Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

“Don’t you want me to sing?” he asked around the kisses.

  “I’d rather we did more of this.”

  “Later,” Aidan said, leaving Patrick with a chaste peck on the cheek before joining Harrison.

  All things considered—all things being the lunchtime beers and the now empty sherry bottle—Harrison and Aidan were quite tuneful in their rendition of ‘Silent Night’, although the further they got into the song, the sillier it became. By the last two lines, they were stretching and sliding the long notes until they ran out of breath.

  Sleep in heavenly peeeeeee-eeeeace…

  Slee-eep in heavenly peeeeeeeeeeace.

  They both fell into a heap of giggles, and everyone whooped and applauded. “That was grand,” Seamus praised as Dee skidded into the room, with Michael a step behind her.

  “What’ve we missed?”

  “Aidan and Harrison’s duet.”

  “Darn it. Hey, Mike. We could sing something too.”

  “Um…OK,” Michael agreed reluctantly.

  “What do you wanna sing?”

  “You choose?”

  The house phone started ringing.

  “Saved by the bell,” Seamus said. He picked up the phone and left the room, Dee and Michael’s discussion fading out behind him as he shut the door.

  “Hello?”

  “Seamus? It’s Marie.”

  “All right, Marie? How’s it going?”

  “Fine. You know, it’s Christmas Eve, we’re packed out. Listen, I’ve got this fella here looking for your place.”

  “Oh? Who’s that, then?”

  “No idea. He’s from America. Are ye expectin’ any more visitors?”

  “Not that I know of. What’s his name? Do you know?”

  “Something…like…I don’t know. Italian sounding, I think. It ended in ‘O’ anyway.”

  “Hm. Don’t know, Marie.”

  “What shall I do with him?

  “Oh, jus’ send him up here.”

  “He could be an axe murderer, for all you know.”

  Seamus laughed. “Aye, but what are the odds, really? I’m sure between the eight of us we could see him off if need be.”

  “So long as they’re not all as drunk as you, Seamus Mal—”

  “Ahem.”

  Now Marie laughed. Seamus knew she only used his middle name to wind him up.

  “On yer own head be it,” she said, and on those words, she ended the call.

  Seamus frowned and returned to the living room, where Michael and Dee were working their way through ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ with quite a few parts hummed because they didn’t know the words. They didn’t seem especially familiar with the tune, either.

  Chancey gave Seamus a questioning look. He returned to his previous location—on the sofa, with Chancey’s legs across his lap—and whispered an explanation.

  “Oh, God, I hope it’s not…” Chancey mouthed ‘Kaylee’.

  “It was a man. I suppose it could’ve been Isaac and she was waiting in the car?”

  Chancey closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “Sorry, Chance. I didn’t think.”

  “Not your fault.”

  The singing continued, and all the while, Seamus and Chancey kept an eye out for the arrival of the mystery American guest, by now both convinced it was Kaylee and Isaac—her manager/ex-husband. Chancey’s ex-wife was impulsive, and it was exactly the sort of stunt she’d pull.

  Headlights flashed across the window. Chancey moved so Seamus could get up, and then followed him out of the room. Seamus opened the front door, squinting through the darkness. The taxi’s engine rumbled as a man stepped out of the back.

  “Not Isaac,” Chancey muttered.

  Seamus frowned.

  The man approached and smiled. “Good evening. Are you Seamus Williams?”

  “I am indeed.”

  “Oh, great. I wasn’t sure if this was the right place.” The man held out his hand. “Paulo Fernández. I’m…a friend of Harrison and Pru. I, er, well… You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through looking for them.”

  “OK.” Seamus looked to Chancey, who shrugged, and then back at the stranger on his doorstep. “You’d better come in, I guess.”

  “Thanks.” Paulo took a breath, seemingly to steady himself, and stepped inside, rubbing his hands together.

  “So, were you in the area, then?”

  “Sure.” Paulo’s smile was disarming. “By way of Miami and Midday and Pittsburgh.” Paulo paused and scooped his thick black hair back from his face, revealing dark eyes and a stubbled, square chin. He grimaced. “I’m sorry. I know this is awkward, and maybe I shouldn’t have come, but I just need a moment with Harrison. Then I can go. I’ll, er… Is there a hotel somewhere nearby?”

  “In the town centre, aye. But you’re here now, and you might not get a bed for the night.” Seamus started chuckling. “Just like Joseph and Mary—there isn’t any room and you can’t stay here—well, you can stay here. We’ve got loads of space, so that not a problem…”

  “Shay,” Chancey said in a warning tone.

  “Sorry. I’m rambling. Come and say hello to your friends, have a wee drink, and then decide what you want to do.”

  Neither Chancey nor Seamus had ever seen a man look so relieved. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, I think.” Seamus was too inebriated to make much sense of the situation. “We’re all in here,” he said, opening the living room door and beckoning their guest inside. For a moment, Michael and Dee continued singing—or la-la-ing an unidentifiable tune—and stopped like a needle slipping across a record when Paulo entered the room.

  “Hey,” Paulo greeted everyone at once with a brief wave of the hand, his eyes never leaving Harrison.

  Harrison stood, and his glass of sherry slipped to the floor.

  <<<>>>

  “I’m way too drunk to clean that up,” Aidan lamented solemnly, his eyes fixed on the shattered glass.

  Patrick kissed him on the cheek. “I know you are, love. We are all. That’s why we have a designated cleaner. Sober enough to get our spills.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it.” Dee sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. As she jumped up and headed for the kitchen to get something to mop up the sherry, she pointed at the new arrival and said, “You. Gay or straight?”

  The man chuckled and said, “Gay.”

  She was just to the doorway when she caught his reply and shouted, “Goddamnit! Why don’t we know any straight people, Daddy?”

  “Deidra!”

  Michael watched Dee leave and tried to ignore the horrible, self-hating thought. Why are we all gay? Is Peter right? Is it like some kind of sickness we’ve all got? He pushed it from his mind and focused on Harrison once more, who was still staring at the fella who’d just arrived. Who’s he when he’s at home?

  “What…are you doing here?” Harrison asked. Good. That would hopefully answer some of Michael’s questions, too. Pru whispered something into Harrison’s ear, but Michael heard her loud and clear. They were all so drunk! Did she say she gave him a dress? Michael turned and studied the stranger. He’d look hilarious in a dress. Probably hiding knobbly knees under them designer jeans, Michael could only hope, because otherwise he was damned handsome.

  “But Pru?” Harrison said.

  Dee reappeared with a dustpan and a cloth and made a goofy face at Harrison.

  “I’m here for you, Ari,” the stranger said.

  Here for…who? Oh! Harrison. Ooooh… This is him. The boyfriend. Paulo! How did I not recognise him? Mind, he looks about twenty years older than them photies on Facebook. Better do the decent thing, then. “Here y’are, mate,” Michael said, push-push-pushing himself up for Paulo to sit closer to Harrison.

  “I’m OK here,” Paulo said and gave Michael a nod of reassurance. Michael stayed where he was—on the sofa, next to Pru, with Harrison sitting on the floor in front of them.

  “You’re makin’ the place look untidy,” Patrick
joked, and Paulo moved across to the fireplace. He looked very uncomfortable. Or very sober. Probably both.

  “So you’re a friend of young Harry’s, then,” Seamus stated.

  “Yes,” Paulo confirmed. “As well as Pru.”

  “And you flew halfway across the world to—?”

  “See Ari. I missed my opportunity a week ago, and it couldn’t wait.”

  “Sounds like love,” Chancey said.

  Dee returned from getting rid of the broken glass and flopped into Chancey’s lap like she was a little kid, not a teenager. “I dunno.” She grinned wickedly, and Michael’s stomach did a somersault. Dee could be so inappropriate, and he silently willed her not to say something awful. “He could have come all this way just to tell him, I’m not into you anymore! That would be the worst romance novel ever.”

  Dee! Honest to God! Instinctively, Michael put his hand on Harrison’s shoulder. He couldn’t believe Dee sometimes, but then she didn’t know what he knew. This morning, he and Harrison had gone for a long walk, and they’d talked and talked. Michael had told Harrison some of what had been happening with Connor and Peter, and about how Tom had stuck up for him, omitting the part about his ginormous crush. In return, Harrison had shared some stories about Paulo, who he wasn’t with anymore, and for a while after he’d said it, they’d walked on in silence, but then Harrison had smiled the hugest, happiest smile, and he’d started talking again, about how he and Paulo had met at a foam party, and the mad dates they used to go on to posh hotels and burlesque clubs—Michael had no clue what they were, mind—because like Pru, Paulo was loaded.

  So, it was lucky, really, that Michael didn’t have a thing for Harrison. Even if there wasn’t a ten-years-plus age difference, he was no match for the rich and super-handsome fella with the dark skin and dark hair and the sexy sexy accent.

  What wasn’t quite so sexy was the look Paulo was shooting at him now. He was properly raging, and if looks could kill, Michael would have been dead and buried by now. Still, they had a gravedigger in the house…

  Michael shifted his hand off Harrison’s shoulder and rested it awkwardly in his lap. The moment passed, with Seamus and Patrick keeping up a stream of questions that quickly distracted Paulo. Michael tried to follow the conversation, but he’d had way too much to drink, and he wasn’t usually a drinker. Needless to say, when Chancey suggested they all go down to the pub, Michael decided right then and there he was going to bed to sleep it off, just as soon as he was sure Harrison was OK. He needed a pee, though. He made it up out of the sofa and to the bathroom without incident.

  When he returned to the living room a little while later, only Pru, Harrison and Paulo remained. Harrison jerked his head to indicate Michael’s empty seat and stared at him, his sky-blue eyes pleading from behind his glasses. All those other places he could sit, and he still did as his friend asked, receiving a grateful smile for his trouble. God, he hoped there wouldn’t be any trouble. Paulo was handsome, sure, but he was pretty scary looking.

  “Glad you could make it, Paulo,” Pru said, and stood up as Michael sat down. “Hold on, I’ll be right back. Another drink, Michael?”

  “God no!” He laughed. He was already paralytic and feeling drunker by the second, even though he’d stopped after the whiskey. Pru left the room, and when she returned, she sat next to Paulo and handed him a cup of mulled wine. Aye, watch out, mate, that’s how I started off today. She’ll have yer legless before you know it.

  Like a couple of angry snakes, they were, hissing at each other, and Michael couldn’t make out a damn word they were saying, but he supposed that was the point. He leaned forward to see if Harrison was having any better luck and nearly toppled off the couch. I swear my head’s got heavier. Is that what they mean by specific gravity? Michael grabbed the edge of the cushion and sat back, shutting one eye until the room stopped seesawing.

  “Harrison?” Paulo asked. Harrison didn’t look like he was listening, but Paulo continued anyway. “Do you remember that Christmas we tried to make the wassail?”

  “D’you want some?” Michael asked. “It’s feckin’ awful stuff, it is. But if you’d like…”

  Paulo grinned at him—it didn’t look at all real—and shook his head. “Just a memory, friend.” Then, returning his gaze to Harrison who was still not looking at him, he said, “Do you recall?”

  “It was pretty awful,” Harrison agreed quietly, and then he was on his feet. “Would you excuse me?” He dashed from the room, and Tess ran to the door, tilting her head when the outside door quietly closed.

  Michael’s eyes widened, and he looked to Pru, expecting her to go after Harrison, but she was staring at the glass in her hands.

  “Well?” Paulo growled angrily. Michael turned his head too sharply and came over dizzy, but not so much as to miss that Paulo’s anger was once more directed at him. “Aren’t you going to go to him? He’s obviously upset.”

  “Me? Oh, well…” Michael looked at Pru again, silently begging her. Help!

  “A good lover doesn’t let his partner hurt alone,” Paulo snapped.

  Lover? Partner… Oh, shite. “You got the wrong idea!”

  “He’s not H’s lover,” Pru said wearily and sighed, like Paulo should have known that. But even in Michael’s drunken state, he could see how it looked. Harrison had come to Omagh for Christmas…why? Was he running away from Paulo? Their conversation hadn’t ventured that far into the relationship, but if Harrison was running away, he needed to get going, because Paulo was hot on his tail.

  This time the outside door slammed shut with a bang that sent Tess haring off upstairs to hide. Bewildered, Michael stared at Pru. She shrugged and said nothing.

  Chapter Eight:

  Michael’s Hero

  No streetlamps in the lane up to the farm, and any light from the main road was shrouded by bare trees, casting blurred, constantly shifting silhouettes across the coarse gravel road surface. It played hell with the suspension—last week Tom had ended up with a puncture—but it was worth it to know Michael was home, safe and sound. Whoever had arrived in a taxi a short while ago had gone inside, and there was nothing to see but the huge Christmas tree full of twinkling lights in the window.

  He turned on the stereo, dropped the volume until it was barely audible, and settled back in his seat.

  Why had Mike posted his every damn move on Facebook? At any given moment, anyone who was interested would know exactly where he was. On the plus side, adding him as a ‘close friend’ meant he’d got an alert every time Michael posted an update—

  Michael McFerran is at River Island –with Dee Clearwater

  Carols by candlelight tonight with my lovely mum. Can’t wait! –with Eileen Brannigan

  Going to McD’s. Anyone want anything?

  —but it also meant that sooner or later, that bunch of shites would know too. And then it was a race against time, to get there first and hope to God nothing bad had happened. After the incident in the church a week ago, Michael hadn’t posted online; he hadn’t been at Mass on Sunday, either. It was like he’d gone underground—until two days ago, when he’d started posting about Christmas—and it looked like he’d not left the farm at all. At least there he was safe.

  Tom didn’t understand the mentality. Connor and his crew were like a pack of hyenas, sneaking around, waiting for Michael to stumble, and then they’d swoop in, nipping and clawing, taking him down. But why? What the hell did they get out of it? When he’d collared Connor after the confessional stunt, Connor had laughed, thought it was hilarious, because to them that’s all it was. A laugh. They were only having fun.

  Only having fun.

  Not on Tom’s watch.

  Last year, when they’d been working the fields, Tom had hardly noticed Michael, beyond recognising him from church. None of the other lads went to church, or if they did, not theirs. Some of them he knew were protestants, although thankfully none of the gang bullying Mike were doing so for religious reasons. That would have mad
e the whole situation even more complex, but at least it was ‘only’ gay-bashing. It sounded so dismissive, and he didn’t mean it like that. It just made it easier to think about.

  When he’d worked for O’Grady, Mike had been like a big dopey puppy, following Seamus around, hanging on his every word, and Tom had to hold up his hands and admit he’d joined in with the banter. But he’d thought it was about Michael sucking up to the boss, rather than he and Seamus having something in common. It made him cringe now, to think what an insensitive gobshite he’d been back then. But he hadn’t known about Mike, or Seamus Williams.

  Now he could see it, clear as day, in the posts Michael liked on Facebook, the pictures he posted, nearly all of them tagging an American fella who was way too old for him and looked a bit of a geek. The American was openly gay—Tom had checked out his profile, and he posted lots of gay pride stuff, plus he’d been in a relationship with a man, although it was a good while ago.

  All was quiet at the farmhouse now, and Tom thought he probably should go home. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and this wasn’t the most fun way to spend it, although his dad would be at the pub, and his sister would be at her boyfriend’s, which meant his mum would have him cleaning the bathroom, or washing pans, or something, the second he walked through the door.

  So maybe he’d just stay here a bit longer—for his own peace of mind. Maybe he’d even drive up to the farmhouse, wish Michael a Happy Christmas, and—

  The farmhouse door opened, and someone came charging out. Michael? No. It was…

  “It can’t be.” Tom sat up straight again, double-checked his lights were off—a white Astra wasn’t the easiest thing to disguise in the dark—and watched the man storm across the farmyard, disappearing from view when he reached the boundary. A second later, he reappeared, in the lane up ahead. The trees shifted with the wind, and for a moment, the man’s face lit up in the gold glow of the streetlights.

  “It is him.” The American geek, and now Tom was certain he was too old for Mike, but why would he be here for Christmas if they weren’t together? Tom stared hard at him, unseen in the darkness of his car, trying to work out what kind of man he was. He seemed intellectual, or maybe that was just the glasses, although he was dressed quite formally. No coat, either. Had he run from Michael? Unlikely.