Afire: Entire Blinded Series (23 page)

Lee narrowed his eyes and failed at hiding a grin that showed he knew he'd been caught out. “Well, not romance as such, but... Fuck, never hearing you tell me stuff again? That's just not right, is it?"

"So, in other words, you'd like a bit of romance, yeah? Be honest."

Lee visibly struggled with trying not to admit it. “Fuck off."

"I'll take that as a yes, then."

"Take it whatever way you like."

"Love you, man."

"Fucking love you too."

They had slept in on this somewhat cold but sunny Sunday morning, then took a walk to the beach, to the same spot where Harry had appeared. It was an unspoken thing, that they go there. Like revisiting would slay the demons. For Ryan, it did. A little anyway. And Lee appeared more relaxed once they'd arrived, staring at the sand, the scuffs from yesterday's tussle smoothed away by the sea's incessant caress overnight.

Maybe they'd always attract danger. Maybe that was the price they'd have to pay for being together. Who knew? Perhaps when the judge or jury had convicted those bastards, things would return to some sense of normality. And perhaps they wouldn't. Either way, Ryan vowed they'd get through their shit together, their relationship growing stronger from them having been through so much.

He took Lee's hand and guided him along the beach, neither of them speaking until they reached a line of uneven, sea-soiled logs set up as breakers. Pebbles, thick layers of them, spread out either side of the breakers. Ryan stopped walking and stared at the logs, their moss-covered bark a curious shade of greens and deep blues. Tiny limpets clung onto them, white dots that looked like freckles. He imagined those slim logs as sections of his life. The first few were perfectly in line, all uniform, not a thing out of place, much the same as his childhood. Then in the middle they lurched like drunks, leaning precariously, some almost toppling over. Yeah, they mimicked his life. A smooth start and now the ups and downs, but he was fucked if he'd be like that log there, the one that lay flat, having given up the fight against the continual battering of the sea.

No, he'd stand tall, he knew that. Wouldn't get jealous over Josh—there was no damn need to. Wouldn't worry that Lee was going to leave him. After all, they were fully fledged romantics now, weren't they?

He smiled at that and studied the logs further along. After the middle few, the rest stood up straight again, doing so right into the distance where he couldn't see them clearly. If he believed in shit like this, he'd say it was a sign. That they just had to get through the bollocks up ahead and then everything would be all right.

"It'll be all right, you know,” Lee said, squeezing his hand.

Christ. There he goes again. Reading my mind.

Lee kicked at a pebble, its shiny wet surface catching the light of a sun struggling to penetrate through heavy-bellied grey clouds. “I know we haven't talked about it all properly, and maybe we should, but once we've...once they've been put down for a stretch... You know, Trevor and the others...” He sighed, a big gust that inflated his cheeks. A light breeze ruffled his hair. He continued toeing the pebble, flipping it over to reveal a bottom covered in damp sand. Squeezing Ryan's hand rhythmically, he said, “Just know it'll be all right.
We'll
be all right, yeah?"

Ryan nodded and turned from Lee to stare at the logs for a bit. Until he felt Lee watching him. Waiting for him to say something. Open up and express how he felt. Or even for him to say something simple, something Lee obviously longed to hear. That yes, it
would
be all right.

He looked into Lee's eyes and saw so much love there, so much romance bursting to come out, and he smiled. “Yeah, it'll be all right, my beautiful love."

"Beautiful love?” Lee widened his eyes and chuckled. “What the
fuck
?"

Ryan laughed so hard he bent over. Would they ever get to the point where endearments came easily and they didn't feel so damn stupid saying them? Or would they go on like they were now, skirting around it, making it all a big joke? He reckoned they would, and that was fine, because even though they weren't actually saying it, they knew.

Just by messing about they knew.

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Standing here looking out of our cliff-top hotel window this cloudy, Norfolk Monday morning makes me feel like I don't want to go home. If we go home, I have to face shit I don't want to face. The trial, for one thing, but also the emotions that'll go with it. Will I cope relating every damn thing that happened the night I got shot? It's inevitable that giving evidence will be like opening a can of worms. Everything Trevor and his gang have ever done to me might spill out. And because of what I am, a queer, as Trevor puts it, the events in my childhood might also come into play. Do I want to tell everyone in that courtroom that my own mother hated my guts because I'm gay? That she knew, right from me being a little kid that I was different? Odd. Not what she wanted. Wrong.

It's not easy to admit this kind of stuff to myself, let alone strangers. Yeah, I know it's going to be tough, didn't need the police to give me that nugget of information, but shit, will it be too tough, you know? Will I even be able to keep it together? The last thing I want is to break down in front of those ingrates—Trevor, Greg, and Harry. They're the ones who caused us so much shit. The ones who thought nothing of stepping over the line from bullies to outright criminals.

Ryan's still sleeping behind me. His breathing sounds so steady, like he's at peace in a dreamscape somewhere. A place where no one can hurt him. I wish that was always so. That in our life together I could protect him from being hurt, shield him from the shit that has tainted me ever since I can remember.

There are times when I wonder if him being with me is the right thing. Don't get me wrong, I know he's the bloke for me, and he says I'm the one for him, but fuck, since we've been together, he's had nothing but hassle. He's always been my protector, trying to shield me from the taunts Trevor and his gang threw my way at school and then later, after we left, when we saw them out on the streets. Moving to Biddingford was meant to solve that, among other things, but life saw fit to send the taunts after me.

You know, Trevor's threat that night in our old town, when he pointed his gun at me and told me not to return, was enough to make me listen. To comply. I didn't intend going back, and wouldn't have if my old dear hadn't topped herself. Returning “home” for the funeral—I couldn't
not
go, could I? Despite the old bitch raising me with her unique brand of spitefulness, I had to go back and send her off to Hell or wherever the fuck else bad people go. Had no choice. And Trevor, in prison for aggravated assault and threats with a weapon, had told his cronies to keep an eye out for me. They'd done that all right, starting their shit in The Ragged Sigh, a pub me and Ryan had stopped in to sink a few pints before going on to the wake.

I wince, recalling what happened after that. I don't like thinking about it, don't like remembering. But the thoughts come, marching through my mind like recalcitrant children who just don't know when to quit while they're ahead.

Greg, Trevor's right-hand man, had come to our cabin in Biddingford, tainted the place just by being there, if I'm honest. And he held a gun pointed at me, making it clear Trevor still had influence over my life even if he
was
in the nick. Greg had shot me. Fucking shot me! Then only yesterday, another of Trevor's pals had turned up, followed us here on our weekend break, to try and get us to keep our mouths shut during the trial. That was the third time a gun had appeared, and let me tell you, it was bad enough when they'd been pointed at me, but seeing it pointed at Ryan...

Fuck. It's so damn difficult to keep my emotions on an even keel, know what I mean? It's like...I'm up one minute and down the next, but I don't want Ryan to know. I want him happy, to not worry about me, so I've developed this new side of me. Coincides with me being shot and looks as though I got stronger because of the ordeal. That I'm damn grateful to be alive and no bastard's gonna stop me living my life now. No way, fuckers! No stopping me. But it's all bullshit. All of it.

Ryan shifts, the sound of the covers rustling against his body almost making me turn around and get back into bed with him. I resist turning, resist taking a peek at the one person I love more than anyone else on earth. He's my damn life now.

I couldn't live without him.

There's a lighthouse out there. A big white bugger with a completely glass top. It's on the tip of the cliff, alone, standing rigid against the incessant winds that push it. That wind's howling, shoving this window, and I can't help but think that lighthouse is like me. But I'm not alone, am I? Not really. Not when I have Ryan by my side. Yet at times I am. A bloke who can't share his feelings for one reason or another, whether it's because of my childhood or just the way I am, I don't know. Might be a bit of both.

The lighthouse calls. It did yesterday too, when I caught a glimpse of it as we returned to the hotel last night after our fish and chip feast. The beam had flashed, streaking across the sea, a swathe of brightness only for a second until it revolved and lit the cliff top instead. And so it went on, repeat, repeat, repeat. Mesmerising. I'd wanted to go to it, to stand beside its magnitude and stare out at the choppy waves, maybe spot a boat as the light coasted across the water. But Ryan was tired, and really, how mental would I have sounded, asking if he'd mind us walking there?

With a sigh, I move from the window and shirk on my jacket, giving in to the pull. I scribble Ryan a note and leave it on the bedside cabinet. Just a short one telling him I've gone for a walk, need a bit of time alone. He'll understand.

He always does.

Outside on the landing, I head past a row of doors, wondering who sleeps behind them, what their lives are like. Do they have similar things to us going on? I mean, I know not everyone gets shot and threatened, but what I'm thinking is: Does everyone have issues they carry around with them their whole life, or are there some lucky bastards out there who have it relatively easy? I reckon they do. And how is that? The fact that some folks just don't know the half of it is alien to me.

Sighing, I take the creaky stairs, the carpet on them resembling something a cat sicked up, all random blotches in many shades of brown. Looks like it's been down since the eighties, along with the anaglyptic wallpaper painted a gaudy mustard yellow. Still, despite the decoration, this is a nice hotel. Quiet, homely, the staff pleasant and seemingly happy to leave their guests alone for the most part. Who wants to go away for a long weekend with pushy hotel owners hanging around your arse for feedback?

A young girl runs reception, her long blonde hair falling forward as she reads the Sunday rag, her face cupped in her hand, elbow on the desk. She glances up as I walk toward the main double doors, gives a smile then returns to reading. I push the door, and it swings outward, a gust of wind trying to push it back at me. Outside, the door slamming closed with a violent thud behind me, I stare out at the grassy expanse of cliff top. The lighthouse, there it is ahead, asking me to come for a visit. I know why I want to go there. That lone building represents a beacon in the darkness, that light the one thing sailors long to see when they're battling the unruly waves. A port in a storm, a warning that rocks loom ahead.

Hands in my pockets and head down, I walk out of the hotel grounds—manicured gardens with an apple tree each side of the gravelled path—and out onto the cliff top. The wind batters my head, whips my hair every which way, but the slap of it is welcome. It wakes me up, makes me alert, and I press on, determined to find some solace.

It takes longer to reach the lighthouse than I'd imagined, but standing beside it now, seeing how huge it is, gives me some kind of perspective on my life. It reminds me of Ryan, sturdy and unbending, always there when things get tough. I glance back at the hotel, a speck in the distance now, and wonder if he's woken and found my note yet. Sensed I'm not in bed beside him.

Turning to face the lighthouse, I take in the building adjoining it, the living quarters of the lighthouse master, I imagine. The curtains are closed at every window, and there's an abandoned feel to the place, like no one is at home behind those walls. And maybe there isn't. They might have gone to church in the village down the way. Maybe, right now, they're listening to another villager telling the news of Harry and his gun, of the two holidaymakers who were followed here by some lunatic.

Fuck. Me and Ryan, the subject of discussion.

I sigh and walk toward the cliff edge, standing far enough back that a gust of wind from behind won't propel me over the edge and onto the rocks below. There's a bench here, wooden and weathered, the dark green paint peeling. If it belongs to the lighthouse keeper, I've just got to hope he doesn't mind me sitting on it, because I need to rest my legs a while before going back to the hotel. Rest and think.

The whoosh of the sea is reassuring, like its continual tides tell me that even though the waves might get choppy before they calm, they're always moving, always working to a cycle. And that's the same as life, isn't it? We constantly go about our day-to-day business, and whether the storms come or not, we battle on, trying to get through.

The sun, weak as its light is up there, tries to penetrate the clouds, a warm burst of it touching my face as it manages to break through. It fades away again, a grey-bellied cloud passing over it and staying put, and I kind of know what that feels like. I want to shine. I want to break through this darkness, this barrier, but until the trial is over, I reckon I'm stuck where I am. In limbo, a static place where on the outside I'm happy, but on the inside I'm scared shitless, forever propelled back to the past inside my mind where the demons still roam.

A shuffle sounds beside me, and I glance over my left shoulder toward the noise. An old man has left the curtained building, draws near, his ambling walk saying more about the state of his ageing body than he would probably like to admit. Damn, he must be about eighty if he's a day. I press my palms against the seat to push myself standing, to get off his bench, off his property. He raises a hand, flapping it as if to tell me to sit back down, and I do. He reaches me, all wrinkled face and gnarled knuckles, a thick black padded coat covering his spindly frame. Long white hair dances about his head, thin and wispy, and he reminds me of some bloke I saw in a kids’ film once. A wizard. In one of the Harry Potter flicks?