Rab vanished into a corner of the room, then with a loud click, burst into light, holding a hanging work-light plugged into a cable that snaked from the room. They looked up to see a vaulted cathedral-like ceiling.
“Wow,” said Stefan.
All around them were construction materials—industrial power tools, boards, planks, giant pails of neutral-coloured paint, and endless sheets of glass.
“What do you think they’re doing?” asked Rab.
“Something boring, no doubt,” quipped Calum.
“Should we wreck it?” asked Peter. Stefan looked at him, surprised. “Not the room, I mean, just their shite.”
Another light bobbed on the opposite side of the room. “Rab!” hissed Peter. “Kill the light!” A second later, the work-light switched off, along with each of their torches, and a new, larger torch-light bounced into the room. It faintly lit a private security guard.
“Who’s in here?” he demanded.
“He’s got a dog,” whispered Stefan.
“It’s just a little terrier,” said Calum.
“I’m going out past him,” said Rab. “You guys go back to the club.” Before they could reply, Rab jumped to his feet and yelled at the top of his lungs. The terrier barked madly and chased after Rab as he ran through the room, rushing by the security guard. The other three turned and ran back as fast as they could.
The darkness suddenly turned white for Stefan, and he fell backward to the ground. His face felt hot. It took him a moment to realise he’d run into a low-hanging piece of masonry. “Peter,” he called. A moment later, Peter was beside him, helping him up. They heard the man’s yelling and dog’s barking getting fainter as they moved further away after Rab.
Peter put his arm around Stefan and they made their way back to the club by the light of Peter’s small torch. Calum left the boards open, and neither he nor Iain were anywhere to be seen. Peter took Stefan to the toilet and dashed to the bar, returning with a bar-towel filled with ice. He found Stefan looking at his face in the mirror. The eyebrow above his right eye had already swollen to Cro-Magnon proportions and bled onto his shirt. “Here,” said Peter, handing him the ice. Stefan put it carefully to his head.
“I’m sorry for taking you down there. That was stupid,” said Peter. He moved Stefan’s hand to look at the damage. “Ouch.” He leaned over and gave Stefan’s forehead the lightest of kisses. Stefan pouted and pointed to his mouth. Peter kissed him on the mouth.
“Actually,” said Stefan, a smile creeping across his face, “that was kind of cool.”
“One more date,” said Peter. He led Stefan from the club. A block away, Stefan realised he still had the bar-towel. “Oh, they said you could keep that.”
“Did they really?”
“No,” said Peter. He led them across town, to the entrance to Calton Hill. “Come on,” he said.
“What for?”
“Our third date.”
Stefan wasn’t sure what he had in mind, but followed him. His head throbbed, but didn’t ache, as they climbed the steps and walked up to the small gathering of mock-Greek buildings there. Stefan was relieved Peter didn’t lead him back to the paths, but to a monument like the giant concrete urn of a titan. They sat on its base and looked up over the city, where a dirty plate of a moon rested in the sky, then looked out over the roofs, spires, arches, walls, and castle of the Old Town, over the blocky Georgian buildings of the New Town, then out to the cranes and bridges in the distance by the water of the Forth.
Stefan took Peter’s hand. “I think you’re okay,” he said.
“Yeah, you too,” said Peter, “I’m gonna ask my dad if I can keep you.” He kissed him. “That’s three dates.”
“I guess we can mess around now.”
“Your place is closer,” said Peter. “How’s your head?”
“Suddenly it’s feeling a lot better.”
“Brilliant. Think you can run?”
Stefan leapt up and grabbed Peter’s hand, pulling him up to his feet. They ran toward the moon, heading home.
Sixteen
Hobosexuals
An electric buzz pulled Stefan backward out of a dream. While trying to open his gluey eyes, he leaned over to hit the “Snooze” button on his alarm-clock.
“Ugh!” said a voice. Stefan’s eyes opened fully, and he saw Peter pinned beneath his elbow.
“Sorry,” whispered Stefan. Peter groaned and went back to sleep. Stefan studied him. His face was so simple like this, almost unrecognisable without some expression animating it.
He put his head down on the thin patch of hair in the middle of Peter’s chest. He felt uncomfortably unmanly, damsel-like, doing this, but he had the courage in that moment to surrender. The last time he could remember feeling so comfortable, he was in his mother’s arms. To his surprise, he missed her.
He lifted his head again and traced a finger down Peter’s chest. Peter laughed softly with his eyes closed and smiled. Stefan pulled the sheets down to look at the rest of him. It felt odd having this license with another man’s body, and he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. He lightly stroked Peter’s penis, which moved, more awake than its owner. Peter made a pleased noise. Stefan looked with curiosity at the extra skin Peter had there. He remembered his father telling him once in a swimming pool change room of Delonia’s horror when she learned that the doctors had circumcised her baby, according to the custom at the time in Canada.
He stroked Peter with more vigour, but, determined to keep sleeping, Peter wrapped his arms around Stefan and pulled him close to his chest to make him stop. Stefan sighed and fell asleep.
The clock buzzed again half an hour later, and Stefan turned it off. He remembered it was Friday and he was supposed to be at work. Peter told him to take the day off and he’d agreed, but he hadn’t informed the office about this.
He rolled from the bed and felt around for his shorts. He had trouble finding them: the curtains were drawn, the room was dark, and their undressing the night before was hurried. He turned on the lamp to see better, but had to look no further, as his underpants hung from the lampshade. He put them on—new ones would come after he’d had his shower, and he wanted Peter for that—and pulled on enough other clothes to go outside. After slipping his bare feet into his shoes, he tiptoed back to Peter, kissed him on the cheek, then went out.
He searched the street for a pay-phone, not having used them before, and found one three blocks away. It was a tall, clear plastic box like a soft drink fridge, covered in logos for the very company he was calling. He preferred the old-fashioned red telephone booths, but they were increasingly hard to find. After dropping in his money, he listened carefully, half-expecting to hear what Peter was dreaming, but smiled when he heard nothing but a dial-tone. He rang his line manager’s direct number and put on his best stuffed-nose voice.
He told her who it was, and said good morning. “You sound awful,” she said. He smiled: he still had it. A lorry rumbled by, and his smile dropped. Busted. “Where are you?” she asked.
He coughed and sniffed while strategising. He decided to go with the truth, but to make it sound pathetic. “I don’t have a phone. I had to go outside to find one.” He pinched himself under the nose until he sneezed.
“Get back home! Stay in bed all weekend, and come back on Monday if you’re feeling better.”
Staying in bed all weekend sounded just fine to him.
“When you come back, the Directors want to hear your report about that missing mobile. I saw someone from Tech go up to talk to them on Thursday. That’s a first! But don’t worry about that. Just get yourself better, and we’ll see you when we see you.”
“Thanks so much,” said Stefan. “Bye bye.” Horror crept over him as he wondered what the Directors had been told, and how much, if any, the Tech team saw of his intervention with Peter. His worry was soon replaced by an eagerness to get back to the flat.
The next two days were filled with conversation, naps punctuated with actu
al sleeping, sex, and the occasional foray into the kitchen area, where they scrambled to put meals together from the incompatible things on Stefan’s shelves. Their last meal attempt, “Mustard Rice”, was so unpalatable they decided it was time to go out. They treated themselves to a big meal that cost more than they intended to spend, then walked home in a light mist, holding hands whenever they cut through a close or a courtyard.
~
“No, no, no. I have to go,” said Stefan, tightening his tie as Peter tried again to pull him back toward the bed. When he got free of Peter’s grip, he sprang onto the bed and wrestled with him, taking advantage of his vulnerable naked opponent.
“Okay, go,” said Peter, pushing him away.
“Right. Okay. I’m going,” he said, heading for the door. “I am leaving. I’m going to leave now. When I leave, you’re not going to see me for hours and hours. Any last words you want to say to me?”
“Yes,” said Peter, “I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a while now.” He sat up in bed. “You’re out of milk.”
Stefan gave an exasperated sigh and left the flat. The whole ride to work, he wondered if people could tell he was in love. He felt himself grinning unconsciously. Did they see his “I’ve had sex” look? He didn’t care, he thought, yet he wanted everyone to know.
He looked at the other people on the bus. Their faces were long, expressionless. He supposed most of them were probably in relationships, but found it impossible to imagine them ever having sexual desires or romping naked.
This thing you have, he thought, it’s what you wanted, isn’t it? It was certainly something he’d wanted, he knew that. Every aquarium cleaner, escort, or anonymous clerk he’d pined for was nothing compared to the kinship he felt in Peter.
But it’s not salvation, is it?
That’s what he’d asked his father for. He’d heard Peter’s voice long before writing to his father. He had no doubt he was meant to meet Peter. His father’s plans facilitated their meeting but he didn’t suppose that was the whole plan. In love or no, he still had to go to work, to participate in an organisation whose workings and aims were completely foreign to him and which was indifferent to him. He recalled what he used to say in spite: “Romance is not salvation”. Now that he had a love for himself, he realised it was true, and that struck him as sad. Surely love was more than just a distraction encouraged by songs. He had no doubt it had the potential to change him. And it made him the happiest he’d been since childhood. But he still felt a responsibility to something bigger. Looking at the defeated faces of the other riders, he wondered if they’d shirked some responsibility of their own at some point. If they had love, were they even interested in it anymore?
He committed himself to being an exception to their rule. Peter was a wonder, and he would never forget it. And his work life... The thought of facing the Directors filled him with dread. He couldn’t imagine any way for his meeting with them to go well.
~
A cold draught and the musty smell of old, wet books pervaded the room. Stefan wasn’t sure if it came from the walls or from the Directors themselves.
“Your report,” demanded the tall director in the centre in a slow and careful tone.
“I believe the police have found the phone.”
“Yes. They have.”
“So that’s that, then.”
“The question, Mister Mackechnie, was as much about the keeper of the telephone as it was about its whereabouts.”
Stefan tried to deflect the scrutiny from himself. “When I left on Thursday, Tech looked like they were about to find whoever had the phone. Didn’t they?”
“No, they did not. The thief seemed to have been informed at the last moment. And yes, what is this I hear about you leaving your post without authorisation? I am afraid,” he turned to look at the other directors on either side of him, “we find that unacceptable. Combined with this fraud suspect managing to learn somehow about our investigation and then eluding you—I am afraid the whole situation has become untenable.” He leaned forward. Stefan was sure he heard an audible creaking noise. “I am afraid we’re going to have to send you to the workhouses.” The squat little director to his right leaned in and whispered something. “I am afraid,” corrected the director, “that we must terminate your employment here.”
“Oh,” said Stefan. He wasn’t surprised at the decision, though he was shocked to be fired for the first time in his life. “I guess I’ll go collect my things.”
“You have ten minutes to leave the building. Should you fail to vacate the premises, we will hunt you.”
“Right,” said Stefan. “Well, you all take care.” He started toward the door, but halted, and went to the window. “You know, it’s really stuffy in here. You really should have more light.” He tore open the heavy drapes, letting in a wide column of white sunshine. As he left, he heard the directors shrieking.
~
Stefan frantically scrolled through the orange screens of data, deleting line after line of information about the stolen mobile.
“What’s up?” asked his line manager.
“Oh,” he said, startled, “just tidying up,” he answered, turning off the screen.
“And the cardboard box?”
“Ah, well, it’s not really working out for me here. The Directors and I decided it would be best if I left.”
“Oh.” Over the manager’s shoulder, Stefan saw a squad of people in beige uniforms running toward the Directors’ offices, carrying fire blankets and buckets of sand.
“I guess I should get going. Thanks for all your help.” More beige figures headed in his direction. Stefan dropped his cardboard box. “Bye!” he said, and ran.
~
“What am I going to do?” asked Stefan.
Peter turned around on the bed, shifting the bills and bank statements. “I don’t know, Ste.”
Stefan searched his flat. “There’s got to be something here I can sell. I’ve got to make rent.”
“What about this CD player?”
“It plays okay, but it’s cracked.”
“Hm,” said Peter, and continued looking around the bed. He picked up a small box made of near-black mahogany, covered in tiny etched patterns. “What about this?”
The Voice Box. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“Why? What is it?”
“It’s something my mother gave me before I left. A Voice Box.”
“What?” Peter turned it around and examined it. “What’s it do?”
“No idea. I think it must be pretty valuable. But I don’t know if I can sell it. See, my mother is a singer. She’s kind of famous. And I used to do voices for cartoons and commercials and stuff, so we kind of had this voice thing between us. She said I should open it when I’ve had a change of heart.”
“You shouldn’t sell it then.”
“I guess it is just an object. And it might get a good price. But selling it—”
“Hey, I know! Pawn it. There’s this shop I used to go to as a kid, if it’s still there. Miserable bastard owned it. We used to take in stuff we’d got a hold of, and sometimes he’d buy it. We could bring your box there and pawn it, then you can get it back when you’ve got the dosh again.”
Stefan took the box from him. It didn’t feel right, but he decided he had no other choice.
~
“It’s from Peru, Mister Kreel,” said Peter to the pawn-shop owner. Kreel pulled up the sleeves of his patched green cardigan, took the box, and held it to the light. His eyes were far apart; he had to show the box to one eye, then the other.
Stefan looked at Peter. Peru? he mouthed. Peter winked.
“It’s something very rare called a Voice Box,” continued Peter.
“What’s it do?”
“You can,” he leaned on the counter and waved a hand at the object while he searched his mind for an explanation. One popped into his head as he looked at it. “You can carry a song in this box. When someone needs that song most, the box op
ens up and makes everything better.”
The shop-keep looked closer at it. Peter turned to Stefan and shrugged.
“How do ah open it?”
“Well, that’s the trick, isn’t it? You have to be the one who’s meant to hear it. Besides, you’re not exactly in trouble, are you?” He leaned back. “It’s a kind of puzzle. I don’t know if you could work it out.”
Kreel grumbled. “How much d’yeh want for it?”
“How much are you willing to offer?”
“How much d’yeh want?”
“Three hundred quid.”
Kreel laughed and handed the box back.
“Two hundred pounds,” said Stefan.
Kreel smacked his lips as if chewing cold porridge. “One-fifty.”
Stefan sighed. That wouldn’t pay his rent. It was something, though. “Okay.”
Kreel went to a small safe behind him and pulled open its two-inch door. From a heavy canvas bag, he took a roll of money and peeled off some bills. He closed the safe and handed Stefan the money. With great difficulty, he penned a number onto each half of a perforated ticket, and tore one half off for Stefan.
“Thank you,” said Peter, putting an arm around Stefan and leading him out of the shop. Stefan looked at the ticket in his hand, and the shaky numbers on it like characters of a foreign script.
“Don’t worry,” said Peter, “we’ll get it back in no time.”
But Stefan was worried. He looked back into the shop, watching Kreel shake the box then put it to his ear.
~
Autumn had arrived. Stefan walked through the town, as he had done each day for the past week to pass the time. Today, he finally put his finger on what the change was. It came on so slowly it was barely perceptible. But now he saw it: the colour was gone. Every surface had been leached of its hue, from the sky to the rough brick of the buildings to the earth. The city was an antique stereoscope picture and he was inside it.
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