“Actually, I didn’t. I wanted it to be this blank canvas where I could imagine my own stories.”
I move the rotten board aside and we squeeze through into the porch and the echoey vastness of the nave. A burst of feathers erupts somewhere in the rafters; a flurry of winter birds tumbling through holes in the roof. Half the pews have fallen like dominos and most of the stained glass has been smashed, the eyes of the church blinded by metal sheets. But the light that plays through the roof gives it all a fairy-tale sadness that’s always haunted me.
I take El’s free hand and guide him down the central aisle.
“It’s got a kind of hideous beauty, don’t you think? I used to imagine it was once part of this huge abbey with choirs of monks chanting this amazing music.” I blush and I don’t care at all that El notices. “So there were once these two novices, Lukas and Matthew, who spent their days inside these cold stone walls. And while they prayed and fasted and praised God, they were always careful never to let their thoughts wander. But then one harvest time, Lukas was injured in the fields and was taken to Matthew’s infirmary. The wound was deep; fever set in. None of the remedies Matthew tried could stop the infection. It was while holding his brother’s hand on Lukas’s final night that Matthew admitted there had been moments between praying when his eyes had strayed to Lukas and, seeing his gaze returned, he knew Lukas had felt the same. But now it was too late. And so he crawled onto the bed beside his brother and took the dying Lukas in his arms, so that at least they might have this one honest moment together.”
El smiles. “And Lukas wakes up and kisses Matthew and they run away on a medieval cruise.”
I smile too. “It’s about missed chances, El. I could feel myself missing them back then. Back before we met. I don’t want to miss any more.”
I guide him to the north transept and the winding stairway hidden there.
“Is this safe?” El asks, climbing up behind me.
“I doubt it.”
High in the bell-less tower, a gentle wind stirs our hair. Laid out before us are acres of snowy countryside with Ferrivale and the blue glint of Hunter’s Lake beyond. I move across the creaking floorboards and introduce El to my non-human best friend. El pretends to shake him by the claw.
“What’s his name?”
“Um…”
“The great storyteller hasn’t given this poor guy a name?” El strokes the horned head of the crouching gargoyle. “Monster, I dub thee Stanley. May you always watch over my Frecks and keep him safe.”
“Stanley?” I laugh.
El shrugs. “Dude looks like a Stanley.”
We put down our provisions and, while I unroll a two-man sleeping bag, El takes out his Moodles and Doodles and starts sketching Stanley.
“Gargoyles are supposed to ward off evil,” I say. “A bit like your tattoos.”
He looks at me over his drawing. “So we’re doubly safe.”
He’s right. That’s exactly how I feel. After all the fear and heartache of Christmas, I feel safe again. At least, I think I do.
When he’s done sketching, I snuggle myself into the sleeping bag and call him over. He snakes his way inside and we lie facing each other, breathing slowly.
“Thank you for showing me this,” El murmurs. “I get why you love it. The stories and the history.”
“It reminds me of how small I am,” I say. “You know, in the grand scheme of things. That whatever I think and feel right now doesn’t matter. Not really. Because we’re all just history in the end.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while, then hugs me to him. “That sounded profound, Frecks. And it’s also the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say. You matter.” We part, and for that split second the secret thing that’s haunted him this past week returns. “You matter so much to me. Don’t you understand that at all?”
I stare at the image of Ollie filming you and Raj. Mike’s sent it to my phone, and even as I trespass into my old school, I can’t stop looking at it. How does this sly, sneaking Ollie fit with the kid who leaped to my defence at Gemma’s party? Honestly, I don’t have any theories. After last night at the club I’m tired and jittery, and the note I found on the fridge when I got home a few minutes after one this afternoon hasn’t helped.
The house was empty when I crept in through the side door. As it’s a Thursday, I was fairly confident Dad would be at work and that Chris would have hauled his lazy arse out of bed to take Mum to Zumba (he has to justify his existence in these ways from time to time). Although Mike’s bacon sarnie had helped with my hangover, I was still aching for a shower and a couple of hours’ rest. Of course, when I first saw the image of Ollie, all I wanted to do was head straight over to his house – but one look at Mike told me that was a no go. In the beams of light among the gravestones he looked almost spectral. Anyway, Mike had a better plan…
Back to the note: I was grabbing a carton of milk when it caught my eye.
I tore down the note and crumpled it in my pocket. We can’t continue living like this. Were they planning to throw me out? I supposed from their point of view, they’d feel justified, what with all my hostility and sullen silences. Well, if that was their plan, maybe it was just what I needed. I was too cowardly to leave home myself – being chucked out might be the best thing that could happen.
No one returned home unexpectedly during the afternoon. Mum’s Zumba routine usually involves a pretty phenomenal lunch afterwards, then she and Chris will catch a movie in the afternoon. And so by three o’clock I’d caught up on some sleep, taken a long scalding shower, changed into my old uniform and was heading back to Ferrivale High.
My biggest fear as I enter the school is bumping into a random teacher. Other kids I can fool – Oh yeah, just back for the day, checking out how it feels – but teachers know the score. Even if I wanted to come back, there would need to be a discussion about that assembly in which I called a police officer “Shit-for-Brains” in front of a bunch of Year Sevens. I suppose Chief Dementor Harper would be the nightmare scenario, but I sort of dread encountering Mr Morris even more. That look he gave me when I told him I was quitting, a bit like a sad-eyed beagle that’s just been informed his favourite pup has pissed all over the kitchen floor. I can’t pretend it didn’t tug a heartstring.
But it isn’t Harper or Morris I collide with. It’s your old art teacher, El, the adorable Denman. We run into each other outside the boys’ changing rooms. Mr Denman apologizes, though it was me who crashed into him, and starts picking up the brushes and sticks of charcoal he was carrying. I don’t think he’s actually realized who I am, and I could step over him and be on my way. But then I see how he’s holding his right arm, all stiff and claw-like. That car accident really did a number on him.
Suddenly a thought occurs: what if it wasn’t some huge thing that derailed you at Christmas, what if it was a gradual accumulation of stuff? Maybe you were telling the truth about missing your sister. Then there was all the stress of those last few games where the team kind of sucked, and then this guy, your mentor, smashes himself up a month before your major project was due to be assessed. That kind of drip-drip-drip of stress could have been too much.
Except, if that was the case, why wouldn’t you just have told me?
I scoot down beside Denman and help him collect up the charcoal into its packet.
“Dylan?” He’s crouched awkwardly in front of me, his hand held out for the charcoal. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… Look, are you supposed to be here?”
He glances over his shoulder, back down the corridor towards the staff room. I remember teasing you about how you crushed on this guy, and he is still pretty cute, especially for a teacher. Blond flyaway hair and these clear blue eyes. Okay, so he’s a little bit “catalogue model”, with the distant stares and those so-ancient-they’re-cool cardigans, but I get the attraction.
“Jesus.” He staggers to his feet. “I’m sorry. Did that feel like an interrogation? Who gives a toss why you’re here, right?
You do whatever you need to do.” He shoves the packet of charcoal under his arm and pats my shoulder. “This is so bloody awful for you, Dylan. I just want you to know that you shouldn’t listen to any of the crap my colleagues might be giving you. It’s important that you take whatever time you need. And look, if you ever want to talk to anybody, my door’s always open, yeah? We could even grab a coffee. I’m always here after school, pottering around in the studios. Just know, you don’t have to be alone in all this.”
So yeah, he’s sort of cool, and at least he isn’t threatening to bar me forever from these hallowed halls of learning. I nod my thanks.
Suddenly Mike appears from behind Denman, takes me by the elbow and drags me away. Denman does this double-take, which I’ve only ever really seen in cartoons, and the next second Mike and I are through the changing-room doors.
“Dude,” I breathe, “what the hell?”
Mike shrugs. “We don’t have much time. Ollie’s out on the field but practice finishes in about ten minutes. I’m heading over there now. When Mr Highfield calls it a day, I’ll keep him talking, but you need to be out of here before the lads come back.”
He guides me round to Ollie’s locker and starts spinning the wheels on the padlock.
“How do you know his combination?” I ask.
“Because Ollie has no imagination. It’s bound to be his date of birth.”
The padlock clicks, proving Mike’s a genius and Ollie is not. Mike slams open the locker and gives me the nod. “Ten minutes.”
I watch him head out. There’s something going on with my best friend. Even when he told me his diagnosis, even when I’ve sat with him in the hospital chemo suite, desperately inventing funny stories to keep his mind off the inevitable upcoming vom sessions, he’s always chilled. Hell, he was chilled last night when I was provoking the crap out of him. But right now his jaw is twitching and I don’t like the look in his eyes. Is he really that angry with Ollie? It’s possible. Ollie was his friend and, if I’m honest, I only put up with him for Mike’s sake. With all his football stats and rambling jokes that go nowhere, Reynolds can be about as entertaining as watching the Berringtons’ dog lick its balls. Scratch that. In comparison, Becks licking his balls is like an Avengers movie marathon. So yeah, Mike might well be taking some of the guilt of Ollie’s betrayal on his own shoulders. Which is ridiculous.
Anyway, much as I’m concerned about Mike, I don’t have time to think about it right now. I plunge my hands into Ollie’s locker, grimacing as I throw aside crusty socks and sweat-stained boxers. It takes me a minute to find what I’m looking for, and at first I miss it completely because security-conscious Ollie has stuffed it into the toe-end of an old Nike. Finally, I pull out the phone and swipe the screen.
It’s password-protected. Three failed attempts and I’ll be locked out.
I try to remember everything I know about Ollie Reynolds, and even though I hate him right now, I’m ashamed to say there isn’t much. It’s a bit shocking when I think about it. I’ve hung with Mike’s footie crowd ever since Year Seven, and yet I know practically nothing about them. Maybe they don’t know anything about me either, but that’s not really the point.
Why is it that, when we get to secondary school, we stop being interested in each other? I mean, really interested. I remember back in little school when we all delighted in everyone’s tiny triumphs and tragedies, as well as all the boring stuff too, and it suddenly occurs to me that if I’d known I was gay at nine or ten I wouldn’t have worried one bit about coming out, probably because my classmates would already have known. It’s only when we hit puberty that we close down like this and become mysteries, even to ourselves.
Okay, El, I can almost hear you whispering in my ear: Very impressive philosophizing, Frecks, but the phone’s still locked, so get your arse in gear.
I hop awkwardly across the changing benches and climb up to the slit windows high in the wall. Far across the pitch, Mr Highfield is checking his watch, a whistle poking out of his beard. Faces keep twitching from him to the ball and back again. Crap. I jump down, plonk onto a bench, and put Ollie’s phone on the slats next to me. I guess I could just take it with me and try to crack the password at my leisure, but even if I’m right about what I’m going to find on it, that’s still theft. Theft, the ransacking of a locker, trespass on school property and illegal use of a uniform. More ammunition for my parents, if they really are planning to evict me.
Drips from the leaky shower in the stalls drum like a countdown – ten, nine, eight, seven – and…
An idea.
Ollie’s a simple soul, Mike said, and if he was obsessed for some reason, then… I type E L L I S, and the phone screen flips to the menu page.
Somewhere far off I hear a whistle blow. Minutes now. Maybe seconds. I head straight to his gallery and the videos section. My hands are trembling; the end-of-school bell almost shocks the phone out of my grasp. Feet thunder in the halls, teachers bellow, echoing the thunder and bellowing inside my chest. I scroll through half a dozen clips of Ollie practising keepy-uppies, a snippet of his mum’s birthday, a fragment from some concert…
I find it.
The thirty-second slice of film that changed my life forever.
I don’t want to watch it again, but I can’t help it. I thumb the screen and the blurry, disjointed game-changer leaps into life. The cleft of a buttock, a grasping hand, lips meeting flesh, a sweeping glimpse of pubic hair, our faces pressed together, and my voice, tinny and mortifying.
It wasn’t our first time, El, not even close, but it was the time you told me that we would always be together.
I stop the clip and shove the phone into my pocket just as the changing-room door bursts open. Footie lads swarm in, tearing off shirts, laughing and ribbing each other. I push through the crowd, my face burning, fists clenched. Someone tries to catch my arm.
“Hey! Dylan! Man, are you back? It’s good to see you, bro.”
I shrug him off and shoulder my way to the door.
So now we know the identity of our pervy porno guy. Only the bastard who frightened you at the dance and whoever abandoned you at the lake left to unmask. And whoever’s posting the journal pages to me, of course. Could that be Ollie too? I’ve considered this before, back when I found Ollie’s flowers down by the lake, and just like then, the idea doesn’t seem to fit. But why, out of all our suspects, do I keep forgetting the journal-sender? Maybe because the others feel like enemies while he/she/they seems to want to help us. Some shy individual who can’t come forward and just hand me the diary, perhaps because they’re embarrassed they took it in the first place. Except why don’t they just post the whole bloody thing? It all seems so random and clumsy somehow.
Anyway, time to confront Ollie Reynolds. Right now, I honestly have no idea why he’s done this thing – my brain’s too scrambled to even begin to guess – but one way or another, I’m going to find out.
I bang out of a side door and start across the field. Up ahead, only Ollie and Mike remain on the touchline, Mike running his hand repeatedly under his baseball cap while Ollie scoops footballs into a net bag. The wind’s picked up since this morning and I can’t hear what they’re talking about, but Mike is a picture of pure agitation.
An unwanted memory hits me as I stalk towards them. The “Guy for the Guys” Bullshit Bonfire; me, Mike, Ollie, Gemma and the rest of the committee witches all huddled around that huge unlit stack. Those were the last moments of the BE era. That’s how I divide up my life now: Before Ellis and Anno Ellis. It’s monumentally unfair, how these portions of my existence are divided: seventeen years of BE, six months of AE. But who knows? Maybe there is a gay-friendly afterlife where we can add immortal years to AE’s tally; a kind of endless LGBTQ safe space designed just for us.
Ollie is just straightening up when I reach them.
“Oh. Hi, Dylan,” he says, his grin shaky. “You hanging with Mike today? That was some effed-up shit at Gemma’s party, I’m sorry you had
to go through that. She can be insanely vicious sometimes. Probably why I had to call it a day with her.”
“Probably?” I smile back at him. “You mean you’re not sure?”
He grabs the net of balls and shrugs. He’s about to head back towards the school when Mike, stony-faced, blocks his way. Ollie laughs, then stops. His gaze flicks between us.
“Guys? What is this?”
I don’t say anything, just take his little movie camera from my pocket and wave it in front of him. He drops the net and footballs scatter as he makes a grab for the phone.
“How’d you get that? Give it back.”
Mike blocks him again. I don’t know whether Ollie can’t bring himself to wrestle a cancer patient or if Mike’s whole attitude is intimidating him; it’s definitely starting to scare me.
“Hey, come on, this isn’t funny. What the hell are you trying to prove anyway? Mike? C’mon, man, we’re buds. Whatever you think you know, I just—”
I’ve heard enough. It makes me sick to do it, but I thumb the screen and my voice cuts across the field. Mike doesn’t turn to look. His gaze is laser-focused on Ollie, who stands as if he’s just been condemned to the gallows. He wets his lips, tries to speak. Can’t. Tears brim but he has the sense not to let them fall in front of us. And I think I could forgive him, he looks so miserable, but then he ruins it with a coward’s smile.
“I just copied it off the internet. Honestly, I don’t know why I did it, but everyone was just going on and on about the vid and…I’m sorry, Dylan. I guess I forgot to delete it.”
“You’re a shitty liar,” I tell him. “I checked the properties on the file. This was created the day before the video of me and El hit Instagram. It’s the original.”
My hands tighten into fists. I’ve never hit anyone in my life, never even been in a playground fight, but right now I want to hurt Ollie Reynolds. I lunge forward, and suddenly a blur erupts in front of me and Mike is going to work.
Hideous Beauty Page 16
