The Beard (11 page)

“I want more than this, Tom. I want a cuddle that doesn’t end on the landing. And if you didn’t, why are you in chat rooms every bloody night or down at those bars? You want something else and so do I. So don’t spoil this by turning it into something it isn’t and can never be.”

Tom looked deflated and sat down with a miserable plop. He knew that she was right but was taken aback by the power of her words and sentiments. It was one thing to know that she was telling the truth, it was quite another to have cold water
taken from the light of day and thrown in his face.

“I know,”
he said. “I do and you’re right, of course.”

Amy tousled his hair. “Look,” she said, “let’s do curry tomorrow, yeah?”

“OK,” said Tom as she turned.

“I have to go,” she said softly. “I’m already late. Speak soon – and smile.”

Tom looked up at her and gave her an enormous fake smile.

“That’s better,” she said, before planting a kiss on his head and turning to leave. “Bye, Ash!” she shouted as the door slammed shut.

Ash wandered in, draped in a blanket. “Oh, she gone then?” he asked, yawning.

“I’m afraid she has,” said Tom melancholically.

Ash’s health had improved sufficiently that he could make his way all around the house without yelps and “oohs” from aches and pains. Although still very jumpy, he was demonstrating signs of being back to normal, in so far as he was being ceaselessly irritating. It had been three weeks since the attack and, in that time, he hadn’t once ventured outside the door – not even into the secure walled yard at the back.

Tom had made various trips back to Ash’s house to get day-to-day essentials – clothes, toiletries and bedding – but after the umpteenth shuttle run, he began to wonder if Ash was visiting or moving in. Particularly when he started putting up artwork in his room.

The thought of having Ash as a lodger didn’t horrify Tom as much as he imagined it would. Ash was upbeat (for the most part) and a good friend. What’s more, he was clean and didn’t steal food from the fridge – a trait of a former housemate.

Tom had only ventured into room-letting a few times since he’d owned a house. Largely, they’d been dull, functional and forgettable encounters, but one person had put him off letting for good. This lodger had rarely paid bills and had assumed that the fridge was a communal free-for-all buffet, justifying his behaviour with the paltry lines, “It was only a smidge of butter” or, “It was just a drop of milk.” The thefts had continued and so had the excuses. When Tom had sat him down and informed him that he was required to find alternative accommodation, the shock had literally made the guy fall off his chair. The thought, the prospect, the reality of paying his way had been a completely alien concept to him. He’d moved back in with his parents while looking for somewhere to live. Tom had been
sure that he’d remain there.

As such, lodgers were never really entertained after that. While Tom knew that Ash would be fine, he didn’t want to jeopardise their relationship by getting too close on a day-to-day basis and not be able to enjoy each other’s company.

Not only that but, as all laws of science suggested, Ash would get back to pulling men at a rate of knots when his confidence returned. Tom didn’t want to have to come down every morning to see the latest Mr Right in his borrowed dressing gown. The prospect was mortifying on so many levels. For one, it would serve as a stark reminder to Tom that his love life was blossoming like a rose garden in the desert. For another, the walls in the house weren’t THAT thick. It would be one thing to come down in the morning and see some guy at the breakfast table and quite another to be kept awake night after night, each bang of the headboard representing a nail hammered in Tom’s own emotional coffin; every groan a ghostly reminder that his only sexual partner was at the end of his arm.

He literally shuddered at the thought – every night and every day, the dearth of activity in his own love life brought graphically to his attention. In truth, it was the one big thing stopping him from suggesting that Ash move in. Tom was aware that this wasn’t a genuine reason for him to stop Ash from moving in, but rather an incentive for him to get on with his own life. Yet somehow, he didn’t.

The stumbling block was remaining in the closet. He was terrified to be who he really was. Having played the part of ‘pretend Tom’ for so many years, he’d started to believe that this creation was, in fact, the real him. It wasn’t. Deep down, he wanted to be out and proud. Well, maybe not proud, but certainly not ashamed. Yes, he could get meaningless sex if he wanted it, but he didn’t. He wanted a relationship – a long-term, stable, steady and loving relationship. The only snag being that he couldn’t imagine one flourishing when one of the parties remained hidden from sexual view. He had to come out. So long as he didn’t, no relationship would be possible and the status quo would continue.

He didn’t want his pride to be closeted, even though he was. The process of harmonising these two realities seemed increasingly fractious. He hated the men who cheated on their wives and slinked off to gay bars. He’d lost count of the men who’d told him that they were married with kids, but didn’t want their
‘real’ self to be found out. He despised their cowardice. He assured himself that it was different for him – that he wasn’t married, so he wasn’t deceiving anyone. Which was only true in part. He may not have been deceiving a spouse, but he was certainly lying to himself and those around him.

He routinely got into arguments with men who demanded that he save his “lectures” on the subject. On one occasion, one Sunday morning, a man who, only the night before, had talked about settling down in a life-long relationship of love, woke him with the words, “I need to get back to the missus. How about a quickie for the road?” Whereupon Tom forced him out of the house naked and threw him into the street, with only his socks and car keys for company.

Although he wasn’t thrilled with himself for it, he needed to assert his moral compass in a matter that he felt passionately about. Later that day, he went to the local charity shop and gave them the guy’s designer suit. What the guy told his wife as he pulled up the drive naked, Tom didn’t care. Not that he would’ve, of course – no doubt a friend would’ve helped him out, the guy having explained that he’d had a fling with some leggy blonde with big tits. That’s how it worked.

Tom was sick and tired of being lied to by men who said they just wanted to be “normal” – to be in a relationship and live their life true to themselves – before darting home to see some poor, unsuspecting girlfriend. Tom had even slept with a guy who’d woken him at 5am the next morning. “This is looking good,” he’d thought to himself, until the guy explained that Tom had to leave – his best man was due soon, as he was getting married later that day.

Accordingly, with his own delusions and others’ deception, Tom had decided to give dating a miss. What was meant to be a month turned into a year, and a year into a few years. The period of celibacy assisted with his persona as a down-to-earth straight guy. The longer it went on, the easier it became. The easier it became, the lonelier he was. No one in the closet could ever successfully have a relationship out of it. Tom knew that. He also knew that there was a statistical probability that Ash would bring home someone he knew. So he had a choice to make: how much longer would he stay locked up, peering through the cupboard door like a modern-day Rapunzel? Always looking out at a world that was near, yet beyond reach. When you can’t offer a room to a friend in need, just in case they bring someone back that you know, you have problems.

Tom wandered into the lounge to see Ash sat in his favourite chair – formerly Tom’s favourite chair. As ever, he was watching daytime TV and answering questions on a quiz show with breathless excitement, as if he were there in the studio hitting the button.

“Alright?” said Tom nonchalantly.

Ash, engrossed in his show, ignored him.

“Fine,” said Tom as he slumped onto the sofa and started leafing through one of Ash’s many magazines.

Ash’s taste in magazines could never be described as cerebral. Picture after picture of celebrities Tom had never hitherto seen, stumbling out of nightclubs, restaurants and other anonymous celebrities’ apartments. Tom doubted if, when twisted, the magazines would even make good firelighters, such was the vacuity. 

“Good Lord,” Tom muttered to himself, reading the gay confessions of someone who was once in a soap opera but now wanted a chat show. Page after page of meaningless drivel and people of no substance – and this is what Ash parted with his money for. Or, to be more precise, parted with Tom’s money for.

“Oi!” said Ash, looking quizzically at Tom.

Tom looked up to see the TV switched off and Ash looking at him. How long have I been reading this fodder? he thought, as he looked around the room for any visible clues as to how much of his life he’d lost thumbing through that magazine.

Ash looked puzzled at Tom’s vacant expression and clicked his fingers. “Oi!” he repeated. “You with us?”

Tom nodded and closed the magazines as if they were cursed.

“I have some new-ooooohs!” Ash said, singing the words.

Tom was still eyeing the publications nervously. He turned without any thought and said, “You’re moving back into your flat? Good. I think it’ll do you good.” It was a knee-jerk reaction and was meant to disguise Tom’s feelings and concerns about the house share.

It didn’t have the desired effect. Ash stared at Tom with a distinct look of pain. The inevitable pouting lips and ruffled brow overshadowed this, however, as a lip distinctly quivered.

Tom looked at this creased face of annoyance and mouthed, “Oh” to no one in particular.

“Tom, sweetness,” Ash said with an air of exhaustion, “I’ve given notice on my flat. I’ve officially moved out.”

Tom stared back at Ash in shock. “Moved out?” he said. “Where on earth are you going to live now?”

There was a moment of tension as Ash prepared to reveal his new abode. Scanning Tom’s face for any clue as to his feelings, he took his time to make his announcement. “Well, here, obviously,” he said with as much joviality as he could muster.

Tom knew that his face was being surveyed for the slightest movement or sign of acceptance. Accordingly, he remained stony silent and still.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking…” Ash continued, implanting Phase II of the hard sell. “But you don’t have to thank me!” His attempt to use humour to defuse an awkward silence merely propagated it.

Tom’s indifference and curiosity at the prospect had been transformed into a small amount of resentment. It was obvious to see.

“Look,” said Ash, “if you don’t want me to move in, just say so.” He turned and looked away. Tom waited for the head to return and the puppy eyes to be deployed. Sure enough, Ash delivered.

“I want you to move out,” said Tom, matter of fact. “I don’t think you and I living together will work. So, if it’s not too late, get your flat back. Otherwise, you have a week to find somewhere.”

The words fell on Ash as if each one was punched with venom. He was momentarily suspended in disbelief. How he’d imagined things would pan out had evidently proved considerably wide of the mark. He looked back at Tom aghast, his eyes brimming but silent. The two men stared at each other, Ash’s eyes flickering as tears began to form.

The prospect of going back out there so soon filled him with a massive amount of dread. It didn’t occur to him that it was the manner in which he’d conveyed the news, rather than his mere presence in the house, that had caused such a reaction. Ash felt rejected yet again – once more, someone he cared for had cast him aside.

Tom could see the profound effect this was having and realised he needed to act swiftly. He wanted to tell Ash that he’d been winding him up, but he also saw this as an opportunity.

“Why do you keep telling the police that you don’t know who did this to you when you do?” he asked.

Ash was still in shock from the previous declaration and was broadsided by the massive change in subject.

“Wh, what?” he said, struggling for words and composure.

“You heard,” Tom said with the same level of authority as before.

Ash shook his head. “I don’t know. I just… I don’t know. I thought it wouldn’t do any good, you know? I just… I don’t know.”

Tom wasn’t moved. “That’s bullshit, Ash, and you know it. Why didn’t you tell them?”

Ash felt very much in the firing line and began breathing heavily as a sense of panic hit. “I don’t want it to happen again,” he said, a faint but noticeable sob accompanying each word. Ash had refused to talk about the night in question, other than to give vague, non-committal answers. The police were keen to pursue this as a homophobic crime, whereas Ash wasn’t. He knew exactly who’d done it but changed his story many times.

He took a handful of the quilted blanket on his lap and began moving it, as if to get up.

“Stay right there,” said Tom. “You’re going nowhere.”

“I’m going to pack,” said Ash with a gargantuan amount of self-pity. It wasn’t, on this occasion, affected for an audience. This was real.

“Not until I have some answers,” said Tom, enjoying his newfound command.