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I knew what my parents would say; I knew it, and it made me shudder. “He was always a bad ‘un,” my father would start, looking self-important and satisfied that his predictions had finally come true. “He was alright until that pansy moved in next door. I should have put a stop to it then.”

My mother would be wringing her hands in fear. In fear of contradicting her husband: in fear of people thinking her curtains didn’t go with the wallpaper: in fear of everything.

The smell was unpleasant, to say the least. Vomit and urine mixed in with heavy overtones of pine-scented cleaner. I was sitting on a hard wooden bench that had made my arse go to sleep hours ago, no matter how many times I got up and walked around. Sleep was out of the question, with the gut-churning ball of fear that kept roiling around in my stomach, sending the occasional burst of bile back up my throat.

The idea of walking home through rain-soaked streets, breathing in exhaust fumes, seemed like a holiday in the sun now, and for the thousandth time I wished I’d made that choice instead of the one I had.

Streets or Park? Fumes or redolent autumn woodland?

Obvious, really. Not.

“I knew he was a bum boy when I caught him in the garden shed with the next door neighbour!” my father would tell them - a hint of triumph in his voice, not realising what he’d be doing to me, his son. Or perhaps I was wrong, and he’d be saying those things to finally get them off his chest: to confess. My mother would be sitting forward on the chair, her knees together, smoothing out her skirt with damp nervous hands, when she wasn’t rubbing them together with wide-eyed anxiety.

“Yes, Mark is my son,” my mother would say to the doorsteppers before she would learn not to answer the bell. The flashes would blind her, and she’d be surprised at seeing herself in print. God forbid it ever got to the front page. Father, on the other hand, would hold court. Tell them everything he knew. Point out that I was adopted and my lifestyle had nothing to do with him. “I tried, oh lord I tried,” he’d say, his thumbs hooked through his braces as he stood confidently, hammering nails, willy nilly, into my coffin.

I didn’t resent them. I couldn’t. They didn’t mean enough to me. When I thought of love I thought of other things, not the hugs and kisses all my friends got from their parents. Not the cute Valentine cards they gave one another as they giggled and held hands. No. When I thought of love I thought of risk, and it was that that had dealt me the hand I was now in the process of playing.

A long trek down the cold and wet High Street? Or a walk through the Park, its darkness broken by occasional pools of light, in between which lived the disassociated?

Obvious, really. Not.

“To think I bought him those binoculars for his birthday,” my father would say, shaking his head, his jowls wobbling in agreement. “There’s no accounting for folk!” he’d add, and they’d be scribbling it down in their notebooks, or recording it for soundbites on the local evening news. God forbid it ever went national.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry, and then sleep. And when I woke up it would all be a bad dream - a hideously bad dream. And it was. A fucking bad dream that I was never going to wake up from. Ever.

Reality is such a bitch.

When he’d moved in to the house next door, it was as if all the birthdays and Christmases I’d missed were given to me at once. Holy Mary Mother of Christ, he was gorgeous. Still, with all this, I’d sing his praises from the bell tower of the church, given half a chance. Not that that’s ever going to happen now.

His room, his bedroom, was across the dividing alley from mine, and that first night, in the week before my birthday, I’d watched him from behind the curtains and dreamt. My father was confused when I asked for binoculars. He’d never considered bird watching as a manly sport, and I obviously didn’t tell him the real reason I wanted them.

I made up fantasies. Fantasies that got more and more fantastical every time I watched. Fantasies that got darker and darker, and more and more erotic. Fantasies that…

Disassociated.

I was disassociated and I knew it. But then, what is love? Is it definable? Yes and no. To each their own, and all that.

Then, and purely by chance, I found out he was the same as me. Liked, thought, wanted what I wanted. I found out that if I… If I was brave enough to… But I couldn’t. I couldn’t meet him. How could I? What if all the fantasies came to nought?

Binoculars are wonderful. Where would mankind be without binoculars? All those unhappy bird watchers: all those unhappy boy watchers, too. God forbid.

My arse had gone to sleep again, so I got up and took a jaunt around the room. I say “room”. The papers would tell it differently. If I knew how big my feet were, I’d tell you exactly how big it was. Not very. I was grateful I was on my own. I could have had company, and knowing my luck it’d be a junkie or alky, or similar. It was demeaning enough having all your clothes taken, let alone having to suffer the ridicule of some half-cut tosser looking down their nose at you. If I was honest, I felt cold, too.

I’d just got off the number 27 outside the Multiplex when I saw him. He was leaving: laughing and joking with a friend. A friend who was a boy. A boy friend. I stood in the shadows by the bus stop as I watched, mingling with those waiting for the next set of three. They talked, and I saw them touch briefly: hands to bodies, smiling. And I knew. I knew that all the fantasies I’d had would be for nothing if we didn’t meet. All those sweet, sweet things I’d planned for us, dreamt for us, could never be if he didn’t know I existed. Yet still, with only yards separating our beings, I hesitated. Hesitated until I watched them cross the road and enter the park. It became obvious then. I had to act: I had to.

If I’d been hit by the car whose driver swerved, horn blaring, it might have been different. He might have seen me flung in the air. He might have run over, calling for help as he nursed my wounds, his fingers running oh so gently through my hair as he swept it back off my bloodied brow. But I wasn’t. I crossed the road and entered the park without difficulty.

They were halfway up the oak parade by the time I saw them: and hand in hand. Hand in fucking hand! The little bastard! How could he do this to our dreams? How could he?

At the top they took a left into the woods; the woods that had a reputation that belied the truth. Everyone thought they were there for romantic walks - boys and girls kissing among the bluebells. And yes, I’m sure that happened, or had happened, once upon a long, long time ago. Now they were nightly full of bears and twinks, be-leathered creakers, shriekers, screamers, fisters and very, very rarely: lovers, too.

Beside my favourite tree I’d watched as my dreams and fantasies evaporated into the bleak, dank, cold drizzle. I watched with fascination as my true love, my very own true love, knelt in front of this cozening stranger. And as the anger within me swelled, I knew it was wrong. It was all so very wrong…

I was miles away when the door opened. Looking up, I saw there were four of them, and one I knew well. I winked at him and he pretended not to notice.

“Mark Valence?” the one at the front asked. I nodded, wondering what it would be like with a bear policeman. I giggled, playing with the thought. He’d actually be a bare bear policeman.

He coughed.

“How are they?” I said. He looked at me, eyebrows arched, probably surprised that I’d asked, probably thinking I cared. I didn’t, really. Not anymore.

“Dead. Both of them. Dead. You’re facing a murder charge now, Valence.” I shrugged, cold inside.

“C’est la vie,” I said. “C’est la vie.”

 

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