by Sarah Bourne
By the time he reached the end of the street the lightness Ray felt on leaving his parents’ house had been replaced by guilt. Not for what he’d said but for the fact that his father, never an easy man, may take it out on his mother. He wasn’t aware of any physical violence in their marriage but there were other kinds of domination and he knew his father to be capable of nastiness. He wondered what his mother had ever seen in him and why she hadn’t left. He felt sorry for her – she was the victim in all this. Had she learned it as a defence or had she always been like that, so they were a perfect fit, right from the start? Not that it made what his father did acceptable. He was a bully. An abuser. Ray felt the shock of the word and for the first time acknowledged that it described his father.
He dug his hands deeper into his pockets and walked faster. He would never understand his parents’ relationship and he certainly couldn’t fix it. Or his own relationship with them.
He thought again about his father’s admission that he had cancer and the implied criticism of Ray for being worried about his own diagnosis. Why couldn’t he have shown the tiniest bit of empathy? If he’d said, ‘Sorry to hear that, son, but I’ve been living with it for several years now and I’m still going strong,’ Ray would have been shocked, of course, but also soothed.
He imagined the conversation that could have happened:
‘That’s encouraging,’ he’d have said. ‘Do you feel well, despite the cancer?’
‘Fit as a fiddle. Doesn’t stop me doing a thing.’
‘That’s great. Well, I’ll certainly worry less now.’
‘That’s the way, boy, that’s the way,’ Stan would have said, giving him a smile or a squeeze on the arm. His fantasy father.
Now, though, the wedge between them had been driven deeper than ever. Ray shook his head and wiped his eyes. His father was a damaged man who locked himself away from his family physically and emotionally, so when would he stop wanting his love and acceptance?
Ray looked at his watch and cursed under his breath. What on earth had possessed him to go and see his parents? Now he’d be late home and his phone battery had died. He looked around for a phone box but the only one around had been vandalised, graffiti covering the windows and the receiver dangling by its metal cord. He wouldn’t be able to let Russell know and he’d have all sorts of questions to answer when he got home. Russell would be curious to know where he’d been, what he’d been doing, who with. Not in a jealous way – far from it. In fact, Ray had wondered early on if he even cared enough to want to know what he did when they weren’t together. But now there was an expectation that they told each other their plans, shared their day’s highs and lows. What would Ray say to him about this day? It had started badly and got worse? He was terrified still, even though the doctor had said there was nothing to do and little to worry about? That his father was in fine fettle living with his cancer?
He looked at the departures board at the station and checked his ticket was still in his pocket. Twenty minutes to wait. Time for a glass of wine or a cup of tea.
He opted for the tea, not wanting to go home smelling of alcohol.
He realised with a jolt he didn’t want to go home at all. He was tired of Russell’s inability to support him emotionally and exhausted by his own anxiety and the effort it took to keep it from the man he loved. He felt the heat of righteous indignation rise in his chest. Russell’s fear of illness suddenly seemed like nothing more than selfishness. Surely if he truly loved Ray he should put that aside in order at least to talk about what was happening.
As Ray walked towards the train there was determination in his stride, a stiffness to his spine and a resolve in his heart. He was going to demand what he needed and Russell was not going to be allowed to slide off the hook.
By halfway to Milton Keynes, Ray was slumped in his seat, his resolve in tatters. He understood Russell’s fear, he empathised with his avoidance. He would like to do the same; there was something seductive about ignoring bad news, hoping it would go away or assuming someone else would deal with it. The trouble was he couldn’t do it. He’d never been able to walk away from a problem or distract himself so totally that he forgot it. Maybe Russell’s ability to do so was one of the things that had attracted Ray in the first place; his father lay dying and Russell could go out and enjoy himself as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and go back to his father’s bedside refreshed, to hold the old man’s hand while he slept or listen to him as he wheezed out a memory too precious to die with him. Russell had announced after the funeral that he didn’t have it in him to go through it with anyone else, that the energy it had taken to overcome his fear and revulsion of the whole dying process with its indignities and leaking bodily fluids, had depleted him forever. But surely, thought Ray as he sat on the train, surely he could muster a little more from his reserves for the man he loved?
Was that it – did Russell not love him enough? It was what Ray was afraid of. Russell, ten years his junior, looked like a model with his blond hair that flopped over his baby-blue eyes unless he put product in it and swept it back from his temples. Ray couldn’t be said to be a great catch, being stocky and prone to weight gain. He took pains to stay in shape, but his hairline was receding, leaving him with a forehead growing ever taller. He sighed and leant his head against the window.
‘I’d offer you a hanky except I gave mine to a woman on the train this morning. Terrible thing it was – a suicide on the line and the lady had a panic attack.’
Ray looked at the man opposite him. ‘Sorry?’ he said.
The man pointed to Ray’s face. ‘Bad day?’
It was only then Ray realised he was crying again. He reddened and tugged a tissue out of his pocket. ‘Bad day – yes,’ he said quietly, embarrassed. He blew his nose. ‘I was on the same train – awful thing to happen. Poor bloke.’
‘I heard it was a woman. A youngish woman. Younger than me, anyway.’
Somehow that made it even worse and Ray shook his head sadly. ‘It makes one’s own problems seem insignificant, doesn’t it – someone taking their own life?’
‘Puts things into perspective, that’s for sure,’ said the other man. ‘I’m Trevor, by the way,’ he said, extending his hand.
Ray shook it. ‘Ray,’ he said.
‘Well, Ray, all I can tell you is the events that happened earlier have made me rethink my life and what I want out of it. A death can do that, can’t it?’
He thought for a moment. What did he want out of his life? He had a job he loved and was comfortable financially but his relationships seemed to have started unravelling. He and his father had had a stand-off and more or less said they never wanted to see each other again, he’d had little to do with his sister in years, and he’d almost had sex with a man who wasn’t Russell.
‘I suppose so.’ He looked away, wanting to halt the conversation. It was another half hour until they got to Milton Keynes and he didn’t want to bare his soul to this stranger, nor hear the other man’s story. He needed to try and understand his reluctance to go home, and decide what he was going to say to Russell. And to work out if the two were related. Fortunately, Trevor got the hint and sat back to read his paper.
By the time they pulled into the station, Ray was ready.
‘Bye,’ he said to Trevor, who was also leaving the train. He felt he should say more, but nothing came.
‘Take care,’ said Trevor. ‘Hope tomorrow’s a better day for you.’
Ray smiled tightly. ‘You too.’ He stepped onto the platform and walked away quickly.
The lights were on in the flat and even before he opened the front door, Ray heard Russell’s voice. Dismayed there might be someone else there, he stopped to listen. There was a pause and Russell’s voice again, more urgent now. Ray couldn’t make out the words but he knew the tone well; Russell was worried. And given that his was the only voice Ray could hear, he must be on the phone. Ray put his key in the lock.
Before he could turn it the door ope
ned and there was Russell, eyes wide.
‘Where have you been?’
Ray felt the wave of accusation sweep towards him. He was the cause of Russell’s anxiety and Russell didn’t like feeling worried. He took a step backwards and knocked into the plant pot outside their door; the peace lily shook.
Russell always became angry the minute his anxiety was laid to rest. He was like a child whose mother had left the room and wouldn’t talk to her when she came back because of the fear she’d caused him. I don’t want to be his mother, thought Ray. I want us to be equals. He looked Russell in the eye.
‘I’ve been in London. I didn’t think you’d be interested. So I didn’t tell you.’ Who was being the child now? Ray felt like stamping his feet with the unfairness of it. And suddenly it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He was too tired to have the argument he felt was coming, too tired even to tell Russell what had happened. He wanted to lie down.
‘Oh, Ray – that’s not fair. I do want to know, I just…’ Russell stood with his arms by his sides.
‘Why don’t you let me come in,’ said Ray, and Russell stood aside for him, then followed him through to the living room. Ray dropped his bag, shucked off his jacket and sagged onto the sofa.
‘Why didn’t you call?’ asked Russell, hands on his boyish hips. Even now, Ray noticed those hips.
‘My phone ran out of steam.’ This was how they spoke, assigning old-world language to new technology. Suddenly it seemed juvenile. Once it had been fresh, amusing. Now it felt hackneyed.
‘I was worried. I called Mike to see if he’d heard from you. He said he hadn’t spoken to you for weeks. What’s going on – he’s your best friend?’
Ray closed his eyes and leant back into the soft cushions. He wanted to answer Russell but no words came. How to tell him that Mike and he had had a fight when Ray had accused Mike of coming on to Russell and he hadn’t denied it. His best friend had been trying to seduce his partner?
‘Ray – what the fuck is going on? You’re so bloody secretive, and when you do say anything it’s always negative these days.’
Ray took a deep breath, thinking about Russell’s words. He couldn’t deny them but why had he chosen those things to accuse him of when there were so many things he could have said. Positive things, like ‘thank you for protecting me from your cancer’, or ‘I appreciate all the little things you do for me’, or even, ‘I’m grateful you ask so little of me’. He bit his lip for a moment and opened his eyes again.
‘Why do you say these things?’
‘Because they’re the truth.’
Ray gazed into Russell’s eyes. ‘But you know lots of things that are true and don’t say them. Why these things?’
There was a pause. Ray and Russell stood on opposite edges of it, staring in.
‘Because–’
‘They hurt me. You hurt me. Is that what you want?’
‘No… Maybe.’ Russell threw his hands in the air and shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ He moved to the window, looking out over the rooftops, his back to Ray. ‘I want us to be okay. I want us to love each other like we did before–’
Ray heard the words but they sounded so rehearsed he couldn’t believe them. Or maybe he didn’t want to believe them. Did he want to go back to how it had been before? Or did he want more? He’d always felt he was the lucky one having Russell in his life, so he’d been the housewife, doing the chores and the looking after.
‘Before what – the cancer? There, I said it. Now go and have your panic attack.’
Russell turned to him looking like he’d been slapped.
‘That was low. I know what you did today.’
Ray blanched. He knew Russell must be talking about his appointment, that he’d put two and two together when Ray told him he’d been in London but his guilt made him wonder what else he knew. Surely he couldn’t possibly know about Aidan? Ray took a deep breath.
‘I need a drink,’ he said, and went into the kitchen.
There were two glasses of wine poured, condensation forming droplets on the glass, and a platter of sweaty cheese and biscuits on the table. Looking at it he thought of Russell getting home before him, wondering where he was, making the decision to greet Ray the same way Ray usually greeted him. He felt the love that went into getting it all ready. The same love he felt when he prepared it each day. He sank into a chair, rested his head in his hands, and started sobbing. Russell put his hand on his back, the reassuring weight guiding him away from the grey swamp of his despair back towards dry ground. The sobbing stopped, he hiccupped a couple of times, the breath catching in his throat.
‘I thought I was dying,’ Ray said, looking up into the steady eyes of his lover.
‘Don’t, please,’ said Russell.
‘Don’t talk about it, or don’t die?’
‘Don’t die. I’ve been so scared that I’m going to lose you.’ A tear gathered on Russell’s lower eyelid, hovered, fell.
Ray felt something release in his belly. Russell loved him. Whatever their future held, they would face it together.
‘Fuck cancer!’ he said.
‘FUCK CANCER!’ Russell yelled.
5
Alice
Alice hated trains. There was something about them that made her angry and sad at the same time. Too many people trying to ignore each other, perhaps. Or the tragic carpet design; the mottled blue as if trying to make travellers think of water, like they were going on a cruise rather than chugging along on dry land, and the red streaks through it as if someone had painted the bottom of their shoes and dragged them through the carpet. It looked a bit like someone had puked on them. And the thought of all the other bums that had sat on the too-bright seats and the dirt encrusted in the fabric. She rose slightly and pulled her skirt down her thighs. It was too short to offer much protection from the grime, so she pulled her army surplus coat on in spite of the fact that she always got too hot in it.
She sat back in her seat and adjusted her headphones. Adele sang of love and betrayal, her sultry voice adding to Alice’s sense of the futility of life. If someone as talented and sensuous as Adele couldn’t make a relationship work, what hope was there for her, a twenty-three-year-old nobody whose life was spent cleaning old people’s backsides when they’d shat themselves.
She put on some rap and nodded her head to the beat.
The train had been sitting in the middle of a field for ages now. The blue-and-red lights of police cars and ambulances flashed in her peripheral vision. She put a hand up to screen them out and scrolled through her messages and decided to call Maddie. She told her about the suicide, and Maddie sounded suitably impressed, wanting details Alice couldn’t provide. As she ended the call, she shifted away from the man next to her who had obviously been listening in. She texted Lou and Cherie, but again, the old pervert was making her uncomfortable, peering over her shoulder. She angled her phone away from him. Sad old creep who probably tried to pick up young girls to make himself feel attractive and alive. Stupid sod. She edged farther away, gave him a death stare and got back to her texting.
Looking around, she saw an Indian guy over the aisle who looked like he was praying, eyes closed and lips moving. The trill of her phone distracted her and she smiled as she read Lauren’s text, and started replying. When she looked up, the Indian dude was staring at her. He looked away quickly, but not before she noticed that he had beautiful amber eyes behind his glasses. Alice was so surprised she forgot to look away.
‘Wonder how long we’ll be here,’ she said to cover her embarrassment.
He looked shocked that she was speaking to him, and shrugged. ‘It is difficult to say with these things.’
‘Has it happened to you before then?’
‘Oh, no, I just meant I don’t know how long it takes for the police and–’
‘Were you praying before?’ asked Alice, raising her eyebrows.
‘Yes, I was praying for the soul of the poor man who saw no alternative but to kill
himself.’
‘It might have been an accident. He might’ve fallen.’
‘From where?’ asked the man, looking out the window. ‘There is no bridge near here and he cannot have fallen from the sky, I think.’
‘Stranger things have happened.’ Unable to think of anything else to add, she turned back to her phone. What a stupid thing to say. He’d think she was really dumb. Not that it mattered – she couldn’t fancy anyone who was so religious. Even a man with such lovely eyes.
Yawning, she leant her head against the window and closed her eyes. It had seemed doable when she first agreed to the extra shift; finish night duty and get on a train to London. She needed the money. A few caffeine tablets and she’d be fine. But she hadn’t banked on the night she’d just had, with two of the old biddies deciding to do shit-art in the middle of the night, and her having to clean it off the walls. Still, she couldn’t blame them. She would probably do the same if she was confined to a home and spent all her waking hours sitting in a chair staring at daytime TV. She liked to think it was their little rebellion. She preferred them to rebel on other people’s shifts, but they didn’t care who had to clean up. They didn’t even know what they were doing. Still, at least Mrs Beauchamp hadn’t hidden her shit in her sock and put it back in her drawer like last week. Alice had laughed at that. Mrs Beauchamp’s daughter, Deidra Kelly, was such a refined lady and her mother hid shit in socks. Which just showed that in the end the posh buggers with their hoity-toity airs and graces were no different to anyone else.
With a shudder and a few clanks the train started moving, slowly at first, as if it needed to stretch and warm up again. Bit like her mum who did yoga to a video every morning. Alice wished she earned enough to move out. She closed her eyes and made a wish – let me be successful today. Let this be the first day of the rest of my life.
She checked the time on her phone. She could have gone home and slept for a couple of hours in the time they’d wasted. But she had taken the extra shift partly because she knew she wouldn’t have slept anyway and might as well have something to take her mind off the day. And here it was. The day that was going to be the first step to her new life. She crossed her fingers. Suddenly a shiver went along her spine. What if the suicide was a bad omen? She stifled a groan.
