by Sean Kennedy
“Simon, do you have something to hide?”
“Simon, is your silence because you are ashamed?”
“Where’s Declan? Have you two broken up already?”
I sang songs in my head to distract me. Eventually I barely heard them; I was too busy concentrating on whatever inane tune was working as a filter.
Nyssa had to hold them off at work and was now locking the doors so anybody couldn’t just waltz in from off the street and demand to speak to me. It didn’t help Nyssa was upset with me for having kept her in the dark.
“It’s just that I thought we were friends,” she said on the same day the newspaper had printed the photographs.
“We are,” I told her earnestly.
“It doesn’t feel like that to me right now.”
“It’s a difficult situation, Nyss. I couldn’t tell everybody. Only Fran and Roger knew.”
“Of course they did.”
Her sunny disposition had all but evaporated.
As had mine. It took two days for Declan to call me.
“Are you okay?” he asked. No hello.
“I should be asking you that.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you straight away… you have no idea how crazy it’s been here.”
I didn’t want to point out he had disappeared on me yet again, and it wasn’t a habit of his I found endearing at all. “I can imagine. I had a journo from some trash rag trying to crawl in through the cat door.”
“I’ve seen you on the news.”
“I think everyone’s seen me on the news. My mum’s taping them for the show reel of shame, probably to be wheeled out in a few years for my thirtieth.”
“How are your family taking it?”
“I think the better question is, how are yours?”
He took a long, deep breath. “Dammit, Simon, I can’t talk to you over the phone like this. I want to see you.”
“That’s probably going to be real difficult.”
“I know. Even Jess has people waiting outside her house.”
“I know somewhere we can go.”
“Where?” His voice had a soft note of hope in it.
“Fran and Roger’s.”
“But you’re—”
“Roger and I are fine. Can you get there in an hour?”
“Of course.” He paused. “Simon, just in case you’ve been worried… I love you.”
I smiled for the first time in days. There was part of me wanting to castigate him for not being in contact, but I couldn’t. At least not yet. “It hasn’t changed on my end either, doofus.”
OF COURSE, I hadn’t been so convinced of that a couple of days ago. I was sure Declan hated me because only a short time after coming into his life, I had ruined it. Not hearing from him only seemed to cement that fear in my mind. Was he at home being berated by his family and pressured into saying that this was a temporary aberration which was all my fault? Was I being painted as the evil, gay predator who corrupted their innocent son?
As soon as I had gotten rid of Nyssa (which wasn’t hard as she was trying to avoid me anyway to drive home just how upset with me she was), I tried Declan’s mobile only to find it was switched off. I left work early, stupidly pulling my scarf over the lower half of my face in pretence of being cold but really to avoid detection as I could see my blurry profile on at least half a dozen newspapers being read on the tram.
I had been relatively safe the first day, as my name hadn’t been leaked to the public yet. But as I got home, my mobile started ringing.
Surprisingly, it was my mother.
“What’s up, Mum?”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Already?”
“I was… well, I’m not feeling very well.”
“I hope you aren’t coming down with that virus that’s going around. Your Aunt Mary couldn’t get off the toilet for three days!”
There was a vivid image which would do nothing to make me feel better. “Just a cold, I think, Mum.”
“Well, I was just sitting here having a good old laugh. Guess why?”
I sat on the couch, falling heavily. “Why?”
“No, guess!”
Maggie jumped up onto my lap, and I scratched her behind the ears. “Dad accidentally ate the mull cake Tim made again?”
“No!”
“What, then?” I asked impatiently.
“I just got the paper—”
Oh fuck no—
“And apparently Declan Tyler from the Devils is a homosexual! Just like you!”
“Really?” I asked, one word being about all I could get out.
“And you’d never guess the funny thing!”
“That wasn’t the funny thing?” I asked weakly.
“His boyfriend, well, I guess you would call them partner, wouldn’t you?, looks kind of like you!”
“Uh—”
“I showed it to your father, and he said there was no way it could be you.”
“What, he doesn’t think I’m good enough for Declan Tyler?” I asked indignantly.
Mum laughed. “Well, it’s just… he’s a bit out of your league, isn’t he? It would be like Tim dating, I don’t know, a supermodel.”
Wounded, I took a deep breath and said with as much dignity as I could muster, “Actually, Mum, it is me.”
Mum burst out laughing. “Oh, Simon, stop it!”
“I’m not joking!”
“Just make sure you buy the paper and have a look, okay?”
“Mum—”
“Talk to you later, darling.”
As I hung up, I looked down at Maggie. “The whole world has gone fucking insane.”
I continued sitting there with a warm cat in my lap, staring at the wall before me. It seemed like a perfect moment to freeze time, to not have to deal with any further consequences. Archaeologists could find me in three centuries or so and never know my story nor the controversies attached to me. I would be dispassionately recorded in a museum log and rolled away into their archives section which would look something like the Pentagon basement in The X Files. And there we would be forgotten for eternity.
That seemed like bliss in comparison with my present reality.
The knock at my door made both Maggie and I jump.
As she fled for the safety of the bedroom, I cautiously moved towards the door, calling out, “Who is it?”
“Roger.”
It was him. No journalist could fake that voice so well. I opened the door immediately, and there he stood. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked at me sheepishly.
“Hi.”
That was as far as we got. He was shocked to find himself with an armful of me. Gradually he hugged me back.
“This… is quite a welcome. Hey, are you crying?”
“No,” I sniffed. “Fuck off.”
“Can I come in?” he asked. “Because if the press show up, tomorrow we’ll be on the front page, and they’ll be accusing you of two-timing Declan.”
I laughed, and this time it didn’t feel forced. “Come in.”
It was like the past month had never happened, although Maggie was so surprised to hear his voice again she came back out to investigate and happily let him rub her belly.
“I saw the newspaper,” he said.
I fetched us beers from the fridge. “Is that why you decided to forgive me?”
He shrugged. “I figured you needed me.”
“You figured right,” I admitted. “I’m sorry I was being such an arsehole about forgiving you.”
“I’m sorry I was an arsehole in the first place. And then was an arsehole to you, when you stopped being an arsehole.”
The perfect apology.
Now things were fine between us, I punched him on the shoulder. And not a playful one. “You watched the Grand Final without me!”
“Hey!” he rubbed the offended area. “If it’s any consolation, I had a really bad time.”
“I fell asleep,”
I admitted.
“Sacrilege!”
“It’s true.”
“Fran tried to watch it with me. She got bored and left into the second quarter and never came back.”
“You should have called me. I would have been over in five minutes.”
“I know. I should have.” He finally got up from where he was crouching over Maggie and sat on the couch opposite me. “So, how are you feeling?”
“About the article? I have no fucking idea. I’m pretending it’s not happening.”
“What did Declan say?”
I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“You haven’t spoken to him?”
I shook my head. “His mobile’s turned off. It’s probably been ringing nonstop.”
“I’m sure he’ll call you.”
“Yeah,” I replied, although my tone indicated otherwise.
“You sad sack bastard,” Roger sighed. “I’m calling Fran, getting her to come over here, and we’ll have dinner and cheer you up.”
“I don’t need cheering up.”
But the thought of all three of us being together again was about the only thing which could cheer me up at this juncture, although coming in a distant second to getting a call from Declan.
I would only have one day more of anonymity. But I lived it in dread of discovery, coupled with the very real fear Declan was choosing not to get in contact with me.
Nyssa unthawed slightly to me that day, her anger slowly subsiding into a low-level pity for my unfolding drama.
She crept into my office just after lunch and announced that Jasper Brunswick was on the phone. “Do you want me to get rid of him?” she asked. “I know you don’t like talking to him at the best of times.”
This was it. I knew what was coming. “No, I’ll take it.”
Nyssa nodded. “Line two.”
I picked up the phone as she left. “Simon Murray.”
“Simon, it’s Jasper Brunswick.”
“I’ve been expecting your call. You must love this.”
“Wow, I know you hate me, but you’ve got me all wrong.”
“Really,” I scoffed.
“I did you a favour last time I spoke to you. And believe it or not, but I’m calling you to offer you a second one.”
“And what’s that?”
“Declan’s little secret is out. So now we’re going to be publishing some articles about it.”
“Good for you.”
“I’m naming you as his partner.”
If I could have reached through the line to rip out his throat, I would have. It took all the power I had to restrain myself from answering.
“You’re already out, Simon,” he said quickly, to try and justify himself. “It’s not like I’m outing you against your will. You’ve done interviews for the Triple F in which you haven’t hidden your sexuality. And the other papers will find you eventually. We have to print the news too.”
“And make sure you have the scoop, right?” I asked, finally able to speak again rather than simply emitting an outraged howl.
“If we have it, we’d be stupid not to take advantage of it. I’m calling to give you the opportunity to comment.”
“You want a comment?” I asked. “Fuck you. That’s my comment.”
I hung up. It was childish and served no purpose, but it felt good.
I sat at my desk, trying to figure out what to do. The Reach Out would publish tonight and be on the streets tomorrow, which meant the word would spread quickly enough that the other newspapers and online journals would pick up on it by the afternoon. I was in Declan’s position now, and I could understand why he had gone incommunicado.
Maybe I could try and beat Jasper at his own game, beat the scoop by outing myself to the press. But then I realised how that would look, as if I were trying to capitalise upon the story, selling it to the public. Declan Tyler’s little fag gold digger. And what would Dec think, especially as we hadn’t even talked to each other? Surely wherever we went from here should be a decision to make together, even if we were no longer together.
Like Declan was obviously doing with me.
I decided it would be classier to stay silent. Let Jasper have his scoop. I hoped he would choke on it.
With a twisted gut, I picked up the phone and called my parents. I hoped like hell nobody was home.
The gods were smiling upon me, at least in this instance. Their machine picked up.
“Hi, it’s Simon. Look, I have something to tell you guys. What you thought was a joke, the whole Declan Tyler thing? Well, it isn’t. And the press have found me out. So I just want to warn you guys in case they start calling or come to the house. Please don’t say anything to them. Thanks.”
I was amazed I managed to sound so calm.
I called Nyssa back into the office and told her basically the same thing. We were going from yellow to red alert.
The next morning dawned like any other. I peered out my window, but my lawn was free of any members of the media or other ferocious wildlife. I had done a large shopping expedition the night before so I could bunker down here if I had to without leaving for a few days. The street looked so peaceful it was surreal.
And it all went to hell about half past twelve.
I let the first call go through to my answering machine. It was that van Niuewen guy from the Herald Sun, requesting an interview. Then Today Tonight rang, followed by A Current Affair and Who Weekly. At that stage, I couldn’t bear to hear their polite and measured voices offering their services in telling my story to the world at large, so I turned the answering machine off and unplugged my phone from the wall.
Just after four, probably the amount of time they had taken to track down my home address, they began arriving on my doorstep.
I was lying on the couch reading a book when the sound of slamming doors made me jump up with a start. My house was as silent as the grave, as I didn’t want them to have any sign I was home. I crept across the room to peer out from behind the curtain. I recognised the journo, one of those ultra-serious types who still worshipped at the shrine of Jana Wendt. She signalled for her cameraman to follow her and strode briskly and importantly to my front door. She was here to get the news, dammit!
Even her knock was officious.
My heart was pounding; I drew back as if she had X-ray vision or Terminator-style heat sensors to pick up on my presence.
“Do you think he’s home?” I heard her ask the cameraman, who only shrugged in reply.
She knocked again and stood there, silently fuming.
“We’ll wait him out,” she said, finally. “Huh, out, that’s a good one.”
Classy. I’d surely want her telling my story with that kind of real empathy. They walked back towards their van, pulling out folding chairs to sit upon.
Soon they were joined by other journalists from television, print and radio. Each time a new one turned up, they conferred with those already camping out on my lawn, all simultaneously relieved that nobody had spoken to me yet and all wondering where I was. They seemed practiced at arranging themselves in order of arrival. Their voices carried to me hiding within the house; they weren’t bothered about keeping quiet.
“Do you think he’s home?”
“He’s probably either here or at the Tyler house.”
“You think Tyler’s family knows about him?”
“Well, they do now.”
Laughter.
“He’s not answering any of his phones.”
“You can’t even hear his phone ring.”
“Probably has the jack pulled out.”
At five o’clock I inserted my headphones into the telly and turned on the first news bulletin, shocked to see my house being reported from during a live cross. I realised I could see Maggie sitting in the window to the right of the journo’s shoulder, staring out at the spectacle before her. I turned my head and saw her butt and tail poking out from behind the curtain. They then did another live cross, this
time to the Tyler’s household where they didn’t even have a cat on the windowsill to indicate there was life within.
They couldn’t camp out here all night, could they? When the only thing they could be guaranteed getting was some attention-whoring from my cat?
I imagined the headline the next edition of the Reach Out would probably use:
TYLER’S LOVER LIKES PUSSY AFTER ALL.
I turned the news off and drummed my fingers to try and catch Maggie’s attention. She was still too distracted by the circus outside, which by the sound of slamming doors, had just welcomed another arrival.
I squinted around Maggie and realised it was worse than another pack of journalists turning up.
It was my parents.
“Are you friends of Simon Murray?” one journo asked.
“Are you his parents?” asked another.
My father remained silent, as usual, and pushed his way through them with a surly look on his face. My mother was gentler, and I could hear her singing out, “Excuse me! Excuse me!”
“Did you know your son was seeing Declan Tyler?”
“Did you know your son was gay?”
“Did you know Declan Tyler was gay?”
I rolled my eyes. Whoever asked that should have their degree stripped from them for not being able to follow a line of logical questioning.
I ran to the front door as soon as I heard them walking up the steps. I yanked it open, but kept myself hidden behind it. “Get in here quick!” I hissed.
I could hear the pack beginning to bray.
“He is home!”
“Bastard!”
As soon as my parents were in, I slammed the door shut. I expected to see the outlines of various journalists slammed into the wood like the hapless predators in the Loony Tunes, but they just milled about on my veranda.
“Well,” my mother said. “May I have a cup of tea?”
“Uh, sure. Dad?”
“Do you have any beer?”
I nodded, and he looked vaguely surprised. Even though I always had beer in my fridge on the rare occasion he was over.
They followed me into the kitchen while I started preparing their drinks.
