Thanks, Dad

We had been together for a long time, long enough to realise that this was the real thing and, probably, you know, for life. Like something out of a romance novel, it had started in animosity, his father arguing with my father about, of all things, parking spaces. We had been standing to one side, both feeling awkward, embarrassed with AND on behalf of the oldlings. If an observer had been present, doubtless they would have seen the pair of us shuffling uncomfortably, staring at the pavement, hands in pockets, neither wishing to meet the other’s eye, the stupidity of the behaviour of those who should be acting as our enwisened elders rendering us incapable of normal human interaction. At eighteen, though ostensibly adults, still the boundaries between maturity and childhood are blurred so that, when real, full-fledged, proper growed up grown-ups are acting like kids, it’s kind of hard to know what to do. So we stood there, doing our little pavement dance for a while, waiting for it to end or, perhaps, on some level, hoping it would escalate. Hoping that the two men would fail to resolve their differences, would ratchet up the levels of anger they felt so that it morphed first into rage then into incandescent, uncontrollable fury. Perhaps they would lose all sense of sanity, would lunge at each other, fists bared, dash each other to the ground, there to writhe and clutch at each other’s throats until one got the upper hand, pounding the other’s head against the tarmac time after time after time, consciousness slipping away from the victim of the onslaught. Then, knowing that victory was almost upon him, now the sadist in him would emerge, and the man on top, both literally and figuratively, would switch hand positions, would allow his fingers to loosen their grip on the throat and would slide them up so that, instead of hands clasped around the throat, now they were curled around the temples, fingers pressed tight against the skull of the other man whilst, simultaneously, the thumbs found their way into the tender, soft tissue of the eyes, plunging and twisting and swirling and scooping, absolute destruction of the delicate organ assured. And then he would laugh, spine arching as he rocked back on his haunches, thumbs still plunged deep into the head of the other man, the noise spilling from him one of the clearly demented whilst, at the same time, the mutilated one screamed his anguish.
But none of that happened.
Of course it didn’t.
Instead we stood there for a while, embarrassed, awkward, while they shouted at each other about selfishness, lack of consideration and who the fuck owns a people carrier these days, anyway?
It was him who made first contact, not me.
‘Sorry about this,’ he said.
I looked up, surprised at how close he was to me, as I had not heard any sign of movement.
‘Me too,’ was the best I could manage. Christ, what a twat.
‘He’s always like this when he’s had a drink.’
‘It’s only five o’clock,’ I observed.
‘I know. That’s why he’s always like this.’
I smiled, despite the darkness hinted at by the statement.
‘At least yours has got an excuse,’ I said. ‘Mine’s stone-cold sober and still acting like a div.’
It was his turn to smile.
‘Alex’, he said, extending a hand in my general direction.
‘Liam,’ I replied, mimicking the gesture and, as we shook hands for the first time whilst our fathers bickered, the look that we exchanged, unlike the behaviour of the men, needed no explanation.

It’s a cliché, it’s true, but that first night together passed in a blur. I arrived at his house around seven, greeted by his father, who eyed me suspiciously, well aware that I was the son of his latest enemy. He allowed me in to his home all the same and, through a fog of cider-fuelled curiosity, proceeded to interrogate me whilst Alex got ready, almost as if he knew we were destined to become family, of a sort.
‘How long have you lived around here?’
‘What do you plan to do when you leave college?’
‘Are you good with your hands or your mind?’
At one point he leaned in towards me, elbow perched precariously on the breakfast bar we were sitting next to, and whisper-slurred that he already regretted moving in to the neighbourhood as there were more Pakis around than he expected.
I mean, just what the hell was I supposed to say to that?
‘Really?’ I managed, dreading what was to follow from him, relieved to discover that such was his level of inebriation that the brief pause required to think about his response was long enough for him to forget the subject altogether.
‘Ready,’ Alex announced suddenly, appearing in the doorway, mid-length blond hair swept back, a sports headband holding it in place, giving him the appearance of a post-match interview tennis player, eyes a-sparkle, skin a-glow. He flashed a smile at me, seemingly aware of the pain I had endured in his absence.
‘Where you lads off?’ the dad inquired.
‘Not sure yet,’ Alex told him.
‘Eyeing up the girls down the park?’ he asked, quite remarkably, as if trying to be the very embodiment of a 70s sitcom character.
‘Something like that,’ Alex said, grinning at me as he did so. ‘You know what I’m like, Dad. A real pussy magnet.’
‘I should bloody well hope so. Chip off the old block, eh?’ he said proudly, struggling to his feet and squeezing Alex’s shoulder on his way to the fridge.
‘Ok, we’re out of here, Dad.’
‘Kay. See u lairer,’ he said, or something along those lines, anyway.
And, with the fizz of a ring pull being popped as an aural accompaniment, we were away.

The Bruford Arms buzzed with the general chit-chat of the midweek customers. A mainly ethnic clientele, elderly Indian men sat around one table, dominos laid out before them, mid-game, the tension of the moment etched onto their faces, either end of the domino chain made up by the double dots of a two-tile, leaving little room for manouever. Opposite, a young Indian couple, clearly in the earliest throes of romance sat facing one another, no words passing between them, the pair content simply to gaze into one another’s eyes, the world around them irrelevant as they drifted away, almost as if capable of reading one another’s thoughts.
‘I like it in here,’ Alex told me
‘I’ve been in here a few times. The locals are pleasant enough,’ I agreed.
‘My first time, but I can tell I approve,’ he said.
I cradled my pint of lager between my palms, enjoying the sensation of the cold, condensation-coated glass against my skin, leaning forward somewhat, nerves getting the better of me, perhaps.
‘So have you just moved in?’ I asked him.
He nodded. ‘Forced migration, I’m afraid. Dad’s got a position at a new school, deputy head, I think, and it was either get my own place or follow him.’
‘Blimey. Follow him from where?’
‘Oxford, as it happens.’
‘Blimey,’ I said again, a little vacuously, covering my linguistic faux pas by raising my glass. ‘Well, welcome to The Midlands. You’ll Never Leave.’
‘Sounds like a threat.’
‘No, just a League of Gentlemen reference.’
‘Oh, yeah, ‘ he said, smiling. ‘Royston Vasey, right?’
‘You know that’s Roy Chubby Brown’s real name?’
‘Course I do. Everyone knows that, silly. Next you’ll be telling me that Americans like burgers and that Italians tend to speak with their hands.’
And, as swiftly as that, we settled into each other’s company, no awkwardness, no edge, no worries, as if the universe had always known this moment would come and had simply been waiting for us to fulfill our mortal duty and I, for one, was more than happy to oblige.

The road was dark. Dark enough for Alex to snake a hand out, his fingers brushing against mine as we walked.
‘I’ve enjoyed tonight,’ he said.
‘Me too.’
‘I’m glad our Dads are imbeciles.’
I smiled in the gloom as we strolled, slowing my pace then, before I even realised what I was doing, I’d stopped and turned to face him.
‘You ok?’ he asked.
‘Shut up,’ I instructed, and leaned in towards him, my face nearing his, my heart quickening as I suddenly understood what I was about to do. Our lips met and, for one awful moment, I thought that he was flinching away, thought that he was rejecting my advance but, no, as quickly as his moment of surprise came, the hesitancy left him and, with an abandon that could well be described as gay, our mouths locked, tongues flicking , probing, exploring.
‘Come back to mine,’ he whispered as we paused for breath.
‘Your Dad?’ I asked.
‘He’ll be blotto. We could fuck him and he wouldn’t remember it tomorrow.’
I laughed a lot.

‘You sure he won’t come in?’ I asked, anxious.
‘Bit late if he does.’
And, as I lay there face down on his bed, naked save for my Homer Simpson socks, I knew he was right. No way to explain our way out of this one were he to suddenly burst in.
‘Just try to relax,’ Alex said and, to help me on my way, I felt the cool splash of massage oil on my shoulders, then his hands rubbing gently, kneading the flesh, coaxing the stiffness and tension out of me, and I sighed my contentment as a mixture of soothing elation and sexual arousal washed over me.
‘Better than any woman, right?’ he teased as he worked.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ I half sighed.
‘Interesting,’ he observed. ‘And men?’ Still he squeezed and caressed at my slippery skin.
‘I wouldn’t know about that either. You’re the first.’ Then, after a brief pause, ‘Does that matter.’
A slight slap of the buttocks was his initial response.
‘Not at all, silly,’ he said, ‘And I’ll be gentle, I swear.’
His hands crept underneath me now and, with polite insistence, he coaxed me onto my back. ‘And you be gentle with that thing, too,’ he said mischievously, nodding his head towards my obvious pleasure.
I smiled back at him. I didn’t know what else to do for, surely, I was falling desperately in love.

We walked towards my house in silence, no words necessary as we knew what we had to do and, just as importantly, knew the likely outcome. As we started up the path, he braved a gentle squeeze of my hand, tender, brief, though packed full of so much empathy I actually struggled to old back tears, as ridiculous as that seems, now.
‘It’ll be ok,’ he said as I turned the key in the lock.
‘Maybe,’ I replied, pushing the door open. ‘Soon find out, I guess.’
‘Is he here?’ Alex asked, the house quiet as we entered.
‘Seven o’clock? Usually he is. Dad?’ I called out.
‘In the kitchen.’
We approached the door at the end of the hall. ‘Well, here goes nothing,’ I said, placing a hand against the wood and pushing, not waiting for a reply.
‘Alright, Liam. Ahh, Alex, too. You both ok?’
‘Fine, Dad,’ I said, not looking at him as I spoke, eyes cast downwards, as if ashamed.
‘You sure. You seem….weird.’
His voice was light of tone, though concerned.
‘Yeah. We….we need to talk.’
‘Ok.’
He pushed his chair back a little from the kitchen table at which he sat, putting his cup of coffee down as he did so. He indicated the chairs opposite him. ‘Sit down, lads. You’re making me nervous.’
He waited for us to take our seats.
‘So, who did you kill?’
His tone was still light, though his eyes had narrowed a little, clearly anxious.
‘’Nothing like that, Dad,’ I said softly, still unable to bring myself to look at him.
‘OK, then. What is it like? Do you need money? Are you in some kind of trouble? The police? Is it the police?’
‘No, not the police. It’s just that…’ I began, but tailed off. ‘Here’s the thing…..’I restarted, again unable to complete the sentence.
‘Is it your mother? Has she said something to you?’
‘No, not Mom. Sorry, Dad, this is difficult. You’re not going to like it.’
‘Heh, I don’t like a lot of things, but I put up with them. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.’
‘Ok.’ I took a breath and counted to three internally. ‘I’m gay, Dad. Alex is my boyfriend. We love each other.’
I’m not sure what I expected; abject fury; an explosion of rage; things being smashed; I don’t know, but the laughter that burst from him was not on the list.
‘Shut up, Liam,’ he said, starting to control himself. ‘That’s a good one,’ he said, clearly under the misapprehension that this was some kind of joke. ‘My son: the arse bandit,’ he said, and this set him off again, his face reddening as he tried but failed to quell the mirth.
‘Jesus Christ, Dad,’ I shouted, ‘I’m serious.’ And slowly, my words seemed to permeate, and the laughter subsided and his face, instead of being flushed with colour slowly drained so that, twenty seconds later, no more, he sat across from me, ashen, looking sickly almost, greyed.
‘But, you can’t be,’ he said after a while, shaking his head as he spoke. ‘You can’t be,’ he said again, more to himself, this time, than those also in the room, as if repeating the assertion would somehow make it true.
‘But I am,’ I said, not wishing to be unkind, but certain that it was necessary to be definitive, to leave no room in his mind for doubt. ‘I’m gay, Dad. Alex is my boyfriend. We love each other.’
This second time, it was easier to say, somehow, though I was saddened to notice that, at the end of each statement, my father rocked back a little in his seat, as if my words were blows being physically struck against him.
‘Shut your mouth,’ he said softly, when I was done, so quietly I almost didn’t hear.
‘What?’ I demanded.
‘I said shut your mouth,’ he replied; louder this time, lifting his head, turning his eyes in my direction, locking me in an unblinking stare that made me feel very uncomfortable, scared even.
‘Dad,’ I began, but got no further.
‘Don’t Dad me,’ he bellowed, grabbing the coffee cup from the table and hurling it in my general direction, the ceramic receptacle missing my head by an inch at most, shattering on the wall behind me, tiny fragments sprinkling the back of my neck in a fine powder.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I shouted, all thought of fear gone now as adrenaline began to pump through me, the fight or flight juice engendering in me a potent blend of confidence and defiance, ensuring that no fucking way was I going to back down, especially not in front of Alex.
‘Getting angry’s not gonna help is it?’ I yelled at him. ‘Just makes you look like a bit of a dick.’
He smirked at that, an ugly look for anyone, but for one’s own father truly horrid and, for one awful moment I thought he was going to launch himself at me, to come at me with fists flailing but, instead, he marched to the kitchen door and flung it open.
‘Get the fuck out of my house,’ he instructed and, though reluctant to yield instantly, I could see no sense in sticking around.
‘Let’s go,’ I told Alex. ‘We’ll come back when he’s had chance to calm down. When he’s stopped acting like a massive bell-end.’
Loud enough so he could hear.
He ignored me.
We left.

‘It’ll be better when we’re away from here,’ said Alex, idly stroking the back of my neck as we lay on his bed.
‘Big step, though.’
‘I guess, but everyone does it eventually.’
Four days had passed since coming out to my father and, in the interim, I had spent the majority of my time at Alex’s house, only returning to my own home to collect some clothes at a time when I knew no-one would be in. Cowardly, some might call it. Prudent was my preferred descriptor.
‘You sure you can afford it?’
‘I’ve got the deposit covered, then enough for three or four months’ worth of rent. But we won’t have to touch that. We’ll be earning. You’ve already got the bar job lined up. I’m pretty confident about getting a few hours at Game. I told you, I know the manager.’
‘Yeah…..’ My voice tailed off.
‘Just tell me if you don’t want to do it. I’d rather know now.’ His voice was passive, though I sensed a sudden tension in his body.
I turned towards him, twisting around from my prone position so that we were face to face.
‘It’s nothing like that. Just nerves, I guess.’
‘I know.’ He craned his neck forward a little and planted a delicate kiss right on the tip of my nose. ‘I’m nervous, too.’
‘And I just wish things were better with HIM.’
‘They will be.’
‘I dunno.’
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
I glanced at the clock on the bedside table.
‘Shit, nearly time to go.’
‘What time’s he back from fishing?’
‘Seven. He agreed to see me at eight.’
‘Did you actually speak to him, or was this all done through some kind of mysterious proxy? The Deep Throat to your Fox Mulder.’
I nudged him with my brow.
‘A proxy known as SMS, if you must know.’
‘Sure you don’t want me to come?’
‘No, best I go alone.’
‘I can kick his ass if he starts being all….erm….bell-endy again.’
I smiled. ‘Thanks, but I’m sure that won’t be necessary. He actually seemed pretty reasonable in the messages. Hopefully he’s come to his senses.’
‘OK.’ He paused. ‘Time for a quickie before you go?’
I smiled and shook my head.
‘Save it for later.’
He sulked, but just a little.

The footpath up to the house had never seemed ominous before but, that evening, as I approached, unsure as to the response of my father now that he had had time to process, my stomach felt tight and knotted and full of worms.
For the first time in my life I knocked on the front door. Just to enter would have seemed wrong somehow. Like a vampire in a creaky old movie, I had to wait to be invited before entering.
The door swung open after a few seconds, and Sophie smiled down at me.
‘Hi, sis,’ I said sheepishly.
‘Hi gay-boy,’ Sophie teased.
‘Nice,’ I snorted. ‘Good to see I can rely on you for moral support.
She stepped over the threshold, dropping down the single step and pulled the door shut behind her, her face suddenly deadly serious.
‘You CAN count on me,’ she insisted, surprising me with a swift embrace, breaking off as quickly as she had initiated. ‘Doesn’t mean I can’t take the piss, though. Big sister’s privilege.’
‘Fair enough,’ I conceded. ‘Thanks, Soph.
‘He’s upstairs,’ she said, stepping back now, swinging the door open once more, backing into the house. ‘Dunno what he’s up to. Been up there a while.’
‘Kay. What kind of mood was he in.’
‘Seemed good, actually. The fishing trip was apparently a success. Caught a couple of beauties, were his exact words.’
‘Cool.’
‘You want me to tell him you are here?’ she asked, kindly, a softness to her voice.
‘No, I’ll do it. Don’t want to start on the backfoot.’
She pointed up the stairs, almost as if she considered me a stranger in the house we had shared all of our lives.
‘I know the way, Soph,’ I admonished.
‘I know. Just prodding you in the right direction. I know this is tough.’
‘True, dat,’ I said in my best Jamaican accent, an attempt to lighten the mood. An attempt that failed.
‘Right, I’m going in,’ I said as I mounted the first step, my footsteps heavy, becoming heavier as I climbed higher and higher so that, by the time I reached the head of the stairs it felt as if I were walking through thick, gooey mud, not on thick, plush carpet.
‘Dad,’ it’s me,’ I said loudly, ‘Where are y……’
I got no further. Sudden movement to my left startled me, and I felt the full force of my father’s weight strike against my shoulder. For one terrifying moment, I felt certain it was his intention to send me hurtling back down the stairs, though head first, a snapped neck the end result, but instead I found my body propelled, against my volition, across the landing. As I struggled against the momentum, strong hands gripped my shoulders, shoving me faster until, dizzied, confused and afraid, I found myself in the bathroom, where the door was slammed shut, and I was plunged into absolute darkness.
‘What the hell….?’ I protested, not at all enjoying the high pitch to my voice, the tension and fear and foreboding I felt made manifest through the sound of my own words.
‘Turn the light on,’ I barked through the door, the switch for the bathroom bulb beyond the door behind which I now appeared to be imprisoned.
Imprisoned?
Really?
In my own bathroom?
Fuck that.
I reached for the handle and rattled it but, of course, the door was locked, though how was a genuine mystery as the only lock on the door, at least previously, was internal.
Much appeared to have changed in my brief absence.
‘What are you doing, Dad?’ I demanded. ‘What’s this supposed to achieve? And why is it so fucking dark in here?’
Good question, I thought. Though the light was off, natural light should still be flooding through the bathroom window from the world beyond this madhouse. Had he blocked the window up in readiness for my arrival? What the hell for? What the fuck was he playing at? A locked door and no light. Like a dungeon, I thought, unpleasantly.
‘Dad,’ I shouted again, getting angry now, grabbing at the door handle, twisting it, yanking at it, rattling the door in the jamb, but the blasted thing would not budge.
‘Dad,’ I shouted once more, louder this time, so loud I actually hurt my throat.
Then came his voice.
‘Don’t speak. Just listen and do as I say. It’s for your own good.’
I pressed my palm flat against the inside of the door, beseeching almost, aware that he could not see the gesture, feeling it necessary all the same.
‘I’m listening.’
‘Move to the bath,’ he instructed.
‘What?’ I couldn’t think of a more suitable word. What the hell was he talking about?
‘Do it,’ he roared, and the fear returned with a vengeance, for the man bellowing beyond the door could not be my father, any more than he could be right of mind.
‘Why is it so dark in here?’ I asked him as I began to move. The question was ignored.
‘OK. I’m by the bath,’ I told him.
‘Get in.’
I just shook my head, knowing that I was going to comply, simply grabbing a few seconds before acquiescence. I grabbed the edge of the bath for balance and swung a leg over, troubled to discover that the bath was already half full of warm water, soaking my trainers and the bottom part of my jeans instantly but, despite the discomfort, I climbed in completely, both feet now submerged.
‘OK, I’m in,’ I said and, as I spoke, I felt something brush against my leg, large, fast, alive.
‘What the fuck is it?’ I shouted desperately, fighting my instinct to leap from the bath, but not sure why, just wanting out of the room, now, thinking that the best way to make that happen was to follow the instructions of my father, no matter how illogical they may be.
‘It’s a trout,’ he replied, somewhat unexpectedly.
‘A trout?’ I echoed, the word sounding baffling to my boggled brain. Trout? Trout? Trout? I knew what it was. Didn’t I? A fish. Right? Quite large. Right? Totally safe. Right? No threat. Right?
‘Kill it,’ he instructed, a coldness to his call that chilled me to the core and, as if sensing my hesitation, he elaborated.
‘Kill it, or I kill her.’
‘Liam, don’t do it.’
Sophie’s voice, tremulous, strained, as if she were being held, somehow, and were struggling for release.
‘Spare the fish,’ she said, before falling silent as something large and hard slammed against the bathroom door from the landing.
I dropped to my knees and plunged my hands beneath the water, feeling the body of the animal as it swam around my legs, evading my grasping fingers with ease, at home in its surroundings, despite the lack of space, me the intruder, here, ill-equipped to deal with two million years’ worth of evolution of both survival instinct and physical perfection for a water-borne environment. Again, I thrust out my arms, this time actually managing to get my hands around its body completely, my fingers touching either side, but the skin was too slippery, the scales too perfect at forming an absolutely smooth surface, so the beast eluded me once again.
‘Kill it,’ my father bellowed from outside once more and, again, something hard smashed against the door, this time accompanied by a distant whimper, clearly female in origin.
Sweet Jesus, what the fuck was he doing to her?
Panic-stricken, now, and knowing there was no way I was going to overcome my scaly adversary, a plan began to form, and I scrambled from the bath, scooting over to the sink, knowing this room off by heart, eyes unnecessary, hands sufficient as organs of detection. I swung open the bathroom cabinet quietly and found what I was looking for, then quickly returned to the bath, not getting back in, instead stooping near the side and splashing around with my hands, making as much noise as possible, adding in the odd grunt, just for good measure, waiting a while, splashing again, trying to give the illusion of effort and endeavour.
‘I’ve done it,’ I eventually called out. ‘It’s dead.’
‘It better be,’ he replied.
‘It is.’
‘Ok. Perhaps you are a man, after all.’ Then, after a second or two, ‘Step away from the door.’
I braced myself, knowing that the sudden light was going to hurt my eyes, knowing also that I would probably only have a brief moment to react. Fear flooded through me, terrified of what harm had befallen my sister, the sound of, presumably, her head slamming against the door echoing through my mind, a sickening taunt.
The door opened.
I raised the hairspray to face level and pressed the button down, the acrid mist jetting out, but hitting no-one as I stepped forward, my suspicious father already well out of harm’s way, so I changed tactic, hoisting an arm back, hurling the large can in his direction, hoping to catch him a vicious blow on the temple, and it was only then that my fevered mind noticed the aberration.
Sophie.
Standing next to him.
Broad grins on both of their faces.
Then she walked forward towards me, and I thought she was going to support me as my legs began to feel like jelly but, instead, the grin turned into a sneer as she neared and she spat mucus into my face, then hissed ‘Pervert,’ before turning her back on me.
‘Get out of our house,’ my erstwhile father instructed, his face as ghastly as hers. ‘Cunt,’ he called me as I began to negotiate the stairs, head spinning, unable to believe that any of this was real, knowing that it was and, for the final time in my life, I left my family home

‘Was a long time ago,’ said Alex, cradling me in his arms, just as he had all those years ago.
‘Ten years to the day,’ I said.
‘Really?’
‘It’s why I’m writing the story. To cleanse the memory, I guess.’
‘Hope it works.’
‘Still can’t understand his reasoning. I mean, why the trout?’
‘You can’t expect rationality from a homophobe.’
‘’Spose not.’
‘Ten years, eh,’ he said wistfully, as if contemplating the improbability of such a passage of time.
‘Ten years,’ I agreed.
‘And to this day you don’t eat fish.’
I nudged him in the ribs.

© Ian Stevens (2016)
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