The Beat (13 page)

Tony just made it inside before the phone stopped ringing. He was breathless when he answered. He should have known it would be Peter. The last thing he felt like was indulging in small talk. Peter was a two valium job at the best of times. Yes, he confirmed he would be coming the next night. No, he didn’t require a lift. Yes, he was quite sure he could find his way. Yes, he did have the address and the phone number. No, he would be punctual. Yes, he was looking forward to it. He hung up furious that he hadn’t had the courage to worm his way out of it. Peter was so organizing, Tony felt overawed when he was caught like that. It was so ridiculous the way the whole thing had happened anyway. Two more unmatched people you would be hard to find. The only things they had had in common were loneliness and fear. Tony was coming to terms with the latter; the former still passed over him in waves. But then, as his doctor said, “No one is irreplace-able.” It should be true. In time it would be. His doctor was marvellous. He had summed up Mark in one phrase. “He’s a prick, isn’t he?” the doctor had said. It had allowed Tony to laugh and then argue in Mark’s favour, enumerat-ing all his own failings that had contributed to the breakup. In times of need he could easily love his doctor. For a few moments Tony pondered the plausibility of going to him and confiding about last Friday night. The man had become a confessor figure so it would be quite easy. He decided against it at last on the grounds that there was nothing anyone could do about it now. The guy was dead. It was finished. Just like his relationship with Mark. Dead and finished. As he had bemoaned to the doctor, “You can’t make him come back.” Not even a doctor could bring back the dead youth either. A revelation to the doctor would serve no useful purpose and only put at risk the relationship that he cherished. Tony threw off his jacket and sprawled out on the sofa. He peeled off his boots and left them there on the floor. His dirty socks rested on the arm of the chair. He contemplated his socks and the weekend ahead. A desert, with Peter the only oasis. That was one oasis he must let perish back into the wilderness. He waited with apprehension to see the house. It had been described to him by inference all week. Peter was nothing if not proud of his success. The trouble was it was not the kind of success Tony sought or could relate to. He shouldn’t have encouraged the thing to develop between them the way it had. Someone was going to get hurt now. Initially it had fed some of the need created by Mark’s departure; now he saw that even this satisfaction had been shallow. He was selfish to have let it go this far. Sex had been the big mistake. The lift was necessary. He’d had to get away from the area fast. Coffee had been a politeness, the drink essential. Sex, his own desperate innovation to blot out the earlier event, had been his undoing. He smiled to himself. During the performance Peter had graduated from shock to finally inhibited enthusiasm. It was because Tony had made the approaches that he now felt guilty. Having found this new attachment, Peter was sticking like glue and Tony had to admit responsibility for it. Actually Peter had been rather sweet afterwards in a comical sort of way. The sticky aftermath of mutual masturbation had offended him greatly. Despite copious quantities of tissues and a shower, he had obviously not felt clean.He had paused so fastidiously before putting his soiled underwear back on. It had been a great compromise for him. There was something so vulnerable about his out-of-condition body revealed in the electric light as he stood clumsily viewing his own underclothes. Tony held the picture in his mind for as long as possible. At least thinking about that was a diversion from thinking about Mark.

Mark sat outside in his car. He had waited for Tony to return from work. When he had finally seen him coming, he no longer was sure what to do. Within twenty-four hours of leaving Tony, he knew he loved the neurotic guy. It was just that he couldn’t live with him. The tantrums, the traumas, the unpredictability, the lack of freedom: he couldn’t live with Tony. He told himself he was waiting outside because he wanted to see that his friend was coping. Loving someone was strange. You could hate them and need them all at once. He didn’t know why he had come there tonight. Now he found it impossible to drive away. The jealousy and raging had gone on too long. Partly it was his own fault. He hadn’t been completely honest, ever, with anyone. All the talk to others which had so undermined the rela-tionship, had been part of his own need to be something special in their eyes. Other lovers had been part of his own ego-building, not anything intended against Tony. Tony couldn’t cope with it. Himself, he couldn’t cope with the showdowns. Yet he waited outside in the dark unable to leave. Finally, after many minutes, he slid the car into drive and swung out onto the road. Turning the car at the end of the road felt like death.

Tony didn’t have much idea what to do with the evening. The gym had been a fiasco. He could go for a run through the park. On consideration he was hesitant about going off in the dark. The park had been under close police surveillance for the past week. Several times they had trailed him as he ran along past the beats. On the Monday and Tuesday they had been pulling people up for questioning. Tony didn’t fancy standing there in the glare of the flashing blue lights for all to see, while some cop decided how hard to harass him. In prior weeks the park had become a hive of industry at night. Now the backlash was really on. Tony knew nothing and had seen nothing. No one had been in the park that night. No one could identify anyone. One person was much like another in the dark; everyone was anonymous. No one had seen anything.

Peter removed his glasses and held them to contemplate his choice. The avocado and prawns could be prepared well in advance. With lemon juice the fruit wouldn’t discolour. The steak au poivre was awkward, but so suitable for only two people. The orange souffle would demand his attention again at the end of the evening but would give such a good final flair. Such a pity the book didn’t suggest accompanying wines. A champagne and a reasonable red would probably suffice. Tony didn’t appear to be a heavy drinker, not with that body. Methodically he copied the ingredients onto a pad, eliminating those he knew he already had. Once or twice he rose and went to the cupboards to check for one ingredient or another. It was worth doing it properly now, rather than trusting to memory in the morning. Suddenly he stopped in his task. If Tony had no transport, presumably he intended to stay overnight. That would mean both facing a stranger first thing in the morning and planning a breakfast menu. Should he have the spare room prepared for appearances sake? After all, it would become Tony’s room in time. He would make the offer after another week or two. Or maybe he should show Tony around for his friends’ approval first. The thought nearly gave him cold feet. Tony there within a fortnight. Placing down his glasses and leaving note-pad and pen, he went to his bedroom. He opened his wardrobe door and carefully removed a velvet robe. He must let it air properly before his house-guest was to use it. In the bathroom he scanned the cupboard to ensure that there was a spare toothbrush. He knew he could match a face-washer to the guest towels. If all went well, and Tony moved in, he would have a set monogrammed for him. But what was he saying? It was early days to let such excitement get out of hand. There were more practical questions to consider first, like how to introduce Tony to his circle of friends without including details of their first meeting. Peter simply refused to consider the other aspects of their meeting. Obviously Tony was right for his needs and could be adapted into his lifestyle easily enough. The boy was attached to his present flat for sentimental reasons. Once he realized that his previous love affair was over, he would see the advantages of moving out. It was, after all, a better address that Peter had to offer, as well as access to a far better circle of acquaintances. They would have to spend a little on the boy’s wardrobe, buy him some reasonable clothes and let that funny haircut grow out, but the body was good. It was time Peter had someone there to share his home and he had decided Tony was the one. He went next to the second bedroom. It would be as well to put on the electric blanket and air the bed out properly just in case Tony would rather sleep alone on their first night. Since it was only a single bed, Tony could return there after they had completed the sexual part of the proceedings. Peter then returned to his shopping list and carefully checked to see that all was included. He couldn’t really say that he enjoyed cooking, or entertaining for that matter, but like most things approached sensibly, he could do it well. He ran his finger along the top of the bureau as he returned to the lounge. The furniture hadn’t been cleaned as thoroughly as he would have expected. He must remember to leave a note to that effect for his woman on her next visit. After glancing at the clock and asserting it was too early to retire for the evening, he again switched on the television and settled in to watch the ABC.

As the evening wore on Tony felt the confines of the flat playing on him more and more. He hadn’t eaten and was itching to get out if only he could muster a reason. It was developing into a valium evening. He took two tablets without water and decided to contemplate masturbation. Sprawled out on the sofa, he ran his hand up and down his thigh and tried to raise some enthusiasm. It would be interesting to see which worked first, the pills or the stimulation. He casually massaged his penis through his clothing and knew he wasn’t interested. The squeezing and fingering had some effect in producing a swelling but his muscles were relaxing fast all over his body and his head was starting to follow suit. It was all starting to feel too much effort. Unzipping his fly, he slid his hand down inside his underpants and released the early swellings trapped there. Massaging coaxingly he looked down and viewed the unwillingly roused object. It was a lot of effort and for what? True it was pleasant enough lying there playing with himself, but he had no desire for anything more. Like the rest of his body, it would be nice to let it just relax. He placed it back inside his pants and rezipped them. Remaining sprawled out, he gazed across the room enjoying the fact that thoughts refused to articulate themselves clearly in his brain. An idea would half form, then disintegrate. He wondered where the thought went, then that idea disappeared too. After a while he rose and loped to the bedroom. Slowly he struggled out of the confines of his clothes and crawled into the unmade bed. He stared at the crumped pile of clothes, then switched out the light. He rested there happily letting his mind deteriorate until morning.

Mark stood looking awkward. He was on the verge of leaving.

“Good day there,” the boy called out. Mark looked around, then looked back. He didn’t know the boy.

“What are you standing there staring for? Come over, I won’t bite.” Mark took the few necessary steps hesitantly.

“That’s better. Sit down.” Again Mark paused, unsure.

“Sit down, it’s OK.” Mark sat and felt relieved. At least the initial stages were over.

“What are you doing here then?” the boy asked. Shrugging his shoulders, Mark replied, “What are you doing?”

“Sex,” the boy replied, “I come here for sex, mate, and Mark nodded.

“Thought so,” the boy affirmed. He then continued, “I’m commercial.” There was a pause so he added, “I do it for pleasure too, but I’m commercial.”

“Oh,” Mark responded, then sat looking uncomfort-able.

“Well, why do you do it then, mate?” the boy asked. “Pleasure, I suppose.” By now Mark was unsure there could be any pleasure with this one.

“Got a cigarette?” the boy hustled. Mark handed one over and lit one for himself. They sat there smoking silently. It wasn’t progressing fast enough so the boy urged, “Yeah, I’m bi. I do it for pleasure sometimes but tonight I’m commercial. See I’m waiting for my cheque to come through, and I’m broke.” Mark started to rise. “I think I’ll be going.” The boy put his hand on Mark’s leg and held him there. “Never paid for it before, have you?” Mark nodded agreement.

“Stands out a mile.”

“How long have you been doing this?” Mark asked. He was pretty well held in place and couldn’t get out.

“About six months. But it’s dropped right off. Com-mercial is right out now. Too many freebees around.”

“Yes, you’re probably right.” And again Mark tried to leave.

“I’m hungry, man,” the boy ployed.

“You’ll do alright I’m sure,” Mark retorted. By now he was on his feet.

“I’ll walk you to your car.” And the boy was beside him as he strode off. Halfway across the road the boy stopped and suggestively dug his hand down the front of his pants.

“My dick’s all caught up,” he commented. Mark made no reply.

“That your car?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Bit of a heap of shit, isn’t it?”

“It’s falling to bits like its owner,” Mark responded. Mark unlocked the door to get in. As he opened the door, the boy reached over and using the inside handle, wound the window down before Mark could close the door.

“Why did you do that?” Mark asked.

“To talk to you, man. Can’t talk through glass.” Mark kept his affirmation to himself. The boy leant through the window.

“Well, you interested?” he persisted. Mark shook his head. “I got to go.” He started up the engine.

“Fuck you, you fucking cheapskate.” The boy thumped the roof of the car expecting Mark to drive off. He didn’t. Instead he switched off the ignition. The boy’s crotch was at window height. Mark looked at it blankly, then the boy leant and looked in again.

“Yeah?” he asked eagerly.

“What’s your name?” Mark asked. The boy was vague for a second or two, then replied, “John.”

“Like hell it is.” The boy’s brashness started to return. “Trying to tell me I don’t know what my own name is?” And he grinned.

“OK, John,” Mark replied, “I’m sorry. I’m not in-terested and I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, alright?”

“Yeah mate.” The boy tried one last grin. “It’s no loss to me. Suit yourself. See you round.” He walked off as cockily as he could. Mark wound up the window and drove off. For quite some time Mark drove round and round the suphur-yellow street of Melbourne’s limited night life. Finally he made up his mind and turned towards his old home and Tony. Once there he again sat out in the street watching from across the road. Procrastination was pointless, he wanted to go back. He made himself get out of the car and launched himself across the road. The flat was in darkness. He went up the dimly lit stairs and tapped gently on the door. Nothing stirred within. The flat breathed brooding in its deep sleep. It held Tony within. Mark tapped lightly again. Again only the omnipotent silence answered. He stood there, the silence barring his way. Then he took a key from his pocket and tried it in the lock. It pierced the resistance of the door and the levers turned heavily in the barrel of the lock. The door opened before him and the darkness of the flat issued forth. Mark called softly into the darkness and no answer came. He stepped inside and carefully closed the door behind him. It was no longer a violation, it was now an act of rescue. He slid silently through the soft darkness of the flat to the bedroom. In the dim light from the half-open blind he could see the sleeping figure in the bed. Carefully he slipped off his shoes, then his clothes, and crept into bed beside him. Completely still, he lay next to Tony and knew he was home. After what seemed like several hours, Tony’s body moved back towards him and, heavy with sleep, curled into the warmth it found there. Mark wrapped his arms around and cradled the man he loved. Only then did Tony awake. He showed little surprise. His mind was still too fuzzy from the pills for him to realize the strangeness of the event. He understood the essentials: Mark was there with him, that was what counted. As the night wore on and the drugs wore off, the spasmodic exchanges between them grew more detailed. At some time in the darkest hours around five, Tony sat on the edge of the bed and poured out his narrative about the Friday before. Into the chill of the night air, he sat with his back to Mark and spoke of the Bacchae of that night in the park. He told of a young male torn to bits by a frenzy of avenging queens defending their lair as savagely as wild beasts. The crisp chill of pre-dawn heard of a murder free of any sense of guilt, of a killing that was both small and momentous in its meaning. To the cold sleet of early light, he told of a conspiracy of silence that was both ages old and new-born, whelped in the dark of night one week before. Mark listened and understood nothing. He watched Tony as he sat in the dark; then when he had finished talking, he reached out and held the figure close in his arms. He had always in the past been frightened by Tony’s flights of fancy, now he answered them in the only way he could — he offered his presence as silent support. Even though Mark dropped him off, Tony was running late for the eleven o’clock aerobic session. Usually he spared himself on the weekend but since he had walked out of the class the night before, he had decided to make up for it today. Mark had declined to join him. He grabbed up his bag as he jumped out of the car, slammed the door and was across the road in a flash.