“Do we need to leave yet?” Michael asked, and Tom was grateful for the interjection. He needed to stop thinking about it. They were friends—two days ago, that would have been enough—and friends cheered each other up. They didn’t drag each other down.
“Aye,” he said lightly, forcing out a smile. “We could do. Although I booked the table for six o’clock, and it’ll only take us fifteen or twenty minutes to get there.”
“Better not yet, then. It’s only five o’clock.”
“We’ve still got to walk back to the farm, and we can always take the scenic route.”
“True.”
Tom sensed a certain amount of relief in Michael’s agreement, almost as if he were desperate to get their ‘date’ over with. He hoped that wasn’t so, because it still was enough that they were friends. But they were almost back at the farm, and Tom needed to know.
“Do you still want to do this, Mike?”
Michael didn’t answer. He walked on with his head down, mad hair tamed by the rain, his expression hidden by the dark, though his dejection was clear from his stature. Eventually, he mumbled, “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“I do want to,” Tom confirmed. “I wanted to be sure you weren’t doing it for me.”
“Oh. No, I’m not.” Michael walked ahead and held the door open for Tom, shutting it once they were both inside. “I’ll get us some towels,” he said. He squinted at Tom’s head. “Shame about your spikes.”
Tom peered up at Michael’s hair, which hung limp and wet over his eyes. He wanted to brush it back from his face, feel the cool damp skin beneath his fingers, kiss warmth into those cold-pinked lips that shimmered with raindrops. Temptation. God, I can hardly cope myself. How the hell is Michael going to? He turned away, abashed and ashamed by his inconsiderate thoughts. “The rain’s fairly done for your curls, too.”
“Towels,” Michael repeated and fled, leaving Tom alone in the kitchen. He wasn’t alone for long.
“Hey, Tom.”
He heard her before he saw her. “Dee.”
She gave him a mile-wide smile, showing off her braces. Lilac braces. “Wanna drink, or something?”
“Er…” He really fancied a cup of tea, but doubted the offer extended to putting the kettle on.
Dee followed his line of sight, to the kettle. “You want coffee? Tea?”
“Are you making a hot drink anyway?”
“Nope, but the kettle’ll still be hot. Paddy and Seamus drink gallons of tea.” She walked over and switched the kettle on. “You got a brother, Tom?”
“No. I’ve got a younger sister. Katie. She went to school with Michael.”
“Damn.” Dee took a deep breath and let it go in an elongated sigh. She folded her arms and pouted. “I want a boyfriend.”
You and me both, girl. Tom poked the thought down and gave Dee a tacit nod.
“There was a boy at rodeo club in England.” She glanced furtively along the hallway to the living room. Tom looked, too. The door was closed, the muted sound of the TV making it through but not much else. Dee turned back and lowered her voice to a whisper. “My dad doesn’t know.”
Tom mouthed an ‘oh’.
“He thinks I’m like eight years old.”
“He’s just keeping you safe, Dee.”
“I don’t want keeping safe. I wanna live a little. Have some…fun.” She gave a carefree shrug and blinked flirtatiously. Tom smiled back, but he was feeling a bit uncomfortable. Dee walked towards him, stopping next to him and reaching into a cupboard, her hip against his thigh. What’s taking Michael so long?
Almost as if the thought itself had summoned him, Michael appeared, carrying two bath towels. “Here,” he said, handing one to Tom and giving Dee a sideways glance. “Back off, Clearwater.”
Dee shuffled a few inches to the side and smiled sweetly.
Jesus, it was so confusing. Or at least, Tom got the logistics of the situation. Michael liked him; he liked Michael. Except they weren’t allowed to do anything about the fact they liked each other, because it was a big fat horrible sin, and Peter Brannigan was playing God, damning Michael in life so he didn’t spend eternity in hell. None of that changed the fact they liked each other. It merely forbade them from doing anything about it. So what was this? A case of ‘if I can’t have you, then nobody else can, either’? Like he’d be interested in Dee Clearwater, or any other fourteen-year-old girl. Or anyone other than Michael bloody McFerran.
“Here’s your tea,” Dee said, pushing the cup Tom’s way. She indicated the sugar bowl.
“Thanks, Dee.”
“Welcome.” She drifted out of the room with her chin in the air, her arms floating gracefully, like Hamlet’s Ophelia.
Tom glanced Michael’s way and thought they probably had matching expressions of amusement at Dee’s dramatics. Michael started to laugh, and Tom joined in. Finally, a break in the clouds.
“You want to share me tea?”
“Why not?” Michael got another cup, Tom tipped half of his tea into it, and they tapped mugs. “Sláinte.”
<<<>>>
The drive to Newtonstewart was undertaken in silence, for no other reason than how heavily it was raining, and with no streetlights, Tom had to concentrate hard. The wittering radio and the crackle of wet tyres on tarmac were hypnotic, comforting. He was glad he’d calmed down, but even acknowledging the fact disturbed the sediment of rage. Then, as they pulled into the restaurant car park, Tom’s heart sank right down into his shoes. Stupid. Why didn’t I think of that? We’re in Newtonstewart, for Christ’s sake.
“You all right, Tom?”
“Aye.” He switched off the engine.
“You sure?” Michael’s eyes were wide with worry.
“I’m grand.” He pulled the keys from the ignition. “We’d best make a dash for it, or we’ll get soaked again. Ready?”
Michael nodded. “One…two…”
“Three.” They flung open their doors, leapt out and slammed the doors shut again as they moved off. Tom waved the key fob over his head and clicked.
It couldn’t have been more than fifteen yards from the car to the restaurant’s entrance, but it was enough for the ice-cold raindrops to have sneaked down his neck, and he shivered. Michael’s teeth were chattering—Tom thought it was probably for effect—and as they chattered, he blinked rapidly and let his eyes roll upwards. He was peculiarly handsome. Too tall, too slim, and his hair was too long. His eyes were shiny wide almonds, his lashes like delicate black curtains, and each time they opened it was on a new performance. Michael was curious about everything, asked too many questions, and let his thoughts run away with his mouth. He was nothing like anyone Tom had ever known.
“Good evening, sir.”
At the waiter’s greeting, Tom reluctantly stole his attention from Michael. “Good evening. Got a table for two booked, name of Donnan.”
“Ah, yes. Come this way, sirs.”
Tom and Michael followed the waiter across the busy restaurant, to a table next to a dividing wall, beyond which there were more tables. Judging from the noise, they were all occupied.
The waiter pulled out the chairs and gestured for Tom and Michael to sit. “I’ll go and get your menus. Would you like to order drinks?”
“Just a Coke for me, thanks,” Tom said. “Michael?”
“Same, please.”
After checking if they wanted pints or glasses, ice and/or lemon, the waiter left.
Michael looked around him, at the other diners, the carpet, the ceiling, the walls, the Christmas decorations. He cocked his head to one side, listening. “Bing Crosby,” he identified. “This is posh, isn’t it?”
“A bit.”
The waiter returned with their drinks and menus; they thanked him, and he left again.
Michael sipped at his Coke and kept hold of the glass. “Sorry about earlier.”
“No need to apologise.” Tom saw guilt flit across Michael’s pale features. “How are you feeling
?”
Michael shrugged. “I don’t know. Confused, misguided. I was thinking. You know The Profession—the bit about God giving His only son?”
“…that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life,” Tom finished.
“There’s no conditions, is there? Eternal life in return for believing.”
“It’s not simply believing God exists, though, is it? It’s believing He is the Creator of all things, and that He rewards good, and punishes evil. That’s the sticky part. What is ‘good’ and what is ‘evil’?”
“It’s all in the Bible,” Michael asserted.
“Well…” Tom smiled. “You’ve sat through Father O’Neill’s sermons as often as I have. If the Bible was easy to understand, would it take someone half an hour to interpret one verse?”
Michael had his head bowed, so Tom couldn’t see his eyes, but he could see his mouth. Whenever Michael was thinking hard, he alternated between chewing the inside of his cheek and running the tip of his tongue back and forth along his bottom lip, which he was doing now. Tom opened the menu and tried to read it, at the same time keeping an eye on Michael.
“Are you going have a look what you want to eat?”
“Yeah. OK.”
Tom passed him the other menu—Michael could have reached it for himself, but he was distracted.
“I’m not going to lay down and die,” he said quietly. He peered through his hair, meeting Tom’s gaze. “I’ll do what Peter’s asking of me, but I won’t give up living.”
Tom clamped his teeth together and nodded. When the urge to say ‘tell him to go to hell’ had passed again, he pointed to the menu in Michael’s hand. “Pick something,” he ordered, winking so Michael knew he wasn’t really bossing him around.
“Yes, sir,” Michael said and studied the menu. No more than a minute later, he said, “Pepper pot chicken.”
“Blimey, that was quick.”
“What are you having?”
“Sirloin steak.” Tom closed his menu decisively. Then opened it again. “What’s this pepper pot chicken?”
“There.” Michael leaned across the table and pointed.
Tom read the description—chicken chargrilled in peppercorns. It sounded delicious. He weighed it up—steak or chicken? They were going to be eating turkey for days yet, and poultry all tasted the same to him. “No,” he said. “I’ll stick with the steak.” He closed his menu again and pushed it towards Michael. “Keep hold of it, or I’ll change me mind.”
Michael started laughing.
“Actually…” Now he thought on, he fancied some seafood. He reached for his menu. Quick as a flash, Michael whipped it away. “I was only going to—”
“Change your mind.”
Tom frowned and blew air out of his nose, though he was only playing…mostly. It usually took him far longer to choose something, but Michael’s quick decision had hurried him along, and it was no bad thing.
The waiter must have been watching them, as he was straight over with his notepad, pencil at the ready. “Are you ready to order?”
“Yes, we are,” Tom confirmed. “Michael?”
“Oh, the um…pepper pot chicken for me, please.”
“All right, sir.” The waiter turned to Tom.
“The…ssst—hmm… What’s the fish of the day?” He heard Michael tut and ignored him.
“Sea bass, sir, served with a prawn risotto.”
Now Tom was really torn. He liked the sound of that, but he hadn’t had a good steak in ages.
“Shall I choose for you?” Michael suggested.
Tom nodded. “Aye. Yes. Do that.”
Michael looked up at the waiter. “Do you have surf ’n’ turf?”
“It’s not on our menu, but I can ask the chef for you.”
“That’d be grand.”
“All right, so that’s one pepper pot chicken and one…surf ’n’ turf.”
“Yes,” Michael confirmed. “Thank you.”
Tom watched the waiter all the way back to the kitchen and then turned to Michael. “I’m glad you and me are friends. I really like you.”
Michael grinned broadly. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”
They both laughed, but then Tom’s laughter died away. He saw the half sovereign ring first and then the chubby-fingered hand as it landed heavily on Michael’s shoulder. Michael jolted in surprise and leaned to the side so he could see. The man standing behind him smiled leerily, his gaze shifting from Michael to Tom and back again.
“Well, well. Fancy seeing yous two here.” He leaned in close. “On a date, are ye?”
“All right, Martin. Happy Christmas to you,” Tom said, hoping he sounded steadier than he felt. He’d seen Martin’s four-by-four outside, so he’d known he was here. Perhaps it was naïve to think they might get away with not bumping into each other in Martin’s hometown. There again, what were the odds of them going to same restaurant on the same day?
“And to you, Thomas,” Martin said. He squeezed Michael’s shoulder, released him and then brushed his palms together as if to rid them of dirt. “I’m glad I’ve seen you. Saves me a call on Monday. Can you drop by the office first thing? We need to have a wee chat.”
“Sure.” It was taking Tom’s fullest effort to stay cool and not give away his worry. It was always going to come to this. “I’ll drive over once the lads are working.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Martin stepped around Michael, gave him a nod that wasn’t even bordering on courteous, and headed for the gents’ toilets.
“What was that about?” Michael asked, once Martin had gone.
“Hm?”
“Martin O’Grady. Are you in trouble, Tom?”
“No, no.” Tom smiled to cover the lie, though he had done nothing wrong. “I think he’s reorganising the crews, that’s all.”
“Right.” Michael nodded and picked up his drink. Tom could tell he was still suspicious.
A few minutes later, Martin O’Grady returned to his table on the other side of the dividing wall. He and his family left soon after, but he’d put a damper on an evening that had been flickering in the face of adversity all day. The one saving grace was how delicious their meals were. The surf ’n’ turf consisted of half portions of sirloin steak and sea bass, both tasty and cooked to perfection. The pepper pot chicken was delivered on a sizzling hot plate, which delighted Michael and distracted him for a while. But Tom noticed the concerned looks that kept coming his way, and try as he might, he couldn’t shake off his fears. Monday was D-day, and he had no idea what he was going to do.
They didn’t bother with desserts—Tom told Michael to get one, but he said he’d rather wait until they were both in the mood—and the drive home was drier, for what it was worth.
When they arrived back at the farm, Tom kept the engine running. “Can we try dinner again sometime, Mike?”
Michael raised an eyebrow, except both of them went up—one a little higher than the other. Another day, place, time, life…Tom would have either laughed or kissed him and told him how sweet he was.
“You mean on a day when the world isn’t persecuting us both?” Michael asked, confirming he’d at least partly realised what was going on with O’Grady.
“Aye. That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Thanks for today.”
Tom shrugged. “It’s what friends are for.” The statement shouldn’t have made him sad, but it did. He couldn’t even muster a smile to hide it.
Michael reached over and hugged him. “See you in the morning.”
“The morning?”
“At church?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve lost track of the days.” At Christmas they blurred into one, and this Christmas had been stacked with added complications. “See you in the morning, Mike. Sleep well.”
Michael got out of the car, closed the door, stepped off, came back, closed the door properly and grinned at Tom through the windscreen as he strode away towards the house.
Tom waited until he was safely inside, turned the car around, and set off into the night. He needed a clear head for when he got home, or he’d blubber the second anyone asked if he’d had a nice day. He’d had worse, he supposed. But not many.
Chapter Twenty-One:
Confirmation
“Hey.”
At the cheery greeting, Michael paused with holy water dripping from his finger, a smile blooming as he turned to look behind him. “Good morning, Tom.”
“How are you this fine morning, my friend?”
“I’m OK. Yourself?”
“I’m OK, too.”
“Good to hear.” Michael dipped his finger again and touched it to his forehead. He moved aside and waited for Tom to do the same. “Can I ask you…” He stopped, not sure he should, but now Tom was waiting for the question, so he went for broke. “How would you feel about us sitting together for Mass?”
Tom studied the air above Michael’s head, as if he were thinking, but he was already smiling. He nodded. “I would really like that.”
Woo. He said yes! Michael was relieved, and happy, but still terrified his decision had ruined the chances of them being friends. He’d woken up convinced that today everything would go back to how it was before Christmas Eve—two young men who used to work together and happened to go to the same church—and nothing more. At best, he’d thought Tom would let on to him from a distance. But it seemed he’d meant what he’d said. They were friends for real.
They walked through the doors together and down to the first empty pew, both crossing themselves before sidestepping into the pew, where they wordlessly set down kneelers, knelt and prayed. Michael had so much to pray about, he didn’t know where to begin. He felt guilty for doubting, but at the same time he didn’t, because Tom said he sometimes doubted. Michael reasoned it through before God, praying so hard it made his eyes ache.
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