Living On Air

by Susan Mac Nicol

  I leaned forward. “Please tell me what you know,” I pleaded. “You know I care for him. I like to think he cares a little for me too.” I harrumphed, “Although he needs a slap across the ear to realise it.”

  She chuckled. “I adore you, Rhys McIntyre. You are a breath of fresh air, and you have been good for all of us. Cary especially.” The look in her eyes grew distant. “Cary joined us when he was ten years old. We were camped in Kingston. I was walking back to my trailer and heard a child sobbing. Such heart-breaking grief I have never heard to this day, and I hope I never hear again. I found him curled up in a ball under an old caravan. He had blood everywhere and his eyes.” She shook her head. “Madre de dios, I never want to see such fear and pain again in a child’s face.”

  I swallowed, bile rising in my throat as I blinked back the prickling in my eyes at the thought of a young Cary in such a state.

  “I coaxed him out. It was quite a job; he was terrified someone was coming to get him. I got him into my trailer. He was not hurt. The blood was someone else’s.” She took a deep breath. “He refused to tell me what had happened, or who he was. Over and over he repeated he had no family, and he didn’t want to leave. Then he didn’t talk again for weeks.”

  “Did he eventually tell you anything?” I asked, horrified at the story so far.

  Greta shook her head. “He has never spoken of it. I fed him soup, kept him warm, and told him to sleep. I knew a doctor in the next mooring spot, so I decided I’d get him to look at Cary when we reached there. Until then, he was as safe and comfortable as I could make him.”

  I stood up and paced around. “Jesus Christ, I’ve seen cruelty to children in war zones but this—this sounds like sheer madness.”

  Greta nodded. “His name was not Cary when he got here. He wouldn’t tell me his real name. I called him Cary, after the handsome Cary Grant, my idol when I was younger.”

  I sat down again, feeling sick to my stomach.

  She closed her eyes then opened them again. “He had lots of bruises, all over him. I believed he’d been abused physically, perhaps even sexually. He had that look. Resignation, fear, and acceptance all in one childish glance. It broke my heart.”

  I couldn’t breathe. This could explain everything, Cary’s reluctance with anything sexual, his aloofness, his burning need to push people away.

  She leaned over and squeezed my hand. “It is a difficult story to tell when you do not understand what caused his trauma. All I could do was be there for him in the years to come.”

  “You never called the police, checked the missing children’s posters, anything? He might have a family who miss him. A home of his own.” A spiral of anger fed on the desolation I felt in my soul for Cary and grew into a tornado. “Fuck, did you do anything to find out who he was?”

  Greta gripped my arm. “Rhys, do not judge me. You know how we live. We are private people. I believed him when he said he had no family. There was grief and horror in his eyes. I suggested to drop him off at the police station and he clung to me in desperation. He did not want to go anywhere, and I would not abandon him.”

  My heart raced, and I felt ashamed of myself for lashing out at her. “I’m sorry, you’re right. You did the best you could. Some people would have left him there.”

  She inclined her head regally and let go of my arm. “I understand your emotions are at play here, so do not worry. I understand your concerns for the man you are in love with.”

  “I’m not in love with him,” I spluttered. “I care for him, that’s all. I’ve only known him a little over two months.”

  She nodded. “I only knew my husband Antonio for one day, and I knew I loved him. It happens faster than you think.”

  I didn’t want to dwell on that notion, so I moved on. “Cary has lived here all his life then?”

  Her face shadowed. “He always comes back here. Cary toured abroad for many years, came back, went away again, looking for something, but he never found it. In between we had—instances—but nothing we couldn’t get through.”

  “What instances?” I queried.

  She pursed her lips and said nothing.

  “Greta,” I whined. “This is the man I love.” Yeah, I was playing to my audience. “Tell me everything.”

  I knew I’d broken her when she stood up and hit me on the arm. “You are a ham, Rhys.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant. “A ham? You lost me. Since when did my request to learn details about my man put me in the role of a Christmas gammon?”

  She glared at me. “Bastardo, you know what I mean. An actor who does not do his job well?”

  The light clicked on. “Oh, that sort of ham. I get the connection. I’m hamming it up, is what you should say.”

  “Bah.” Greta swiped me again, harder this time. “I do not need English lessons from the likes of you. Do you want to hear about Cary or not?”

  “Yes. Please continue, Madame. I’m all ears.”

  She raised an eyebrow at her now empty teacup. I got up and made her another cup of tea. She drank it then settled back against the couch. “I will not tell you everything. Some things are for him to discuss with you. I can tell you that in the time it took Cary to turn from twelve to twenty-two, he made three suicide attempts. Two of them were cries for help. The one at twenty-two was more serious. He needed help. That’s when I sent him to Cameron.”

  I was still reeling from the thought of three suicide attempts.

  Jesus, how bad must his past have been?

  “I’ve heard him mention Cameron. He said he was a friend. And that he passed away.”

  Greta sniffed. “He was more than a friend. He was also Cary’s therapist, and he got through to him more than anyone ever did. Cameron was like you, someone who Cary bonded with. Back then he was not so defensive. He was open to friendship.” She pulled her wrap over her legs. I moved to switch on the heating and she stopped me. “I am fine. Just my old bones feeling the chill.”

  She drank more tea. “After the first suicide attempt, I convinced him to try aerial work. I felt it would ground him, give him some purpose.” Greta smiled. “It worked. He took to it like he was born to it. Cameron too loved the grace of aerial work, and the athleticism of the art. He said it was pure fluidity in motion and only a dancer of air could climb so high and be so graceful.”

  A prickle of unease slid up my spine. I’d heard Laird say the same phrase when we watched Cirque du Soleil, something he’d had a fascination with. He’d even mentioned a man he was treating who used it as therapy. He’d not revealed anything else because he was a stickler for confidentiality.

  Greta spoke again. “He encouraged Cary to become better, travel and work with different organisations to hone his skills. So that is what he did. When Cameron died four years ago from cancer, Cary came back here. He was older, more mature, and not the same scared boy I’d met so many years ago. He was harder. Colder.”

  I briefly registered her last words, still stuck on what she’d said before. I’m in the fucking Twilight Zone. Laird had died four years ago from cancer. He’d used the same words to describe an art he loved. Surely it couldn’t be…I couldn’t get the next words out, my throat was so dry. “Do you know what Cameron’s surname was?”

  Greta looked startled and her brow furrowed. “Mm, I think it was something Scottish sounding. He was like you. It was MacDonald, I think. Cameron MacDonald.”

  My world tipped off its axis and fell, down, down into a great black hole.

  “It can’t be,” I muttered. “Are you sure it wasn’t Donald? The man I knew was called Donald. Laird Donald.”

  Greta shook her head. “I am not sure. Ask Cary, if you get the chance. He will tell you.” The situation hit her as her eyes widened. “Are you telling me you believe the man Cary knew as Cameron and you knew as Laird are the same person? Surely that cannot be.”

  I got to my feet and stared out of the window. I ticked off statements on my fingers. “They died the same time of cancer. They
shared the same profession. They both loved aerial work. Laird told me he was treating someone who was using it as a form of therapy. What do you think?”

  “But the name is different.”

  I nodded. “Yes, but Laird always used to say he cherished the fact he could separate his professional from his personal life. Perhaps he used another name when he consulted patients.” I had a brainwave. “Wait a minute. Let me check something online.” I logged into a birth and deaths register using special newspaper credentials Stuart had given me for research, using his publication account. I typed in “Laird Donald” with his date of birth and, from memory, his National Insurance number. He’d never been able to remember it, trusting me with it. Greta watched as I fixed my eyes on the screen, holding my breath. The screen flickered then put forth its result.

  Cameron Laird Donald. The dates and years of his birth and death—7 June–4 August— matched exactly.

  For a minute, I didn’t believe it. Then the truth hit me in the solar plexus and I gulped in a deep breath. “Fuck me,” I said. “I was shagging Cary’s Cameron.”

  God how Laird would have laughed at this situation. His wicked sense of humour would have appreciated this turn of events.

  Greta looked as gobsmacked as I felt.

  “And also, the bugger never told me he went by another name. He was always Laird. I was right. He must have used that name for his therapy practice.” I sank back against the back of the bunk. “This is too fucking much. In a world so huge, Cary and I have him in common.”

  “It is…interesting,” Greta said, mouth pursed. “Some would say—divine.”

  I snorted with laughter. “There’s nothing divine about this, it’s called spooky coincidence.”

  She waggled her finger at me, her expression fierce. “Is it? You come here, meet Cary, forge a bond with him, something he hasn’t done since I’ve known him, apart from Cameron, and then you find out you both knew Cameron in different ways? Do not mock this idea of intervention, Rhys. Maybe Cameron Laird is trying to tell both of you something from above.” She crossed herself and stared up at the roof.

  I cleared my throat. “Well, yeah. Maybe. Whatever. The point is, do I tell Cary or not? It could trip him over the edge somehow.”

  Greta stretched then stood up, arranging her shawl around her shoulders. “I must leave, get back to my place. I need food in my belly before the show.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “I will leave that letter,” she pointed at Marco’s missive, “with you to give to Cary. Perhaps it may open the way to talking for the pair of you. And I do not think you should keep secrets from Cary. He deserves to know you shared a man you both loved. I think it may bring him solace knowing that.”

  Her logic made a weird sense.

  I nodded. “Okay, I’ll give him the letter. If he even acknowledges my presence when I go to see him. Anyway, he’s performing tonight, isn’t he?”

  Greta sighed. “No. Lucy is taking his place. Cary said he was…indisposed. I think when he learns you have something for him from Marco he will see you. Manipulative it may be, but you need to get him to talk to you. See how he is doing. We are all counting on you.”

  “Jeesh,” I muttered. “Way to put stress on a guy.”

  She flicked the end of my nose and I yowled, hands coming up to rub it. “That bloody hurt.”

  She opened the door and stepped down onto the stairs. “You are strong, you can take it. Speak to him, Rhys. Bring him back to both of us.” She didn’t look back, and walked across the dew-spangled grass. Her shoulder shook, and I wondered if she was crying.

  Part of me wanted to go after her and comfort her, but the other part wanted to check on Cary. The fact he’d chosen not to perform tonight could be significant. The latter won out, and I grabbed my jacket.

  Time to make a stand. My prima donna wasn’t getting away this easily.

  Chapter 15

  Rhys

  As I stormed toward his motorhome, I saw a faint light shining from the bedroom window.

  Good. Someone must be home.

  I hammered on the door. “Cary? I know you’re in there. We need to talk.”

  Silence. I thought I heard the soft strains of classical music from inside and strained my ears to hear whether anything else was clear. Like a stubborn, tormented, blue-eyed aerialist with a damaged soul.

  I got tired of waiting and played my ace. “Cary. I have a letter for you. It’s an important letter. You’ll want to read it.”

  The music got louder.

  I got bolder and threw a couple of large pebbles at the window. Unfortunately, my aim was a little heavy, or the window glass was faulty, and there was a resounding crash and the sound of tinkling glass.

  “Oh fuck.” The corner pane of Cary’s side window was in pieces. “Sorry,” I shouted. “I didn’t mean—”

  The door flung open, Cary stormed over and before I could grovel, I got a face full of one pissed-off, murderous-looking man. He was shirtless, his chest gleaming with sweat, and his loose, grey yoga pants hung low on his hips.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The sheer anger in his tone had me stepping back. “You broke my window, you imbecile. What part of me not answering my door to anyone makes you think you might stand a chance?”

  I couldn’t help but notice how he faltered on his legs, an imperceptible grimace of pain traversing his features. It was enough for me to grow bolder. This man was getting up my nose with his attitude. And he was hurting.

  “The window was a mistake,” I yelled back, pushing him away from me. His mouth twisted in pain, but I didn’t care. He needed to hear me. “As for concern, you selfish prick, I drew the short straw to come over and try to convince you to haul your self-pitying arse into the real world so people who care about you can see you’re okay. Forgive me, your fucking highness, if that isn’t palatable to you, but you’d damned well better get used to it.” I poked him in the chest. “I.” Poke. “Am.” Poke. “Not.” Poke. “Going.” Poke. “Anywhere.” One final poke.

  We stood there, both breathing heavily while glaring at each other. Around us, curious bystanders stared, and people whispered. We were one of the unplanned entertainment routines of the evening.

  Then I remembered why I’d come over. With a muttered curse, I drew the now-crumpled envelope out of my jacket pocket and thrust it at him. “Here’s your bloody letter. It’s from Marco.”

  He stared at the letter as if it were a poisoned chalice. Paling, he didn’t take it.

  “F-from Marco?” he stuttered. I had to hold myself back from moving over and holding him. The shattered look on his face dug shards of pain for him into my heart.

  “Yes,” I answered. “It arrived in the mail. Greta asked me to bring it to you.” I moved away to inspect the damaged window. “It isn’t too bad. I’ll go get cardboard or something and board it up for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll fix it. There’s a glass place in town.”

  Given I’d damaged his home and threatened him with my eternal presence, I wondered if leaving right now to let him simmer down might be a good idea. Then I remembered the glimpse I’d had of his thighs with their torn flesh and jagged scars.

  Fuck that. I wasn’t going anywhere. And the other news I’d come bearing, about Cameron Laird—that could wait a little. Cary had freaked out enough with the letter. Learning we’d shared a man wouldn’t help right now.

  “Cary, perhaps we should take this inside,” I mumbled. “I know how you feel about audiences, unless you’re performing.”

  For the first time, Cary realised the interested people gathering around us. He nodded. “Yes. Inside.” He turned and disappeared into his trailer. I followed, seeing as how he hadn’t shut the door. I closed it and stood, expecting a reaction. When he said nothing, I sat down on the comfy bunk seat and crossed my legs, one ankle resting on my knee, the letter still in my hand.

  For a while, neither of us spoke. Cary was in a stupor, on autopilot as he made a rich, dark pot of coffee. He got ou
t mugs and sugar then poured two cups, handing one to me. I didn’t have the heart to say I would have preferred tea, so I took what he offered, trying to keep the wince off my face at the overpowering smell.

  He sat down opposite me and put his hand out. “The letter please.”

  I handed it over. He toyed with it, turning it around and around in his fingers. Then he glanced over at me. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for you to leave while I read this?” His terse tone held something else underneath. Fear. Whether it was for the contents of the letter or the worry I’d leave him alone to face this demon, I wasn’t sure. I liked to think it was the latter.

  “Yep. You don’t have to tell me what it says, that’s private, but I’m here to support you while you digest whatever the contents are.”

  He grunted but I didn’t miss the faint relief that crossed his face. He tore the envelope open with unsteady fingers and read.

  I sat watching the myriad emotions cross his face. It was extraordinary, as if I was watching a how-to video for actors on YouTube. The topic: how to express feelings through facial features.

  Cary’s normally aloof demeanour seemed sorely tested by whatever he was reading. Finally, he set it down next to him on the couch and stared down at the floor.

  I stayed quiet, waiting for him to digest whatever it was he’d read. Then, after a few minutes, he looked up at me.

  I sat back, meeting his gaze, scared at the determination and pain in his eyes.

  “You need to leave,” he whispered.

  Relief flooded me. Was that all that look had been about, him wanting me to leave him alone right now?

  I shook my head. “Not until I know you’ll be all right. I am not okay with you and the whole cutting thing, which I still want to talk to you about.”

  He flinched but didn’t look away from me. “No. You need to leave here.” He gestured around him. “Trazellas. Not immediately but soon, once you’ve got things sorted with Greta. She’ll be pissed at me for telling you to go but I can’t help it.”