Tigers and Devils

by Sean Kennedy

  At that moment I wished I had accompanied Roger to his martial arts classes when he went through his obsession with wuxia movies. I wasn’t any good at any violence or even defending myself against violence, should the occasion arise.

  “Declan Tyler!” I heard one of the other men breathe in wonder.

  “Well, great conversation,” I said hurriedly. “Very nice to meet you all.”

  I managed to escape while the footballer in question was surrounded by the group, of which every member was now star-struck, of course; most of all, the man who previously had been bagging him.

  I searched through the garden and the house for Roger and Fran, who were nowhere to be found. Jasper Brunswick was still in his own self-created shrine, and I couldn’t help but think that at least Declan Tyler deserved the adoration he was currently receiving, because he actually did something, even if it was just kicking a ball around.

  Just kick a ball around? What was I thinking? I must have been more agitated than I thought. I was hopeless at confrontations.

  I burst through the front door; the yard was empty. They surely wouldn’t have left without me. I checked my mobile to make sure they hadn’t tried calling or left me a text; they hadn’t. I beat the phone in frustration against my forehead, as if I could absorb the information I needed through osmosis.

  “Hey!”

  I turned around. It was Declan Tyler, coming to punch my lights out. Crap.

  “I know krav maga!” I said stupidly.

  “Good for you,” he said, a confused expression on his face. It wasn’t one I was used to seeing on him; on the field he was always in control and stoic. In fact, it seemed to be his default expression. It was like he knew how good he was, and he wasn’t going to deny it, which is where I guess my presumption of him being an arrogant prick had come from.

  Not only was he a head taller than me, I now saw the span of his shoulders was practically a third wider than mine. He could easily fell me with one king hit. Looking confused gave him more character, it made his boy-next-door looks become even more appealing. He had to lose that gross bit of fluff above his chin, though.

  “What do you want?” I asked, still ready to run although it would be akin to a meerkat trying to escape a lion.

  He jammed his hands in his pockets. Was he trying to show me that he came in peace? “I wasn’t sure whether to thank you for defending my record or yell at you for calling me… what was it again?”

  “Arrogant prick,” I said helpfully, before I could even think to stop myself.

  He grinned. I had walked into his trap. “Most people think I’m either one or the other. It’s rare to find someone who thinks both.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Well, most footballers are….” I trailed off.

  He kept his grin carefully plastered on his face. “Uh-huh.”

  “… really nice guys,” I finished.

  “Stereotypes are a killer,” he said. “I mean, if I was to go on what you look like, I would say you’re a typical arty wanker, what with your cargo pants, your Doc Martens and your all-black wardrobe.”

  “Ah, but I am an arty wanker,” I replied. Rule one to survival: always be self-deprecating and get in with insults about yourself before the other party can.

  “Where’s your beret?”

  “That’s for Sundays.”

  Just at that moment, Fran and Roger stumbled through the front gate.

  “Where have you guys been?” I demanded, glad that the cavalry had arrived.

  “In the cemetery,” Roger replied.

  “I don’t even want to know.”

  “Not what you’re thinking.” Fran giggled. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

  It was hard to tell who was propping the other up. I think they were really just sagging against each other, and gravity was being their friend.

  Some cavalry.

  Roger’s eyes widened when he realised I wasn’t alone. “Are you chatting up a guy?”

  I flushed. Roger had just committed a major faux pas. You never outed somebody on their behalf. I mean, it’s not like I hid it, but you should always be the one to say it yourself. It’s just common sense, as it also gives you the opportunity to protect yourself if the situation warrants it.

  “No,” I muttered.

  Roger now looked like an anime character. “Hey, you’re— ”

  Declan shifted uncomfortably and seemed to grow even taller. “Declan Tyler,” he mumbled.

  “Oh my God, I don’t believe it!”

  “Who’s Declan Tyler?” Fran asked.

  Declan looked at her gratefully.

  Roger began a spiel listing all of Tyler’s statistics, medals, and other achievements.

  Fran’s eyes got that glazed-over look they usually did where football was concerned.

  And meanwhile, for some unknown reason, Declan stood there and listened to it although he seemed somewhat mortified.

  “Okay,” I interrupted Roger halfway through. “I gotta go. Nice meeting you,” I said hurriedly to the very tall and very imposing footballer. I then turned to Roger and Fran. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I was out the gate and a couple of houses down the street when I heard Fran yell,

  “Hey, what about your jacket?”

  Fuck. There was no way I was going back. I would rather freeze to death. They would have to give it to me at a later stage. I shivered in the cold night air, my visible breath leading me down to Lygon Street where I knew I would stand more chance of catching a taxi.

  “Hey!”

  I kept walking. I like to pretend that if you don’t acknowledge a general yell in your direction, the yeller will just go away. Who’s to say they were yelling for me, anyway?

  “Simon!”

  Even though I had only heard a few sentences from him tonight, I knew it was Declan Tyler again. I steeled myself for the inevitable fist in the face and wished I hadn’t left the relative security of my friends. And I mean relative security, because I don’t think they were capable of doing much on my behalf at the moment except serving as interested, if not terribly accurate, witnesses.

  I turned and saw Declan jogging toward me with my jacket and scarf over his arm.

  “You need these, you idiot. It’s fucking freezing.”

  To say I was surprised was an understatement. “Uh, thanks,” I said, although it didn’t come out very graciously. Perhaps more bewildered than anything else. “How did you know—”

  “Your friend Fran pointed them out to me when I said I would run them down to you. They looked a bit too drunk to be able to catch up.”

  “Yeah, they were a bit….” I took my jacket from him. I zipped myself into it, and then took my scarf and wrapped it around my neck. “So….”

  “So.”

  This was awkward. And strange. Very strange.

  “So,” Declan said again. “You’re gay.”

  Oh, here we go. “Yes. There are gay footballer supporters, you know. I bet there are even gay players.”

  He began to laugh.

  I shook my head, trying not to let my temper rise. “Yeah, well, I’m sure that’s funny to you. Anyway….” I turned again, eager to go, but I felt an arm clamp onto my elbow, and I was turned back to face him. Declan was definitely in my personal space now, and he had that look on his face. The look of somebody who was about to lean in and kiss—

  I yelped slightly as his mouth closed over mine. I don’t mind admitting I was in total shock. The night had definitely taken on a surreal trend. Declan’s body pressed against mine, and we shifted backward until I felt the rough bark of a tree against my back. His mouth was firm, and his tongue pressed between my lips until they parted. I was surprised that he tasted like beer, but at the good point, before it becomes stale and a little rank. I know I’m not exactly selling the romanticism here, but I was pleasantly thrilled by it at the time. This was not the kiss of a man who was trying it on, there w
as no hesitation. His hand curled around the back of my neck to deepen the kiss, and his other hand slipped down my back to hold me in.

  I’m not sure how long we stood there for, kissing all the while, but my mind certainly raced through a thousand thoughts. I considered texting my father and brother, but knew they probably wouldn’t be impressed with my bragging that I was making out with one of the biggest players in the league. In fact, they would probably be horrified that said player was my way inclined, and it would probably somewhat diminish Declan’s abilities in their eyes.

  We finally pulled away from each other, panting slightly.

  “Stop looking so shocked,” he said, grinning at what was obviously a saucer-eyed expression on my face. “See, I know there are gay footy players.”

  I still couldn’t formulate words. But this time I went on the attack, and he submitted willingly.

  We were sheltered by the low-hanging branches, which is probably why he had been brazen enough to take on such a public display of affection in the first place. There was still a rational part of my mind that knew this stupid for him, as he certainly wasn’t out to the public at large. I knew nothing about this guy other than what was published in the AFL Record. I was starting to think I was being stupid as well, but with him squashing me against a tree and claiming my mouth as part of his own, I was too weak-willed to put up any protest.

  Car lights flashed in our direction, and Declan jumped away from me. I was disappointed and slightly offended, yet understanding. Quite frankly, schizophrenic.

  I could see the look on his face clearly illuminated by the approaching headlights.

  He was shocked by his own brazenness, by his recklessness at outing himself. After all, he had a lot more to lose by it than I did. He had no idea of who I was or what kind of person I could be. In his mind, I could already be planning to sell the story to the Herald Sun.

  I opened my mouth to speak, possibly to reassure him, when we realised the nearing car was actually slowing down. It was a taxi, and Roger was hanging out the back window. “There you are!”

  He noticed that Declan was with me and that there was palpable tension in the air. “Is everything okay?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I take it we’re going?”

  But Roger was fixated. “Is he hassling you?” he asked, indicating Declan.

  “No!” I scoffed.

  “Hey, mate,” Roger addressed Declan, fumbling with the door of the taxi to get out and confront him. I could hear Fran protesting and see her arm try to yank him back in.

  I threw Declan an apologetic look and recognised that I better defuse the situation. Sadly, the best way to do that was just to go and get the hell out of there, taking Roger with me. Nothing like a friend ready to drunkenly defend your honour, thinking you were about to be beaten up when really you had been having one of the best and strangest pashes in your life. Definitely a story to gross out the grandkids.

  “Stay, Roger,” I growled.

  Neither Declan nor I said a word to each other. He watched me get into the taxi. As I belted myself into the front seat, Fran made some sort of apologetic sound, but I was still staring at the man outside my window. Then the taxi moved forward, and I couldn’t see him anymore.

  Chapter 3

  ON THE way home, Roger was still making threats about showing Declan Tyler that he couldn’t pick on any of his friends. Fran was berating him, telling him he was acting like a six year old. I was in a state of weirded-out bliss, and confused as all fuck.

  Declan was obviously in Melbourne for the weekend because the Devils had just played the Saints at the MCG. He must have known somebody at the party for him to have been there at all. But why, out of all the possible available snogs at the party, had he chosen me? And come to think of it, why had he been so stupid? He couldn’t go around kissing strange men all the time, or else his cover would have been blown by now, and I sure hadn’t seen him on the cover of the Reach Out or The Southern Star recently.

  I kept thinking of him the next day. There were two lines devoted to him in the back pages of The Sunday Age about how he was benched in the Saints game yet again, and nothing at all in the Herald Sun. That night on the news there was vision of the Devils getting on the plane back to Tasmania, and although I practically knocked over the television in order to see if I could make him out, all I could see was an indiscriminate mass of male blobs at a luggage carousel.

  Roger tried calling my mobile and home phones; I let the answering machines take his profuse apologies, which quickly turned into intense curiosity to discover what I had been talking to Declan Tyler about.

  I wasn’t trying to punish Roger; I just didn’t know what to say. I had never kept anything from him before (barring the obvious, of course), but seeing as I was so bloody baffled myself I wasn’t sure if I could make any sense to him about it.

  Which was stupid. It wasn’t like I was going to run into Declan again. Last night had been pure chance. It was just a drunken pash at a party, and would soon become for me a source of either nostalgia or shame if I ever told anyone.

  I went into work the next morning with the aftereffects of the party finally starting to wear off. My second-in-command, Nyssa, came to meet me at the door as I entered.

  “Your phone hasn’t stopped ringing,” she informed me, handing me a pile of messages scrawled on any piece of paper she had at hand including a receipt informing me she had eaten spicy Moroccan soup at The Fitz on the weekend.

  Two messages from Roger. One from Fran. One from my mother. Two from film dealers, and another from a tortured artiste who needed to have her hand held through some crisis. I sighed. “Don’t they know we punch on at nine?”

  “We never punch off,” Nyssa grumbled. “Why aren’t they calling your mobile?”

  Because I had forgotten to switch it back on. I winced and made it my first task when I finally made it into the sanctuary of my office. No sooner had I hung my jacket than my office phone began ringing again.

  “Hello,” I answered, wishing I had had time to grab a coffee. I desperately needed one. “Simon Murray.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you call me back yesterday?”

  It was Roger. The man was nothing but persistent.

  “Sorry, Roger. I meant to call you back—”

  “I was calling to apologise to you, but now I’m thinking you should apologise to me.”

  “I said I was sorry, dickhead!” It was so easy to resort back to sounding like a fourteen year old, one of the pros of a long-term friendship.

  “Well, I’m sorry too, arsehole!”

  I sat down in my chair, grateful for his laughter in response. “You don’t have anything to apologise for.”

  “I was drunk.”

  “What’s new?”

  “Shut up. Look, did I just imagine it, or did Declan Tyler try to beat you up?”

  I shook my head and was glad he couldn’t see my huge shit-eating grin. “No, he didn’t beat me up.”

  “So he was there? Fran was trying to convince me I was hallucinating.”

  “He was there. And I escaped without a scratch.” Although there was a very small patch of beard rash on the left side of my chin where he must have pressed too hard while… I stopped thinking about that, no matter how pleasurable it was.

  “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “If it’s any consolation, he probably gets drunken idiots accosting him all the time in public.”

  “Thanks, Simon. Thanks a lot. You sure know how to be comforting.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “So we’re okay, then?”

  I laughed. “Yes. I will extend our friendship contract for another year.”

  “Good. Speak to you later.”

  I hung up, determined to get my coffee, but the phone rang again. I knew who it would be. “Hello, Fran.”

  “Hey, hon,” she said warmly. “Have you spoken to Roger yet?”

  “I just got off the phone to him.”

&nbs
p; “Everything good?”

  “Of course.”

  “Stupid boys,” she murmured affectionately. “Meet you for lunch?”

  “Sure.” Our offices were only a block apart, and we had lunches together a few times a week.

  “One, at the usual?”

  “Yep. ’Til then.”

  Coffee. Now. I closed my eyes and followed the fumes of the freshly brewed pot to the small closet that served as our kitchen. I filled my cup and said a silent blessing for Nyssa’s superior coffeemaking skills.

  Nyssa appeared in my peripheral vision. “Agnes King called again. She wanted to move her appointment up to today.”

  I sighed. The tortured artiste herself. Well, one of many. “Fine. Better to get it over and done with.”

  Nyssa laughed. “I’m glad you have to deal with her, not me.”

  “If her doco wasn’t so good, neither of us would.”

  “It’s good, and it will be popular.” Nyssa leaned in to whisper the next, even though we were the only people in our office. “We need the sales.”

  “Just maybe make the coffee for the afternoon Irish,” I continued.

  “Irish and Zoloft-ed up, just for you.”

  A phone started ringing down the hallway. We both looked at each other, and Nyssa grinned. “That’s your phone, boss.”

  “Can’t we just pretend I’m running late?”

  “Nope. You’re definitely on the clock now.” Nyssa took her coffee and disappeared back into her own office.

  Whoever it was on the phone was pretty insistent. It was still ringing, even though I was giving them plenty of time to reconsider and hang up. I took a desperate gulp of coffee, and my greeting was somewhat garbled when I finally picked up the receiver. “Simon Murray.”

  “Hello?”

  I swallowed properly and repeated myself.

  “Uh, hi,” the strange voice replied.

  Wrong number? Or another soulful artiste? “Can I help you, or do you want me to call in the office psychic?”

  A slight pause. “Oh, it is you.”

  “Then you have me at an advantage, as I have no idea who you are.”

  The man on the other end of the line chuckled. “I would have hoped that I made more of an impression on you.”