Brothers in Blood (9 page)

‘Well, I am, too. Just a couple of missed pills. I really didn’t think it would make any difference.’

‘Not deliberate?’

Oh, Russ, no. You don’t think…’

‘No, no, of course not. Hey, mummy, this is great news.’

She hugged him tighter. She believed him.

Great news! Now there really was no escape from this life. He’d have to stay in the job now until his legs or his mind went. He was to be a FATHER with all the financial and social responsibilities that came with the role. Middle age, penury and parental responsibility loomed. My God, he was turning into his own father. How on earth had he allowed this to happen to him? He had never meant to end up here: a teacher married to a doctor in a neat and tidy semi in suburbia with nothing to look forward to but grey hair, school fees and a pension. He had become the epitome of all that he and Laurence had sneered at in their youth. Dull little men whose lives were set on fixed rails with no diversions. They just chugged along the ordained course until they hit the buffers in their sixties or seventies with a heart attack, cancer or sheer boredom. It was a nightmare.

Sandra fell asleep in his arms, a smile of contentment on her face. Gently he disentangled himself and laid her on her side. She stirred momentarily but slipped back into deep sleep, the soft smile still touching her lips.

He lay back staring at the ceiling feebly fighting off the mood of despair that was overwhelming him. What, he pondered, would Laurence do in this situation? The question afforded him a bleak smile. Laurence would never have got himself into this situation in the first place. He wasn’t fool enough to get married for a start. Oh, if he could have been more like Laurence. But he wasn’t and never could be.

After a while, realising that sleep would not come to him, his mind full of disparate and desperate thoughts, he slipped out of bed and made his way down to the kitchen. Here he poured himself a generous measure of whisky and then went into the small downstairs room which he used as an office. The desk was littered with papers connected with school and a pile of pale green exercise books waiting to be marked were perched precariously on the top. Russell had a sudden urge to send them flying but he resisted it. Common sense told him that he’d only have to pick the buggers up afterwards.

He sat down and switched on the desk light. Its bright beam hurt his eyes at first and he swivelled the head away from him, spilling light up the wall. He slid open one of the little drawers and extracted an envelope which contained a key. This unlocked another drawer from which he took a long foolscap envelope. It was addressed to him in elegant flowing handwriting with vivid purple ink.

The envelope contained the last letter that he had received from Laurence about a month earlier. He knew he should have burned it. That was the agreed arrangement. There should never be any evidence that they had kept in touch. He would destroy the missive soon, but he always kept Laurence’s wild and witty letters for a month or so. He liked to re-read them for pleasure and for comfort. There was a kind of warm vicarious enjoyment to be had from these letters. Laurence certainly hadn’t set his life down on staid, predictable middle class rails as he had. After university he had entered the acting profession – or blagged his way into it, as he was fond of admitting. His endeavours had taken him all over the country, playing farces at the seaside, Shakespeare in schools, and the occasional season with reputable theatres in York and Salisbury. He only just scraped a living but it had been a living and not just an existence.

Russell had not seen Laurence perform on stage since their university days. That was another rule of their pact. They should never meet unless it was for their annual project. Once a year, every year, the three of them met up in some location unrelated to their normal lives to reconstitute the Brotherhood. To spill blood. That was all.

Russell had been tempted to go and see Laurence incognito as it were when he’d been in York for a season the previous year but he knew that he must be true to the pact above all things. Their lives depended on it.

As he sat there, sipping the whisky and reading the letter, Russell felt immeasurably sad. He hated himself for feeling so maudlin; sentimentality was abhorrent to him, but he couldn’t help himself. The letter allowed him to glimpse a richer, grander, more exciting existence. It permitted him to press his nose against the window pane of Laurence’s life and in doing so he ached to be inside.

When he’d re-read the letter, he took it through to the kitchen and set fire to it. He held the envelope aloft above the sink and watched it flame itself into flaky black ashes. At last, as it shrivelled down towards the tips of his fingers he dropped the burning remains into the sink and doused them with cold water. It was gone now. The words already a fading memory, apart from the post script which he had memorised. It was a date, a time and a location for the next meeting of The Brotherhood: August 27th, 10.30 a.m., the café of the art gallery in Manchester.

THIRTEEN

‘Are you ready? I’m bored out of my skull.’ John elongated his face and yawned to add weight to his statement.

Alex frowned. ‘You’re always bored these days. What’s up with you, man? Time you chilled out.’

‘Here? How can you fuckin’ chill out here in this dump? You must be jokin’. The music’s rubbish and it’s the same old faces every week. It stinks.’

‘You go then, eh? Get a taxi… I’ll see you later at home. I just want to hang around a bit longer.’

‘Hopin’ to cop off are you?’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘I’ve seen you eyein’ up Leather Man over there. Mr I Fancy Myself.’

Alex didn’t know whether to grin or get angry. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. I’m with you aren’t I? What sort of bloke do you think I am?’

‘Sometimes I’m not sure, actually. Especially when your eyes come out on stalks and your tongue hangs down like a dog on heat whenever Leather Man passes by.’

‘Oh, go get lost, will you.’

Alex rose and pushed his way across the crowded room to the bar. He bought himself a rum and coke and downed it in two gulps. He’d just had enough of John’s whining ways and his selfishness for one night. He had become a jealous bore. He just wasn’t grown up enough to realise that gay people can be as dedicated to their partners, just as monogamous as straight people. It wasn’t always about jumping into bed and getting your end away. There was commitment and love as well. But John, who was five years younger than Alex, was riddled with insecurity and while this had a kind of quaint charm in the early days of their relationship, it was now beginning to pall. He was no longer a fun guy to be with and that was why, yes, Alex had been eyeing up Leather Man because he seemed to be just that: a fun guy. You slave away all week with a bunch of intellectual dwarves and so on a Saturday night you need a bit of fun.

Alex ordered another drink and while the barman was getting it, he glanced across the room to where they had been sitting. John had gone. Well, bollocks to him, Alex thought. The puff in a huff. If that’s the way he wants to play it, let him. Alex hadn’t got the patience or the inclination to put up with his petulance any longer. John’s disappearance brought into focus the growing doubts Alex had concerning their relationship. Until recently he had been prepared to commit himself fully to it. That’s why he had asked John to move in with him. He wasn’t by nature promiscuous but in the last few months things had started to turn sour. John had become moody, more jealous and fractious. He was turning into a bloody fishwife, Alex mused. It wouldn’t be long now before they parted company. He didn’t want to give John his marching orders but he reckoned the relationship had come to the end of its natural life. Oh well, let the bugger storm off home. I’m better off without him. The night is young and I’m so beautiful. He grinned at his own squiffy conceit and finished his drink.

As he turned to the bar to order another one, he felt a presence by his side, a presence that carried with it a powerful cologne. He turned and came face-to-face with Leather Man. He was smiling that smile. The smile that all gay men recognise immediately. One that cuts through all the verbal crap of tentative introductions and small talk. The smile that says I want you – are you up for it?

‘Let me get you a drink,’ he said, eyes twinkling. His voice was low and sweet and not the least bit effeminate. His features were tanned and his mop of dark hair was carefully gelled and it glistened under the lights of the bar. He wore tight leather trousers and a dark shiny shirt which was open down to the waist.

He was a dish.

Alex nodded. ‘That’s kind. Rum and coke. Ta.’

Leather Man ordered drinks for both of them. He was on some sort of poncy cocktail.

‘You on your own…?’ asked Leather Man.

Instinctively, Alex glanced over to where John had been sitting. ‘I am now,’ he said with a wan smile.

Leather Man nodded. ‘I thought so. I saw you with someone else earlier.’

‘It’s past his bedtime now.’

‘So you are on your own then.’

‘Certainly am.’

Leather Man grinned and passed Alex his drink. It was a pleasant smile and very alluring. ‘I’m Matt.’

‘Alex.’

They exchanged chaste kisses on the cheek.

‘Fancy a dance then?’ Matt took Alex’s hand without waiting for an answer and led him onto the crowded floor.

If Alex had a weakness where handsome men were concerned, it was that he was easily smitten. And with Matt he was easily smitten. Initially they indulged in a little gentle bopping but as the tempo of the music slipped down into the smooch gear, they followed the trend and draped their bodies over each other and shuffled around the floor. Alex could feel Matt’s firm muscles through the thin material of his shirt.

‘God, you must really work out,’ he whispered, giving his pecs a squeeze.

‘Every day. Twice a day. It’s my religion.’

‘I think I’ve got a prayer mat at home.’

They both grinned and hugged each other tighter. It was as though a bargain had been struck.

The club was closing when Alex and Matt emerged with several other couples into the sultry night air. Alex was excited and happy. It had been ages since he’d been involved in a pick up like this. It was fun, stimulating – and dangerous. Which made it all the more exciting.

‘Come back to mine, eh?’ Matt said in that smooth way of his, eyes twinkling and teeth flashing. ‘It’s still too early to call it a night.’

Alex was too tipsy to sense the performance, the practised charade in Matt’s manner. He just nodded. ‘Sure.’

It was that easy. For Matt it always was.

They sauntered down the street hand in hand and then Matt motioned towards a large black 4x4.

‘Yours?’ Alex pointed at the vehicle, impressed.

‘Mine. Hop in.’

Matt told him that he lived at Ravensfield, a rural spot some six miles from the centre of town. He drove like a maniac along the quiet roads, pushing the 4x4 well above the speed limit and taking risks with corners and traffic lights as though he was trying to impress his new friend. Shooting through the little village of Outlane, Matt was now taking roads that were foreign to Alex. And as the normal street lights petered out, he had no idea where the hell they were. But he felt comfortable and strangely secure in the warm, wildly swaying vehicle. He was cocooned in the motor with the best looking guy in the world. He gazed across at Matt’s face illuminated by the dashboard, his strong even features bathed in eerie green light. He felt good. He also hoped that he could sober up a little. He didn’t want to miss a minute of this adventure. And he didn’t want to disappoint.

Eventually, the 4x4 screeched to a halt outside a small detached house on a narrow country lane. There appeared to be no other properties nearby, just darkness.

Matt jumped out into the velvet black night and, racing down the little path, opened the door and beckoned Alex inside. The lights were already on and, stepping inside, Alex was surprised how quaint it was – very chintzy and old maidish. There were horrible porcelain knick-knacks on the mantelpiece, a very inadequate and toe-curlingly garish representation of The Hay Wain over the fireplace and the sofa was covered in some kind of pastoral moquette resembling, John thought, an unpleasant vegetarian pizza.

This did not seem Matt’s style at all. Or perhaps he was more than the sum of his parts – a mystery man.

‘Plonk down somewhere and I’ll grab us a drink. And then I’ll give you the grand tour. It’ll take all of five minutes.’ Without waiting for a response, Matt slipped off into the kitchen. He seemed very businesslike. Very sober.

‘Just a soft drink for me,’ Alex called after him. ‘I think I’ve had enough alcohol for one night.’

‘Yer big sissy,’ came the reply.

‘Well, you don’t want me collapsing on you, do you?’ Alex realised that he had an idiotic grin on his face.

‘It’s the best offer I’ve had all night.’

Alex thought he heard Matt giggling to himself in the kitchen and then all went quiet. He reappeared moments later with two identical glasses, a slice of lemon floating in each.

‘A little gin never hurt a girl, did it?’ he grinned passing one of the glasses to Alex.

‘Are you trying to get me pissed?’

‘I’ve been rumbled. Cheers.’

They clinked glassed and grinned at each other.

‘Come on, let me show you upstairs.’

Matt held out his hand and Alex took it and was led up a narrow curved staircase.

The upper floor was a complete contrast to the granny aura of downstairs. Gone was the chintz in favour of stark minimalist. The bathroom was sleek and modern; there were splashes of chrome with black and white tiles, red towels and shelves filled with various grooming products. One of the bedrooms had been turned into a gym. There were weights, a rowing machine and a punch bag.

‘So this is where you turn flab into hard muscle.’

‘Yeah, this is my temple.’ Matt gave the punch bag a hard bang with his free hand. ‘Do you do any of this stuff yourself?’

Alex shook his head. ‘Nah, I’m the seven stone weakling type. The one with the incipient beer gut. If you’ve got any sand around the place, you can kick some in my face.’