by Tara Simon
Martin pads over to the corner of the room and pulls the projector towards himself, making sure it won’t fall off the table. “How do you even work it,” he murmurs, but soon finds the plug. He inserts it in the socket just as Luther wanders over. “Try this one,” Luther tells him.
Martin turns the reel in his hands several times before he’s got a sense for the shape of it and its use. He places it onto the spool, releases the bit of tape holding it closed and threads the film onto the slot.
“Are you sure it works like that?” Luther asks, eyes fixed on the reel, voice hushed and a little thready.
“I don’t see how else it can work,” Martin says, checking the film is securely latched onto the spools before turning the reel forward and back, working the film onto it. He makes sure to handle the reel carefully, not touching the film itself for fear of ruining it. “Try pulling that thing down.”
Luther does.
“Okay,” Martin says, “let’s turn it around and try and project this on the wall. It should work.”
The film is in black and white. It opens with a view of a canal somewhere. The stark greys at the bottom are pitted against the white of the clouds. The camera pans over a bridge, padlocks of different dimensions chained to the railing. A birds eye view of the structure is the next centre of focus, followed by a take of the padlocks chained to the railing.
The titles scroll across the bottom of the picture. They’re a bit faded because they’re projecting the image onto a wall and not a proper screen but Martin can still make them out. The first name to appear is Mab Jones. The one that pops after it is Alator Webster. The words Directed By Ygraine du Bois replace the name of the fourth cast member.
“My mum,” Luther says, stepping forwards, a hand outstretched. “My mum directed that.”
“Yes,” Martin says on a spent breath. He doesn’t think he has the courage to say anything more, not when Luther’s shoulders rise as if he’s bolstering himself for pain, not when his hands form into fists. “Yes, it seems she did.”
“Why didn’t my father say?” Luther asks, wiping at his face with his knuckles. “I don’t get it. He… This looks beautiful. Why didn’t he tell me she was so gifted?”
“I don’t know, Luther,” Martin says, taking Luther’s hand. “I don’t know.”
Luther pulls him to him by the shoulders and causes their chests to slam together. He fists Martin’s shirt, making a knot of a bunch of fabric. His shoulders rise and fall with the measure of his sobs. His cheek is wet with the tears Martin can’t see but knows Luther must be shedding.
Taking a breath and plunging headlong into this, Martin widens his arms and wraps Luther in them. There’s a lump in his chest, one that expands till it squeezes his lungs and heart out, and Martin can’t breathe and his heart pumps too fast, painfully so. But he doesn’t let himself cry, though he wants to. He wants to for Luther, or because of him and his pain, he’s not sure. Either way he just holds onto him and lets him stifle his cries on his shoulder.
Martin is running his hand down Luther’s back in what he believes are soothing motions, when the floorboards creak. Before he can blink, two policemen armed with batons have entered.
* * *
“Martin,” Gwen says, hugging him. “It’s been too long!”
“Two months,” Martin says, smiling into Gwen’s embrace. “You’re right, it’s been too long.”
“Martin,” Leon says, shaking his hand, “such a pleasure to see you!”
Gwen and Leon move on to Luther. They shake his hands and start updating him on their life. “Buying a house is such a pain. There are stamp duties and renovation fees to think about. It’s all so time consuming. Sorry for not keeping up with you these past few months.”
Next Martin greets Tristan, and gets introduced to his new girlfriend. She’s tall, brown-haired, her eyes a subdued green in the waning light. “Hi, I’m Sarah,” she says. “So glad to meet you, Martin.”
Luther and Martin move the couples’ luggage into the house. Gwen protests, says they oughtn’t. But Martin insists that as the owner, he should help them in. “I used to do this all the time for the B&B’s guests.”
When the luggage has been seen to, they all gather up in the lounge, where the Christmas tree is. Leon and Gwen take the sofa, their hands clasped. Sarah has the small armchair, and Tristan is perched on its arm. With all the available sitting places occupied, Martin sits on the carpet, cross legged, while Luther looms over him to the side, leaning against the mantelpiece.
“So what have you been up to?” Gwen asks.
“Nothing as exciting as you.” Martin rolls his shoulders into a shrug. “I’m not getting married.” He looks to Gwen and Leon. “And I haven’t started a new relationship, so no news I’d say.”
“Aw,” says Gwen, “we really ought to find you a date, shouldn’t we, Leon?”
Leon opens his mouth then shuts it when Luther says, “Martin’s old enough to find himself dates if he wants to.”
Martin’s head whips up. “Oh my, Luther agreeing with me. Is it Christmas already?”
“Oh, shut up, Martin.”
“It’s just…” Martin grins. “Let’s be honest here I was quite surprised to hear you defending me.”
“I take your side all the time!” says Luther. “Remember when Mr Jones thought you’d flooded the lab to avoid the chem test?”
“Oh that was ten years ago.”
“I sided with you when that old boyfriend of yours—” Luther squints, crosses his arms. “What was his name again, Elliott?”
“Edwin,” Martin supplies.
“Yes, with Edwig,” Luther says, “I supported you all the time.”
“Well, duh, you didn’t even like him to begin with.”
As Martin and Luther argue the point, Sarah bats her lashes and Gwen says, “Don’t worry, they’ve always been like that.”
“Yes,” Leon agrees. “When I first met Gwen, I was a little bit surprised, but now I’ve grown used to it.”
“So you all met…”
“Oh, way back when,” says Gwen. “Luther, Martin and I went to secondary together.”
Leon waves his fingers between himself and Gwen. “I met Gwen when I was in uni. I actually was Luther’s room-mate during our first year there.”
“Yeah,” Gwen says, patting his hand. “And then you came over.”
“But by then Martin and Luther already were great bickerers like that,” Leon says.
“We don’t always argue!” Martin protests. “Do we?”
“No,” Luther says, shaking his head from side to side, cheeks puffed. “We absolutely don’t. Martin and I get along absolutely fine.”
“We’re not questioning that,” says Gwen.
Leon says, “When Lin’s there—” He nods at Luther. “She’s Luther’s sister, it’s even worse.”
“Does she tease you a lot?” Sarah asks Luther.
“She likes to think she has something to tease me about,” Luther says, “but, of course she doesn’t. When she’s out of fodder, she latches onto Martin, though she’s insanely fond of him, so she’s much less blunt with him.”
“She’s never blunt with me!” Martin says.
“Not when she has you into pet dog mode.”
“I’m not her pet dog.” Martin scoffs.
“Most of the time she thinks you are.”
“She—”
Gwen interrupts them by clearing her throat. “So when is she coming?” She shares a look with Leon. “She’s coming, right?”
“Yeah,” Martin says, flipping through his texts. “She says… Gonna be there by the twenty-third.”
“Oh, that’s great,” says Gwen, hand on her heart.
“Yeah,” agrees Leon.
“Jacob will probably turn up tomorrow,” Martin says.
“Yes, you said he would come,” says Gwen, her hands around her throat. “I’m glad he is actually. I want to stay friends. He’s such a part…” She shares a look wi
th Leon. “We want to be friends with him.”
“Definitely,” says Leon.
Sarah seems to have been informed about the situation because she doesn’t question anyone about Gwen and Leon’s relationship to Jacob.
“So dinner,” Martin eventually says, picking himself up and clapping his hands together. “I’m afraid Luther and I forgot to go grocery shopping in favour of a literal trip down memory lane—”
“Come on, that ride was fun and totally worth starving for.”
“Yeah,” Martin says, looking down. “Yeah.”
“Are we really going to starve?” Sarah asks, goggling the littlest bit.
“We have lemon tartlets in the car,” Tristan says, elbowing Sarah jocularly. “Bought them on the motorway.”
“No need for those,” Martin says. “Luther and I can whip up something.”
“Why me? Luther asks. “Why aren’t you punishing them with your cooking stuff?”
Together, and despite protests, he and Luther make dinner for their guests. It’s not much. They steam some rice, bring out a few dips, and slice some bread they warm in the oven.
“I promise we’re going to have a proper dinner on Christmas day,” Martin says, to the evident relief of all those present.
Chapter 7
2002
Martin kicks his foot against the leg of the bench, ducks his head every time a uniformed policeman passes. When that happens, his face heats up and his stomach cramps. He feels positive they all know what he’s here for. And soon his mum will know too and he’ll read disappointment in her eyes. They must have phoned her, mustn’t they? So she’ll know by now. Unless they were too busy with major crimes. Crimes, oh god. He’s going to have a record. He palms his forehead.
Luther beside him is silent. His hands are folded in his lap, his lips pressed together. There’s a haunted look to his eyes, which are wet and a little bit blood shot. He hasn’t spoken in a while and Martin hasn’t tried to talk to him.
He keeps intending to, but doesn’t know how.
Though he’s likely to say something inane and not at all consolatory, he’s about to open his mouth, when Uther stalks up to them and says, “What is the meaning of this!”
Luther shoots up. “Father.”
“Luther,” Uther says, his mouth as tight as his son’s, “could you please explain why I got a call from the police saying you tripped an alarm!”
“It’s my fault,” Martin says, snapping to his feet right next to Luther. “Luther found a key, and it was to a flat you owned, and I thought I want to see it. And I convinced him to..”
Uther arches an eyebrow at him. “Martin, I appreciate your attempt at covering for my son, but I know this wasn’t you.” He looks over to Luther. “So, Luther, what have got you to say in your defence?”
“Nothing,” Luther says, head down. “I made a mistake, I’m sorry.”
Martin clenches his fists, bites his tongue till he can taste the copper on it. Then, blurts out, “He only did it because it was his mum’s place and he wanted to find out what she was like, because you won’t talk about her and that’s wrong.”
Uther’s gaze swivels onto him. For a second it’s flinty and it spears Martin through. Martin wants to die a little bit. He’d also be okay with it if the floor opened up and he could sink into it. Under Uther’s scrutiny his eyes start to sting and his face goes up in flames.
But then Uther puts a hand on his shoulder.“You’re a good friend, Martin, and you’re right. I ought to… I ought to have been a different kind of father.”
Luther starts. “Father…”
“Luther, I,” Uther turns towards his son. “Is what Martin’s saying true?”
“You never wanted to discuss her,” Luther says, eyes locked on the floor, spine curved. “I asked you and you never answered.”
A sob tears out of Uther. “Luther, I never meant to cause you pain. I meant to spare you.”
“Not knowing,” Luther says, lifting his gaze so that it meets his father’s, “is much worse.”
“God, Luther,” Uther says, pulling his son to his chest for a white-knuckled embrace.
Martin bows his head, till his chin grazes his chest, then ambles towards the stairwell. Nobody
stops him. Not that he thinks he’s suddenly become public enemy number one. He sits on the top stair. For a while he gawpes at stuff. Uniforms go up and down the stairs. A plains-clothes officer thunders down the stairs with a thick folder tucked under his arm while a couple of PCs haul in a skin head cursing a blue streak.
Martin places the heels of his hands at his temple. Fuck, he’s sharing breathing space with murderous skin-heads. He sniffles.
The weight of a hand lands on his shoulder, then Luther sits next to him. “Dad’s gone to confirm to Sergeant Bates that the flat’s his. We aren’t going to be charged. No need to worry, Martin.”
Martin does feel a bit better at that. His temples do stop pounding at least. But he gnaws his lips all the same. “My mum’s still going kill me.”
“I’ll explain,” Luther says, putting his hand on top of Martin’s. “Promise. You helped me. I’ll… I’ll do the same. Swear.”
“I know,” Martin says, failing at producing a smile. “She’s still going to murder me.” “She won’t,” Luther says. “First because I’m going to tell her that it’s all my fault—”
“Luther, I did it of my own free will, because it was important,” Martin says, licking his lips. “She’s not stupid. She knows I have a mind of my own.”
“And second because she’s a great lady, your mum. And she knows that to be a good mate sometimes you do stupid stuff…” Luther’s throat works. “But that doesn’t mean that that stuff isn’t appreciated.”
“Luther, you don’t—”
Luther plasters his hand across Martin’s mouth. It’s warm and dry, a ghost of pressure. His eyes gentle. “Nope, you’ve got to let me say it,” Luther says, smiling into his face, “that kind of stuff makes you a great mate, loyal, the bes—”
“Luther,” Uther says, jiggling his cars keys. “I’ve sorted everything out. We can go.” “We’re driving Martin home too, right?”
“No, Luther, I’m kicking him to the kerb after he’s come all the way to London to help you with your plan.”
“Sorry, Father,” Luther says, ducking his head.
“Thank you, Mr Harrison,” Martin says.
Uther descends two steps. “Well, let’s get going. I’ll call your mum from the car and explain to her that, though misguided, your actions were motivated by good intentions.” He fiddles with his keys some more. “Now let’s get going.”
* * *
The moan is deep and prolonged. Martin turns on his side, buries his head under the pillow. The next sound that pierces the quiet of his room is a bitten off scream. Martin grabs the other pillow and places it atop the first one. Surely, from under two, he shouldn’t be able to hear anything. But the creaking of a bed frame registers with him as does the rhythmic escalating panting.
