by David Rees
‘Of course!’
‘You wouldn’t have been so indecisive,’ Jason conceded. ‘Nor so selfish. But the hurt would be just as big. And … don’t think Donald is without problems adjusting.’
‘What problems?’
‘I didn’t discuss that with him. But not even he can chuck out a whole decade and have no regrets.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I must go. I can’t trust Ted to look after that goose for too long! I won’t say have a marvellous Christmas because I’m sure you will not … but get through it as best you can.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Mark … may I suggest we have a moratorium on the subject of Donald?’
‘You’re bored.’
‘It’s not that. Chewing it all over so relentlessly … it does no good.’
‘Did Ted invite Donald to dinner?’
‘Leave it, Mark! No, Ted didn’t invite him to dinner. I met Donald yesterday for what he chooses to call a casual drink. When he phoned he was fishing madly for an invitation, but we really couldn’t be bothered. Besides, Ted guessed what was happening and waved his arms around like a windmill, then he wrote on a piece of paper “NO!” ‘
‘I think you disapprove of what Donald’s done,’ Mark said.
‘Why do you want to know? Would it make you feel better?’
‘Yes.’
Jason laughed. ‘You don’t need me or Ted to spell out which of you we prefer!’ He looked at his watch again ‘The goose! I’m going … goodbye, Mark.’
One Sunday morning two weeks later Mark was lying on the settee reading a novel. Silence within and without, though if he listened hard enough he could hear people walking along the towpath. He was looking forward to the rest of the day; he was going, at lunch-time, to a party in Stockwell. Richard’s parties were always excellent: plenty of wine and good food, and the proceedings often continued all afternoon, sometimes far into the night
There was a knock on the door. Bloody Jehovah’s Witnesses, he thought as he went to answer it; they were the only people who called on a Sunday morning. It was Jane. With her, a big, hairy man he’d never seen before, looming like a macho bodyguard. ‘A neighbour of ours,’ she said, introducing him. ‘This is off my own bat …’ She was trying to sound calm, but was evidently concealing some considerable agitation. ‘I want to say at once that Donald knows nothing about it. I’ve come to collect his furniture. I know that having it here causes you a lot of distress. It will be much better for all of us if I take his things away now, and that will be that. We’ve … hired a truck.’
A carefully rehearsed speech; that was obvious. ‘Distress?’ Mark was bewildered. ‘It isn’t causing me any distress. What are you talking about?’
‘May we come in?’
He thought for a moment then said ‘I suppose so.’
A mistake: once inside, her nervous manner disappeared and she became cool and business-like; gaining an entry was the only difficulty she had foreseen. ‘I’ve a list here,’ she said. That chair, Ian’― to the bodyguard ― ‘take that out to start with. Then the dining-room table.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Mark said. ‘Just wait a minute! You can’t come bursting in and walk off with half the contents of my flat!’
‘Only the half that belongs to my son.’
‘But … I use it! What am I going to do for a dining-table? Donald must have put you up to this!’
‘No, he did not.’
‘You’re a liar! You’re all liars, the whole lot of you!’
She ignored that and said, in the patient tone of voice a nurse might use with a raving lunatic, ‘There’s no need to upset yourself. What I’m doing is best for all of us; and Donald hasnot, I repeat, put me up to this. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t even told me why he left you.’
‘Lies, lies!’
‘It’s the truth. I can only assume that you made his life so impossible he had to get out.’
‘That is an extraordinary thing to say!’
‘Extraordinary or not, he’s gone, and I’m looking after his interests.’
Ian, great gorilla, picked up the table as if it was a toy and carried it out to the truck. ‘Bookcase next?’ he asked. He began to remove the books from the top shelf.
‘You leave them alone!’ Mark shouted. ‘Those are mine, and the bookcase belongs to Donald and me!’
‘No, it doesn’t.’ Jane said.
It had belonged to her. It was the one she and Chris were going to chop up for firewood.
‘You gave it to us,’ Mark said.
‘I did not. I lent it to you.’
‘That is not what Donald told me!’
‘I’m sure he told you the truth. Take the books out, Ian.’
Mark picked up the phone. ‘If you touch it, I’ll call the police!’
Ian paused.
‘All right, leave it,’ Jane said. ‘We’ll sort that out some other time.’ Mark put the receiver down. After he had done so, she said to Ian, ‘The television.’
Mark was rapidly losing his temper. ’Don’t yon dare touch it!’ he yelled. ‘Get out, both of you. GET OUT!!’
Ian raised himself to his full height and clenched his fists. ‘Now then,’ Jane said. ‘None of that! I don’t want any trouble.’
‘I’m sure you don’t,’ Mark said. ‘You’d end up in court, wouldn’t you! Then you’d look rather stupid!’
The bodyguard was undoubtedly aching to squash Mark into pulp. Fucking fairies, he was probably thinking; deserve all they get. Should be wiped off the map.
‘We’d better go,’ Jane said. She had obviously not worked out what she should do in the eventuality of Mark resisting. Ian’s presence, she might have decided, would be enough to cower him into acquiescence. Strange that Chris had not accompanied her, Mark thought I-wash-my-hands-of-it-all. It’ s-nothing-to-do-with-me. Shame-that-gay-relationships-are-so-unstable. Always-end-in-tears.
‘We’ll be back,’ Ian said, as he and Jane went to the door. ‘Don’t you think for one minute that we won’t,’
‘I didn’t want it to turn out like this.’ Jane said.
‘You should have thought more carefully,’ Mark answered. ‘But you probably aren’t capable of that.’
He slammed the door behind them as hard as he could. He found he was trembling. Why is it, he said to himself, that the only person he’d met in his whole life who made him so violent and destructive was Donald? He paced round the flat looking for something of Donald’s to smash into tiny pieces: it would at least relieve his feelings. Wouldn’t it? No. It wouldn’t.
He poured himself a large glass of sherry and swallowed it in one mouthful. And another. Then he drove across the river to Stockwell, to Richard’s party, where by late afternoon he had drunk himself unconscious.
‘It all seems rather strange,’ Helen said. ‘Very out of character.’ They were in the house at East Finchley.
‘Yes, it is,’ Mark replied. ‘I don’t understand it.’
‘People sometimes get a fixed idea in their heads, and they can’t consider anything else till they’ve done what they set out to do. Maybe that was it. Though I wonder what Donald’s contribution was to the whole fiasco.’
‘She stressed he had no part in it.’
Helen frowned. ‘Do you believe that?’
‘Of course not. They’re all liars. I’m sorry, Helen … I shouldn’t be talking like this about your family.’
‘Her behaviour was certainly … not within the normal bounds of civilised intercourse.’
He laughed. ‘I do like your discreet English! “Not within the normal bounds of civilised intercourse!” I don’t know. I don’t know how much more I can take.’
‘You’ll survive.’
‘You overestimate me. You always do.’
‘You underestimate yourself.’
‘You’re marvellous, Helen! I wish you were a man! With green eyes and high cheek-bones―’
‘And long dark hair. Male footballer’s body. Donald.’
/> ‘Yes.’ They both laughed.
‘If you were a man I’d steal you from Brian.’
‘Don’t say things like that!’
He looked at her, surprised; the expression on her face was serious. ‘I’m … sorry. I was only joking… Is something wrong?’
Brian came into the room. ‘The meal is ready,’ he said. ‘Probably overcooked. Angela’s sitting at the table and I’m sure that wretched toddler of ours will come in from next door any minute now. Look. There he is! I have second sight.’
Helen finished her drink.
‘I’d better go,’ Mark said. Neither of them pressed him to stay.
Donald, at work one morning, felt unwell, as if he had a hangover. Odd, he thought; he hadn’t been drinking the previous night. By the end of the day he was feverish; light-headed almost. He was shocked when he took his temperature that evening ― a hundred and four. He went to bed, but did not sleep well; he dozed, and woke from nightmarish dreams, then dozed again. Next morning, feeling slightly better, he dragged himself to the doctor’s: nothing much anyone could prescribe for what was clearly a nasty bout of flu, but at least he might be able to get something to push his temperature down. The doctor took his time with the examination. He’s being strangely thorough, Donald said to himself; they’re usually writing the prescription before you’ve finished telling them the symptoms. ‘You’re going to the nearest hospital,’ the doctor said. ‘At once. It’s pneumonia.’
The next week was a blank; it might as well not have existed for all Donald could remember of it ― a few fleeting images of tubes, nurses, blood tests, masks, gloves. After eight days he was better, and was told, very gently and compassionately, that he had had pneumocystis carinii, that his immune system was severely impaired: that he had AIDS. His first reaction was that it couldn’t be true; he had not once since the beginning of the break-up with Mark swallowed sperm or been screwed without a condom. But, the counsellor said, he could have been carrying the virus for years. There had been times, even as long ago as when they were at Sussex, that Donald, in Mark’s absence, had slept with other men and not given a moment’s thought to condoms. In the late seventies and early eighties nobody did. It had seemed to him a healthy pastime: it proved that no one was more right for him than Mark, however expert the other body; the hunt was always enjoyable, and scoring showed he was still attractive ― it made him feel good about himself. He never told Mark of these adventures, for Mark didn’t indulge in that kind of thing. Donald considered him foolish for not doing so ― what on earth harm could it possibly lead to? It might make him feel good about himself.
But it had, perhaps, led to AIDS.
In a panic he phoned Mark. There was no reply. Mark was away all weekend; a month previously he had met a man who was quickly becoming his new lover, and Donald, that Saturday and Sunday, was further from his mind than he’d ever been. Saying to himself that how you cope with a grief is to love another person was the only moment he thought of Donald. He was in the new man’s bed most of the weekend.
Donald phoned Helen.
‘I said he could stay for as long as he wanted. Brian … Brian, talk to me!’
He hugged her, kissed her. ‘I’m … beyond words. I can’t have an instant reaction to something like this.’
‘He says that on no account should Mum and Dad be told. On no account!’
‘Then you must keep it to yourself.’
‘He wanted to know if Mark is away … no reply, apparently, when he phoned. I said I had no idea; I haven’t seen Mark for ages. According to Ted, he has a new lover, so he’s probably with him. Brian … I think Mark should be kept out of this. Donald has caused him enough suffering. Let him enjoy his life for a bit.’
‘He’s bound to answer his phone sooner or later.’
‘I said to Donald that my one condition for not breathing a word to Mum and Dad is that he doesn’t tell Mark. I… mmm… mentioned the new lover. Was that… cruel?’
‘No.’
She ran her fingers through her hair several times, and said, ‘I can’t take it in!’
After a long silence, Brian said, as gently as he could, Is it wise to have Donald here? Is it safe?’
‘What do you mean, safe?’
‘O.K… . we know what the experts say about this disease … it’s caught through blood and sperm and so on; it’s impossible to get it from casual contacts … but … can we be sure? I suppose there’s no need to worry about crockery and cutlery, the glass he drinks from, so long as we do the washing-up properly … but I know I’ll be wiping the lavatory seat before I sit on it ―’
‘Brian!’
‘And the children? He’s their uncle. Do we allow them to kiss him? Helen, we can’t. But how do we stop them? And if he, for some reason or other, has to manage when they cut themselves, graze their legs…’
‘Christ!’ Helen sat bolt upright. ‘I hadn’t thought of that!’ She looked at him in dismay, and said, ‘What the fuck are we going to do?’
It was a problem they didn’t have to face. The day before Donald was due to arrive, a second bout of pneumocystis carinii put him in hospital again. A week later he was dead.
Mark was with him, holding his hand. He’d been at the bedside for twelve hours ― Helen had phoned him when the hospital authorities told her that Donald might not survive. He drove her up to Liverpool immediately. It was only when they were halfway there that she realised she should, on this occasion, have rung her parents. Jane and Chris, when Brian broke the news to them of Donald’s death, were unaware that he had been ill.
The shock to them was, of course, appalling; and their fury with Helen ― brief though it was ― was understandable. They never knew their son had had AIDS. Dad in particular, Helen thought, would not be able to deal with it; he’d drink himself into his coffin. Donald, as far as they were concerned, died of pneumonia. Though mostly it didn’t, it could happen to anyone; it had no stigma. But Jane thought it might have been AIDS. When she asked ― Helen, Brian, Mark ― for their opinion, they assured her it was not.
Donald, during the twelve hours Mark was with him, was unconscious most of the time. There were a few moments, however, when he recognized who it was by his bed, and he gripped Mark’s hand tightly. He said, ‘I’ve always loved you. If I said anything else it was a lie.’ Later, restless and feverish, he asked if Ted had scrubbed the paint off. He slept, then woke to say, They’re huge. Like plums.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll never taste them again. I hope … what is his name?… appreciates them too.’
‘He does.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Colin.’
Half an hour passed. Then a final gripping of Mark’s hand, and his breathing stopped.
Mark knew there should be a whole variety of emotions he ought to be feeling ― knew that in the weeks and months to come he would feel them ― but for some days he experienced only guilt: because his reaction was a sense of relief. He had often thought, and said, during the break-up, that he’d have coped better if Donald was dead, not in another place with somebody else. It was as if a wish had come true. The virus, the succubus, Donald had become no longer existed. I can, Mark said to himself, begin with a clean slate. As if I’m reborn. Or I will be, if my AIDS test is negative.
He made love with Colin three, four, five times a night; roughly, even violently, as if to reassure himself that he was alive, a sentient, living, breathing creature death couldn’t touch. The moments of orgasm were a sneer at death; losing himself in the most pleasurable of all sensations was a victory for life: Death, where is thy sting, Grave thy victory?
‘I understand,’ Colin said when Mark explained and apologised. ‘I feel it too.’
‘Tomorrow I get the result of the test. Perhaps we’ll have something to celebrate. It would be nice not to have to bother with these again.’ He threw the condom he’d just used onto the floor.
The night after the funeral, Jason, lying against Ted, sobbed for a while. ‘He didn�
��t deserve it,’ he said. ‘He did not deserve it!’
Ted stroked him, kissed him. ‘Helen and Brian are doing this too, I imagine. And Mark and his Colin. Each couple, warm and tight in their burrows, reassuring one another that they still exist.’
‘And Donald’s parents?’
‘Ah. That I don’t know.’
‘He was never so awful as Mark seemed to think. He just fell out of love. Nothing reprehensible in that.’
‘At which point he began to behave badly,’ Ted said. He wasn’t prepared to let go of what he had till he found a better alternative; then he took so long making decisions he caused a great deal of unnecessary suffering.’
‘The sheer chance of things … us, that I’ve never wanted anyone else … never been to bed with anyone else―’
‘That’s not true!’
‘It is! Wanking with another boy at school doesn’t count.’
‘On one occasion during a lesson of mine! If I’d have known what was going onr I’d have…’
‘Yes? What?’
Ted laughed. ‘I don’t know. It’s a situation, in twenty-six years of teaching, I’ve never had to deal with.’
‘Well, you did get boring with The Nun’s Priest’s Tale, I just happened to notice Mark had a whopping erection … which gave me one. I was actually coming when you asked me to translate! We didn’t say a word to each other ― just did it. So he never knew then that I was gay … I didn’t really know myself. I should have done; I was already in love with you, but I wouldn’t admit it. We did it a second time in one of the school bogs. Took all our clothes off.’
‘Not very aesthetic, mutual masturbation in a toilet’
‘No,’ Jason agreed. ‘It was before he and Donald started … I wish I’d come out to them during all that graffiti business. But, as I said, I didn’t know I was, and even if I had known, I’d have been too frightened.’
‘Of other people doing to you what they were doing to Donald?’
‘Yes. What went wrong between Helen and Mark? Big butch Brian didn’t like her being a fag-hag and put his foot down?’
‘Not really that. He felt she was paying too much attention to somebody else.’
