"Oh, Dad, I woke up, and I couldn't stay there. What's the matter with Chris? He's in his room, isn't he? I heard him. Mum, I think he's crying."
"Oh, God!" she blurted, and shot from the room. Neil looked after her, then turned to his father. He was an engaging boy of fourteen, freckled, nice-looking in a nondescript way, not always spotless, and possessed of an impish sense of humour. Now his face was very serious. "Has something terrible happened to Chris, Dad?" he asked, his real anxiety showing clearly.
"N..." Robert Rowe hesitated. "Not terrible, perhaps, Neil. But something pretty bad. Can it wait till the morning?"
"I wouldn't sleep, Dad, you know I couldn't, not not knowing. I'm not tired, honestly. You'd better tell me," he said in an oddly grown-up voice, and his father had an eerie feeling that he was hearing Neil in twenty years, as he might then be speaking to his own children. My grandchildren. I shan't have any by Chris, he thought involuntarily. He shivered slightly, as if someone had walked over his grave. "You'd better wait till your mother gets back from Chrissie," he said, a little gruffly. Neil nodded simply, and sat down to wait.
Audrey returned after a few minutes, distressed. "He's all right," she muttered, answering two anxious faces. "I've given him something to make him sleep, poor darling. As for you, Neil, out you go. Bed," she said imperiously. "Oh, Mum," he said urgently.
She began to shoo him towards the door, helping him with a slap on his pyjama-striped bottom. "I told him to stay, love," said Robert, a little apprehensively. She raised her eyebrows. "Oh?"
"He's worried about what's happened to Chrissie, and I said he ought to know, if it's going to keep him up worrying about it. I said he'd have to wait until you got back."
Her expression softened. "All right, Neil. You'll have to know, and sooner rather than later. Bob, can we have a drink?" And, at about the same moment as Dr Lane, a mile and a half away across the town, was making a last pot of tea, Bob Rowe went to the sideboard and poured two large drinks, eyeing the damage done to his scotch by the babysitting policewoman, and firmly refusing his younger son's pleas to have just a little scotch in his dry ginger.
"So what's all the mystery, Dad?" asked Neil seriously when they were all settled. His father paused long before he answered, wondering what was the best form of words to use to explain something that would be, he was certain, wholly out of his son's ken. He decided in the end that the best way was the simplest and most direct.
"Neil, old fellow, this is going to be a bit of a shock. Your brother is not quite like most of us. He's... well, the point is, he's - er - gay."
There was a moment's echoing silence, in which the two parents' apprehension gathered and swirled in the room. It was broken by Neil, who spoke in a transparently genuine tone of puzzled surprise. "Is that all?” he said.
***
The only telephone available to the boys at Jamie's school was in the foyer, just inside the great main entrance. Jamie sidled up to it during his morning break the following day, trying to look in all directions at once, ready to vanish through the door into the front drive if anyone, and especially Dr Lane, appeared. No one was about. He was trembling all over, and could feel his heart pounding, as he cautiously lifted the receiver and dialled Christopher's number. Christopher's mother answered. Jamie gently put the receiver back in its cradle and swore virulently under his breath as he fled into the drive and made his way circuitously back to the quadrangle. There he wandered, solitary and pining for the briefest sound of the beloved voice until the bell summoned him to the next period.
There was no time during the remainder of that day when he was not conscious of being watched. Dr Lane had no specific idea what Jamie might do. The two boys had been given no chance to come face to face throughout their ordeal at the police station the previous night, and Lane knew that Christopher would have been given the same orders to make no attempt at contact as he himself had had to give Jamie; but, knowing the intensity of their feelings for each other, he had a suspicion that the boy might be harbouring some notion of absenting himself in order to try to meet Christopher. Therefore, giving no reasons beyond saying that the boy had extreme problems in his home life, he had issued quiet instructions to the entire staff to keep Jamie under discreet observation until further notice.
"If he does anything at all untoward," he had concluded at that morning's staff meeting, "I don't want him approached, unless he appears to be actually leaving the premises. But I do want anything - absolutely anything - odd reported to me immediately. Interrupt me whatever I may be doing at the time. And report to me alone." The staff looked at each other and speculated among themselves afterwards, but they asked no questions as they left the common room to take their places on the platform for assembly. Afterwards Lane assembled the prefects in their den and issued the same instructions to them.
In consequence his use of the telephone in the morning break was seen and reported, but no other action was taken. When the prefect who had noticed the incident informed him Dr Lane wondered briefly whether to summon Jamie and tax him with it, but decided that it would be unfair to put the boy in a position in which he would in all probability feel compelled to tell lies. Lane knew that he was a truthful boy, who would be reluctant to lie, especially, he thought, to him; but he had no doubt that where anything to do with Christopher was concerned he would lie without hesitation if he had to, and cope with his conscience later. So he filed the information away and awaited events.
Jamie thus passed the day, frustrated, oppressed with a great burden of anxiety for his friend and half out of his mind with pining for him and, increasingly, angry. He had become extremely fond of the Lanes, and he was more than mature enough to realise the debt of gratitude he owed them. But his sense of logic was too much at odds with his emotions for him to be altogether rational, and as the day passed his feelings of anger and bitterness intensified. In class he was preoccupied, answering absently and often failing even to hear when he was addressed. The masters, with their chief's sulphurous warnings about upsetting him in mind and, in any case, seeing the grief and distraction clearly in his face and his demeanour, considerately avoided noticing.
Back in the schoolmaster's house that evening the telephone was out of the question, for Edith requested him, kindly but in terms that brooked no argument whatever, as soon as he got in from afternoon school, that he must on no account try to make contact with Christopher. "I know you miss him dreadfully, dear," she said, feeling an intense pity at his woebegone expression, "but you really must be obedient about this. It would get you and all of us into the most awful trouble. And Christopher too, for that matter. Perhaps him most of all." She put an arm round his shoulders and gently stroked his hair and neck; but he wriggled angrily out of her embrace and fled, half crying, to his room, where he went through the motions of attending to his preparation. Masturbating a couple of times during the evening gave him some small relief as he day-dreamed of Christopher, naked and beautiful on the old blanket in the fishing place. But he had to come back to the grim reality of the present, and the consolation was short-lived.
The Lanes were especially kind and indulgent when he emerged for dinner, keeping up one-sided conversation and trying to ignore his distraction, but they were relieved when he announced that he didn't feel very well and would have an early night. Soon after that the Lanes also, tired and suffering emotional overload from the traumas and very late hours of the previous night, went to bed themselves and quickly fell into the deep sleep of exhaustion.
Jamie lay sleepless until he heard the grandmother clock in the hall downstairs striking two in the morning, when he judged it safe at last to put into effect the plan that had been dimly shaping itself in his mind from the moment he realised he was not going to be allowed to make contact by phone. Slipping out of bed, he went to the wardrobe and groped in the darkness for his holdall. He found the tee-shirt, jeans, pullover, trainers and torch that he had stowed there and dressed silently and rapidly. Then he eased the b
edroom door open and crept downstairs. His heart palpitated when he kicked the telephone table in the hall, and he had to endure few minutes' delay while he listened with his heart in his mouth, sitting on the stairs listening for movement from upstairs, in case the slight thump and scraping sounds had been heard.
When he was sure it was safe, he groped his way into the kitchen. Once he had the door pushed to he felt safe to switch on his torch, and this got him without mishap to the back door of the house. With infinite care he drew back the bolt, turned the key and eased the door open, remembering at the last moment to switch off the torch lest the slightest glimmer of light might be seen from above. He slipped through the door and then took an age to ease the door closed again,
pulling it tight against the jamb before letting the tongue ever so slowly back into its socket. Trembling and sweating hard from fear of being caught breaking out, he stood for a minute or two to calm himself. Then, keeping to the shadows, he moved silently and cautiously into the trees that lined the approach to the house. It took him several minutes to gain the cover of the trees and the darkness. Only when he was closer to the gates than to the house did he venture to put on his torch. Then he ran.
***
Christopher sat up in bed, instantly wide awake. He had hardly slept, and when he had dropped off it was only into a fitful doze, induced more by exhaustion than by normal need to sleep. The sound that had roused him had been almost infinitesimally small, but it had been enough in his state to bring him to complete wakefulness. He sat, wondering what it could have been, and after a few seconds it was repeated as a handful of earth made a soft pattering sound against his window pane. His heart contracted and he went cold. There was only one person who could possibly be trying to wake him in the middle of the night in such a stealthy manner. (Jamie, in the time-honoured way of lovers, had early on demanded to know which curtains hid the room his beloved slept in.) He felt for the cord above the head of his bed and switched on the light, then instantly shut it off again, to show that he had heard. Then he got out and padded silently to the window and opened it, feeling his blood go cold when it made a slight creak.
He looked down into the back garden. There was no moon, but the stars were casting a faint glimmer of light by which he could just make out a figure and a pale blur of a face. For a fraction of a second a torch shone, then was instantly extinguished. His heart raced. He slipped into his clothes as quickly as he could in silence, then crept downstairs, taking very much the same meticulous pains to keep silent as Jamie had done half an hour earlier. In the hall he felt in his pocket for his front door key, then slipped round the house to the back.
Jamie was waiting for him at the corner of the building. They fell into each other's arms and held one another, crushing the breath out of each other, making no sound but saying an infinity of things by the mere desperation of their embrace.
After several minutes had fled by, Christopher whispered into Jamie's ear. "Come on, we've got to get away from the house. You shouldn't have come here, you know that. We'd get into frightful trouble."
"I had to come, Chris," whispered Jamie.
"Come on," hissed Christopher. He disengaged himself from Jamie's arms and took his hand. He led him to the bottom of the garden. "There's a shed," he whispered. Jamie curled his fingers round Christopher's hand and followed him trustingly. Christopher halted where a patch of deeper blackness stood against the faint star-shimmer, and fumbled with a latch. There was a faint creak and a groan, and Christopher bundled Jamie hastily into an even deeper darkness. It smelt faintly of earth, must and old sacks.
He drew the door to after them, and then said softly "You can put your torch on now. There's no windows." Jamie switched it on, and shone it somewhere to one side of Christopher's face. He looked lovingly for a few moments on the familiar face, pale and haggard from torment and lack of sleep. Then he flashed the beam about, found a shelf behind him and laid the torch on it, and hurled himself into Christopher's arms once more. "Oh, Chris," he breathed.
It was a very long embrace, but eventually Christopher prised Jamie away. "We've got to talk," he said in an urgent whisper. Jamie put an arm round his waist. "As long as I can still hold you," he said.
"Look," whispered Christopher. "You mustn't come here again like this. You do realise that, don't you?"
Jamie whimpered. "Do you mean," he gulped, "do you mean that I can't... can't see you again?"
"Not for a bit," said Christopher, though his heart turned to lead as he said it. "You know it'll get us into terrible trouble - even more trouble than we're in already. Well, I'm in, anyway..."
"Oh, God, Chris," moaned Jamie softly, "please don't be angry with me. I couldn't bear not to see you. I won't get you into trouble, I promise. I promise..." His voice began to rise hysterically.
"Shh, quiet, for Christ's sake," breathed Christopher, with the beginnings of panic in his voice also. "Jamie, my darling, I'm not angry. I know how you've felt. It's breaking my heart too, but we've got to sort things out first. I'm in awful trouble. You know that."
Jamie clutched him. "You don't love me any more, Chris," he said, bleakly in the darkness.
"Of course I love you, Jamie, my sweetheart," Christopher said desperately. He put his arms round Jamie, but he pulled himself free, panting and sobbing, and turned towards the door of the shed. "You don't love me, I know you don't..." He began to scramble at the door.
Christopher seized him and hauled him roughly back. "Jamie, I love you, more than ever. Please, please believe me." He threw his arms round him again, and this time Jamie allowed him to hold him. But the vibrancy had all gone from him, and he felt passive and unresponding. Christopher kissed him, but he turned his face to one side, and the kisses found only a cheek, streaming with silent tears. Christopher, frantic, stroked the back of his head and neck, and they stood like that for minutes. At last, to Christopher's unspeakable relief, he felt a small beginning of response. "Jamie, my dearest," he said in anguish, "I love you, I do love you. More than ever, I promise you. Please don't desert me, I couldn't bear that. Not now, when I need you more than I ever did."
Jamie stirred in his arms, and Christopher felt a kiss on his cheek. He thought that nothing would ever be such a relief in his life again, not if he was snatched back from the brink
of death itself. He buried himself in Jamie's hair and kissed the top of his head. The same small kiss came again on his cheek, then another, and then a cascade of them. More time passed.
After a while they sorted out some sacks and sat down, twining their legs together and cuddling as best they could in a sitting position in the cramped space they had. When the first flood of passion had ebbed a little they began to talk. Christopher, in terror of frightening Jamie into another abyss of panic, whispered urgently to him, saying that they mustn't meet in such circumstances. "It's just too risky, for both of us. If they found out we'd even spoken on the phone they might... they might do anything. They might take you away, I don't know, make you a ward of court or something. God knows what they can do."
"But what can we do?" pleaded Jamie. "I'll die if I can't see you. I'll kill myself. I couldn't bear it."
They talked themselves round in circles for some time. Then Christopher had an inspiration. "Jamie, my darling, listen to me," he said softly, stroking Jamie's hair. "Will you promise to listen, and not interrupt, if I say something?"
"All right," said Jamie, taking a still fiercer grip round Christopher's waist.
"My love," said Christopher. "The police have sent the papers about us away to somebody. The Director of Prosecutions. He has to decide whether I'm going to be charged with... with... with some horrible offence, making us out to be something obscene. Anyway, I shan't know for a week or ten days if I'm being prosecuted at all. But whether I am or not, they're going to stop us seeing each other. You can bet your life on that. They think there's something filthy about us. They don't understand, and they never will, they don't even want to." He paused, ga
thering his thoughts. Jamie started to speak, then remembered his promise and waited.
"Now, Jamie," Christopher continued, "whatever happens, I'll have to go to university in a little while -unless... unless..." He left the unthinkable possibility of prison unspoken, sagely guessing that the mere mention of it would be likely to send Jamie into a paroxysm of hysteria from which he would be unable to bring him back. "I'll have to go to university," he repeated. "So we'd have had to be apart in a few weeks, anyway.
"Now, then, they may be able to stop us seeing each other, an injunction or some legal trick of some sort. But they can't stop us writing to each other, and we'll be able to speak on the phone sometimes, once the dust's settled. But between now and whenever it has settled, you must promise me that you won't try to come here, or see me like this again. You must. No, don't butt in yet. Let me finish. Please," he pleaded. Jamie hugged him tighter, but obediently stayed quiet.
"Now, my dearest," Christopher continued, "I want to make you a promise, if you'll make me one."
He paused. Jamie blurted out, "I'll promise you anything, if you won't make me go away, or not see you..."
"Let me make my promise," urged Christopher. "It's this. One day, quite soon, we'll live together. We'll be with each other all the time. I want that more than anything in the world. I'll marry you, Jamie." He paused again. He heard a sudden hiss of breath and a single, loud, hiccupping sob from Jamie in the pitch darkness, but there was no other sound. He rushed on. "It's possible. I've read of it happening in the papers. If you can find someone sympathetic, gay people can actually get married. If you'd like that, I'd do it. If you still want to be with me, if you haven't forgotten about me if we have to be apart for a while..."
Jamie, unable to control himself, threw himself on him and sobbed "Forget you? I'll never..."
Unnatural Relations Page 13
