Thirteen Stops

by Sandra Harris

  “Well, this is me here anyway.” Jamie gathered up his bouquet of flowers and the little backpack he brought in to work with him every day, containing bottles of water, deodorant, his lunch. “Beechwood. It’s been nice talking to you.”

  He meant it too. It had been weird unburdening himself to a total stranger like that, but in a strange way it was kind of cathartic as well. Maybe he should sign up for a series of counselling sessions or something. He’d had a lifetime of bottling things up and he felt like he still had a load of things to get off his chest.

  “And you,” said the large man easily. “My name’s Luke, by the way.” He extended a huge weathered paw for Jamie to shake.

  “And I’m Jamie. Where are you off to yourself?”

  “Oh,” said Luke, shrugging massive shoulders, “wherever this yoke takes me, I suppose.” He saw Jamie looking at him curiously and went on: “I ride this thing all day sometimes. It gets me out and about, meeting people.”

  “Do you have a ticket?” Jamie asked him, knowing already what the answer would be.

  “D’you know something?” said Luke with a grin, yawning and stretching comfortably before resettling himself in the window-seat formerly occupied by Jamie. “I never think about these things.”

  I bet you don’t, you old fare-dodger, you, thought Jamie, grinning to himself as he disembarked and started up the road to Burton Drive.

  No smell of cooking wafted his way when Jamie put his key in the lock and opened the front door. Ah well, he thought, no change there then. (Chris and Julie wouldn’t be back yet and Philippa, who often wrote her magazine articles from home, was probably saving herself for her usual Friday night dinner out with her boyfriend, Michael. Still, he’d hoped that Callum might have bestirred himself to throw something together as it was Friday, the start of the weekend, but why change the habits of a lifetime?) Jamie went straight to the kitchen, knowing that there was zero chance of bumping into Callum there, and filled a vase from under the sink with tap water. He artfully arranged the flowers he’d bought in the vase and placed them on the kitchen table. They looked lovely. Flower-arranging was another little talent of his that his father hadn’t appreciated.

  “What are you, lad, a fucking sissy or something, a nancy boy?” he’d roar whenever he caught Jamie trying to pretty up the place up a bit.

  Jamie had never responded. He’d bitten his lip and flushed like mad, but he’d never responded verbally, and even that had got his father’s goat big-time.

  “Stand up for yourself, boy!” he’d bellow while shoving Jamie in the chest till he fell backwards onto the floor. “Don’t just sit there on your arse like a fucking big girl’s blouse, fucking do something, will ya!”

  But Jamie, paralysed by fear, had never given his father the response he’d been seeking, and his father had in turn responded to his son’s lack of reaction by upping the bullying. By God, but the old man wouldn’t tangle with him these days, Jamie often told himself grimly. Jamie was gym-fit now, and bulky and broad-shouldered to boot. The old man wouldn’t know what hit him if he went for the Jamie of today. Jamie thought of his father every single time he put flowers in a vase, every time he bought a little painting or an ornament or put soft fluffy cushions on his bed or on the couch. His father’s taunts and insults rang resoundingly in his ears at these times. Jamie was a real man. He was. Liking things like comfy cushions and flowers that gave off a lovely scent didn’t make him any less of a man. How could it?

  Jamie dug the takeaway menu out of the drawer and phoned the number on the brochure. He ordered a Chinese meal for two for half an hour’s time. That would give him enough time to shower and change and get ready for the surprise. But first he’d look in on Callum. His boyfriend was predictably sprawled on the couch watching some rubbishy gameshow. The duvet from their bed, the one with the lovely flowery patterned cover on it, was crumpled on the floor beside him. That set Jamie’s teeth on edge straightaway. He’d spent good money on that duvet (and the cover!), and here was Callum treating it like an old dishcloth. Still, he reminded himself sternly, things and possessions didn’t matter. It was people who mattered. He wasn’t going to start a world war over something as inconsequential as a silly flowery old duvet cover. He could always get another one from somewhere if he was that bothered about it.

  “How was your day, babes?” Jamie said as brightly as he could.

  Callum looked at him and shrugged.

  Jamie tried again. “Well, what did you do?”

  Again the shrug, the bored look. Callum put out a languid hand (like Oscar Wilde on a bloody chaise-longue, thought Jamie) as if to indicate the television and duvet and say: “What the fuck d’you think I’ve been doing?”

  Jamie hated it when Callum was sarcastic. He had a very cutting tongue on him for one so young. “Well, any joy on the job front?” Jamie made his voice sound as cheerful as possible so that Callum wouldn’t think the question was a big deal.

  “What do you think?” Callum yawned hugely. “Is there anything to eat? I’m bloody starving.”

  Fighting back his irritation, Jamie said: “I’ve ordered us a Chinese takeaway for half an hour’s time.” And guess who’ll be paying for it, as per usual, he wanted to add, but didn’t.

  “Half an hour?” groaned Callum. “I’m starving now!”

  “I suppose it would never occur to you to go in the kitchen and cook something yourself,” Jamie snapped, suddenly unable to contain his temper. Then he could have kicked himself when Callum recoiled as if he’d been struck.

  “You know I’m no good at that domestic goddess stuff. You know perfectly well that you’re better than me at all that kind of thing.”

  “Well, like I said, I could teach you how to make a few simple dishes,” Jamie said placatingly, sitting down beside Callum and putting his arms around him. “It might be fun.”

  Callum said nothing, just turned up the volume on the TV.

  Jamie sighed inwardly, then he got up. “Well, I’m off to have a shower and change, so. Anyone else in the house?”

  “Only Philippa, I think.” Callum yawned hugely again. “The others aren’t home yet.”

  “Right. Would you listen out for the door then while I’m in the shower? The money’s on the table.”

  “Okay.” Callum sighed as if it were too much trouble to even contemplate, but he’d do it if he absolutely had to.

  Greatly irritated now, Jamie headed upstairs. He loved Callum so much, but lately he was starting to feel like the harassed parent of Kevin the Teenager from The Fast Show rather than a man in his mid-twenties in a relationship with another man in his mid-twenties, in an equal partnership in which both men should be bringing something to the table. It had been a while since Callum had brought anything to the table but sulkiness and an unwillingness to face up to any unpleasant realities. And, God, he was so bloody sensitive these days!

  Jamie heard the toilet flushing and then the bathroom door opened. It was Philippa. She was wrapped in a towel and her hair was covered turban-style with another towel. They each greeted the other with a ‘Hello, stranger’ apiece as they hadn’t seen much of each other that week.

  “We’re having a Chinese in a bit,” Jamie offered out of politeness. “You’re more than welcome to join us if you’d like?”

  She demurred, as he’d known she would. “What? And play gooseberry to the two lovebirds all night?” she teased. “Nah, you’re all right. Michael’s coming round later to take me out to dinner. We’ve got a table booked at the Taj Mahal for around half-nine.”

  “Long way to go for a bit of grub,” Jamie joked feebly, but Philippa laughed just the same.

  “I’ll see you guys later,” she said. “I’m off to make myself ravishingly beautiful for Michael and to see if I can squeeze in a quick couple of episodes of Game of Thrones before he gets here.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Jamie.

  When they’d parted ways, Jamie rather distractedly took a shower, his mind on Callu
m. He didn’t want to be too hard on the poor guy. Maybe Callum was depressed. Unemployed people got depressed, didn’t they? Sometimes they even got suicidal. Maybe he really was just depressed. Or maybe he’s just a lazy, selfish little bollocks who’s perfectly happy to laze around the house all day while you go out to work to pay the rent and bills for the two of you, said the spiteful little voice from somewhere deep down inside him that he tried but failed to ignore. Certainly Callum had been down in the dumps and impossible to please lately, but Jamie didn’t think it was because he’d been let go from his job at the phone shop. Jobs in phone shops were ten-a-penny nowadays. You could always get another one if you really wanted to, probably within a day or two if you shifted your arse. But Callum doesn’t really want to, does he, went that spiteful little voice again. And the reason he’s so sulky and moody all the time now is because that’s his true personality, the one he was hiding from you at first, but now he’s hooked you so he doesn’t have to try as hard any more.

  Shut up, shut up, shut up, Jamie told his inner voice as he quickly showered and washed his hair. Well, it felt good to be clean again anyway. Working in a men’s clothing shop in town was hardly the equivalent of going down a coalmine or up a chimney, but he was still surprised at how grubby he felt at the end of a day. It was probably working in town that did it. Town could be such a filthy place to spend any length of time in. He dressed himself in a dark-blue tracksuit with a clean white T-shirt underneath, towel-dried his short, spiky gingery hair (try being gay and ginger-haired in a school like his old one!), which was so short it dried in minutes, and went downstairs, full of the joys again after casting off the grime and dust of the day. Okay, so Callum was being a little difficult, but it was nothing the two of them couldn’t work out between them. They loved each other after all, didn’t they? His phone rang in the pocket of his tracksuit pants as he reached the hall.

  “Hello, I’m outside your house with your food delivery,” said an angry foreign voice.

  “Why didn’t you ring the doorbell?”

  “I’ve been ringing and knocking for ten bloody minutes!”

  “For fuck’s sake, that’s Callum’s fault,” muttered Jamie as he hurried to answer the door.

  Once he had the food set out on plates in the kitchen, he went to the sitting-room where Callum was still lying on the couch, watching his gameshow with the volume on high.

  “Didn’t you hear the door?” Jamie demanded. “Driver said he’d been knocking and ringing for ages.”

  Callum shrugged. “I might have heard something, but I thought you or Philippa might get it.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Callum! Philippa’s in her bedroom with her door shut and her hairdryer and her telly on.” All the irritable feelings from before his shower were bubbling up inside Jamie again. “And I was in the shower. I told you to listen out for the door, didn’t I? And anyway,” he added indignantly, “why should Philippa have to listen out for our delivery guy? It’s our food, isn’t it? And I specifically asked you to listen out for it.”

  “What’s the big deal?” said Callum. “Food’s here now, isn’t it? Why don’t you bring it in here and we’ll have it in front of the telly? It’ll be nice and cosy, just the two of us.”

  Oh, will it now, thought Jamie darkly, but he bit back the retort for the sake of peace, which after all was the only thing that mattered, and went to get the food. They watched Coronation Street together and ate their takeaway. The food was surprisingly good after all the fuss, and even Callum seemed to brighten up once he’d eaten every scrap on his plate.

  He cuddled up to Jamie after they’d pushed their plates away from them and said: “I’m feeling horny now, what about you?”

  Jamie laughed and patted his stomach. “Well, I don’t know about horny, but I’m definitely feeling fat, after that little lot.”

  “Are you sure you’re not the least bit horny?” Callum teased, running his fingers up and down Jamie’s inner thighs.

  “Well, maybe a little bit.” Jamie found he was responding, despite himself, to Callum’s caresses. He gasped when Callum kissed him full on the mouth while cupping his crotch. He relaxed into the kiss and allowed Callum’s clever fingers to work their magic.

  “Hey, what’s this?” said Callum, his hand on the outside now of Jamie’s tracksuit pocket. “Is this a gun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?”

  “It’s just my phone. Don’t stop what you were doing there. Keep going.”

  “I know what your phone feels like,” said Callum, giggling, “and this definitely doesn’t feel like your phone. Here, what’s this?” He shoved his hand deep into Jamie’s pocket and pulled out the contents, a small midnight-blue velvet jewellers’ box of the kind that normally contains only one thing.

  “Don’t open that, please, Callum,” pleaded Jamie, trying to yank back the box. “It was meant to be a surprise for later. Please, Callum, give it back!”

  But Callum had already opened the box and taken out its contents. He stared wide-eyed at the delicate gold ring set with three tiny diamonds. On its inside was inscribed the words: Marry me, Callum. He stared at the ring and then at Jamie and then back at the ring again.

  “Oh fuck,” he said.

  STOP 10: RANELAGH

  Philippa and Nicola

  “Please move down the tram,” said the automated female voice and, as usual, no one obliged.

  Philippa boarded the Luas at Beechwood with her little weekend bag, paying the fare with her Leap card. She couldn’t wait to get to Nicky’s and tell her about everything that had gone on in the house the night before. There had been murder in the place. Philippa had never seen anything like it. It was fucking mayhem. She’d been in her room with her glass of Friday-night wine, watching an episode of Game of Thrones to pass the time till Michael came to pick her up and take her out to dinner. She was engrossed in her programme when suddenly she became aware of shouting down in the front hall. She muted the sound on her little television and listened. Yes, there was definitely shouting, and it was coming from the front hall.

  Still in her dressing-gown – she wasn’t putting her new top and trousers on until the last minute in case she spilt red wine on them – which had happened before so it wasn’t like she was being overly careful – she went to the stairs and peeped down. To her surprise it was Jamie – smiley, easy-going optimistic Jamie – who was doing all the shouting. He was yelling at Chris, who was standing in the hall with his coat on, looking as though he’d just come in. Chris’s girlfriend Julie was sitting at the bottom of the stairs crying, while Callum was standing behind Jamie, trying to pull him away from Chris. Philippa furrowed her brow. What the fuck was going on here?

  She’d hurried down the stairs to join her four housemates, carefully stepping around Julie at the bottom, and said, “What’s up, guys? What’s all the shouting about?”

  “Ask him,” Jamie replied angrily, shoving Chris in the chest so that he fell backwards against the front door.

  “That one’s on the house, Jamie mate,” Chris warned, “but you’re paying for the next one. You’re getting a pasting if you try that again.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Jamie,” Philippa said, coming to stand between the two men, who were about equally matched in height and size, “what’s this all about? What’s Chris done?”

  “He’s been having it away with Callum behind my back!” Jamie said, glaring furiously at Chris, who glared back. “Callum’s just admitted it to me. And after I’ve just fucking proposed to him and all.”

  Callum looked down at the ground, shamefaced, saying nothing. For the first time, Philippa noticed the little velvet ring-box in Jamie’s left hand. Aghast, her hand flew to her mouth as she looked from one to the other, Jamie to Chris and back again.

  “Is this true, Chris?” she asked her housemate, who just shrugged sulkily and looked away, as if it were nothing to do with him.

  There was a loud sob from Julie on the stairs. Philippa turned and looked
at her properly. She was in an awful state. Tears and snot streaked her face and she looked as if she’d had the rug properly yanked out from under her. Which she had. Chris and Callum? Philippa was appalled. No wonder Julie was in bits. She decided to take charge of the situation.

  “Right.” She held out a hand to Julie. “I’m taking Julie into the kitchen to make her a hot sweet cup of tea. If you lads want to continue the argy-bargy, at least do it in the sitting-room, okay? If the neighbours hear the two of you shouting blue murder in the hall like that, they’ll call the Guards and the landlord will turf us all out, okay?”

  “I’m not discussing anything any more,” Chris said defiantly. “I’m going upstairs for a shower.”

  “Oh no, you’re not,” Jamie said, grabbing at the sleeve of Chris’s jacket. “You’re staying down here so we can sort this out.”

  “There’s nothing to sort out,” said Chris, angrily pushing Jamie’s hand away. “It only ever happened the once. I don’t know why you’re making such a big fucking deal out of it.”

  “You liar!” wailed Callum. “It was way more than just the once. You even said you loved me.”

  “Oh fuck off, you whingy little faggot!” Chris elbowed his way past the group in the hall and headed for the stairs.

  Jamie made as if to pull him back.

  “Let him go, Jamie,” Philippa said warningly, surprised at how firm and assertive her voice sounded. “Give everyone a chance to cool down. You and Callum take the sitting-room. Go on now, away with the pair of you – shoo!”

  To her surprise, they did what she said after a moment’s hesitation. Chris disappeared off upstairs and almost immediately the little group that had been left downstairs heard the shower running. A devastated-looking Jamie went into the sitting-room, followed by Callum. Philippa closed the door behind them but then decided to leave it slightly ajar, so she could hear them in the case of further emergencies.