by Claire Davis
“Oskar, wait! We should wait for the police. I can’t keep up.”
But he wasn’t going to wait. He put on a spurt, because at the end of the street was Gareth turning the corner to the house and out of sight. “Gareth!” Terror made his voice jagged and weird. His side was agony from stitch, but still he carried on. A police car with sirens blazing flew past. “Save him!” he shouted. “Save Gareth. Don’t let her hurt him!” Tears streaking his face, he staggered the last few steps around the corner to the drive. Twenty yards ahead, police jumped from the car. Gareth stood on the porch of the stalker’s house. “Gareth!”
Out of the blue, Stella pelted right into him from god knew where. A scuffle with swear words ensued, but even winded, he made it up the drive.
“Gareth!” Oskar bent double from panting as the door opened at the same time Gareth finally turned around. A man in a wheelchair struggled through the door. To his surprise and horror, Gareth lunged at the man and started hugging and crying.
From somewhere, Oskar found the strength to jump on top. “Get off him, you pervert!” he shouted. The man looked up from Gareth’s head and then Oskar saw. It was unlikely anyone else in Wales would have recognised the famous 80s actor, Michael Fraser. Oskar looked from Gareth to the man, and wondered how the fuck he’d missed the similarity.
“Dad, Dad,” Gareth was saying over and over again.
****
The police finally drove off, leaving only Oskar and the stalker guy with the moustache. Pink failed to show up and by now was most likely wandering the streets of Bangor. “Come on, sunshine,” the stalker said. “I’ll give you a lift home.” He nodded towards the car. Along one side was a smudge where Oskar had drawn the penis. He tried not to look but the stress of the day was lodged deep into his throat. A strangled laugh burst out.
“Is that where I drew the knob?”
“Oh, think that’s funny, do you? I had a right bloody time trying to get that off.”
“Serves you right. Following me like a perv. And no, I’m not getting in your car.” He looked back towards the house where Gareth had disappeared with Michael Fraser. “Why should I?” What he wanted to do was bang on the door and if that got no attention, maybe storm right in and demand answers. He kicked stones with one booted heel.
“Come on now, Gareth will be OK. They need to be left alone for a bit.”
“Was that really Michael Fraser? He’s Gareth’s dad?”
The stalker sighed. “I’m not allowed to discuss clients.” Which meant the man was indeed the famous actor—known for his handsome face and crazy escapades with racing cars and anything which moved quickly. That he could possibly be related to Gareth was not credible, not in any universe. “I’ll tell Gareth to call you.” But the similarity was undeniable. Oskar thought of Gareth’s smile, and the way he put his head on one side when he laughed, but he wouldn’t—absolutely wouldn’t with a capital W—think about the anguish in his face as he’d shouted Dad.
“He doesn’t have a phone,” Oskar said miserably. He looked again at the door and wanted to cry. Gareth was his boyfriend, which meant he should be there to offer comfort and look after him. He rubbed his head and watched the stalker, who smiled ruefully. “Fuck sake.”
“You’ve hurt your head, son? It’s all red down that side.”
“Yeah. Someone hit me with a frying pan.” It had been a shit day, one way or another.
“Oh, I wonder why now?” the man laughed. “Had you been drawing on their car?”
“Fuck off.”
“In.” The guy held open the car door. “Or start walking. Up to you.”
Oskar ignored the open door and instead walked around to the back and opened the door furthest away from the front seat. He got in slowly, resisting the pull of the house and Gareth. “If you try anything funny, I’ll bite you.”
The guy laughed and shook his head.
“So what are you? A security guard or something? And why were you following us?”
“Wasn’t really you I was following, sunshine, sorry. I was just keeping an eye on Gareth.” He started the engine and the car pulled out of the drive. Oskar clutched his heart, feeling it actually rip deep inside with the loss of separation.
“Why?”
“Can’t tell you that. Let’s just say they haven’t been in touch in a while and Michael was worried.”
“So it is Michael Fraser! I knew it. You’re a shit spy, you know?”
“You might well be right.”
“Was it you sent those packages? ’Cause if it was, you can take them all back.” Oskar growled. “Except the boots.” Inside the car it smelled of lavender, like the bathroom at home.
The guy laughed again, which was irritating as hell. “Not me, sunshine.”
“Fuck off calling me that. It’s Mr. Braithwaite to you.” Oskar opened the door as the car began pulling into the hospital entrance. “No need to take me right in. Here’s fine. If you hurt Gareth, I will kill you and that’s a promise.” He banged the door as hard as he could.
“Hey? I’ll get him to call you later. Stop stressing yourself, son.” Cheeky fucker actually winked as he drove away and Oskar was left all alone.
He walked the few steps to the hostel, all the time considering turning around and going right back to the posh house, but somehow he ended up inside. It was quiet and deserted, instead of the chaos he’d envisaged. Wearily, he clumped up the corridor and banged on Pink’s door. It opened immediately. Pink’s face was smeared with mascara.
“Oskar! Are you all right?” She launched herself at him, banging his head. He winced.
“Geroff, will you. Head?” He pointed at the injury, forgotten by the populace. “Where did you vanish to?”
“I got lost, and then Moira called that Stella was freaking out so I came back here. Then the police came and told us you and Gareth are OK. But Stella’s not.” She sobbed, which was over the top and unnecessary given the magnitude of his own sorrows.
“Nasty bitch,” he said with feeling.
“Oh, Oskar! Her dad’s coming to take her home. She’s having a breakdown.” Pink sniffed.
Oskar resigned himself to not being offered a cuppa, biscuit or anything. He sighed deeply and collapsed on the bed. As usual, the real victims of the world—him—were ignored in favour of the drama queens—Stella-Artois.
“What are you talking about?” he asked grudgingly. By now, Gareth and the old hottie—who Oskar couldn’t think of in a dad role—would be talking. A strong and pervasive thread went though him; jealousy or lust.
“She’s sick—really sick. On the day we all arrived, her dad asked me to call him if she went weird, but I didn’t think anything of it. Then today, she was screaming and crying, and I remembered. Moira says she’s got issues.”
“You don’t say. She’s got snotty cow syndrome, and she’s violent.” Oskar rubbed his head meaningfully. “So you called her dad? This is a maelstrom of fathers, today.”
“Yeah,” Pink whispered. “Maybe best if she goes home, but it’s so sad.”
“Whatever. Make us tea.” It would do her good to keep active. “And wash your face it looks terrible.”
“OK. Where’s Gareth?”
“Well…” He drew breath and gathered pace. “Turns out he’s—” Then he remembered the sound of Gareth’s cry as he’d seen Michael Fraser. He faltered. “He—he knows the stalker,” he finished weakly. A tear slid down his face. “Pink…” And then he was sobbing too, onto her pastel jumper. “It’s been the worst day of my existence.” It hadn’t, but it was up there in his top five.
She made cooing noises. “I’ll do us tea.” She smiled.
He watched her leave and then sobbed harder because Michael Fraser wasn’t his dad, and because he had absolutely no idea what was going to happen next. Would Gareth still want him? Did he still want Gareth? The flat, Mum, Morris, Stella and, bizarrely, even the stalker went round Oskar’s head like flying dementors.
“It’ll be all ri
ght,” Pink said. “You and Gareth are solid. D’ja know? The way he looks at you makes me melt.” Through his sobs, Oskar listened and somehow he knew she was right.
II
Chapter 18: Scream for Ice Cream
Gareth
The door began to open.
“Call the police again!” he shouted, right before things became sketchy. “Stella?” She ran back down the drive and disappeared behind tall hedges. The world splashed out into colours and shapes like a painting. At one side, Oskar clutched his stomach. At the same time, the door to the grand house swung back. A man in a wheelchair struggled to stand, his face a perfect mirror of the shock in Gareth’s head. A sickening array of images—
School
John
Bubble
Oskar
Stella
Dad
—pushed Gareth to his knees. “Dad? Daddy?” His body struggled to move, across the space between him and the man with hands on his mouth. He saw, but didn’t understand, the wheelchair and scars on the man’s face. Then he was in his arms, being held together through wracking sobs. The man was crying too, and trying to talk. Gareth couldn’t keep the words long enough for them to be understood. Hands tugged at his arm and a voice he didn’t recognise spoke. “Son, you have to go easy. He’s fragile.” Then another voice, angry and breathless.
“Get the fuck off him, you pervert!”
The last outrage to Gareth’s brain was a police car with tyres screeching and siren blaring. He leaned against the man, who fell back into the wheelchair without letting go. Gareth closed his eyes against it all. The fight went on for ages. Throughout voices and instructions, he remembered Oskar. “It’s my dad,” he told him. “This is my dad.” Saying the word made tears start up again, a flood of hotness and outpouring he didn’t try to conceal.
Dad was talking. It sounded like his voice, but Gareth had heard it in dreams so many times he couldn’t believe it was real. But still he held the figure. “It’s OK. It’s going to be OK now. Why don’t we all go inside and talk? This is my son Gareth and his friend, Oskar. That’s my assistant, Jim. No-one’s being kidnapped or tortured.”
Much later, Gareth would remember the police talking and asking questions, which he dutifully answered. He would also remember Oskar gripping his hand and looking very serious, but he didn’t know what he said. Finally, he opened his eyes, and came up from the warm cocoon of Dad’s arms. They were inside the house, on a sofa.
“Hey,” he said. Dad’s smile was just the same on one side of his face, but the other was frozen and sagging. Gareth stroked it carefully, in case it hurt. “Is it really you? It’s been so long. I’m sorry.” He didn’t want to speak too loudly in case the spell was broken. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s me,” Dad said. “Where do we start? You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for!” He held Gareth’s face. “I’ve got so much to say. I don’t know where to start. So proud of you, honey.” More tears streamed down his face. “Coming here all by yourself and getting your exams when you thought no-one cared.” Something huge and painful was in Gareth’s chest. He pushed his head against Dad’s. “I always cared. All those months I couldn’t say my name but I saw your face in my dreams. I care! I love you. How do we start?”
“With tea, Mike. Take it easy, OK? Here we go.” The stalker appeared with a tray of food and cups. He winked at Gareth. “Nice to meet you at last. I’m Jim.”
“You’re not a stalker?”
“Not exactly. I’m mostly a nurse but also an assistant, and a very poor spy. Me and my wife work for your dad. Drink your tea first. Your dad’ll fill you in.” He held the mug out to Dad and watched as he drank. “Just take it easy.”
“What happened to Oskar?”
“I took him home. Gave him an earful for drawing a penis on my car.” He chuckled.
“He’s OK? Jeez, he must be totally confused.” From the side, he watched Dad trying to drink from one side of his mouth. He shifted closer, not wanting to look too much like a little kid but desperate to keep touching. “Do you need help?”
“Told him you’ll call once you and your dad have had a chat. I’m just in the kitchen if you need me. All right?”
“I don’t have a phone. I never got one. You always told me not to in case it got hacked,” Gareth said belatedly. The words he wanted to ask so badly finally spilled out. “What happened to your face? And your legs? What the hell happened? Was it all a dream?” An awful feeling of dread lay in his heart. He wondered if soon he would wake up at the hostel. “It was a coma, wasn’t it? I knew! I knew. I should never have listened to John.” Dad nodded. “Was it you sent all that stuff to the hostel?”
“I couldn’t resist. All those times you had nothing to open at school and no letters. And then I realised—I don’t even know what you like. It was easy buying stuff for Oskar—easy to see the kinds of things he likes. But I don’t know my own son well enough to know what to buy him!” Dad hung his head. His hand shook as he held the cup. “I’m so sorry, Gareth. I was a shit father. The worst dad in the world.”
The tea slopped onto his trousers—the type of jogger trousers Dad would never wear. He dropped the cup onto the floor and sobbed into his hands. Gareth pushed the table away and picked up the cup. The carpet was hot.
He drew his hand back quickly. “Awch. It’s not a dream. You don’t feel pain in dreams.” He went back into Dad’s arms and held on tight. “I wanted to hug you when you left me at the school and that dumb teacher made me leave you and go inside. It seems so long ago now! Then afterwards, when I didn’t hear from you, I kept wishing I could go back in time and get that cuddle. Do you remember?”
“Gareth?” Dad held him by the shoulders. “I’m going to tell you what happened. It might take me a few attempts. OK? But mostly, I want you to know I can never make up for what happened. I get that. And I won’t ever try to justify it. OK? And after I’ve explained, if you want, I’ll just go away. I promise I didn’t come here to ruin your life or interfere. I just—I wanted to see you.” His voice began to break up.
“Jim sent me all the photos of you, and—you were happy! Laughing with Oskar—kissing him! It made me so happy. I thought if I could just be near you for a while, then I would go away and leave you to live your life. But I had to make sure.” He wiped his eyes and laughed. “Shit! I’ve started at the end.” He fell back against the sofa. His face was white and exhausted. The side with the scar was paler and looked like plastic. He looked like someone who could die.
“Dad, maybe today let’s not talk about it?” Gareth kissed his hand. “I don’t want you to go away! Why are you talking about leaving? None of it matters, OK?”
“Oh I don’t want to, honey. Not ever. I want to be part of your life and watch you grow into a man—though you already have—and get to know you properly, without you worrying about pissing me off. I didn’t know you worried about that. I never knew! No. I want to be here when you’re upset and in a bad mood—and be the father I never was.” His eyelids began closing. “If I fall asleep, don’t worry. I’ll wake up in a bit. Jim will look after you. Jim! Just please don’t go.” He closed his eyes.
“Dad?” Gareth began pacing up and down, not knowing what to do. “Jim?” he called, relieved when he reappeared. “Is he still breathing?”
“Give me a hand, son. He can’t stay awake very long.” Gareth silently helped to arrange the cushions and lift Dad’s feet onto the sofa. “He might be out a while.” He smiled. “You’re the image of each other.”
“What happened to him?” Gareth whispered. “Please tell me.” Jim squeezed his shoulder and drew him away. “Is he going to die?” His voice wobbled.
“No, he’s not! That’s enough of that talk, now. Come on, into the kitchen where the sun shines. I’m making us a coffee. At least you’ve got better manners than the other one.” He grimaced. “He’s a feisty one.” He clattered about with cups. Gareth watched. “You make yourself at home now, son.”
“You mean Oskar? Was he really OK?”
“Yeah, bit confused. That angry girl winded him, I expect.” He laughed. “Got your hands full there.” He offered a plastic stool. “Sit. And stop looking so scared. I’m not going to bite. I know this is probably all very strange, but once you’ve had a good chat, things will seem much better.”
“Sorry. I’m not very good with people,” Gareth said. “I’m better with animals.”
“That reminds me!” Jim smacked the side of his head. “One minute!” He picked up a box and shook it. “About twenty seconds, usually.”
So much of the day had been surreal and dream-like. Gareth bit his nails and looked around the kitchen, a stranger despite Jim’s friendly chatter. Suddenly, a black cat ran straight into the room.
“No way! Bubble?” He leapt off the stool and got onto his knees. “Is it Bubble?” The cat wound itself around his legs and meowed. “It’s my Bubble! Oh my god! I think my heart is going to blow up today if I get any more excitement.” He hugged the little cat, and wiped away more tears. “I missed you. I did. I missed you every single day. He always sleeps on my bed. Don’t you? Did you miss me?”
“It certainly is Bubble! Looks like he remembers you. Your dad insisted we bring him all the way from London. Won’t let him out of his sight.” Jim laughed as Gareth kissed and stroked the little cat. Bubble purred and lay on his back. “Your dad was in a racing car accident, son. Out cold and in a coma. They all gave up on him, from what he’s told me. Wanted to turn off the machine.”
“The racing car chase! From the movie? I knew it.”
“Yeah, I think so. He started coming round in the summer. Taken him a while, and he’s still very poorly. But he would insist on coming here. He’s not supposed to be up and about yet, but he wouldn’t wait any longer.”
“When did he come here?”
“Just this week. Every day, I sent him the pictures I got of you and your friends, and then I got my orders to rent a house and pick him up. The doctor didn’t want him to come, of course.” Jim looked and then looked again. “Oh, don’t be looking like that now! He’s got a specialist who comes every night and a physio. If he stays around, I suppose he’ll get a new therapist, too. Me and Jude look after him. Stop your worrying, lad. He’s not very strong but he’s not made of cotton wool either.”
