by Claire Davis
Morris and Oskar
Mobile DJ
Parties/weddings/hen nights
Who you gonna call? Morris and Oskar!
“Can’t perform without our board, can we?” He made the finishing touches and arranged the poster so it stood facing the door, as if to an audience. Of course, this was ridiculous and twisted, but all he felt was pleased. “Why shouldn’t I?” he asked imaginary Morris. “Not doing any harm.”
He flung himself into the DJ seat and carefully fitted the headset around his ears. It was old and battered, needing some care. “I wish we had proper records, but we don’t. So, tonight, I thought we might carry on down nostalgia’s path with a few songs.” He paused to run a finger across the flipchart.
“Good times, Morris. Don’t pull that plug! You know what I liked best, though?” He flipped the switches on and off. “It was being with you, that’s all. Having something with you—seeing your face doing the DJ-ing. You used to light up like Christmas lights. Well, anyway, goodnight, everyone! Thanks for listening. Same time next week, and don’t forget to keep filling in the request slips on the wards. See you on the flipside up! Hospital radio! Night, Morris. Miss you.” He gripped the chair. “Really miss you.”
He unlocked the door quietly and turned off the lights. As an extra precaution, he wrote not in use on an old sign on the door.
He wasn’t going to cry that night, not anymore. No point. He could cope with anything. “Night, Simon. Not been a bad day, all things considered. I have to stop that goon Bear from following me around. Don’t need friends,” he sobbed. “Don’t need anyone. Night, Dad.
Chapter 6: Eat My Shorts
Gareth
Dear Dad,
Hello. Thinking about you, and Bubble. Thinking a lot and then I think some more. I’m working so hard I damaged my eyes, so they sent me to an eye test and it turns out I do need glasses. Did they tell you? They’re kind of brown and square-shaped. I like them OK. Still struggling, but all my teachers say I am doing so well and I haven’t to give up. It probably wouldn’t be so bad if there were other boys as stupid as me. Anyway, I passed my math and English. Big cheering!
Did I tell you about John? He is this boy who makes me laugh, and is so intriguing. He does all the things no-one in their right mind would do, not in this school, anyway. He walks in a certain way, a bit like you used to when you were singing and dancing drunk. Moves his hips, I guess. Some of the boys call him pansy, but they all like him. One of these days, I’m going to talk to him as I admire that he is original and himself. Did you see what I did then? Yes! I stole some of the lyrics from one of your movies and incorporated them into a sentence.
How is my Bubble? There is a cat who hangs around the school; he is black and white like Bubble but much bigger. I buy him kitty treats from the village shop where we’re allowed to go every Saturday. Most of the boys buy candy, but I don’t know how long it will be before you remember to put any money in my school account, so I just get the cat treats. It gives me a feeling like indigestion, though, wondering how my own cat is and if he even remembers me. I wish you’d answer my letters sometimes. You don’t have to say much; in fact if you just said ‘Bubble is OK, love Dad’, it would be enough for now.
I don’t know, but I don’t seem to make any friends here. That’s probably my fault because I’m just not like them however much I try.
Love,
Gareth. Your son.
P.S. Don’t forget those vitamins, and please, please, look after Bubble.
P.P.S. I keep my compass with me at all times. Maybe it will connect me to you.
****
Oskar
Loud knocking at the door threatened to break the wood. “What?” he yelled.
“You coming down the union, Oskar? It’s live band night.”
“Nope. Working.” By the end of the first month, he had a grasp on what would be expected that academic year. Not wanting to go overboard, the spreadsheet was a simple outline of projects and exams so he would always be in control. By the end of the first term, Oskar planned on hitting the highest grades. There were cash awards to be had, not that he’d be staying long enough to earn them. Casually, he threw his book at the wall.
“Oh. Would you just check my hair for me?”
“No. Too busy. Goodnight.”
“Please?”
His concentration broken, Oskar flung open the door. “Haven’t you got work to do?” he demanded. “Bloody arts students.”
“Please? No-one does it like you.” Pink-and-White whined. Did she have no pride? “You’ve got the touch.” It was true. From the age of eight, he’d helped Aunty Kath with her mobile hair clients—first washing and brushing then on to colours and cut. When Oskar got to fifteen, his two options after leaving school had been simple—hair and beauty, or physics. His decision had taken many hours of research, internet scrutiny and dodging Mum.
“What do you want doing?” he asked, grudgingly. Pink-and-White’s frizzy hair stuck out from her head like a huge dandelion.
“I dunno. Just make me look hot.” She swigged from a bottle of wine.
Oskar raised one eyebrow, but if the trees in Macbeth walked down the hill then making Pink-and-White go from mumsy to sexy queen shouldn’t be too hard. “Park your bum, then.” Something reminded him of those Saturdays with Aunty Kath, wheeling the trolleyful of supplies and being the pet of all the ladies. He pushed away the image because Memory Lane was a pile of dog turd.
“You’re working very hard, aren’t you? I haven’t even opened a book yet.” She laughed as if it was funny. Maybe she had more options than fucking up exams and ending up on the streets. “Seems to be too much else going on. Last night was the three-legged-race pub crawl. It was right funny!”
“Yeah, I heard you all coming back.” And hours and hours of Stella-Artois waxing lyrical about her stupid boyfriend followed by soppy songs no-one should ever have recorded. He brushed Pink’s hair and had artistic thoughts about turning her punk. “Consider spikes?”
“No.”
“Lime green?”
“No! You didn’t fancy it?”
“Nope. Waste of money and time. I don’t mind a piss-up at weekends but not in the week. My body is too pure to be sullied by pollutants.” Oskar almost giggled at her expression.
“And I thought you were a wild one!”
“Only when I don’t have to get up next morning. How d’you feel about hair straighteners?”
“Great.”
“But—just to clarify—no spikes?”
“No!”
“Hello.” Bear poked his handsome head in the door and smiled shyly. The air was sucked through the craving in Oskar’s bitter heart.
“Hi, Bear.”
He’d kept away since the café incident, which was probably for the best despite the vacuum his absence had left. Hearts were temperamental organs. “Hi, Oskar! You’re going out?” He continued to stay away from the communal areas. “Hi, Paula.” Not that Oskar noticed.
“Not me. Just helping Pink with her hair.”
“Paula. Though Pink would be a nice name.” Pink giggled. “And he’s not called Bear. Wine, love?”
“No, thanks.” Bear made poor attempts at pretending to watch the process of Pink’s transformation, interspersed with peeping at Oskar. Of course this was irritating, but not altogether unwelcome. Oskar reached up to the top of Pink’s head, knowing his t-shirt would ride up. Having his midriff looked at was more than mildly monumental. “How are you doing, Paula?”
“Oh, great. Right good! One of my lecturers has a man bun. You should come out with us tonight.” Pink glugged back more wine and openly leered. “You got a girlfriend?”
Bear crossed his arms and looked down but not before lingering on Oskar’s stomach. “No.”
“You want one?”
“That will do, Miss Pink! Do us a coffee, Bear? Black, no sugar today.” Oskar smiled. “Then you can pick some music.” His neck tingled as Bear’s eyes w
ent up, and then down. “Mate.”
“Oh, sure! Are you going to stay around for it this time?”
Oskar turned his back. Ignoring bad behaviour always worked—in the end. “How’s that looking? You’ve got nice, thick hair.” Pity it was like a horse. “Could do with a cut. I can do it tomorrow if you want.” He’d brought his scissors to college, obviously.
“Thanks! That’d be great.” Pink beamed. “Do you think he’s…?” She indicated where Bear had stood. If there was one thing Oskar could not abide, it was questions about sexuality. Pink was not the type to be calling names or throwing stink bombs like back home, but one question led to another, inevitably leading to those prickly questions he really didn’t want to think about—was he this and was he that?—had he ever?—why did he?—no. One interrogation session with Mum a few years ago was enough to keep him wary for the rest of his days. Anyway, he wasn’t into sex and didn’t care what anyone else did. The end. What they never asked was the kind of questions that begged to be answered—the best song of the 80s, the best vid—leaving a person to sort out personal mess like sexuality in peace. He glared.
“What? Bear’s a secret karaoke singer? Definitely. Stop trying to seduce him with your pink charms. Leave the poor bastard alone.” It wasn’t really jealousy.
“Why do you call him Bear? No, I meant—”
“Not my business, Pink. There you go—all ready to pull, but leave Bear out of it. You look fabulous!” He shoved her out the door and all but kicked her up the arse. “See you later.”
“Oh, right. Thanks!” She staggered off. Sticking up for Bear left him yearning for something. He stroked his stomach thoughtfully, enjoying the sensation and knowing Bear would be back any minute. He shivered and then suddenly snipped into the t-shirt with the hair scissors. It was too long anyway. He cut a vertical line up into the cloth, then another. Soon the edges were ragged with long flaps. In the mirror, he looked dangerous and wild.
“Oh my god. What are you doing?” Bear appeared with two cups and eyes Oskar wanted. “You’re pretty wild.”
“Shut the door and sit down. Just a little DIY.”
Next, he began cutting horizontal along all the flaps. They fell to the floor like hair when he cut. Last time Oskar had cut all his hair off—two years ago—it began with tears and hatred; by the time it was short, he was panting. Without the weight on his shoulders and around his face, he’d felt strange and naked. He tied his hair up quickly. “Bear? Would you help me do the back? Just cut in a straight line all along the top. Doesn’t matter if it goes wonky.” He crossed his arms on his head.
“What ? No, I can’t. What if I cut you?” Bear shrank back against the bed. “I really can’t. I’m clumsy and shit. I’d do it all wrong.”
“Oh, come on,” Oskar coaxed. He took Bear’s hands and pulled. “Stop saying you’re shit because you’re not.” He wasn’t usually a tease—he wasn’t ever a tease. It was just some fun to ease the boredom. He didn’t even think about sex. He hadn’t really thought about sex, or boys, or touching. It just wasn’t him. The warmth from Bear’s hands spread.
“Oh, OK. If you say so. But keep still.”
“Yeah.” Oskar had never been so bold. He stood with legs slightly apart and hands on his head. He didn’t feel in control.
“What do you want to cut it for anyway?” Bear’s quiet voice brushed Oskar’s neck under the ponytail.
“Why not?”
The snip-snip of scissors in someone else’s hands made his heart beat, but instead of backing away like he normally did, Oskar bent his head and closed his eyes. He didn’t understand. It was nice, delicious and disgusting.
“Almost done.” Bear suddenly held Oskar’s bare hip with one hand to steady himself. Warm and cold, shocking and wrong flowed through Oskar’s skin. Wrong. No-one had ever touched or seen him naked and they never would. Why would anyone let their defences down like that? Not him. He hated it. He said nothing. Inside, he screamed at Bear to do it again.
“Finished,” Bear said. “Let’s see.” He took Oskar by both hips and gently turned him around. His easy control made Oskar’s bones melt into puddles of confusion. Strong hands skimmed Oskar’s waist while he let it happen. “What do you think?”
It was as the other boy stood back that Oskar realised the uncomfortable tightness was arousal.
Bear gazed back seriously. “Is that OK?”
His eyes were caramel-brown. Oskar wondered what he looked like when he touched himself.
“Oskar? You’re blushing.”
“That’s good. Fine. Thanks.” Oskar picked up the coffee and drunk deeply. The hot liquid went down, giving him seconds to regain composure. “Well, I’ve got work to do, so…?”
“Oh, yeah, me too. Do you want to meet in an hour to get something to eat?” Bear asked, too eagerly. It made Oskar vicious and spiteful again. Boys didn’t touch other boys like that. They spoke in monosyllables without looking, or joined forces on internet teams to defeat vampires. Sometimes they ganged up on those too stupid to not hit first without a plan of retaliation including revenge laxatives. They went burgling and smashing up cars, took drugs, got drunk, fought. For a boy to touch your skin—actual naked skin—was crazy as walking down the street with no clothes on. It was asking for trouble.
Shivers went up and down his body; spite went round his head. Boys never breathed down your neck like that, ever. Boys were there to look at then fantasise about later, but they weren’t ever—not ever—there to make you feel good. You could be friends with girls, up to a point, like Aunty Kath’s haircut ladies and the schoolgirls constantly asking him to do their highlights. But boys? They were a forbidden species put there to piss him off because he couldn’t have them.
“No. Goodnight. Get out.” He thrust the mug into Bear’s chest without looking too closely at the startled face. His stomach burned like fire. The weirdness he experienced as Bear left without saying a word was relief, obviously.
“Simon, time we cut the ties with him,” he muttered, sinking to the bed. “No more Mr. Nice Guy. No cosy coffee or walks into town. No more.”
“Son, I think that’s best,” Simon said, or, at least, he would’ve if the world had been a fairer place.
****
The man was there again; sitting in a red car in the street opposite the hospital as if waiting for relatives. In the wake of this enormity, Oskar was forced to abandon his plan to give Bear the frosty shoulder for his behaviour last night, which had led to many strange and unresolved thoughts, manifested through body touching.
“Told you. Don’t stare! Follow my lead. We’re going to cross the road, nice and slow, then walk past the car. I’m going to memorise his registration and your job is to study the insides of the car for clues. Got it?” he hissed. Bear nodded dumbly. “Do not do anything stupid! Come on. Keep talking casually.”
“What kind of things?” Bear asked frantically. “Casually?”
“Any kind.”
“Guns and stuff?”
Without further ado, Oskar gripped Bear’s arm and dragged them across the road, adopting a casual tone likely to put off any listening spies. “So, like I was saying, they’ve given us six weeks to complete the first project, but I’ll have it done by the end of next week. I was hoping this college course would challenge me much more than my hithertofore—” he inwardly laughed at Bear’s mortified expression “—school work.” He nodded encouragingly, but Bear frowned like he was about to cry.
“Yes. Hitherto…? Oh, yes? You must be super smart.”
“Oh, hah-hah, no. I am a very average person who applies himself.” They reached the back of the car. Oskar carried on gripping Bear’s arm because he was looking increasingly flighty.
“What a lovely day,” Bear said miserably. Not about to give up so easily, Oskar elbowed him sharply in the ribs and pointed. Bear turned obediently and looked directly into the red car. From the corner of his eyes, Oskar observed the man looking deeply into a newspaper.
“How interesting.” The instant they got past the car, Bear began to speed up into a half run, pulling them into a jog.
“Will you slow down? I can’t run in these heels!” Oskar shouted as they turned a corner out of sight of the car. Actually, he couldn’t run in any shoes. “Not everyone is an Olympic athlete like you.”
“Sorry. I got carried away.” Bear grinned, not that Oskar was looking. “I don’t know why, but I got quite scared! Did I do OK? Huh?”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing much. A few empty water bottles, pair of sunglasses…”
“Brand?”
“No idea.” Bear shrugged. “Seems like a normal guy to me. Probably waiting for someone to come out of the hospital—that explains why he’s always hanging around.” He checked behind. “He’s not followed us from the hospital. I don’t think he’s a spy. He doesn’t look like he’s evil or anything.”
“Hmm, maybe. What do evil people look like?”
“Oh, they’re really conspicuous. Some of them wear badges.” Bear giggled. “Or cloaks.”
“It’s not funny!” Oskar laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. He doesn’t look dodgy.” But something was wrong. The guy wasn’t acting like the DSS spies, but still, something was amiss. Oskar whipped out a small notepad and scribbled the car registration number. “If he freaks us out, we have this as evidence.”
“Did I do OK?”
“Yeah,” Oskar said grudgingly. God knew, he wasn’t a person to kick a puppy. “You did great.” He remembered something Bear had said. “Are you American? Your accent is stronger than it used to be.”
Bear stopped walking. He looked from side to side like he was thinking. “Why?” he asked finally.
