The Beard (13 page)

Thoughts ran rapidly through Tom’s mind. What should he say? If he did tell the truth, surely having his ‘girlfriend’ in tow would show that he was simply confident about his sexuality. Working for a gay charity and being straight wasn’t unheard of. Some of the volunteers said they were straight – not that anyone believed them. This could be ‘Phase One’ of his coming out. That said, it might also activate the nagging doubt that he knew people had, cementing doubts for so many. Whereupon they’d look at Amy with unrelenting pity.

As for Derek, any admission that you even touched a gay person, let alone volunteered to work for them, would be too much to take on board. Tom would never hear the end of it.

“It’s up at the university,” he said vaguely, confident that no one would know what he meant. “Part of their health and social-studies centre.” He hoped that this would be enough to cover his tracks and satisfy any curiosity. After all, working part time in a voluntary capacity at a university helping disadvantaged kids made him look pretty special.

“So, do you know this new lodger very well?” asked another of his work colleagues. Tom was happy that his exact whereabouts every Tuesday had been circumnavigated.

Tom smiled with relief. “Pretty well. Or as much as you can know someone having working alongside them for ages,” he said, not realising the implications of his words.

“So, not very well,” someone chimed in, leaving the resulting silence to go unchecked. 

In a bid to prove that he knew Ash well enough to allow him into his house, Tom continued speaking, unwisely. “No, I know him pretty well. Ash works at…”

Derek interrupted him. “Ash?” he said. “As in fag Ash?”

Some of the circle sighed and looked at one another imploringly.

“Yes, Derek, as in fag Ash… if you like,” Tom muttered reluctantly. In some respects, Derek was right, but
he didn’t want to concede as much.

Derek was perpl
exed. He hadn’t realised his play on words. “I didn’t mean that. I meant, are you letting your room to that fag called Ash – a registered, self-declared shit-stabber?”

It was at that moment that Tom’s blood ran still as he remembered how Derek knew Ash. One Saturday afternoon, out shopping, Tom had bumped into Derek. Sadly, this was directly opposite the jewellery concession in the local mall where Ashley was then working. Ash had come racing over and, as ever, been in full force. Derek had opened his conversational account with the question, “So, who’s this, then? Your secret boyfriend?” Unwittingly, and not sensing any danger, Ash had replied, “I wish,” before kissing Tom on the cheek and mincing off. Derek had been left in a paralysis of shock and fear. “Are you a filthy faggot?” he’d asked, as overweight people walked past them with bags of cookies, shoes and dresses they’d soon take back to the shop.

At that time, Tom needed his job and was terrified of losing it. So he’d reacted in the only manner he felt open to him. “No, Derek,” he’d protested with a degree of disgust at the question. “He’s just a mate.”

The prospect of a mate being gay was an anathema to Derek. In much the same way that men and women can never have a sexless friendship, so it was with gays. It was only a matter of time before Ash would be trying it on.

“He’s not a mate,” Derek had said. “He just wants your cock.”

Tom had laughed at the suggestion. “Don’t be bloody stupid,” he’d replied. “He’s a mate. You need to get your head out of the 1970s, Derek.” Tom had tried to laugh everything off but once mud is thrown, the bit that sticks stays for life. For Derek, however, the writing was on the wall. “Just watch your back, that’s all I’m saying,” he’d said before walking off gingerly, nervously eyeing Ash as he did.

Tom was mortified to discover that Derek remembered that encounter so vividly. It was terrifying that Ash’s name and face had stuck so resolutely in his memory: “That faggot who was selling shitty jewels down the shopping centre? That one?”

Everyone looked back at Tom and fleetingly at Amy.

Tom nodded. “Yes, Derek, that one. My mate, Ash. Problem?”

It was a rather more confrontational stance than he was used to. However, since he’d gone to extreme lengths to make a watertight cover story, he was going to defend it with some venom. It did occur to him that he could just as easily be defending the truth, rather than a facsimile of the truth, but he was in too deep to make an about turn.

Everyone in the circle was appalled by Derek’s behaviour, but unsurprised. His comments bore the hallmarks of his personality, so why would anyone be taken aback by this latest display of homophobia? Suddenly, however, the revelation that Tom had a ‘gay friend’ threw a firecracker into a bucket-load of suspicions. Now, everyone knew that Tom’s ‘special friend’ had been around for some time. Pre-dating Amy, for that matter. That bit of mud thrown long ago was now visible for all to see.

The thought th
at a straight man could have a ‘secret’ gay friend seemed like an incendiary device. Such a combustible revelation was naturally shocking to even the liberals who prided themselves on “having gay friends”. Tom half-expected someone to ask Amy if she knew about her boyfriend’s secret special friend.

Sure enough, they did, albeit with some grace.

“So, do you get on well with Ash?” asked a wife. “I mean, he’ll be at Tom’s all the time you’re there now, won’t he?”

Everyone turned to examine Amy’s reply and reaction. A perfunctory panel was thus ready to forensically dissect her words. Was she aware of Tom’s
‘mystery’ friend? It was utterly farcical that this conversation was even happening.

“Ash?” she said, engineering as much apathy as she could without it looking false. “He’s a brilliant guy. We get on so well. Always have a laugh. Him moving in was my idea, actually. Didn’t Tom tell you about what happened to him recently? Oh, it was awful. He got mugged. Really bad – they hospitalised him. He was in such a state. Luckily, Tom was there to help him out. Ash is lucky to have Tom in his life, seeing as he faces so much prejudice from others.”

It was a bravissimo performance and a wonderful point. Amy smiled and looked around as everyone looked away uncomfortably. They knew what she meant and so did she.

“Oh, so that was the mate you were talking about,” said John, a sales rep who barely ever spoke.

“That’s the one,” said Tom, disproving any sense that Ash was a guilty secret.

“So, do you know Jonathan Smythe?” the curious wife who kept asking questions asked, seemingly innocuously.

Tom did – he was the charity’s head honcho. So, without thinking, he said, “Yes, yes, I do. Why?”

The woman smiled and, with the kind of friendliness you
’d expect from an overworked but professional bank clerk, said, “No reason – I just think I know what charity you mean now.” Her point was lost on everyone but Tom.

He was, however, no amateur at lies. “Excellent!” he said. “I know he’s the director of lots of charities. He always gives to others. He’s a real saint, isn’t he?” It was enough to make her think twice. The pair stared each other out, both smiling.

Derek remained unimpressed: “Well, just watch your arse, that’s all I’m saying. Keep the door locked when you’re in the shower or on the shitter. They’re drawn to the smell.”

Everyone balked at this comment, leading one to ask, “Same again?” as the assembled crowd evaporated off to the bar to assist, leaving Derek alone in the marquee.

He looked around and, to no one in particular, asked, “Where the hell is Carl?”, before walking off to take a “whizz” behind a bush. 

As the evening wore on, Derek’s levels of intoxication continued unrestrained. Wherever he wandered, he had the unique ability to clear the area. Much like a
nightclub doorman clearing the room at the end of every night.

Tom’s team, having agreed at the bar that their best chance of survival was to break into clusters and socialise separately, were scattered all over the place. Their sole objective: to avoid Derek at all costs. As a result, one person would keep a look-out while the others socialised, then they’d switch. Everyone agreed to help out with this. Wandering around, it wasn’t exceptional to hear someone say, “Derek, one o’clock!”, before a member of Tom’s team darted in the opposite direction, clutching his wife’s hand and ducking down as he went.

Tellingly, the marquee was full again in Derek’s absence. A band played popular tunes that drunken people attempted to dance to while still holding their pint glasses.

“It’s a bit like a wedding,” said Tom.

Amy agreed. “Yeah, shit,” she said with precise ferocity. “Just look at it. Bad food, drunk middle-aged people who can’t dance, and us two trying to avoid someone.”

Tom smiled. “It’s good training, I suppose. Gives us some idea of what your family shindig’s going to be like. Fluttering around like doomed prey, trying to avoid the hunters.”

Amy looked up at him, with one eye still scanning the room for Derek’s return. “I’m glad you’re in the right frame of mind for it,” she mentioned.

“On the upside,” mused Tom, “can it really be worse than this?”

It was a question that required no answer. They both returned to silence, nervously scanning the assembled masses for signs of the predator. Any sudden movement was met with a penetrating stare to evaluate threat levels.

Amy was in no mood for charity: “No, it can’t be worse than this and I want you to remember that, Tom Dewhurst. I’ve had to ENDURE this for you.”

Tom smiled. He couldn’t argue with her. This was, indeed, beyond the call of duty, but evidently she’d forgotten what he’d done for her. She could tell by the lull that followed her comments exactly what he was thinking.

“And before you say it,” she offered, “there’s no way that Janet was as bad as that moron.”

Tom stared out at Derek, who could be seen trying to work someone’s camera before dropping it into an ornamental hedge. “At least Derek hasn’t tried to feel me up all night,” Tom said pithily.

Amy’s stare was answer enough. “Can we go now? Have we served enough time?” she asked imploringly.

The question hung in the air. “I think so,” Tom offered without conviction. “Stay here, I’ll go and get our coats.”

Amy looked perturbed. “Don’t leave me alone, please. He might come back.”

Tom looked around. “He isn’t a velociraptor,” he joked. Before Amy could reply, he added, “Yes, but he’s a dinosaur, I know! Look, why don’t you go and hide in the ladies’ loos and I’ll meet you by the front door in five? That’s one place you’ll be safe.”

“OK,” she agreed, looking around before fleeing. Her only experience of such things was watching war films. Accordingly, she hung low and, running in an erratic zig-zag line, dodged in and out of people towards the large wooden door with a stick figure of a woman on it.

Just as she stood back to allow someone to leave the lavatories, she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was a clunking and clumsy hand and, without even turning around, she knew who it was.

“Where is everyone?” slurred Derek.

Amy looked him up and down. His grey suit was ill-fitting and stretched over his protruding stomach like a badly designed tea towel covering a cooling cake. His tie, which had never been done up, was gone and his brown shirt had a small collection of translucent mayonnaise fat stains adorning it.

Amy finished her assessment of this sorry state of manhood by glancing at his scuffed shoes – a recent fashion buy meant for someone at least 20 years his junior. She looked him in the eye again and, without any attempt at grace, said, “They’re having a good time. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She turned to go into the toilets but Derek caught her arm. Amy immediately looked down at his hand with irritation.

Derek missed this, as he was looking elsewhere. “Listen,” he said, moving disturbingly close to her face. “Listen,” he repeated, looking around. “You got any worries about ol’ Tom – you know, in the bedroom department? If, you know, he turns out to be a fag…gut, then I’m all man.”

Derek’s mesmerisingly awful attempt at seduction, coupled with his ferocious breath, physically repulsed Amy. The prospect that any woman could find him remotely attractive was beyond the reach of her imagination.

“Well,” said Amy, “I’ll bear that in mind.” Then, manually removing Derek’s hand, she turned and left.

Derek leant against a wall to help him stop swaying. “Lesbian,” he mumbled to himself. Then, seeing Tom standing by the door holding coats, he launched himself from his resting place and headed over, sloshing and spilling his drink as he did so. 

“John Thomas!” he said, slapping Tom hard on the back. “Lots of lovely snatch here tonight, isn’t there?” Then, pausing to see Tom’s reaction, which comprised of barely concealed contempt, he added, “Unless you’re looking at the fellas, that is.”

Tom sighed and rolled his eyes. “I’m only kidding with ya. You been getting down and dirty with that bit of snatch? What’s her name, Amy? Got your fingers wet in the bushes?” This attempt at a play on words sent Derek into peals of laughter. Tom could hear him saying “bush” over and over again to himself as he stood on the gravel drive, drooling.

Tom jostled the coats from one arm to the other. “We’re leaving now,” he declared without fanfare.