And so they went on their way, discussing it pointlessly from every angle and running every time into a brick wall.
* * *
Two unexciting draws did nothing to alleviate their gloom, and Stephen was irritable and uncommunicative in bed with Richard that weekend. On Monday morning Richard sat in the library, ostensibly revising but actually debating in his mind whether to ask Stephen to confide in him.
At lunchtime he went in search of him, and found him mooching moodily round the cricket field, hands in pockets and head down. He came up behind him and, heedless of the eyes of the few other boys walking round, put an arm firmly round his shoulders. “Why don’t you tell me about it, Stevie?” he said. Coming out of his brown study with a start, Stephen looked up into Richard’s face, and was touched by the anxious concern he saw there. “I… I’d like to”, he said. “I’d like to tell someone, just to get it off my chest. It’s awful knowing something like this and not being able to do a thing about it. You feel so bloody helpless. But…”
“But me no buts, love”, said Richard. “I might be able to think of something to help. I’m fucking clever, you know.” Stephen laughed, as Richard had planned. “Come on, love”, he urged. “Tell uncle Dick all about it. Problem shared is a problem halved, and all that.”
Stephen looked gratefully at him. “I wonder if anyone, anywhere, ever had a better friend than you, Richard”, he,said, feeling inclined to burst into tears.
Richard saw his eyes moisten, and squeezed his shoulders. “Don’t blub, old chap”, he murmured. “Much more sense to tell me all about it. I am the clever half of this partnership. Come on”, he added, adopting a businesslike tone. “Let’s have it.”
So Stephen told him, making his eyebrows climb. He was only halfway through the tale when the bell shrilled in the distance, summoning them to the afternoon’s bout of revision. “Better get back, I suppose”, muttered Stephen.
“No”, said Richard sharply, realising that if the flow stopped he might never prize Stephen’s confidences out of him as easily again.
“The bell’s gone”, said Stephen, not very firmly.
“Stuff the bell”, said Richard very firmly indeed. “Bugger, sod and fornicate the bell.”
Stephen tried not to laugh, but failed. “All right, then”, he said, with a grudging chuckle. “You win.”
“I always do” said Richard jauntily. “Come on, now.”
Stephen went on with his story, until Richard was abreast of developments right up to Saturday morning. He watched Stephen steadily out of the corner of his eye, and his heart throbbed with compassion and a fierce protectiveness. They continued walking in a friendly, companionable silence for some time before Richard spoke again.
“I’ll give it my best”, he murmured. “If I can’t think of a way to set this bastard back on his heels I’m not the man I think I am. You trust me, Stevie, baby. He won’t be worth a plugged nickel by the time I’m through with him. I’m into westerns at the moment”, he grinned, as Stephen turned and stared at him.
Stephen laughed again, unable to help it. “Christ, you’re good for me”, he said. “I say, d’you know what I fancy?”
“No, but you could always try telling me. My mind-reading’s a bit rusty these days.”
“I could murder a pint”, said Stephen. “Come on, Richard”, he went on, becoming animated as he thought about it. “Let’s skive off into town and have a drink. Christ, that’s the first good idea I’ve had since I started thinking about this business.”
Richard looked at him sternly. “What about revision?” he asked. “Have you forgotten that the bell has rung?” Stephen stared at him for a split second before the penny dropped. Then he fell on him, and they wrestled playfully for a minute before heading briskly for a strictly out-of-bounds but popular, unofficial exit from the school grounds.
At that moment it seemed like nothing more than a minor piece of schoolboy naughtiness. But, unknown to them as yet, they were about to fall victims to the colossal, earth-moving power of coincidence. Their illicit visit to a pub was to have fateful consequences for several people, not least for themselves.
* * *
They wandered about aimlessly for a while when they got to the town centre, enjoying the unplanned freedom, and the mild tang of rebellion more. Eventually they found a large, smart-looking pub that stayed open throughout the day, and pushed happily through the doors.
One minute later they were back on the street. The barman had taken one glance at their school blazers, pointed to the door and said “Out!”
They had better luck with the next pub they tried, however. It was a large, shabby establishment in a side-street. They bought pints and carried them off to the table farthest from the bar to continue discussing Graham’s problem. There were only three or four other customers in the big bar, all with newspapers open at the racing pages, and nobody took the slightest notice of the boys.
They had been there about ten minutes, and Stephen, who was thirsty, had almost finished his lager, when the door flew open with a force that almost took it off its hinges. A tall, slim, dark-haired boy of about seventeen burst in and shot across to the bar. The landlord dropped his own copy of The Sporting Life and glared at him. “No need to knock the…” he started to say, when the door was hurled open again, this time admitting two grinning youths in half-mast jeans, heavy working boots and skinhead haircuts. They were about the same age as the darkhaired boy, but a great deal bigger. They stared arrogantly round the room, and spotted him immediately at the bar. They barged tables and an old man out of their way and made a bee-line for the boy, who looked desperately about for an escape route. Their grins grew broader.
Before anyone could intervene the first and bigger of the two of them had cuffed the dark boy heavily round the side of his head, knocking him spinning along the bar. As he reeled under the force of the blow and flailed his arm in an attempt to keep his balance, he struck a group of about a dozen dirty glasses which the landlord had put on the bar for washing. They went flying, smashing in a minor explosion and showering glass in all directions. The boy’s efforts to stay on his feet failed, and he went headlong into the jagged fragments on the floor. The other customers goggled at the sudden violence in their midst Stephen and Richard looked at each other, and began to rise from their chairs; but someone was quicker.
One of the other drinkers lowered his paper and got slowly out of his seat. He was a stockily-built man of medium height, about forty-five, wearing casual clothes and thick, black-framed glasses. He threaded his way between the tables and came finally to rest between the sprawling dark-haired boy and the two youths. As he went he made a negative motion with his hand to the landlord, who was heading fast for the telephone. “Don’t trouble, Bill”, he said. Stephen and Richard sank back onto their chairs, still ready to help but watching the other man curiously.
So were the two skinheads, who had faltered in their charge towards their fallen victim and halted, eyeing the newcomer warily. “Mind yer own business, mate?” suggested the leader amiably. “We ain’t got no quarrel with you.”
“Making it my business”, he said, equally politely. He stepped half a pace closer to them, casually placed a large palm in each chest and, without appearing to use any great effort, shoved. The two boys, big though they were, flew backwards, their feet slipped from under them and they landed on their backsides, glaring up at the man with identical, flabbergasted looks of surprise.
“Tut!” the man said, clicking his tongue. “Two onto one. Not cricket Not cricket at all. So why are we beating the kid up?”
They glanced at each other, beginning to rise to their feet. “E’s a poofter”, said the leader eventually, deciding that conciliation was sensible policy until they had gauged the likely quality of this unexpected opposition. “E’s a fuckin poofter, like. We don’t like is kind, so we was givin im a lesson, stay away from round ere, narmean?”
“Ah”, said the man softly. He half-turned to lo
ok down at the dark-haired boy, who was picking himself up out of the debris of broken glass. “Queer-bashin, are we?” He turned back to the two of them and wagged a finger at them. “Don’t go away now, will you?” he said gently, and went over to the other boy. “That right?” he asked. “You gay?”
The boy stared at him, colouring up like a traffic light and looking uncertainly into his eyes. After a moment he nodded. “Y-yes”, he stammered.
“Okay”, said the man. “Look after them for me.” He took off his glasses and laid them on the table, on which the winded boy was now leaning. Then he stepped without hurry back towards the two youths, by now back on their feet and eyeing him in mingled hostility and uncertainty. “Well lads”, he said conversationally, “your luck’s changed.” They looked at him, not understanding.
“Come on then. Don’t stand there gapin at me as if you just been goosed. I said, your luck’s changed.”
“Dunno whatcher mean”, said the one who was spokesman, sullenly.
“What I mean, son”, he said, as if humouring a backward child, “is that there you were, two big, brave, strapping lads, out for a little queer-bashin, and all you could raise was one frightened kid. An then, out of the blue, where there was one, suddenly there’s two.” They still stood motionless, trying to assess him. He saw that they still didn’t understand his meaning.
He took two paces towards them, halted a few feet away, standing easily with his feet apart, and hooked his thumbs in the belt of his jeans. “I’m gay”, he said, pleasantly. His voice was soft, but it sounded like a loud noise in the dead silence. He took two further paces towards them. “Try me”, he said, more softly still.
The two had by now made their assessment, and began backing towards the door, eyeing him wolfishly but clearly not willing to take their chance against someone so evidently confident and, therefore, almost certainly dangerous.
“No?” he said, with apparent regret. “Well, you’re not a bad judge, son. I’da put both of you in traction before you’d got a hand on me. As it happens, you see, I’m a sadist, as well as bein gay. I’m actually gonna enjoy breakin your fingers”, he went on, walking unhurriedly towards them as they crowded in the doorway. He halted a few inches from them as they fought and tangled in their efforts to get the heavy door open without taking their eyes off him.
“Before you go”, he remarked after watching the performance for a moment, “let me tell you something. I use this pub often. And all the others in this area, too. Not regularly, but often. Not at any particular time. So you’ll never know if I’m around or not. But if I ever catch you two at this sort of game again, I’ll put both of you in intensive care, for a good long time. Now you can get out.” He turned his back on them and walked away, taking no notice of them whatsoever. They at last managed to get out of the door and escaped. The man ambled back to the dark-haired boy, who was sitting at the table he had been leaning on, and sat down opposite him.
“You all right, son?” he asked.
The boy nodded nervously, and Stephen and Richard could see his hands shaking from across the room. “Y-yes, th-thank you”, he said, offering a slightly tearful smile from under his dark brown fringe. “Th-thank you very m-m-much.”
“Don’t you thank me”, he said, dismissing the matter. “Our sort gotta look after each other. Nobody else will.” He saw the boy’s trembling hands, got up and sauntered across to where the landlord was watching, looking slightly bemused by events. “Gimme a brandy for the kid”, he said. “Large.”
The landlord came to with a small start and hastened to the optic. He gave the glass to the man, and waved his money away. “On the house”, he said. “You done noble there. Saved the kid a nasty hiding. I’m too old to handle young roughs like that. Have one yourself.”
The man nodded his thanks, accepted a pint of Guinness, and went back to the boy, who was trying to compose himself. “Here y’are, son”, he said. “Drink it down quick, it’ll steady you down.”
The boy thanked him shyly, and ventured to ask a question. “Are you… er… are you really…?”
“You just heard me tell the whole room I am, in aloud voice”, he replied, with a faint smile.
“Well, y-yes”, said the boy, taking a gulp of his brandy and gasping. “But I thought that was maybe just a blind — a cover to give you an excuse to… well, sort them out”, he said.
The man laughed. “Nah! Nothing so complicated”, he said cheerfully. “No, I’m gay. An like I said, we gotta look after each other. We can’t all be fightin men, so it’s up to the ones of us who are to take care of the ones who aren’t. Wannanother?”
“Well, er yes, but please let me… And thank you again for… for what you did.”
“Forget it, son”, the man said. He leaned easily back in his chair and drained the remaining half-pint of his Guinness in a single long draught, and allowed the boy to get him another.
The drama over, the boys became aware that their glasses were empty. Stephen went and got refills from the bar. On the way he had to pass close by the dark-haired boy and his rescuer. He looked curiously at the man as he passed, and received a frank stare of appraisal in return.
When he got back to their table with the drinks he found Richard beaming with self-satisfaction. He seized Stephen’s arm the moment he had set the glasses down. “I told you I’d think of something”, he whispered excitedly in Stephen’s ear. “Well, I have. It’s sure to work.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Graham’s problem. I told you I was going to think of a way to get this bastard off his back, and I have. I’m brilliant, aren’t I, Stevie?”
“I dunno till I hear what you’ve thought of”, said Stephen. But he said it with a grin in which he managed to combine amusement and fondness with expectation, for he had an enormous respect for his friend’s fertile mind, and he suspected that if Richard thought he had found a solution that might work, he was very likely to prove correct. “Go on, then”, he said.
Richard told him. When he had finished hurriedly sketching the idea Stephen stared into space, thinking. “Hmm. It might work”, he said doubtfully.
“Don’t be so pessimistic. I know it’ll work”, hissed Richard. “But let’s ask him, anyway, why don’t we?” Stephen nodded slowly, and they waited.
A little while later the dark-haired boy rose and went out, thanking his rescuer profusely. Stephen and Richard got up and, taking their drinks with them, went over to the man. “I…er, I wonder if we might have a word with you”, said Richard politely. He looked up enquiringly at the two of them; then waved at the empty chairs round the table. “Siddown”, he said.
“All right”, the man said when they had ranged themselves across the table from him. “What can I do for you?”
“Well”, said Richard, “it was what happened just now that gave us the idea of speaking to you. It must have been pure coincidence, of course, but it might have been some sort of…of providence, almost. As if there’s some sort of fate… Anyway, the way you dealt with those two thugs, we thought maybe you could tell us what to do. We’ve got a problem, you see.”
“I rather thought you might”, he said gravely. “Well, I never set myself up as an agony uncle, but I’ll hear your problem, if you like.”
“I…er…I suppose you’re not a… a policeman, or anything, by any chance, are you?” asked Richard.
“Not by any chance whatsoever”, said the man, grinning. “Perhaps we better introduce ourselves. I’m Terry Garrard. I suppose I’m best described as an ageing hippy — sorta dinosaur that’s somehow managed to survive intact since the Sixties. How about you boys? And what’s the problem?”
They introduced themselves shyly then carried on, Richard providing the beginning and Stephen finishing with the full story. They offered nothing to identify Graham, and Terry didn’t ask.
“Okay”, he said then. “What’s your idea, Richard?”
“How did you know it was my idea?” asked Richard, curio
usly.
“Because I’m not blind”, said Terry, and his expression did not encourage further questioning.
Richard explained his idea quickly. “Would it work, do you think?” he asked anxiously.
“It might”, said Terry. “It might not. Whatever, you got nothing to lose. Shit, if the guy still goes ahead, your man sounds as if he’s got his head screwed on. He’s sized up the odds, and he’s already said he’s preparing for a quick out. If you try your idea and it works, well, so much the better. What part have you written for me in this script?” he said abruptly, shooting the question at Richard in one of his lightning changes of direction.
“Well, none, really”, said Richard, almost taken by surprise again but covering fast. “When I saw how you dealt with those two just now, I thought you might be the sort of person to get some advice from, but I didn’t think much further than that, really.”
“When d’you wanna do it?”
Once again he succeeded in taking them unawares. “Well”, said Richard, “I suppose the sooner the better, really. That’s something we haven’t had a chance to discuss — we haven’t discussed any of it yet. I only had the idea while we were watching you do your stuff there.”
“Fair enough. You haven’t said a lot”, Terry said, swinging round on Stephen. “What do you think?”
“I’d like to see this bastard fried”, said Stephen. “The only thing that would stop me is if I thought the other man might get in trouble because of anything I did. I wouldn’t do anything to put him at risk — any more than he is already, that is.”
Out of Bounds Page 24
