Hideous Beauty

by William Hussey

  “Look at him, Dylan,” she says softly.

  I can’t. I ball up my fists. I can’t.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. Just look.”

  And I do.

  You have a halo, but it isn’t snowdrops. It’s even more perfect. Pillowing your head and fanning out all around you are your drawings. Dozens of them, big and small, scribbled into life on napkins and carefully worked out on foolscap. Quick, breathless sketches, some barely more than a scratch or two on the paper, others spellbindingly intricate studies. People, animals, still life, cityscapes and country lanes, abstract shapes and honest portraits, every style mastered, every subject echoing your force and energy. Your work is your shroud, Ellis, and it’s the saddest, most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.

  I grasp the edge of your coffin when I see it. I’m here, right with you. A simple portrait you must have sketched of me when I had no idea you were working. This seems impossible, because surely I was always watching you. But here I am, looking off into the distance, the side of my lip caught between my teeth, my eyes brimming with happiness. Where were we that day? A rooftop picnic? Cross-legged under our favourite tree in the park? High up in our bell tower? The thing is, Julia has placed me so that I am nestled right beside you on the pillow, and those joyful eyes seem focused on one thing only – you.

  I gather up the last shreds of my courage and let my eyes move inwards from this perfect halo. I remember hating you when you wouldn’t wake up in the car. How could I ever hate this face? Those eyes, closed now, that saw some worth in me. That chin and jaw and those sharp cheekbones that rested against my own poor face when we held each other. Those lips that gifted me my first real kiss, and my last.

  “El,” I murmur.

  I reach for your hands, folded across your chest like you’re trying to protect your heart. When I touch you, I realize something. There is no cold like this – not anywhere in the world. It isn’t the cold of stone or wind or ice.

  It’s emptiness.

  And suddenly this sound rises up from someplace I’ve never felt before. It’s not my stomach or my lungs, it’s a deeper, secret place that perhaps you only get to reach into once or twice in a lifetime. Some of the people behind us give this little surprised cry when they hear it. El, I can’t describe this sound. It’s all our tossed and torn and battered hopes, all our stolen future and our darkened past rolled into one. It comes without tears. It’s too huge for them.

  Mike. Mike is here and holding me like I’m his own child.

  “It’s okay, Dylan,” he whispers, and cradles my head to his shoulder. “Jesus, if I could just… It’s okay.”

  Julia squeezes his arm. “Take him outside. El never liked these places anyway. Let him do his grieving in the open air.”

  But you did like churches, I want to tell her. Not fake clinical pretend places like this. Not factories for processing the dead. You told me once you never believed in God, not even when you were little, but you loved the houses worshippers had built for Him. People say Art is about truth, you told me, but that’s bullshit. Truth is dull and frightening and soul-destroying. Art is about the wonderful lies we tell ourselves so that we can bear to live with the truth. Churches are like that. Beautiful, hideous lies.

  I don’t know how Mike gets us out of the chapel. One minute I’m making this inhuman sound over your body and the next we’re under the awning where the hearses wait. I go limp. Mike has to catch me and hold me up. Because I’ve just understood something and it’s taken the last of my strength away.

  I am never ever going to see you again.

  You’re gone, El. Officially gone. And it’s about time I started.

  I turn to Mike. “Will you do something for me?”

  He nods without hesitation. “Anything. You know that.”

  “Then help me find the person who rescued me,” I say. “Because I need to ask them one important question.”

  “What question?”

  I shake my head. “Why did they leave him to die?”

  Mike removes his black baseball cap and rubs a hand across a smooth, hairless scalp. I’m an idiot. I should have realized what he’d done as soon as I saw the cap. Mike has hated hats ever since World Book Day in Year Seven when Jessie Atkins laughed at the diamanté-studded cowboy hat Carol had bought him. Mike had come as this hard-as-nails gunslinger from these old Wild West novels he read with his dad. He was so proud, and then Jessie started laughing and pointing and calling him “Brokeback Berrington”. The name stuck for a whole term and that was the end of Mike’s love affair with both hats and reading.

  “I know.” He shrugs. “How hard am I rocking this look?”

  “Pretty frickin’ hard.” I nod.

  “So I finally took El’s advice,” he says. “Shaved off the lot. It was getting really patchy and gross-looking anyway. Do you think he’d approve?”

  Mike had the most amazing hair before this fuckstorm of horribleness hit him. Honestly, girls used to ogle those thick curly locks from the other side of the canteen.

  “I think El would love it,” I say. “It makes your eyes really stand out somehow. I never realized before how blue they are.”

  He seems pleased with this. We’re sitting on a bench in an area of the crematorium called The Garden of Tranquillity. I guess it lives up to its name. There are these long avenues with arches of trailing flowers, pink and purple and white trumpets, and the air smells of honeysuckle.

  “All right,” he says, “so do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  But suddenly I’m not ready. Saying what I need to say to Mike might reveal things about me that I’m not sure I want revealed. It has to be done, I know, but I need a moment. I press my hands between my knees and lower my gaze. “How’re you doing, Mike?”

  “Well, apparently I have these incredibly sexy eyes now.” He bats his eyelids and I notice his lashes, like the rest of his hair, are gone. He catches my look and shrugs. “It’s been a week, bit more, since my last chemo, and I no longer feel like hurling my guts up every five seconds. I’ve started jogging again too, and Ollie comes round for a kickabout every now and then.”

  “You were at the hospital that day,” I murmur.

  He nods and looks away. “Hooked up to my favourite drip and then wheeled home. Sorry I wasn’t still there when…” He makes this wet coughing sound. “When they brought you in.”

  “Dude, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “But we are ridiculous, mate.” He sucks his forefinger and waggles it in my ear until I laugh and slap him away.

  I laugh. I’m sorry, El.

  “Berrington and McKee, the Incredible Twat Brothers. Remember?”

  I do. Our escapology act, Year Seven. We’d seen this documentary about how magician Harry Houdini had escaped from a water tank while suspended upside down, and decided, in our stupidity, that before the summer was over we’d thrill the town with our own death-defying feat. We borrowed books from the library, built our own props, secretly printed a million tickets on my dad’s printer, and invited the whole neighbourhood to the show. The result: Mike nearly suffocated inside a sack and my mum had to call the fire brigade to cut me out of my chains. Ollie Reynolds pissed his pants laughing and came up with the name of our extinct double act: the Incredible Twat Brothers.

  “Okay,” Mike says, “no more beating about the bush. Let’s hear it.”

  And so I take a huge breath, and tell him everything. Some he already knows – the pervy Instagram video and me and El showing up at the Dipshits Ball, but then I describe El’s mood switch after the dance and Mike looks troubled.

  “Maybe someone said something to him or he saw something, I don’t know, but for those few minutes he was frightened. I mean, genuinely terrified. But El had this amazing self-control, and when I tried to question him about it, he turned the conversation around. I know that sounds weak – I guess you had to be there.”

  “I knew Ellis,” Mike assures me. “I can see how that could happen. So y
ou left the dance… What next?”

  “We’re driving by the lake. El seems okay again, and then…” I hesitate.

  A little omission I can’t bring myself to confess: how you were touching me before the accident; how my stupid insecurities distracted you.

  “Something flashed into the road,” I go on. “I don’t know what it was. An animal, probably. El loses control and the car flips.”

  Weird, this bullet-point summary. No terror, no grief, nothing between the lines. It’s the only way I can tell it.

  “We’re in the lake, and I’m about to pass out when someone wades into the water and drags me out of the car. And this is the whole point: he saves me and leaves El.”

  I explain my reasoning as to why it would have been easier to rescue El first, and that anyway there had to have been time to save us both.

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” Mike asks, his voice heavy.

  “It’s something El said. When I kept asking about what had frightened him at the dance, he said he didn’t want me mixed up in it. Like maybe it was dangerous. And if it is dangerous, Mike, I’m not sure I want you involved. But, look, I’ve been turning it all over and over in my mind, night after night, and it seems impossible. How do I even start to find out what really happened?”

  Mike holds up his hand. “First, you’re an idiot. You always come to me when you need help, Dylan. And if you think something’s dangerous? You come running.”

  “I know, but—”

  “No buts. Now, what exactly do you want to know?”

  “For starters, who made that video of us? Because maybe it’s all connected. The video started this chain of events that led to El’s death. No video, no me coming out, no dance, no distracted El driving. But I also want to know what upset him that night. You should’ve seen him, Mike, I don’t think you’d have recognized him. Last, and most important, I want to know who saved me and why they left El to die.”

  Mike takes a breath. “Dylan, I don’t know…”

  I look up at him. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “This whole thing.” He hesitates. “This investigation – whatever you want to call it – are you sure it’s what you really want?”

  “What I want? Jesus, Mike, we’re talking about someone who scared the shit out of my boyfriend. Someone who left him to drown.”

  “Okay.” Mike holds up his hands. “But didn’t your doctor say all of this could be survivor’s guilt? You acted on instinct, you got yourself out of the car. No one would ever blame you for that, mate. But this person you imagined saving you? Maybe it’s just your way of dealing with that reality.”

  My hands curl into fists and I have to take a moment. “Mike,” I say at last, “I tore my hand to pieces on the belt buckle trying to free myself. It was jammed. I couldn’t do it. I had to be rescued. But here’s the thing: El’s belt had snapped. Saving him would have been much easier than saving me. But he wasn’t saved. He was left. Now, do you believe me when I tell you that’s what happened?”

  “Dylan, I just—”

  “Do you believe me? Because if you don’t then you’re saying that I abandoned Ellis. Is that what you think?”

  “No.” He looks away. “No, Dylan, of course I don’t think that.”

  “Then are you going to help me? Because believe me, Mike, with or without you, I’m going to find out the answers to these questions. I owe Ellis that much.”

  We sit in silence for a long time. Eventually Mike stirs.

  “Okay, so let’s think this through. Logically, I don’t think these three things are connected. It would be too much of a coincidence that the video perv also happened to be at the lake when you crashed. And I can’t see how the video thing would frighten El at the dance. He knew about it already.”

  “And it sort of served his purpose,” I say. “He thought I should come out to my folks and the video was the prompt to do it. Don’t get me wrong, he was angry, but, yeah, that wasn’t what scared him.”

  “And again, it would be too much of a coincidence if the person that scared El at the dance was also at the lake. So we’re talking about three separate things: 1. Who is video perv? 2. What scared El at the dance? 3. Who was your rescuer, and what was his deal with El?”

  “So you do believe me,” I ask, “about the rescuer?”

  He leans back, looking skyward. “Yes, I believe you.”

  “Good. Because no one else does. You heard about the Year Seven assembly?”

  He nods. “I heard.”

  It happened the same day I told Mr Morris I was putting my A levels on hold. I was heading down the corridor, keeping my gaze fixed on the floor, because everywhere I looked reminded me of El: El chasing a squealing Gemma out of biology, an imaginary frog cupped in his hand; El joshing with the footie lads, messing up Ollie’s perfectly waxed hair; El and me, out of sight in the little alcove under the stairs, brushing fingertips.

  Passing the main hall, a familiar voice drew my gaze from the floor and through the glass doors. The same police officer who had interviewed me at the hospital was standing at the podium, lecturing Year Sevens about bike safety. He was sweating, like pushing the clicker on his PowerPoint was such hard work. I threw open the doors and started stalking towards him.

  “Hey, Shit-for-Brains!” I called out. “Any chance you could fit in a murder investigation between cycle safety and doughnut hour? Yeah, that’s right, my boyfriend’s still dead, in case you were wondering.”

  Mr Denman tried to get in my way. I elbowed him aside and he made this surprised, ragged grunt. I feel bad about that. It’s pretty obvious his arm’s never going to be the same after that car hit him over the Christmas break, and I’ve got a sick feeling that exact weak spot was where I shoved him. Right then, however, I didn’t give Denman a second thought. Instead, I went toe-to-toe with PC Asshat. He said something gently threatening and put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Why’re you touching me?” I said. “All I’m doing is asking a question.”

  He told me, very quietly and firmly, that there was no evidence of another person at the scene of the accident, then advised me to leave before I was arrested. I called him a lying bastard and headed for the door.

  “Not my finest hour,” I mutter to Mike.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Pretty standard for one of the Twat Brothers, I’d say.”

  “You see, the police do think it’s survivor’s guilt,” I continue. “But, Mike, I swear, I relive that night every minute of every day, and I know there was someone else. So that means El must have had enemies. Someone who would leave him to die. Except who could ever hate him that much?”

  Mike shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

  I look over to the chapel. People are starting to file out into the watery spring daylight, chatting, sharing a joke, folding service cards into their pockets.

  “There’s something else too,” I say. “I think that whatever scared El at the dance is connected to his disappearing act at Christmas. Remember I told you how strange that whole week was? Well, something about his fear at the dance reminded me of how he was back in December. It was like—”

  Suddenly Mike stands up, his gaze flitting along the avenue.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, joining him.

  “Nothing.” He shakes his head. “No, it’s nothing. It was just for a minute I thought I saw someone standing there, watching us.” Then he loops an arm around my shoulder and we start back towards the chapel. “It’s going be all right, Dylan,” he tells me. “I swear it will.”

  I’m nesting in my usual corner in Hug-A-Book, hiding behind my copy of The French Revolution 1789-1799, eating Starbursts and daydreaming about the boy who sits across from me in history. It’s been almost three weeks since the bonfire, and I can’t get him out of my head. Okay, so I’ve had crushes before – High School Musical-era Zac Efron, early-Wolverine Hugh Jackman, and some real-life studs too, like Alex Dayus, who was in Year Eleven when we were in Year Nin
e – but this Ellis kid is different. Whenever the bell rings and he packs up his stuff and heads off for a lesson I won’t be in, it just kind of kills me.

  Arrrggghhhhhhhh! Why am I so bloody shy? It’s not like he hasn’t given me opportunities to talk to him. Even that first night, he was flirting with me. I think. I’m not exactly a world expert on flirting. I rock back in my favourite squidgy Hug-A-Book chair and replay the bonfire in my mind, occasionally tenting the The French Revolution over my jeans. Yeah, I am honestly that ridiculous…

  “So, students of Ferrivale, who’s going to be first to sign my petition?”

  He’s wearing this amazing sand-coloured coat that reaches down to his ankles, like those duster jackets cowboys wore in old movies. The skinniest of skinny jeans, a purple T-shirt with Cookin’ picked out in diamantés, and black leather boots complete the outfit. A string of pearls around his neck runs red in the bonfire that has just ignited behind us, and his smooth skin seems to hold the light. His smile is kind and gently mocking at the same time.

  He doesn’t ask permission but hands us each a petition sheet and a ballpoint. I notice he gives everyone a sentence or two and they grin, as if he only has words for them. This kid’s a born politician.

  He stops in front of me. And I think he pauses longer with me than anyone else. Or am I delusional? All I know is my mouth is like a desert, and I’m gawping.

  “Well,” says the boy in the pearls, “will you help a brother out?”

  I have this awkward liberal-white-guy moment. Does he mean “brother” in a black brotherhood kind of way, in which case it would be totally inappropriate for me to respond. Or… My mouth is now a desert on Mars. Does he know? Just by looking at me, does he have this ultra-sensitive gaydar that can penetrate the civilian disguise of the most lame-brained, straight-acting, doofussy gay guy and identify him as a “brother” just by looking at him? My brain is jellifying and I keep glancing up from the petition to find him looking at me with this crooked sideways smile.

  I sign and hand back the petition.