by C F White
“That’s…”
“Stupid. Juvenile. I know, I’ve been told.” Bradley knocked back the rest of his beer.
“No, not stupid.” Mark waved his own glass, before attempting to follow suit and down the lot. He didn’t get far and had to hold in the belch from the gassy contents. “Nor so much juvenile. A touch optimistic, perhaps.”
“Yeah. People tell me that. But what’s the alternative?”
“The alternative to what?”
“Fate. If you don’t believe that you have a destiny, a plan, a reason to be here and a matched lover in wait, then, well, life’s a bit scary otherwise.”
Mark pondered all that for a moment whilst gazing past Bradley at the squawking gulls circling overhead.
“So why not experience all the world has to offer you?” Bradley continued, his blue eyes sparking so the green flecks danced within. “Ride the waves, jump the cliffs, travel the land. If being static hasn’t brought you your fortune, then you need to go out there, search for the signs and find it.”
“Huh. Interesting.” Mark had been that optimistic too once. “Trouble is, when you get to my age, things like money and responsibility prevent all that.”
“Only if you let it. That’s putting your fate in the hands of the economists. You need to ask the stars, or the leaves, what your next move should be. As otherwise, you’re ignoring fate. And that’s a pretty sad existence, if you ask me.”
“But you need money to travel.”
“You can earn money wherever you travel.”
“And a roof over your head?”
Bradley arched that impressive eyebrow. “You should know all about how a roof doesn’t last forever.”
Mark couldn’t think of a single response. None that Bradley would want to hear anyway. It’d only dull the man’s sanguine outlook.
“Better drink up, Mark.” Bradley pointed to Mark’s near-full pint. “Don’t wanna be riding back in the dark. The stars can lead, but not light up a clifftop path.”
In one, possibly two gulps, Mark finished his drink and stood. He allowed Bradley to go first, simply because he was faster and not because Mark enjoyed the view from behind. Honest. Bradley waved him off and within a few minutes he was back on the coastal path and riding with his hands behind his back and not on the handlebars. Smug bastard. There was no way Mark would be attempting that.
A short way in and Mark’s foot slipped from the pedal, a sharp clunk and rattle indicating the chain had cycled its last round. Mark feared for his life as his bike once again threw him toward the minimal fencing. Is this what is written in the stars for me? Death by cliff edge? The bike chain rattled against the wheel, dangling from having been snapped in two, and caught in the spokes, sending the tyres skidding in the chalk and Mark crashing to the ground in a heap.
“Don’t have much luck you, do you, mate?” Bradley screeched to a halt in front, then looped around and held out a hand.
“Understatement.” Mark took the offered hand and Bradley yanked him up.
Hands on hips, Mark inspected the bike. Broken. Unfixable. Even he knew that.
“How far is it back to yours?”
Mark sighed. “Three, possibly four miles.”
Bradley nodded and slapped a foot on his pedal.
“You’re going to leave me here to walk?” Mark’s voice elevated.
Bradley tapped the bike frame. “No. You’re gonna park your arse on that and I’ll ride us both home.”
“I really hope you are kidding.”
Bradley shook his head and tapped the frame again.
“Absolutely not.” Mark folded his arms in finality.
“Mark, don’t be a wuss. You can’t walk four miles in the dark next to a bloody cliff. And I’m not leaving you here. Leave the bike and jump the fuck on.”
Mark huffed, running a hand across his furrowed brow. This, he knew, was not a good idea. But what other options did he have?
“I’ve never ridden seatie before.” Mark stepped up to Bradley’s bike.
“Bet you say that to all the boys.” Bradley clucked his tongue with a wink.
Mark chose to ignore that and lifted onto Bradley’s bike frame. The bike wobbled. Even Mark’s waif-like physique couldn’t prevent it, but Bradley stamped his feet onto the ground and steadied it. Wrapping his fingers around the pole, Mark gripped on for dear life. With a chuckle, Bradley pushed down on the pedal and the bike swerved toward the cliff edge.
“Oh, fuck balls!” Mark saw his crappy life flash before his eyes. I should never have come back to Marsby!
“Hold on.” Bradley managed to stabilise the bike, and with a firm push down on the pedals, soared along the cliff edge.
Bradley’s knees hit Mark’s on each upward cycle, and Mark shuffled up toward the handlebars, his grip on the pole making his knuckles turn as white as the cliffs of Dover. Picking up the pace, Bradley pumped faster and Mark’s hair blew out of control.
“Take it back about the hair, mate.” Bradley tried to peer around Mark. “You might have to tell me if there’s something coming.”
“Just keep going. Quickly, please.”
“Do you say that to all the boys, too?”
Mark tightened his grip and closed his eyes as Bradley regained momentum and lifted up to pedal, his arse no doubt waving in the air for someone else to cop an eyeful. Relaxing a little and trusting that Bradley might know what he was doing—or would that be like trusting the stars—he opened his eyes.
“Bugger!” Mark pointed up ahead. “Careful. Gulls!”
“What?” Bradley swung the handlebars to the left, skidding the bike up the grassy bank and the tyres slid in the dry mud, sending them both toppling to the ground. Mark landed on his back, the bike and one of Bradley’s legs digging into his stomach, and Bradley collapsed alongside.
Mark grunted. Bradley chuckled, his face a mere breath away from Mark’s. Mark could smell the fermented lager.
“Bradley,” Mark squeezed out of his crushed larynx.
“We’re this close now, Mark. Call me Brad.”
“I can’t.”
“Because I’m crushing you?”
“Because Bradley is better.”
Bradley breathed out a smile. He made no effort to move and was close enough that Mark could taste the fermented beer on each exhalation. At least Bradley could exhale. Mark was having a teensy bit of trouble at that.
“Mark?”
“Yes?”
“Remember that stuff I said back at the pub? About my gran?”
Mark nodded as much as he could with a bike and Bradley’s bulk on top of him, which wasn’t much at all. But Bradley seemed to take that as encouragement enough to continue his idle chitchat and suffocation methods.
“Do you want to know what she told me? What my leaves said?”
“Bradley, we might have to discuss life’s greater purpose some other time? Over tea, perhaps? No offence, I’m sure it’s important to you, but I’m in danger of suffocating here.”
“Sorry, mate.” Bradley hefted up from the ground, then grabbed the bike’s handles and yanked it up.
Coughing, Mark scrambled up and wiped down his joggers. He ruffled out his hair that he was sure contained many a dirt, rock and whatever else resides on a clifftop edge that wouldn’t be taken for a highlight or two. When he glanced up, Bradley smiled.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just…” Bradley shook his head then leaned over the bike and pressed his lips to Mark’s.
Mark was more than a little stunned. He just stood there. Not reacting, not moving, not understanding. Bradley pulled back, holding the bike, and shrugged, a slight tinge to his fresh-faced cheeks.
“What the hell was that?” It came out higher-pitched than Mark had intended.
“They call it a kiss these days.” Bradley smiled.
“Really?” The rest of Mark’s vocabulary got stuck in his throat. So without the use of words, he twisted on his heel and stormed away along the f
ootpath.
“Mark?”
Mark didn’t stop. He stomped harder, tripping over a few stray rocks, but levelled out and shot a look of disdain over his shoulder. “Contrary to popular belief, Bradley Summers, I am not the only gay in the village for your Summers’ fling!”
Chapter Seven
Hairtred
Having walked the remainder of the way home, Mark now stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, his electric toothbrush buzzing across his teeth so furiously he might just spit blood as well as feathers. He sighed, the foamy mint splattering against the mirror and making it look like a decorator’s radio. He wiped it off, smearing white smudges across the glass and hampering the view. It needn’t matter. He hated what he saw anyway.
Bradley hadn’t followed him. Hadn’t called him. Hadn’t sent any messages, face-filled or otherwise. And Mark couldn’t blame him. Bradley most certainly wasn’t the sort of bloke who would rush after a middle-aged man having a middle-aged crisis. He probably had a wealth of offers from other men, women or gender non-specific. He’d probably done a couple swipes on his phone and called one up, cycling to the hook-up point in those tiny pink shorts.
Mark spared no more thoughts about the shorts, nor the man, and slumped into an early grave. Well, it was his bed, but it might as well have been his final resting place.
The next morning brought no more messages, and with one look into his smudged mirror, he faced the inevitable. He needed a haircut. He always hated Wednesdays, too. Throwing open his wardrobe, he rummaged around for something to lift his dreary mood and chose a shirt that he hadn’t worn a zillion times before—a nice floral-patterned one that Damian had bought for him one birthday. ‘Can’t be miserable wearing a top that resembles a countryside meadow on a bright summer’s morning.’ That was what Damian had insisted anyhow. Mark wasn’t too sure he should be following his flouncy theatrical friend’s fashion advice, but he slipped his arms into it anyway and checked himself in the mirror. It would have to do.
Slipping his phone into his back pocket and trying not to be disappointed that Bradley had made no effort to check Mark had arrived home safe, he trundled down the stairs. Perhaps Australia wasn’t aware of the need for three rings? Or more likely, Mark had made it abundantly clear that he was not in the market for friends with a care package. Head down, he stepped out of his house and slammed his door shut.
“Morning, Mark.”
Mark, startled, jumped nearly three feet away from Mr Cooper leering over the separating bush. “Morning. Lovely day.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Mr Cooper glanced up to the sky. “Might I trouble you for the stepladder back? I’ll be needing that today to get up into my loft.”
“Of course. The gate is open, help yourself.” Am I an accomplice to murder by being so agreeable? Better than being murdered, he supposed, and hurried off on the walk to work.
He upped the pace on reaching Macy’s Tea Shoppe but he couldn’t prevent the flicker of his gaze through the window. It was open. Bradley, behind the counter, was serving tea to an elderly couple, their dog waggling its tail beside them. Bradley knelt down, ruffled the Labradoodle’s ears and offered a bowl of water. He appeared in rather a chipper mood. Last night’s hook-up must have been a good one. Peering over the dog’s head, Bradley locked onto Mark’s gaze through the glass. Mark’s stomach lurched into his throat, so he bundled across the road and right into the tourist train tooting its horn heading toward the seafront.
“Watch out, Mark!” Charlie, the driver, had attended Mark’s old grammar school in Dover. They’d both been top of the class at one point. Clearly it had worked out well for them both. Charlie not only drove the mini-train, but also owned the pop-up ticket booth for the tourist boat trips. And Mark filed paperwork. At least Charlie always had a smile. Even for locals who didn’t pay his wages. “You keen to get to work for once?”
“Ha! Always.” With a wave, Mark ran over to his office and passed Yvonne on the front desk. “I’m going to pop out at lunch today, Yvonne.”
Yvonne hummed in response. Either she didn’t hear or, more likely, didn’t care. Mark went through the rigmarole of chair battling, but the chair obviously felt the Wednesday Woes as much as Mark and wasn’t as determined to beat him. Which was a shame—Mark would have to start working on time for once.
Yvonne had opened the office window, blowing in the sea breeze that ruffled the unfiled paperwork on his desk and his mound of hair in to his eyes. Maybe there was something to this ‘in the stars’ nonsense, as the weather was clearly making Mark aware of the two tasks he had been putting off for months now.
“What should I do today?”
Mark flicked his hair. Robert, the work experience kid, glanced anywhere but where Mark resided.
“Ah, yes, right.” Office management would take his mind off uncompleted tasks and unwanted Australian advances. “I’ve got some feedback forms from clients that need inputting so I can create this pivot table malarkey for the boss.” Mark rooted through his in-tray and tugged out a plastic folder, handing it over to Robert. “There’s a template on the shared drive under feedback, so just use that. I trust you know how to input data?”
Robert glanced down at the plastic wallet bulging of papers as if it was the sole culprit for murdering his grandmother, then set his disdainful expression on Mark, realising that there were two involved in her untimely death.
“Can’t you use SurveyMonkey?”
“I know people may say data input is something that a chimp can do, but I can assure you trained monkeys are rather lacking in these neck of the woods, and this will give some insight into the workings of our business.” Mark sighed. Kids these days. They think they can go straight to management pay grade without passing go but still collecting the two hundred paaand.
“No.” Robert rolled his eyes. “SurveyMonkey is an online software program. You can create surveys and stuff and it does all the working out for you. No need for pivot tables.”
Mark swivelled his chair from side to side, contemplating what the tiny child before him had said. He took it all in. It was good, solid information. Perhaps could be worth looking into. But Mark was the professional, here. Something he needed to maintain at least some pretence of. Tapping a biro to his lips, he hummed.
“Had problems with it before.” Mark twisted back to face his computer and waved a hand. “Handwritten forms are so much more reliable.”
“What if I can’t read their writing?”
“Make it up.” Mark clicked on the internet browser on his PC. “But be sure that it says ‘Mark, office manager, was delightful and helpful, the best customer service liaison we’ve ever encountered, ten out of ten.’” Mark winked.
“Huh.” Robert lifted the paperwork to read over the first one through the clear plastic wallet. “Guess your pivot charts show a slight favourable leaning, then.”
“My pivot tables are none of your business.”
“Bet they’re that fella’s though.” Robert raised his eyebrows and nodded to Mark’s computer screen.
Said screen was void of anything other than the bouncing logo that Google favoured this week.
“That’s not even a correct euphemism,” Mark snapped. “Nor a double entendre. You can work on your office banter while you type out ‘yes’ or ‘no’ into a box a hundred times over.” Mark gave off a rather serene smile then twisted back around in his seat. The chair broke its mid-week slump by springing into action and flopping down to the last rung. Mark’s hair fell back into his eyes with the rapid drop. He blew it away.
Fuck Wednesdays. Fuck work experience children. Fuck pivot fucking tables.
He peered over his shoulder, ensuring Robert was seated behind his desk and couldn’t see, then typed SurveyMonkey into the search box. He face-palmed and added another thing that could fuck off on a Wednesday. Or any day for that matter.
* * * *
Lunch time couldn’t come quick enough and on the stroke of twelve, Mark loc
ked his computer in case of prying eyes and made his way from the office to the High Street. Shoving in a ham sandwich from the supermarket, he grimaced. The bread was wet and the ham dry. He was pretty certain it was meant to be the other way around, but he didn’t ponder further as cheap sarnies were never worth stressing over.
There were only two places along the main High Street where he could get his hair cut. The Marsby Barbers, owned by a rather friendly Turkish gent called Zeke, that boasted glossy images of different styles and celebrity hair trends pasted on the bare walls. Although that would indicate Zeke could achieve the latest look, Mark had noticed that most clients came out with the exact same short back and sides, even the girls who ventured in on a whim. The only other option was the uber-trendy hair and beauty salon, Shimmer, owned by Janice, his mother’s best friend. Anyone who could make Mark’s elderly mother still rock the glam-gran look—not that she was a gran as Mark hadn’t procreated and she always made a point of mentioning that fact at every family gathering—was worth their weight in Marsby pink rock.
“Marky Mark! You come in?” Zeke poked his head out of the box-shaped barbers and ushered with both hands. “I do special today. I make you look bloody gorgeous!”
“Mark! How lovely to see you!” Janice clonked her heels onto the pavement and gave Zeke a glare. “We have a promotion on highlights.”
Mark glanced from one to the other. All he wanted was a bloody trim. Without giving Mark the time to reply to either, Janice curled her slender fingers around his arm and dragged him into the brightly lit Shimmer. He at least offered an apologetic shrug Zeke’s way. Janice was the lesser of two evils. The last thing he needed was it to get back to his mother that he’d snubbed her best pal. And at least in Shimmer he was able to listen to all the old dears chatting about the state of the High Street since Woolies had closed down—all whilst he enjoyed a head massage. Zeke didn’t offer those services—relaxing scalp scraping or placating his mother.
