passed on to Abigail. Contracting one himself is less alarming than the thought of how it will affect her.
“No. I’m not working here anymore. When you leave today I’m collecting my pay and never coming back. You’ll have plenty of guys willing to visit with you - you’re my favourite, visitor, but…”
“Do you have someone now, out there?” This idea is less alarming yet more wrenching. He depends on these sessions with Terry. Even when they exchange nothing but conversation - these are the times Robert finds himself, reanimates the heart put to sleep the day he left Vincent without explanation.
“Yes I do. We haven’t, yet. I want to be faithful.”
“I’m happy for you.” Robert is, truly.
“Thank you.” Terry hugs him as a friend would. “Look, I hate letting you go completely.”
“You need to leave this life behind. I understand.”
“I’m going to miss your friendship Robert. You’ve come this far. There has to be someone to help you come out to the world, so don’t give up. I’m sorry it can’t be me.”
“Me too,” it hurts Robert to admit. He fantasises about making love to Terry as often as Vincent when he masturbates; real making love, not hello-sex-goodbye, not the convincing yet hollow performances he continues to put on for Abigail. Oh god, that’s all Terry… Robert has to pay him for today.
“Put your wallet away. Rupert knows our time today is for goodbye. Guess I should have told you before, but I didn’t want you thinking... Will you wait around while I collect my last earnings? We can have coffee.”
Robert considers refusing. Loneliness is nothing more than he deserves. He can only imagine the desolation his departure caused his first and dearest friend Vincent, a sensitive, caring soul who asked Robert to live with him as soon as they learned they were accepted into the same university. His first love, abandoned without a word of explanation. He chooses to give Terry this chance to say goodbye properly so he won’t carry a similar burden of unnecessary guilt. “Okay, but you pay.”
λ
Thankfully their social meeting is more pleasant than melancholy. Terry pays the bill. They stand. Robert offers his hand. Terry brings him into a hug and ‘squeal’ -FLASH! They both turn and another camera flash dazzles them.
“You!” Robert is stabbed by this betrayal. For more than a year he has trusted Terry with his most intimate secrets. He should have known his wallet was all this charlatan cared about. He knew their physical intimacy was only a delusion but he had believed in their friendship.
“No, Robert I didn’t, NO!”
Robert pushes the evilly grinning sniper with her notebook and pen against the door frame and lunges past her. Terry pulls her back by the coat tails as she tries to follow Robert.
“Leave him alone, we’re just friends. You’ve got it all wrong!”
Robert wants to go back and help Terry, tell him he’s sorry for thinking he set this up. He can tell by Terry’s reactions that he’s innocent - and loves him. Terry could take this opportunity to sell Robert’s trust and instead defends him. Unfortunately it doesn’t matter how loudly or effectively Terry protests. There is no such thing as integrity in the modern press, it’s all about money. Tabloid journalists are worse than politicians.
Those pictures will be in the morning’s paper, on the television news bulletins.
Abigail.
Oh, poor Abigail!
Robert sees only one option. He telephones her, apologises, and for the first time in their marriage tells her the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So help her God, these are my mistakes, not hers. For the first time in their marriage, Abigail hangs up on her husband without a word.
λ
The words “Abigail, dear Abigail, I’m sorry…” strike fear into her soul. One of the children… What Robert says next fills her with anger and shame.
Always, he’s always been like this. Deceitful, disgusting, deranged, deviant!
His apology means nothing. Her life does not exist. It was all a dream, a facade.
Abigail lets the telephone drop onto its cradle and makes a pot of tea with lashings of cognac to help her face the starkness of reality.
λ
Robert returns to the woman-less brothel. Individual roses of different colours have recently been added to the store so lovers can create messages with the blooms. He selects one of every wearable item along with particular flowers: blue for love and his quest for the impossible; yellow for jealousy, apology; white for reverence, innocence, secrecy; violet for enchantment; coral for fascination, enthusiasm, desire; red for love, respect and courage. There are other colours on the stand but none of those belong in this bouquet. He pretends to add the black as an afterthought then empties his wallet into the donation tin.
“Are you sure, Mr Gordon?” the scruffy boy tending the counter asks. This thirteen-year-old is one of the lucky ones. Rupert picked him up before he sold his virginity for a meal.
“Sure am. Can’t have boys like you out there being taken advantage of.” Hopefully the new welfare system would get this boy’s mother off the game, too.
“That isn’t what I meant.” Suddenly the boy looks thirty rather than thirteen, like he knows. Of course he does. He’s seen the black rose Robert selected with the others. He’s scantily paid to know what each item means.
Robert talks to him man to man.
“If - no - when you find someone you love, like sun breaking through a hailstorm, tell him. If he spits in your face afterward, it doesn’t matter. Love is worthless until you give it away.”
“Then shouldn’t you be out there finding someone to give it to instead of giving up?”
“I found him thirty-seven years ago and didn’t tell him. You only get one chance, so wrap your arms and legs around him and don’t let go until he knows your heart beats for him. Do it for both of us.”
“Yes Sir. Mr Gordon, Sir?”
“Yes?”
The boy starts to say something and after several abortive attempts settles for “Goodbye Sir.”
“Goodbye.”
λ
Robert drives, wishing his story could end differently. Hoping Vincent’s, Terry’s, and the young boy’s stories end differently. He wishes some seemingly impossible but in reality only highly unlikely chain of events will bring Vincent to the same destination. Then Robert can tell him he loved him and that he never wanted to leave, but he had to.
It is 1am when he arrives at the two bedroom house he shared with Vincent, and Vincent isn’t here. He doesn’t mysteriously appear as Robert puts on every item he purchased earlier, apart from the brightly coloured roses tied with matching ribbon of course. He braids the ribbons the way he braided his sister’s hair when she had polio and couldn’t do it herself, then binds the braid around the roses. The black alone is tied to the steering wheel.
Vincent isn’t here to stop Robert fiddling with the hose, exhaust pipe, and windows. Vincent doesn’t remove the keys from the ignition as the car idles, all doors closed while Robert places the bouquet upon the doorstep. Nobody calls out “Stop!” as he gets into the backseat of the car. He opens the travel pack Abigail keeps in the console, removing a motel wrapped cake of soap and a bottle of methaqualome tranquilizers. He licks a corner of the soap, presses it to the rear glass and begins to write. The soap tastes bitter as he licks it again, but it is sweeter than his soul. The air in the car fills with exhaust fumes, but remains less polluted than his conscience.
Nobody taps on the window or door as he chases the pills with a bottle of vodka, although he recalls a ragged red-headed boy asking ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I am,’ Robert thinks as he inhales dirty air and waits to die.
‘Goodbye Sir.’
‘Goodbye.’
Δ 1972 Δ
A milkman finds the body of a man in a fog-filled car and calls the police. An inquest is performed and, incredibly, no information is leaked to the press before the conclusions are released. Then it is headline news:
05:57 am
A retired male prostitute exclaims over the morning paper.
“Did you know him?” his de-facto asks.
Terry neither pauses nor flinches. “We were friends.”
“I’m sorry, love. Do you want to go to the funeral?”
“Best not, Robert’s wife might get the wrong idea.”
06:28 am
A boy older than his thirteen years slips money from his father’s wallet so he can buy bread and milk because he doesn’t want beer for breakfast again. The radio always on in the background mentions a name he knows and he lifts it against his ear to listen.
…Robert Gordon, found dead in his car on…
Apart from the man Mr Gordon gave his shirt, jacket and shoes to in exchange for a bottle of vodka, this boy was the last person Mr Gordon talked to before he died.
Maggoty shit on a dead dog’s arse, he’d been right!
The radio slips from the boy’s hand onto the floor. His father storms into the room and immediately clobbers him over the head with a work boot.
“Little fuckwit!”
The boy makes a dash for the door and is yanked back by the hair. His father snatches the coins from his hand.
“You thieving - fuckwitted - faggot!”
As his father lays into him with fist and foot, the boy tells himself it will get better than this. It has to. He has to find his chance, seize hold and never let go; for both of them.
07:31
A gay couple watch the morning news as per usual.
Footage shows a milkman standing out the front of a small house in his uniform. The house is achingly familiar, as is the name of the politician found dead in his car an undisclosed number of weeks ago.
Vincent sits forward tensely in his chair, thoughts of toast and marmalade banished as he waves at the screen. “Turn it up, quickly!”
Christian obeys and Vincent’s hand covers his mouth as the milkman recounts precisely what he found that dreadful morning: roses; ribbons; silent, fog-filled car; suicide note on the rear window…
YOU CANNOT HATE ME MORE THAN I HATE MYSELF
Christian instinctively holds Vincent’s other hand without question or comment.
“He loved me,” Vincent sobs. Christian releases Vincent’s hand, placing comforting hands on his shoulders so he can cry properly. “I thought he left because he overheard, and was disgusted. My first love - and he loved me.”
λ
Vincent walks beside the coffin with Christian a polite distance behind him, supportive as always.
A young hooligan loiters by the allocated grave.
“Send him away, Christian, please.”
Christian is told to “Fuck off!”
This is too much. Vincent approaches the urchin directly. “Go find some other property to vandalise.”
“Not until I say goodbye.”
Vincent’s nose lifts in disgust at this impertinence.
“He didn’t fuck minors if that’s what you think,” the boy adds with a sneer.
“I think you are a disrespectful vandal…” Vincent’s protest is interrupted.
“I’m in my best kit and skiving off school to be here, this is respectable as I get. We can’t all be la-di-da lollipops.”
“Please leave us to mourn in peace.”
“No. He deserves a better goodbye than this. Mr Gordon wasn’t a dirty old perv…”
“Oh, do be quiet.” Unfortunately the irritating little hooligan is correct, on both counts. Where are Robert’s friends, his parents? The absences of wife, children and rumoured lover are understandable. Why are that ruffian and I the only ones here?
The tedious priest finishes droning on and silence reigns, if not peace. Then the boy speaks as he tosses a handful of soil onto the lowered coffin. He tosses several, as though to make up for those who should be here. Vincent is pleasantly surprised that neither the boy’s words nor actions are vulgar.
“Soft spoken, polite, generous.” The urchin looks at the ends of his shoes and Vincent feels an extra stab of sorrow. These are his best clothes? “Loud, rude, selfish. If they did this to you, what hope do I have?” Silence again. Vincent senses the boy is not done. He speaks boldly to the dead man and sheds no tears. “Perhaps if I’m loud enough others will hear and won’t be afraid. I hope he heard you and forgives you for being afraid.” He wipes his hands on his backside, redistributing the dirt rather than removing it, shrugs at Vincent and walks away, returning to whatever misery he emerged from.
Vincent removes his wallet and taps Christian on the arm with it, gesturing that he should give the money in it to his fellow mourner.
“I’m not letting either of you fuck me!” the boy declares adamantly. Christian chuckles and they continue a conversation unintelligible from Vincent’s graveside location.
“Please don’t encourage such vulgarity,” Vincent scolds wearily before kneeling on his haunches by the last home of his first love. No doubt his current love will throw a hissy over such negligent sullying of quality fabric, but not until much later.
Vincent is aware that Christian maintains his distance after reaching some sort of agreement with the argumentative waif. The fact that Christian understands Vincent so well swells his heart with affectionate gratitude - and sorrow.
Sorrow for Robert, who was never blessed with a love like this; sorrow for the youthful versions of themselves for being unable to share their unique first love, born of what promised to be a deep and life-long friendship. Vincent had noticed Robert’s gradual withdrawal and misunderstood. On that last morning he meant to confess his love and apologize for inviting another to partake of what he intended to share with Robert alone. If that should prompt Robert to reject him outright, so be it. The declaration of love insisted on being heard. But Robert had not opened the door, and Vincent had not persisted.
“I forgive you dearest, and continue to mourn your loss.”
With his contemplation at an end, Vincent stands and brushes the worst of the grass and dirt from his trousers.
“Are you ready to go home?” Christian asks gently.
Vincent nods to the grave fillers impatiently waiting while trying to remain out of sight, then to Christian and accepts the steadying hand. “I am extraordinarily lucky to have such a caring man to stand beside me.”
“As am I, my beloved.”
“What did you and your new friend decide to do with my peace offering?”
Christian produces a piece of notepaper with a letter of some sort for Robert carefully written on it. “Oh, I didn’t see that before - this side.” He turns the paper over, as if Vincent cannot do that for himself. Honestly!
“Who precisely is this ‘Mr Rupert’ and what does he do at this Peacock Bed and Breakfast?”
“Apparently Mr Rupert runs a gay meeting place that doubles as a community centre. He also helps get young boys off the streets and into respectable employment.”
“Like your young friend?”
“Precisely.”
“Then let us pay Mr Rupert a visit.” They walk to the car, not quite holding hands as Vincent reads the first message, written for Robert. “Hopefully he can tell us who our young man is.”
“So the nasty urchin has become ‘our young man’ has he?”
Vincent waves the paper at him excitedly. “He turned Robert’s final words into a song, not the most masterful lyrics but more than expected from a twelve-year-old.”
“Thirteen.” Christian opens the passenger door for Vincent and plays footman. As if there is such vital difference between twelve and thirteen.
“Christian, look at it. It’s about all of us: the struggles, the choices, the sorrow and the hope. We need to help him find his voice so others can find their way.”
“I love you most when you are like this.” Christian kisses Vincent on the mouth.
“Not in public, Dear.”
Christian chuckles as he walks around to the driver’s side. Vincent smiles and they drive away.