Blue Jay
Page 9
that Chris’s skin is laced with. He closes his eyes
and imagines Chris’s smooth pale body. When Alex
opens his eyes again, Chris is gazing at him, almost
coyly, before abruptly breaking eye contact.
“I’ve got to pee, sorry!” He runs to the bathroom.
Alex stares after Chris, watching his perfect small
arse, tight against the material of the skinny jeans,
sway slightly. Alex sighs. Chris is drunk and horny,
but it doesn’t mean he’s into him. Otherwise, he
would have said something.
Alex returns to his small box room, lies down on
the single bed, his palms behind his head, and
wonders what sex with Chris is like. Chris’s soft skin
glows and stretches. They’d kiss until the air
between them vanishes. Maybe Chris hates sex,
given what he does for a living, although Chris has
plenty of sexual partners. Alex hears them through
the wall, and every time he does, a spark of envy
grows in his stomach. His insides have too many
feelings these days because of Chris. He’s going to
be awake for a while, like all the other nights,
listening to the hum of the distant city and watching
the lights tango on the walls.
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CHAPTER 5
WALLS
ALEX WANTS NOTHING more than a peaceful Sunday
afternoon back in the Sussex he knew as a kid. If
nothing had happened in these parts, it would have
been like that, but too many memories linger in his
brain these days when he visits.
His parents want to see him.
Ominous.
On the train down, he feels nervous enough to
chew his nails and rub his hands on his thighs. The
ugly apartment blocks of London soon turn to
greener, flatter fields as he gazes out through the
water beads on the window.
With trepidation, Alex ascends the steps to the
once-beautiful home he bought his parents. The
disrepair of the house is indicative of the way life
has taken its turn. Unease sits deep in his stomach
as he waits for someone to open the door.
“Alex!” His dad pulls Alex in with a firm hug. All
the Whale family are tall and broad, perfectly suited
to their surname. His dad has gone bald. The heavy
drinking and a general unhealthy lifestyle
accompany his pallid complexion. Alex might have
smiled, thinking about how everyone needs some
sunshine or a brightly lit person like Chris.
He walks into the chaotic front room to find Gary
sprawled on the big leather sofa, watching football
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on the telly. Not bothering to get up, Gary points to
a case of beers.
“Hey, man! Grab yourself one.”
How can he get into that thick skull of his brother
that he doesn’t drink anymore? How can he drink
when it has caused so much pain? He feels like an
alien among his family.
Alex’s mum is cooking in the kitchen; he can
smell the Sunday roast. She’s a poor chef, but roast
potatoes and the scent of overcooked vegetables are
familiar. He gives Gary a high-five as a sort of
greeting and goes in search of his mother.
“Mum.”
She turns around. “Here you are.”
Alex gives her a quick hug. She doesn’t stink of
alcohol like his dad does, though she’s still bloated
and red, as if the alcohol has seeped permanently
under her skin.
“Smells good.”
“Gotta feed my boys, hey?” She smiles, showing
tobacco-yellowed teeth—twenty a day for fuck
knows how long. All three of them are heavy
smokers.
“What’s up with you? How’s London?”
Alex leans against the worktop and watches her.
Her big hands cut the carrots roughly.
“The job’s fine. I’m too knackered to do much
else, even though I’m in London.” They are an hour
away from the capital, but people who live down in
Essex consider themselves in another world.
Travelling up to the capital is a big deal.
She puts a pan of water on to boil. “You should
start boxing again, though. Security, you say? That’s
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wastin’ your talent.”
That’s the extent of encouragement from his
family he will ever get. Is there an ulterior motive
behind those words? Most definitely.
“I’m not sure. After all—”
“I’m starving, love.” Alex’s dad appears in the
kitchen. He rummages in a cupboard and retrieves a
couple of bags of potato crisps.
“Hey, Alex. ’Aving a chat with your mum? It’s
’bout time. We ’aven’t seen much of ye since ye got
oot. Come an’ sit doon.” His regional accent comes
out stronger when he’s had a few drinks.
Alex is enjoying being in the kitchen, but he
reluctantly follows his dad back to the front room
and sits in an armchair while Gary and his dad
share the big sofa, each with a can of beer in their
hands. They tear into the packets of potato crisps as
they watch the football highlights on the huge, flat-
screen TV.
“Alex, are ye goin’ to box again?” his dad asks
without even a modicum of subtlety, but Alex has
been expecting it.
“I don’t know. After everything that happened…”
Even these insensitive men must be able to see it’s
not easy for him.
“I say, it’s all in the past. You can train again.
Look at ye! You’re fitter than before all that
nonsense. There’s no reason you can’t manage a
comeback.”
Right. As if it’s that easy.
Gary’s eyes have been glued to the TV, but now he
joins in his dad’s plotting. “Tony was round the
other week. He said he’d get you the best trainer, an
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apartment, the lot. Comeback tour and all that. He’s
talking serious money, bro.”
Alex squeezes his eyes shut. Thinking about those
things—the photographers, the journalists and Tony
the smarmy businessman—hurts his brain. His
chest tightens and he’s light-headed. Don’t they feel
anything? Don’t they know their son, their brother?
Despite his tough appearance, he’s always been
highly sensitive and emotional. What he achieved
when he was at his height was a pretence. He loved
boxing, but everything else was a necessary evil. He
got swept away in that life until he couldn’t breathe
—until that day when everything was taken away by
one fatal mistake.
A crash landing.
He felt partly relieved when he was thrown in jail
because
there
would
be
no
more
public
appearances, no more interviews and photo shoots
for commercials and magazines. He could be
himself again; the scum of the earth.
“Tony’s only interested in what’s in it for him.<
br />
Sam’s family would kill me if I paraded around on
the telly.”
“Then get some security guards. It was an
accident.”
Yeah,
try
living
with
twenty-four-hour
bodyguards!
Gary always sees the world in simple black-and-
white terms, but his remark brings a smile to Alex’s
face. Chris and his security-detail act were funny,
and his new flatmate understands him better than
this lot combined. Chris appreciates why he’s living
the way he does. Chris knows the present him, while
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his parents and brother see the Alex he was five
years ago—someone who metaphorically died and
should never be resurrected.
Alex’s brother and dad return their attention to
the sports programme on TV while drinking, but he
knows the conversation is not over. There will be
more demands for money. He needs to decide
whether he can part with his last fifty thousand in
the bank, his last bit of security for an emergency if
anything happens to him. Damn it! Besides, it’s not
going to last forever.
Nothing lasts forever.
Alex is thankful when his mum eventually serves
up the Sunday roast so he can focus on the food.
His dad, as usual, complains about one thing or
another. The gravy is too watery. The roast is a bit
too small. How many people is he feeding, exactly?
Colin Whale is sexist and obnoxious, but everyone
knows better than to contradict him.
“Thanks, Mum,” Alex offers while Gary and his
dad don’t even have the decency to express
gratitude.
“We have to do this more often. I missed you,
Alex.”
Yeah? Then why didn’t you visit me more often
inside?
Alex nods and tucks into his food. Bland,
overcooked and lacklustre, like the house and his
family, who are waiting for the day when they can’t
carry on.
“Say, when the weather’s better, we need ta do
some remedial work on the ’ouse.”
“Can you and Uncle Kieran sort it out?” Even
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Gary questions why their dad can’t repair the house,
since he was a builder before Alex started to earn
money.
“Kieran retired two years ago.” He’s also not their
‘real’ uncle, just one of Dad’s builder mates, so
there’s no familial obligation. “And with me leg and
back, it’ll kill me.” He takes a swig of his beer.
It’ll kill me to be forced to box. Alex shuts his eyes
again to tune out the ongoing conversation. He can’t
do this. Can’t be part of this anymore.
“Alex?” his mum calls.
“Hmm.” Alex refocuses.
“Dad asked you about going back in the ring. Your
manager has been round.”
Alex takes a deep breath. “Mum, there is no free
lunch with Tony. And Sam’s family won’t be happy.
You must see that. I can’t take the pressure of a
comeback right now.”
His mum’s mouth shuts dramatically and the
crocodile tears come out. “I know it’s hard for you,
Alex. You heard—your dad’s getting on a bit now.
We both are.”
What about the waste of space that is your other
son? A couple of years older than Alex, Gary has
never earned an honest wage and leeched off Alex
until he exhausted everything. Alex can’t remember
how many of Gary’s ‘business ideas’ he’s funded,
and he’s never seen any return from those
investments.
“Mum, I’ve got nothing left after the court costs.
The house was sold. They seized my assets and Tony
took a chunk. I’d have helped if I could.”
“Then, man up and go and do what you do best.”
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His father raises his voice.
Man up. Why me? What about the other men in
this fucking household?
Alex remains silent for the rest of the torture
meal.
Eventually, when it’s clear that no one is sober
enough to take him back to the train station, he calls
a taxi.
The taxi driver steals glances in his rear-view
mirror. “Are you Alex Whale? I thought so when
they called me out to their house.”
“Hmm. Yes.” That’s why his PO won’t allow him
to live here anymore since people in the local area
know the family.
“Didn’t know you were out, man.” The taxi
driver’s eyes light up.
Alex can’t wait for the fifteen-minute journey to
be over.
“What are you doing these days, Blue?”
Stop asking me the same fucking question.
~~~
London comes as a welcome relief after the
Sunday lunch ordeal, and Alex feels even better
when he sees Chris in the lounge smoking a joint.
The hazy afternoon sun has created a beam in the
air as dust dances along. Chris looks up and smiles,
lighting up the room, reaching out to Alex with that
simple gesture. He’s shinier than the sunlight. The
bedsit has rapidly become more of a home than the
mansion Alex bought his family. Money can’t buy
happiness. It’s not a cliché when it’s true.
“Hey.”
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“Hey, yourself.” Chris blows out smoke, and all
Alex can think about is licking Chris’s pursed lips.
He sits at the other end of the couch while the
tension from the trip to see his family eases. Here’s
someone he doesn’t need to pretend with and who
doesn’t want money from him. Chris sure doesn’t
care if he’s going to do a comeback tour or help with
the repairs to the house.
Chris regards Alex’s leather jacket—the one piece
of clothing Alex believes makes him half
presentable. He bought it when he first went
professional, so it is now nice and weathered. He
feels self-conscious under Chris’s gaze, though, so
he takes it off, exposing the black tee underneath.
Something changes in Chris’s face, but then he
coughs as if to hide the blush on his cheeks.
Butterflies flood Alex’s stomach. Butterflies. What
the fuck?
“Where’ve you been? Anywhere nice?”
“Lunch with my family.”
“Oh, and where’s that?”
“Southend-on-Sea.”
Chris nods, but no comments come forth.
Alex wants to hug him and touch his pretty,
delicate face, and that scares the hell out of him.
Alex should go back to his room or go for a walk to
calm himself down, but he is glued to the spot so he
can be in the other’s company.
He asks Chris, just so he can listen to his honeyed
timbre, “What about you? Are you working today?”
Heat rises in Alex’s face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Chris chuckles. “It’s all right. No, I don’t work on
Sundays.”
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“Really? Is it a common thing?” Alex shuts his
mouth after the question.
Chris only laughs louder. “Yeah, I’m a pretty
common kind of prostitute. No, I don’t know how
other people work, but I don’t work on Sundays.”
“Oh. Sorry. I meant…” Alex, shut the fuck up. “Is
it a religious thing?”
Chris is belting it out now. His face colours from
the laughter. “No, Alexander. It’s a principle thing. I
deserve a day off a week kind of thing.”
Alex squeezes his hands between his thighs. “I’m
glad you find me funny.”
“That, I do. Sometimes. Other times, you’re kind
of a miserable fella. Far too serious.” Chris giggles.
“Oh, I know,” Alex concedes. “By the way, I didn’t
think you’d call yourself a prostitute.”
“What? Cuz escort sounds better? It is what it is. I
am who I am.” Chris stubs out his joint. “I have sex
with people and get paid for it. That is the definition
of prostitution, and I’m okay with it. My job makes
people feel better, if only for a little while.”
Alex gets the logic, but it also hurts as if Chris has
thumped his heart with the truth.
Chris reaches out and pats Alex’s thigh. “What are
you doing now? Wanna go for a walk?”
Alex gazes out of the dust-smeared window and
sees the sun, reluctant to set yet, even though it’s
nearly three o’clock in the afternoon. “Okay. Where
are we going?”
Chris stands. “We’ll see. This is the kind of
escorting I don’t mind doing on a Sunday. Coming,
then?”
They get ready quickly and walk out of the
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building into the slanting sunshine.
“Hmm. I love the smell of smog.” Chris stretches
his arms out and inhales, winking at Alex.
Alex laughs. His worries and the depressing lunch
with his folks fade in importance. “Lead the way.”
Chris squints at the sun and smiles, causing
Alex’s stomach to flip-flop again.
They start north, walking side by side and mostly
in silence. When they get to the main stretch off
Finsbury Park, Chris turns and grins. “I’ve got to get
some bagels. Come.”
He takes Alex’s hand and drags him along to the
bakery. Alex stares at their joined digits, captivated
by the sensation of Chris’s skin against his own.
The sweet, warm fragrance of yeast hits them as
soon as they enter the bakery. It’s busy, and Alex
and Chris squeeze between the counter and the
racks of baked produce, towering over the other