Something Different (10 page)

"Dad!" Michael had cried. He should have been ashamed to the bone. Instead he went half-crazed with relief. Freddie had noticed, he'd finally noticed, after all this time he'd cottoned on at last...

Cursing, Sharon had dismounted and gone to her husband. Michael heard raised voices behind their bedroom door, then silence. He lay awake for the rest of the night, wondering if he should get his things together. Would he and his dad be the ones to go, or would Sharon be sent packing? But when dawn came, Sharon cooked bacon and eggs and the three of them ate in silence. Sharon smoked and stared into space. Freddie was deep in another crossword puzzle.

"Love you, son," he called as Michael headed off to school.

It was a few days before Michael cornered his father alone. By then Sharon had visited him twice more, leaving purple bruises on his arms in the process.

"You know what she's doing. Why won't you stop her?"

Freddie had looked sad. "I don't blame you, son. Boys have needs. Sometimes things just happen."

Michael caught his breath. "She—she told you I wanted it? That I—" He tried to say "seduced her," but the phrase was so monstrous, so disgusting, he couldn't force it out. It was the first time Michael, good with words and naturally gregarious, had ever found himself unable to say what he meant.

"I've told you, it's all right. One of those things." Freddie tried to pat Michael's shoulder, grimacing when he jerked away.

"Dad. I want her to stop. Please. Help me. Make her stop."

"Sharon's always had a strong will. Mind of her own," Freddie said, gaze snaking away. "If you don't want to... just say so. Tell her. Or keep on with it, it doesn't matter to me. I still love you, son."

Michael had stared at Freddie. "Why—why do you always say that? Say you love me?"

Freddie blinked. "Boys need a bit of gentleness."

"But if you loved me, you'd help me. You'd make her stop."

Freddie shook his head. "The house is in her name. And I'm too old to start over alone, Michael. Besides, she's my wife. Till death do us part, I take that vow seriously. God's law, not mine..."

Freddie had said more, much more, heaping on words like "son" and "proud" and "love," but Michael realized they were all meaningless—ceremonial, like "thank you" from a bored supermarket clerk. Meant to make him feel good in the short run while signifying nothing at all.

After that Michael had stayed late every day after school. He took up running, then wrestling, then weightlifting. Sharon, back to walking with the Lord, noticed Michael's new physique one warm spring night and promptly went out for a bottle of Crown Royal. But when she turned up in his room, Michael sprang out of bed, caught both her hands and pushed her against the wall.

"You will never touch me again," he said between his teeth, eyes level with hers.

"Let go or I'll scream," she'd cried, trying to break free. She couldn't. She was pure mass; he was strong now, strong and determined.

Backing away, Michael had watched her flee back to the bedroom she shared with Freddie. And just like that, Sharon never visited him again. The swiftness of her capitulation had troubled seventeen-year-old Michael to no end. Had he really wanted it all along? If not, why hadn't he started working out and learning to protect himself sooner? Why hadn't he guessed a bully like Sharon would be terrified by the prospect of real violence?

Not long after Michael had found a roommate through the small ads, moved out, gone away to university and tried to forget. He'd never seen Freddie or Sharon since the day he'd moved out, though he knew they still lived in the same house. It was only twenty kilometers from Brixton.

Around seven the next morning, Michael got into the 4x4, still dressed in his clothes from the night before. He had no idea what he would say when he got to Freddie and Sharon's. But he would say something.

***

The house looked smaller than he remembered, sagging like a pensioner. But the front garden was neatly kept, shrubs trimmed back for the oncoming winter. The picket fence looked freshly painted.

The hollow gnome was right where it always sat, beneath the water tap. Removing its hidden house key, Michael unlocked the front door and walked inside. Freddie wasn't there. Sharon was sitting on the sofa, smoking a cigarette and watching a morning chat show. Far bulkier than Michael remembered, she got to her feet unsteadily, eyes wide.

"Who the fuck are—" She stopped. "Jesus. It's you. Michael."

He took Sharon in. Older and fatter, she'd let her hair go white. She wore a chenille robe over her housedress and fuzzy pink slippers on her size twelve feet. But her eyes were just the same, sharp and ringed with blue liner.

"My son Edward," he began, finding it difficult to speak. "He told me you surprised him in the loo. Told me what you said to him."

She put her cigarette to her lips. "Never said nothing. He's a dirty little liar. He—"

Michael hit Sharon in the face as hard as he could. She fell back over the sofa, taking it with her as lamps, tables and porcelain knickknacks went everywhere. When Michael came around the other side of the sofa, he found Sharon on her back, nose pouring blood. Drawing back his leg, he kicked her twice. The first time she only grunted. The second time she begged him not to do it again. Her mouth was a red ruin, front teeth snapped in half.

James
, Michael thought, returning from someplace far away.
If I kill her, I might never see James again.

After that he had a choice. He was about to cross a line, from temporary madness to calm decision. Whatever more he did to Sharon after coming back to himself would be on his own head, just as her actions rested on hers.

"Come near my kids again and I'll kill you." He went back to the 4x4 as fast as he could walk. Two streets over he had to stop and vomit up a mouthful of bile. But he didn't feel ashamed. He didn't know what he felt.

***

James awakened that Saturday morning with nothing to do. By noon he'd finished his weekend homework. Even written a few sentences in his journal, a wide-ruled composition book. His tutor, Ms. Kakowski, said he should write in the journal each day. Sentence structure and spelling didn't matter; at this point, she wouldn't be checking. The point was to get comfortable creating words. James, who'd astonished himself by testing a little ahead of his group—he knew the alphabet in its proper order and could write all the letters—had stared at the blank paper for a long time before daring his first entry. Just a few days ago he'd come across Michael doing the same thing, staring at a blank digital page on the screen of his MacBook. The sight had been oddly encouraging to James. Even smart, bookish, highly literate types occasionally had to face blank whiteness and make a decision.

James's first entry played to his strengths:

MILK FRSOSTED FLAKS

Next day, he checked his spelling against the cereal box and realized he'd missed the mark. Undeterred, his second entry was more ambitious:

ID LIKE MILK WIT FROSTEDFLAKES

Pleased with himself, he'd added his secret weapon, mastered long ago:

JAMES MITCHELL CAMPBELL

He'd never succeeded in making his name look very fancy, but the letters were all there, and in the correct order, too.

For a long time he'd studied the entry, delighted, before hiding it under the mattress of his twin bed. He wasn't ready for Michael to see his efforts. Not until they were better, until even a man who wrote books for a living would have to concede the words were top-drawer.

It would be a long weekend with Michael gone and his homework finished. James was surprised by how readily he'd taken to the adult literacy program. As a child in school, it had all been about clever vs. stupid, winners vs. losers. Pegged as stupid from age eight, James had never been able to overcome the label, and by age twelve he'd been "Pretty Jamie" and "Poufie Jamie" to boot. But in the adult literacy program, no one thought him stupid or clever—he was just a bloke with dyslexia and a hill to climb. Besides, he had motivations he'd never had as a schoolboy. The world was full of forms, signature lines, websites and text messages. Even something as basic as getting a council flat, not to mention a dole check, required forms, signatures and an e-mail address. Only by learning to read and write would James ever qualify.

Or I could be really ambitious
, he told himself, sliding into fantasyland with a guilty little shiver.
I could apply to The Open University. Take classes. Pick a trade and earn my own way.

He wondered how Michael would feel about that. For that matter, James wondered what anyone might call their current arrangement. James lived in the Shepherd's Bush flat yet did nothing to pay his way, unless cooking counted. He could pretend he earned his keep by fucking Michael, but that wasn't true. Michael would demand James work the tills in a supermarket before he'd insist James fuck him in lieu of rent. That sort of expectation was completely outside the character of a man who'd given James his own bed and even installed a deadbolt on his bedroom door.

Besides, James enjoyed fucking Michael, and that made it mutual fun instead of business. Since that time on the sofa, James had no trouble coming—the door was open, all he needed was sufficient stimulation to pass through. During his five years on the game, James had grown comfortable with other clients. But Michael was more than just a client, and they had passed beyond mere comfort...

James was watching music videos and wondering if his discontent with the entire Top Forty signaled the advent of old age when his mobile rang. It was Kevin.

"So where you been? Rumor round the Hitching Post is you're dead." Kevin paused. "You dead, mate? That it?"

"Fucking dead," James agreed, heart speeding up. He couldn't help himself; just the sound of Kevin's voice was a tonic to both soul and cock. The night he'd drunkenly made out with Kevin, James had been too emotionally overwhelmed to offer more than a weak hard-on. But whenever he heard Kevin's voice on the mobile, James's cock leapt to attention, vibrating with hope. "What about you? Thought you were poking Silas's ass." Silas was Cunt-Boyfriend's real name.

"Oh, he buggered off, didn't he?" Kevin sounded unconcerned. "Low-rent tosser. I says to meself, Kev, love, you've got to change your type. Get yourself a pretty little love doll. Rosy cheeks and rosy ass and a sweet mouth to suck my cock."

James tried not to take the flattery too much to heart. Kevin had said this sort of thing before, always when fresh off a breakup, when the attentions of a lovely young man seemed especially needful. Yet he'd never done more than cup James's ass in his hands and rub up against him on the dance floor. Kevin liked tall, hard-bodied, silent types who communicated mostly with their tree-trunk cocks. James suspected he was nothing but a cupcake to Kevin, a pretty frosted mouthful to a man who craved red meat.

"So. The Hitching Post. Full of zombies already and due to get worse after dark. Planning to take your dead ass out here? Might manage to liven it up," Kevin said, managing to sound seductive and bored all at the same time.

"Hang on. Get your story straight. Is my ass dead or rosy?"

"It's dead now. It'll be rosy within five meters of me."

James snorted. He'd been in love with Kevin Darden since he was eighteen. And when James was twenty, Kevin had finally stopped thinking of him as a puppy and actually begun paying attention to him. One night they'd killed a bottle of Bacardi and kissed until Kevin unzipped, pulled it out and beat off while sucking James's neck. By then James had been limp—his usual problem, an inability to seal the deal with an unfamiliar partner—but Kev never seemed to notice. James had yet to decide if that meant Kev was extraordinarily polite, refusing to draw attention to an awkward truth, or just extraordinarily self-absorbed.

"I'll be there," James said. Only after he disconnected did he remember he was missing four front teeth.

***

The Hitching Post was meant to evoke American westerns from the 1940s through the late 1960s. Pictures of John Wayne dotted the walls—from
Stagecoach
to
True Grit
—as well as other American cowboys like Gene Autry, Clint Eastwood, and Roy Rogers. Even iconic horses like Trigger, Silver and Scout had their own framed photos. But the only pictured female was Dale Evans, and her wall was favored by drag queens and rent boys like James. He took his usual place there that Saturday night, beneath a picture of Dale in a sweet pink neckerchief, faithful steed Buttermilk at her side.

James was drinking a bit of coconut rum drowned in Diet Coke. Not much of a cocktail, but when it came to alcohol, he was a featherweight. Recalling the day of the clinic visit, James still couldn't believe he'd downed three premium margaritas and somehow made it to the loo before puking all over Michael's shoes.

If I had, Michael would have wiped it up. Made one of his dry little comments about the incidence of vomiting in Great Britain since WWII...
The imagined commentary made James smile. Michael could find a turd in a punchbowl and say something encouraging. It was just how he was.

"Who's that smile for? Me?" A familiar voice asked.

"'Course it is," James said, replying from his rent boy script. "Cool your heels and let me look at you."

That last bit wasn't a pure line. Kevin wasn't conventionally handsome, but James wasn't caught up in the conventional. He loved Kevin's sharp eyes, his firm mouth, his way of strutting about although he topped James by barely an inch. Like his dad before him, Kevin carried him own cue to the tables, playing billiards and pool with his own stick. He was a master at darts and so good at kissing, half the straight girls never guessed he was queer as a hairy-lipped maiden aunt. Through the week Kevin drove a truck and at nights he shared the bed of a physically dominant man, big in more than mere hands' breadth. James respected this need in Kevin, but he couldn't understand it. Kevin's boyfriends always cheated, always lied and seemed chromosomally incapable of tenderness. When Kevin turned on the charm, entire barrooms fell in love with him. He could have his pick. Yet he always picked the man guaranteed never to give two shits.