They were wrong about spliff, so maybe they were wrong about sugar. I laughed: it wasn’t grass that led me to the harder stuff, it was all the BS about grass. And then I realized that this meant I was about to take a puff off the inhaler, and my heart started hammering and the room seemed to zoom away from me as I brought it to my nose and touched the button on the bottom.
Blam! The gas-charge fired the sweet gas deep down my lungs, down to those little grape-clusters on the ends of the branches where the oxygen crossed over and entered my bloodstream. Only this wasn’t oxygen: this was sugar, and my tongue felt like it had been drenched with honey even before I felt any other effects. Then I felt the other effects, just like you read about in the Sunday paper confessionals: “I was a gasper and it cost me everything.” A feeling of supreme confidence. A feeling like time was stretching out, like I could reach out and catch a bullet. A feeling like I could see the connections between everyone and everything, all the little invisible strands that tied it all together, and like I could reach out and tug at the strands and make the universe dance like a marionette.
The feeling ebbed away as fast as it came, leaving me back in my boots, knees a bit weak, practically being held up by the sweaty bodies on every side of me. 26 was giving me a look that was half-worried, half-angry, and she plucked the inhaler out of my hand and passed it off to someone else. She put her lips up to my ear and shouted over the noise: “What was that about? Since when do you take sugar?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know why I’d done it. And I wasn’t feeling entirely back in my own skin just yet. Twenty’s face screwed up lemon-sour and she walked off. I started to go after her, then gave up, feeling deliciously angry at her: who was she to tell me what to do with my life?
So I went back to dancing, dancing with the press of bodies and the thunder of music, and someone passed me another inhaler, but this time, I passed on it—the dancing was obliterating my worries and my insecurities perfectly, and I didn’t want to take the risk that I might lose that peace and have to start thinking about what it meant that Twenty had gone off on her own in a right fury.
I moved from corridor to corridor, room to room, seeing people I vaguely recognized from different parties and events I’d been to since we all got on Confusing Peach. I stuck my head in one room and found that it was full of writhing, snogging couples. Embarrassed, I withdrew my head quickly, then I looked back in again. Had I just seen what I thought I’d seen?
I had.
There, back in the corner, two blokes kissing furiously. That wasn’t unheard of at Confusing Peach events, plenty of the people on the boards were openly gay. But the two specific blokes who were kissing were Rabid Dog and Jem.
Rabid Dog seemed to feel my eyes on him and he looked up and met my gaze, then squirmed away from Jem, a look that was a cross between humiliation and terror in his eyes. Jem looked around, surprised, and saw me. He shrugged and turned back to Dog. I left the party.
* * *
As I made my way through Soho toward Trafalgar Square and the night buses, I wondered why I was so weirded out. I hadn’t known many openly gay people in Bradford, though I’d once seen the gay pride parade and after an initial shock, I’d found it to be quite a lot of fun: clearly the people involved were having the time of their lives and they weren’t hurting anyone, so why shouldn’t I support them?
And after I came down to London, I saw loads of gay people, and not just on Confusing Peach. Loads of Twenty’s anarchist friends called themselves “queer,” though that seemed to mean different things. Soho was a gay district, filled with bars and restaurants that flew rainbow flags and had loads of same-sex couples hanging around. Like the people at the pride parade, they all seemed to be having a good time with each other and there were precious few good times around, so why should I begrudge them theirs?
But seeing Rabid Dog and Jem had done my head in, I admit it. Partly it was the feeling that I didn’t really know them. How many times had we sat around before a night out, talking about girls and whether we’d meet any and what we’d do when we did? Had that all been lies? Had I pissed them off with what I’d said?
It wasn’t just that. Partly, it was the picture of the two of them as a couple, maybe rolling around in bed the way that 26 and I did. The mental image made me squirm and feel all weird and discombobulated.
I found myself wishing that I had more sugar, and I found that I was also horrified to realize this. When I’d taken the sugar, the world had had a kind of clarity that I was already missing—I knew where everything belonged and how it fit, and knew that I was exactly where I needed to be, doing exactly what I needed to do. Of course, in my head, I knew that no one was ever exactly perfectly in the right place, and if you were, why would you do anything else, anyway? But I missed that feeling, even though it had been an illusion.
After all, my girlfriend wasn’t talking to me, my two best friends were trying to dissolve each others’ faces with saliva, and I was about to commit an act of artistic terrorism in the middle of one of the most policed, surveilled, and controlled cities in the world. A little comfort would have gone a long way.
* * *
I woke up the next morning alone and miserable. My head felt like it was two sizes too small for my brain, which I reckoned was the sugar, though it might have been all the cheap lager or the skunk or just the two hours I’d spent crying and wallowing in self-pity before dropping off to sleep finally.
The Germans were spark out and snoring in the pub room, two sleeping end-to-end on the sofa, two more on bedrolls on the floor. They didn’t even notice when I switched on the light (and then quickly switched it off when I saw them), and I tiptoed into the kitchen to make myself a brew and get my lappie. I was sure that 26 had sent me email by now and if she hadn’t, I was going to send her some, and though part of me yearned to tick her off for being such a pissy prude about my taking sugar, a bigger part of me wanted to grovel for her forgiveness.
When I got back upstairs to my room, there was Jem sitting at my edit-desk, feet up on the table, reading an old film magazine from the pile by my bed. He looked up when I came in the room, then nodded his head toward the bed.
“Have a seat,” he said.
I sat, putting my brew and lappie down on the floor.
“Time we had a talk,” he said.
I held up a hand. “No need,” I said. “None of my business.”
“You’re right about that. No one’s business but mine and his. But if you’re his mate, you should know some things. So sharpen your ears, my old chum, and hearken to what Jem has to say.
“I never had no trouble with who I am or what I am. To me, it’s always been natural that I’d spend some time with girls and some time with blokes.” He winked. “Not ugly sods like you, of course, don’t get no ideas. But as far back as I can remember, I’ve felt like either could be right for me.”
I nodded, hoping that I was seeming cool about it, though again, it made me feel squirmy in a way I couldn’t get my head around.
He blew out a sigh. “Look, I know it’s not the usual, normal thing. Everyone expects you to grow up to be a big strapping lad and spend your whole life trying to get your end away with some girl, not some other big strapping lad. But everyone also expects you to live in a flat you’re paying rent for, to buy your food at the grocer’s, and to call yourself by your given name instead of some daft handle like ‘Rabid Dog’ or ‘Cecil B. DeVil.’ I say, bugger everyone, bugger their expectations, and bugger anyone who thinks less of me for who I fancy.”
“Can’t argue with that,” I said with as much conviction as I could manage.
“Except you want to, old son, I can see that from here. You don’t like it. It makes you go all skin-crawly, don’t it? It’s okay, you can admit it.”
I shook my head. “Jem, I don’t—I mean, look, you’re still my mate and you’re right, who you fancy, that’s up to you. But yeah, I don’t like to picture it.”
He punched me in the
shoulder. “You’re afraid if you think about it too much you’ll end up turning queer, yeah? That’s what all this business is, blokes all being hyper-manly and calling each other faggot and so on. It’s that fear that it might just be too nice to resist—getting together with another lad who wants it as much as you do, the way you do, who understands the way no bird can—”
“Enough,” I said.
He laughed. “Look, don’t worry about it. Take it from someone who’s tried it both ways, it’s not better, it’s not worse, it’s just different. And you’ll know if you go that way, and when you do know, it won’t be difficult to detect. It’ll be as obvious to you as two plus two is four. You remember how you carried on about 26 when you first met her? That feeling? You’ll not be mistaken about that feeling if you feel it again.”
“Fine,” I said. “I get it. And you’re right, it’s naught to do with me, what you and Dog do. Anything to keep him from locking himself in the loo for a wank, anyway.”
“I’ll do my part for the squad, cap’n. About Dog, though—” He looked uncomfortable. “Look, I should leave this for him to tell you, but he won’t, and that’s why I’ve got to say it. Dog ain’t like me. He’s exclusive to boys. Always has been, ever since he could remember. And one day he made the mistake of telling his older brother about it. His brother, who he looked up to like a hero.
“His brother beat six kinds of shit out of him, and then told their parents. His dad wasn’t an understanding sort—which explains his brother’s treachery—and he had all kinds of nicknames for Dog, ‘the little fairy,’ and so on. He wasn’t shy about using these endearments in front of the other kids around the estate, and became clear to them that no one—not his dad, not his brother—would come to his defense, which was like bloody mince in shark-infested water. He was every bully’s favorite punching bag, the punchline to every cruel joke. You’ve told me some of what you went through in Bradford. I went through my own this and that before I lighted out for Bloody London. But neither of us ever went through what Dog went through. Neither of us have half the guts that podgy little bastard has. He’s quiet and he’s broken in lots of ways, sure, but he’s not anyone’s victim anymore. Never will be.
“Which is why you need to make a point of telling him, as quickly and sincerely as you can, that everything you said about me goes triple for him. You’re still his mate, you don’t think any less of him, that sort of thing. He needs to hear that soonest so that he knows whether you and he are on the same side still, or whether he needs to figure out how to find some new people to hang about with. Understand me?”
“Yeah,” I said. “’Course. No problem.”
“And when you’re done with him, you’d better find 26 and make up to her for whatever had her so furious last night. I saw her leaving the party—looked like a bulldog chewing a wasp. We’ve got a major operation tomorrow night, sonny, and we can’t afford to have any dissent in the ranks.”
* * *
I left Twenty messages in all the usual places asking her to call me, hinting that I wanted to apologize for being such a dick. Then it was a matter of waiting for her to get back to me and for Rabid Dog to wake up and make an appearance and for the Germans in our parlor to rouse themselves—wait, wait, wait.
26 called me first.
“Hi,” I said.
She didn’t say anything. The silence on the line was proper intense.
“I’m sorry, all right? I’d never done that before, and I don’t plan on doing it again. I guess I just—you know, got overexcited. It was stupid of me. I’m sorry.”
Still nothing.
“Look,” I said. “Look, it was just one mistake. It wasn’t even that good—” Except it was, it had been fantastic in a way that was kind of scary and not altogether unpleasant. “Okay, tell a lie. It was good. It made me feel like I could rule the world.” I swallowed. My mouth was off on its own now, talking without any intervention on my part. “But I’ve felt that good before. When I’m with you.” It was easily the soppiest thing I’d ever said and until I said it, I had no idea that I was about to say it. And then I said it and I knew it was true.
“You’re an idiot,” she said. I could tell that she wasn’t angry anymore.
“I am,” I said. “Can I be your idiot?”
“Come over to my flat tonight. I’ve got to revise for a maths quiz tomorrow. Calculus. Ugh.”
“I’ll help you revise,” I said.
“By doing your usual impression of Cecil the Human Boob-Juggling Octopus? You will come and sit in the corner and contemplate your sins, young man. If you’re very good, you might get a crust of bread and a tiny snog before I send you home. I expect you to be very grateful for this.”
“I will be,” I said around the grin that was threatening to split my head in two. What a lass.
I felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my chest, like I’d been holding my breath overnight and could finally exhale properly. I could hear the Germans stirring downstairs and muttering in their language. I skipped down the stairs and said good morning and played host, making tea, bringing out some of the nicest treats in my larder. They were remarkably easy to chat with, and fun besides, and had had plenty of adventures in Berlin. Berlin was apparently the land of a thousand squats and they were well up for me going out and visiting them there.
I was daydreaming about how I could swing it—I’d have to wait until I could apply for a passport on my own in a few months at least—when Rabid Dog poked his head in the pub room. He scanned the room, blushed to the tips of his ears, and retreated up the stairs.
“’Scuse me,” I said, and set off after him.
I ran him to ground on the top-floor landing, headed into the big loft room where we stashed the spare bits of furnishing that we scrounged off London’s curbs and in its skips.
“Dog,” I said, “got a sec?”
He wouldn’t meet my eye, but he didn’t say no (nor yes, of course), and I took this for assent. I perched on a wobbly tabletop and thought hard about what to say next.
“Look,” I said. “Jem was in to chat with me this morning. About your situation, like. Your dad and brother and that. I guess I just wanted to say that I think it’s shit what they done to you, and it was, like, uncalled for.” The opposite of what had happened earlier with Twenty was unfolding now, my mouth running away with dire stupidity while my brain looked on in horror. “I mean, Christ, I don’t care who you shag. Shag anything. It’s none of my business, is it? Whatever makes you happy. ’Course, not if it’s like a kid or an animal or whatever, that’s wrong. Not that being gay is like wanting to stick it in a dog!” I closed my mouth and stared at him.
He was staring back at me with a look of such unbelieving horror on his face that he’d forgot to be shy. I understood where he was coming from. I couldn’t believe the miserable, bizarre stuff I was spouting. I clamped my mouth shut tighter and did the only thing I could think of.
I punched myself, as hard as I could, across the jaw. It turns out that despite the awkward angle, you can really hit yourself very hard in the face. I hit myself so hard that I knocked myself off the table and onto the floor.
Hitting yourself in the face as hard as you can is an experience I actually recommend, having done it. Not because it feels good, but because it feels bad in a bad way that nothing else you’ll ever experience feels bad. I’ve actually been punched very hard in the face by someone else, when I wasn’t expecting it, and that was terrible, but not nearly as terrible as this (though I think he actually hit me harder than I did). I think it was the knowledge that I had inflicted this pain on myself, deliberately. The stupid, it burns. Or throbs, really.
I rolled around on the floor for a moment, waiting for the stars to stop detonating behind my scrunched-tight eyelids.
“Holy God, that hurt,” I said, and got to my feet. Dog was watching me with his jaw literally resting on his chest. “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Horror Film Gorefest. You’ve never seen someone break free of a
n intense attack of the stupids by beating the piss out of himself?”
He laughed aloud. “That was literally the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Well done, mate.”
“Yeah,” I said, and rubbed at my jaw. I could already feel the swelling there. “Well, someone had to do it and you’re clearly too much of a pussy to punch me when I deserve it.”
He laughed and as I was laughing, he managed to flick a finger, hard, square into the bruise that I was developing on my chin. “Pussy, huh?”
“Right,” I said. “Let me try this again. First, let me say this: who you fancy or shag or whatever? That is none of my business. Next: also, I have nothing but the utmost respect and admiration for your sexual proclivities and congratulate you on them without reservation.”
He gave me a golf-clap, but it was a friendly one, and he was smiling. “You’re an idiot, Cecil,” he said.
“So I’ve been told. But at least my heart’s in the right place, right?”
“You are forgiven,” he said. “Look, just so you know, I don’t fancy you, okay? So you don’t have to worry.”
“Are you saying I’m not fancyable?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, Cecil. I’m sure that there are many boys who weep for the fact that you go for the ladies. But I’m not one of them. Ego satisfied?”
“Yes,” I said. “That will do nicely.”
He came over shy again, looking at his toes. “Cec,” he said so quietly I could barely hear him.
“Yeah?”
“Just, well, it was nice of you to say that. Means something, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, and found that I had a lump in my throat.
* * *
True to her word, 26 showed up with six of her friends in tow at exactly 7:15. We met in the shadow of Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square, the 169-foot-tall pillar topped with a bird-spattered statue of Lord Admiral Nelson, a bloke who apparently did something important involving boats at some point in the past several hundred years.