by Aled Islwyn
The things you do, not to do the line dancing, he teased, accusing me of being a fraud.
Cheeky bugger! I leaned forward and pinched his nipple through his T-shirt.
I’m as honest as my prick is long, I said, choking as I coughed as I laughed.
He didn’t flinch. Just laughed along. I’m sure he’d be a kinky little bastard given half a chance. He knows I’m gay, of course. Always has. But we’ve never really discussed it.
That’s what made it rather embarrassing when the phone rang. Raul was still here in the lounge when they called. Over there across the table from me. He could tell I’d sobered up pretty quick after picking up the phone.
It was some bloody detective from the central police station at Pontypridd. Well! You don’t expect it, do you? Not in Barcelona during siesta on a Sunday afternoon.
It’s another world, you see. That’s what I keep telling Mam.
Nice for a week, love, but wouldn’t want to live there, she keeping replying.
She must have been the one to give them my number. Didn’t think to ask him where he got it from. And looking back on it, he didn’t really ask me anything either. Confirmed who I was. That I knew Dan Llywellyn. That I’d agree to see them when they came over. And that was it.
Must be serious, mind… coming all that way just to see me.
This coming Wednesday? asked Mike in disbelief when I told him. They are in a hurry.
Guess they have to be if Dan is fading fast. They’ll want to get their summons served before the death certificate is signed.
Explained very little to Raul after I’d put the receiver down. He had the sense to down the whisky I’d poured him pretty sharpish. Said he hoped I’d be better soon.
So do I. It’s no fun, this sickness lark!
I guess I should have. But I couldn’t, could I? Don’t ask me why. Just knew I wasn’t going to before they rang that bell. And all that talk of ‘substantial financial compensation’ he kept dangling like a carrot in front of my eyes throughout our ‘little chat’ didn’t make a difference either.
This isn’t a formal interview, Joel, he said. I’m not obliged to caution you and you’re obviously not suspected of committing any criminal activity yourself. We just want a little chat.
He didn’t have a Valleys accent. Couldn’t really tell where he was from, the young burly one who talked. Impressive thighs though. He was lean and well-muscled. Not in my league, like. But I knew he was a fit bastard and guessed he probably punched above his weight. Wore a pair of safari shorts, which looked great on him. And a kind of pink cotton shirt, which didn’t.
Found the heat oppressive, he said. Never been to this part of Spain before. Investigating serious allegations made against Mr Daniel Llywellyn who ran the Junior Gym and Recreational Club down Bethel Street for many years.
Well, I knew why he was there! He could have saved his breath on that score.
How is he? I found myself asking.
Poorly, came the reply. God knows why, but somehow I’d expected more.
He already knew I was gay. He told me so when he first arrived.
Yes and very happily so, I fired back with confidence. Thought afterwards that I must have sounded defensive and regretted saying anything.
So I see. Beautiful city. Lovely apartment. Must be a very nice lifestyle.
I like it. I found myself agreeing like a sheep. He was setting me up for compliance and I wasn’t having any of it.
He also knew I was now working at a health studio myself. A bit different from your old haunts back in Wales, he sneered.
Told him I’d taken time off work especially to see them. He said he was grateful. But inside I knew every word he spoke meant something else.
Should have dropped Dan Dracula right in it, I suppose. The stupid bastard. But just couldn’t bring myself to do it, see.
Then he said he knew it was difficult to talk about such things.
His mate, meantime – the little short-arse git who hardly said a word – is still sitting in that armchair over by the door to the spare bedroom. Fascinated by art, it seems. Had a good look inside and his eyes devoured every painting we have hanging here in the lounge too.
It seems I can get back in touch with them anytime… or so the talkative one kept reminding me. No problem… day or night. When I’d thought it over. If I could remember any little incident when I’d felt uncomfortable… I shouldn’t hesitate. Any time. You just call me, Joel. Like all the other lads had done… the ones who’d come forward and were now in line for substantial financial compensation.
Wants us to meet again before they go back. Tomorrow evening after the gym closes. For a drink.
I suggested the Zanzibar bar on Las Ramblas. His tourist attire should look at home there.
We shook hands as they left. And I looked him in the eye. For the first time. Didn’t want him to think I was scared of doing that. But it’s not something I’ve ever been good at. Looking people in the eye.
Still have his card here in my hand. Detective Sergeant Gavin Hughes BSc. Can’t remember the name of the other one. He never left a card. But I told Mike how besotted he’d been with his paintings.
You see the truth doesn’t always come easily in this life, Joel. That must be his mantra. It’s his favourite sentence, most definitely. Heard it so many times this evening, it’s spinning round my brain. Which would make him happy back in his little hotel bedroom if he knew.
That was obviously his intention – to plant the seeds that would get me to spill the beans. But the truth doesn’t always come that easy in this life, does it?
Should have thrown the sentence back in his face… and added ‘Gavin’ at the end, like he kept adding ‘Joel’ to the end of everything he said to me. Like one big strapping full stop.
Still, he got more than he bargained for one way or another!
A strange evening really. Don’t quite know what to make of it.
Sorry! I just don’t do guided tours of gay Barcelona, I said.
Oh, don’t be like that, Joel! he pleaded. A wry, old-fashioned smile lit his face.
I gave in in the end. We ended up in Cuffs. Introduced him to Serge.
Shouldn’t have really. Gone round clubs drinking, I mean. I’m still taking the antibiotics for my chest infection. Don’t finish them till Saturday.
Added to which, Mike went ballistic when he heard I’d shown him some of the night-life here. He’s a cop, for God’s sake!
He’s so paranoid, that boy! It’s unbelievable.
I know he’s a cop, don’t I?
I’ve done my share of hanging around in gay bars, Gavin assured me.
That was much earlier in the evening, when we’re sitting outside the Zanzibar, watching the world walk by on Las Ramblas. It’s a warm evening. (Aren’t they all, out here?) We down a few drinks. Just me and Gavin. His fat-git partner made his excuses after downing two beers in a hurry. Then headed back to their hotel. Needed his beauty sleep, he said.
Slugs do, I thought.
So that left me and good old Gavin, who proceeded to assure me that he didn’t intend to talk about Dan Llywellyn all evening. But then again… the truth doesn’t always come easy in this life… and he knew what I must be going through… how I mustn’t feel disloyal… how wishing to put the past behind me was natural… but how I never would until I had all this off my chest. Oh yes, he understood!
Which amused me, really. He was jolly about it all. One of the lads. Leaning over. Sharing a joke, where appropriate. His hand on my knee when occasion allowed. All textbook, ‘You can trust me, I’m a policeman,’ stuff. I knew his game and went along with it all.
Why shouldn’t I let him ply me with drinks? Buy me a meal? As far as he was to know, my tongue might have started to loosen at any second. The one right word from him could have triggered an avalanche of juicy memories at any moment. My guard could be down. Floods of steamy recollections could be streaming from my lips at any second. Salacious anecdotes.
Times and dates and sordid details. All the conclusive evidence that would put Dan Llywellyn away for many years.
I’m the big fish he wants to haul. Worked that one out after he rang to ask to see me. And he virtually admitted as much this evening. I was, after all, Dan Llywellyn’s ‘star boy’. Played for the county at almost everything. Boxed for Wales as a schoolboy. Very nearly made the British Olympic wrestling team. Got to represent Wales in some World Federation weight-lifting tournament in Budapest at the age of eighteen. More trophies than my mam could cope with. Which is why half of them ended up in Nanna’s house.
So it’s down to me.
You’re the man who can nail Dan Llywellyn, he tells me.
Seems to me the undertaker will do that soon enough, I said back to him.
He laughs at that and slaps me on the back. Furious inside, I reckon, ’cos he knows I’m making light of his mission. But he’s enough of a professional to know he mustn’t lose it. I would, after all, be the dream witness for him, if only I’d play ball. The ending of this dark chapter in the annals of Welsh crime lays in my hands. And maybe old Gavin needs this one for his CV to secure promotion or boost his self-confidence or his reputation amongst his colleagues or whatever else he feels is missing in his saddo life. He knows he mustn’t blow it with me.
Daft sod! Does he really think I’m going to dish the dirt on Dan?
Seven-thirty! The traffic’s buzzing. And the sun is up.
I’m not exactly suffering. But I can’t get going either. This coffee is just about enough to revive my mouth. The rest of me can follow later, once I’m doing some warm-ups down the gym.
Raul will already be there. Cleaning. Setting everything up for the day. He works hard.
It must have been two o’clock when we left Cuffs. Early really, by Barcelona standards. The place was hardly getting going. But I told him I had work to go to in five hours’ time and that he was also flying home today.
All in all, he must have been resigned to the fact that his tactics hadn’t worked.
Guess I can’t break you tonight, Joel, he joked half seriously over our last drink.
You’ll never break me, man. All these sad wannabees who made these allegations against Dan, don’t know what they’re talking about.
Talking about tears in some instances, Joel, he comes straight back at me. The tales some of those boys had to tell have left them emotionally scared for life.
You’ll never find me crying, mate, I proclaimed adamantly.
Ah, Joel, the world is full of men like you who’ve lived to swallow bitter tears.
Tears are totally feminine things, I tell him. They’re void of any maleness. It’s a clinically proven fact. No traces of testosterone have ever been found in a man’s tears. Only feminine hormones.
He was stunned for a moment and didn’t know whether to laugh or not.
Oh! Men have the capacity to produce them, I said, but no means of instilling them with any masculine traits. It’s a fact.
When the taxi pulled up outside, he placed his hand on my knee once more, just as I was about to open the door. He half turned to face me full on and willing sincerity into his eyes with all the power he could muster, he said, Remember, Joel, I’m on your side.
I’m convinced the line about ‘truth not always being easy’ is about to get another airing and in a sublime moment of panic, I kissed him. A smacker on the lips.
Think I meant it as a joke. Can’t really remember.
Well! Yes, I can. It was and it wasn’t. A joke, that is. I was confused. And high. And horny. And he responded. Old Gavin. There, last night, in that taxi his lips went ‘Open sesame’ and his hand moved up my thigh.
The taxi driver just sat there not caring a damn. He’s seen it all before. And besides, the meter was still running. Why would he mind?
Eventually, my tongue slid free and I got out without a word. Just stood there gob-smacked on the pavement as he’s driven away. My hand clutching the card I’d felt him slip into my pocket. It’s the second one he’s given me. I now have a pair. Only on that second one he’s written his personal e-mail address in Biro on the back.
It’s here in my wallet, hidden away.
I’ve no idea how he got my e-mail address. My mam is off the hook this time. Telephones are an integral part of her communications system. It’s a well-known fact. But an e-mail remains a mystery to her.
However he got it, there it was this evening. Waiting for me.
Thanks for seeing me. I appreciated it and respect your position. But if you ever want to relieve yourself of anything, you know how to get hold of me. My investigations continue. It’s a sad and sensitive business. Hope we get to meet again, especially if things get clearer in your mind. Regards, Gavin.
I couldn’t reply immediately. What a relief!
Mike has had several of his paintings accepted by some prestigious gallery. He needed the computer urgently. I was banished out here on the balcony. No! Correction. I banished myself.
Hate these days when I’ve been for a check-up. So fucking humiliating. And six months seem to come around so quickly. Condoms and care are all well and good. But I’m wise to stick to my routine.
Mike pointed out that I wouldn’t need to go if I didn’t play around. The darkroom work really bugs him. He suffers from selective memory. We met in a bloody darkroom, Mike, I said. Remember?
You’re thirty-three now, was his response. Time you grew up.
Perhaps he doesn’t want to remember. It was ten years ago. Not here, of course. Not Cuffs. Ibiza. Another club. A holiday. Our first shag. No condom. No cares.
And now, it’s not even a memory.
He’ll still want me to accompany him to the opening of his exhibition. He told me all about it as he broke the news. ‘Launch party’ it’s called. More of a small reception, apparently. Just critics and friends. He told me the date and to be sure to keep it free.
I’m still good for wheeling out as the trophy boyfriend, it seems. And don’t get me wrong, that’s fine by me. So long as Mike doesn’t forget at which bring-and-buy he picked me up.
Being told you’re all clear should give you a high, I suppose. But curiously, it doesn’t. There’s relief. And then this empty feeling takes over inside, as you stop off in reception before leaving to make your next appointment in another six months’ time.
Raul’s missus made such a fuss of Mike last night it was almost embarrassing. Her wonderful meal was already enough of a contribution to the celebrations. She’s generous to a fault and I can understand why Raul lives in awe of her every act of kindness. I have never in my life lived with anyone who oozes so much goodness with such grace and I understand that it can’t always be easy.
It’s only two paintings, Mike insisted repeatedly every time she mentioned his triumph.
Still two more than Van Gogh ever sold in his lifetime, I kept chipping in, playing the proud partner.
We’d taken the champagne, of course. Not cava, Raul noted, tossing the bottle in the air when we first got there and catching it again behind his back, much to Mike’s relief.
Things are pretty tight on old Raul, I think. His overheads are high and with another bambino on the way he can’t have much money to throw around.
As we sat down to eat in their tiny kitchen, Mike ceremoniously popped open the bottle. And the kid starts throwing his pasta across the room in excitement. The rest of us just laughed and made a toast of Mike’s success and cleared off that first bottle without a care in the world.
Raul suggested a spot of line dancing to follow and I told him to bugger off.
I flexed my biceps to amuse the kid and he in turn tried to knock the muscles back into place with a plastic hammer which must have come with the set of plastic blocks I kept tripping over underfoot.
As the evening drew on, we all seemed bloated and bubbly and larger than life. And I really hated the moment when I knew I had to tell Raul I’d be away another week. It seems so soon after the week I
lost when that bug laid me low.
Needless to say, I needn’t have worried. His handshake was flamboyant in his sympathies. He knew. He cared. He caressed.
Si, si! You must, you must, he said. And with that he fetched the second bottle from the fridge, saying such sadness had to be drowned immediately.
He indulges you something rotten, was Mike’s verdict on the way home last night. You’re like a great big toy he just can’t get enough of.
You used to be like that towards me once, I replied. What happened?
It’s not good that it’s back.
Mike made all the right noises last night after Joanne rang, it’s true, but he’s so buoyed by his new-found success, his words just sounded empty and devoid of any feeling.
Even Joanne’s voice rang hollow as she tried to speak through the tears. A combination of the waterworks and the Welsh in her voice. Like a drunken sailor trying to sing a shanty aboard a sinking ship on a stormy sea. The meaning made no sense at all, but you could still taste the salt on your lips as the song slapped your face.
It will be two years since I was last at home. That’s the trouble. I’ve started to forget.
She won’t come over to see me. Our Joanne. I’ve asked her. But she won’t. Says she doesn’t like the food.
Bloody ridiculous excuse!
The truth is, she’s never been anywhere much, our Joanne. No further than the prenatal clinic. And even then, our mam has had to go with her every time.
Not the next time, though! The thought struck me like a left hook. Not if it’s back.
Knew immediately I had to do the same. Go back. Take charge.
I had no chance to even ask how Mam was. Dean has a go at me as soon as he picks up the receiver. It was late, apparently, and I’d woken up the kids. He’s always hated my guts. Likes to think he’s something special with his fists. And he’d love to take a pop at me one day, I know. But the sad wimp has never quite been able to pluck up the courage, ’cos he know I’ve won prizes for it. So it’s hands buried deep, whenever we meet. Pocket billiards and a mouthful of abuse.
