by Tara Simon
When he realises he’s been silent too long, Martin mentally kicks himself and falls back into blabbering mode. “We’ll probably be able to walk into town come lunchtime.”
Luther gently chuckles. “And here I was thinking we’d be snowed in.” “Nah,” Martin says. “It doesn’t get that frosty anymore.”
“What? You never got another winter like the glorious one of ‘03?” Luther asks, his smile pushing up his cheeks. “Do you remember it?”
“You’re joking?” Martin says, snorting. “How could I forget it! School closed down. Roads impassable. It was heaven.”
“Yeah,” Luther says, looking down and to the side in a reminiscent manner, his smile still in place. “I do remember sneaking to yours though.”
“And me to yours.”
They share a silence. Martin stuffs his hands in his pockets and shifts his weight. Luther does more of the same. He clears his throat as if to shake off laughter. At last he asks, “So what are your plans for today?”
“I thought I’d clean up the other rooms and jolly them up with some Christmas trinkets.” Martin rolls his shoulders into a shrug. “I don’t really think you’d like to help with any of that?”
“Actually,” Luther says, lifting his head a little. “I’d love that.” Martin dimples. “What, Luther Harrison with a duster?”
“Ha, ha, Martin,” Luther says. “Do I have to remind you that I live alone? I think I can cope with a duster.”
Martin bypasses Luther on his way out the room. “I’m sure your cleaning lady has an intimate relationship with it.”
Luther follows him out. “Was that a double entendre, Martin?” “Har bloody har, Luther.”
They come up with a divide and conquer plan to tackle the rooms’ décor. Martin dusts all surfaces and changes the light bulbs where needed. Luther makes the beds while Martin puts candles on the bedside tables. Together they decorate the fireplaces in the room. Martin holds one end of the wreath and Luther the other. They’re at pains to find the hooks and to coordinate their efforts, Luther tugging the wreath too far to his side while Martin tries to pin it to his. As they fight over lengths of evergreen, Luther teases Martin about his lack of balance and Martin fires back with more of the same.
When they’re done Luther arches an eyebrow and says, “This is starting to look like a Christmas theme park.”
“I just wanted to pull all the stops,” Martin says. “I mean Lin is going to New York and Leon and Gwen are moving. Jacob is never here to begin with. I thought…”
Luther nods, doesn’t comment, but the light in his eyes changes. “Okay, then. Let’s finish with this.”
“We can have a lunch break, you know,” Martin says. “Go into town.”
Luther shakes his head, insists they should finish with the decorating first, but his stomach grumbles so Martin pushes him out of the bedroom and down the stairs. “We’re going to Rising Sun.”
“Still open, is it?” Luther asks, as he pulls on his coat prior to going out.
“Yeah.” Martin puts on a few layers himself. “You know how old Kealey is. He’ll sooner die than retire.”
On the way over into town, they run into several acquaintances. While Martin’s a familiar sight to the villagers, Luther’s not, not anymore in any case. Alice is the first they meet. When she claps eyes on Luther, she crosses the street and comes over to them. “Hello, Martin,” she says, before addressing Luther. “Luther Harrison, welcome back!”
“Thank you,” Luther says, shaking her hand warmly. “I’m always glad to come back.”
“Not missing London then?” she asks him.
“Not when I’m here, no,” Luther says, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
“And how’s your dear father?” Alice, Martin thinks, is probably the only woman in town who’d dare call Uther that. “It’s been a while since I last saw him.”
“He’s doing well,” Luther says, smiling thoughtfully. “He’s keeping busy, he seems to prefer living in the big city now that he’s older.”
After Alice, they encounter a variety of other people, inclusive of the postman and their old sixth form science teacher. As if they’ve tacitly agreed, they all ask Luther the same questions Alice did. Luther takes it quite in stride and answers meticulously.
Christmas decorations are all over town, from the sober lights decorating the front and back gardens of the largest houses to the multi-coloured ornaments bedecking the shop windows.
Fairy lights brighten the trees that line the streets. Garlands dangle in uneven loops from passageways and along the front of shopping galleries.
A glow shines from the frosted windows of the Rising Sun. A blinking sign that says Merry Christmas is plastered across its heavy wooden door. The door itself creaks when they pull it open, wrapping their hands around the handle at the same time. A pocket of warmth envelopes them both as they step onto the mat.
A sprig of mistletoe with large red waxy berries hangs on this side of the entrance. If they want to make it to the bar, they will have to pass under it Martin’s startled eyes meet Luther’s amused ones. Their lips twitch and Martin can see Luther’s biting his cheeks, eyes alight with something like mischief.
Martin gives off a bark of a laugh, though his face heats up. “Leave it to old Kealey to play match maker.”
Eyes slitted in merriment, Luther looks from Martin to the floor and back again. “Yeah.” He shakes his head. “He’s the type. I wonder how many couples he’s responsible for.”
“Probably fewer then he likes to think,” Martin says, nudging his scarf away from his neck.
“Yeah,” Luther huffs. “Though you never know.”
Martin shrugs. “Yeah, maybe he’s great at hooking up couples. ”
The moment he sees them Kealey pours two pints and slides the glasses down the counter. “I see you’ve brought the younger Harrison with you, Martin.”
“Yes,” says Martin climbing onto his stool. “He’s over for Christmas.”
“Not back for good then?” Kealey asks.
“No,” says Luther, “I’m still based in London. But we’re all here for a get together.”
“Oh a last goodbye,” Kealey says, sucking on his gums. “I see.”
“Hardly,” Luther says as Martin buries his head in the glass. “My sister’s not going to be gone forever! She’s only staying in the US for a year or so, and Gwen and Leon are just moving to Cambridgeshire.”
“Indeed,” says Kealey, trying to catch Martin’s eyes. When Martin doesn’t return the look he asks, “So what can I get you?”
After serving Martin and Luther their lunch, Kealey falls back to cleaning the counter.
Luther teases Martin about liking onion rings at his age. Martin fights back by saying Luther’s of course only into posh eateries. And Luther tells him that that’s not true. He’s a very down to earth bloke. “Actually, I’ve found this place, near the Waterloo tube station and it serves really great stuff. We should go when you’re next in London.”
“Yeah,” Martin says, toying with his onion rings. He breathes in and out till he’s a little light-headed with his sudden oxygen intake. “To be quite honest…”
But a villager comes over to greet Luther and the words die on his tongue. They finish their meal without Martin having said what he meant to.
Back at home, they laze about for a while. Before night falls however, they give decorating the house’s façade a go. They take out the ladder again and garland the first floor windows until wreathes of red and green frame them. They change the mat to a more festive one.
“This is really overkill,” Luther says, looking at the house.
“It’s Christmas, Luther. It comes once a year. Let your inner kid out.”
“It’s just… It’s kitsch. I’m not going up that ladder again to kitschify your house.”
Martin sighs. “Just need to put up a little more stuff.”
Though Luther pouts, Martin can tell he’s not really serious.
So they go up in turns. Martin insists on loving it, Luther on disparaging. Before the sun’s completely down, they’re finished. A little breathless from all the work, Luther asks, “So what, no holly? No mistletoe?”
“I’m not Kealey,” Martin says, folding the ladder. “And all couples are already in place.”
“Yes,” says Luther, lifting the collar of his jumper up against the cold and burying his face in its folds. “Yeah, you’re right. No point.”
He follows Martin back inside without further complaining about Martin’s questionable taste in decorations.
Chapter 5
2002
Luther kicks off his duvet and pads across the room to Martin’s sofa bed. He yanks the covers off Martin and sits in the space between Martin’s belly and the edge of the bed. He emanates warmth. It seeps off his skin, filling the air in between them. He places his palm on Martin’s forearm, short of his shoulder. “Hey, Martin,” he says, shaking him a little, “you haven’t fallen asleep for real, have you?”
Martin sucks in a breath that tastes like Luther, says, “Of course I haven’t. I was just being quiet.”
Luther arches an eyebrow and Martin can see the shadows play on his face. They’re smudging his jaw line and the shape of his bones, but Martin can see his eyes shine and he exhales sharp and loud. “No, I wasn’t sleeping. We had a deal.”
Luther says, “Good, because Lin’s gone out.”
Martin stretches, makes a ball of himself to enjoy the last of the bed warmth and then stands at the same time Luther does. They nearly bump chests. Luther sniggers, Martin bows his head. “Let’s go, Sancho.”
“Does that make you the visionary bloke?”
“Shut up,” Luther hisses, opening the door a sliver. “Coast’s clear.”
“Well with Lin gone and your dad’s out of town. Who did you expect to be there?” Martin asks, positioning himself behind Luther. “The ghost of Christmas Past?”
“Oh, shut—”
“Up, Martin,” Martin finishes for him.
Without turning the lights on, they pad downstairs, their bare feet brushing against the carpet. Past the landing, they move down the hall, making for the door to Uther’s study. Luther looks left and right before opening the door.
The study is a large room lined with book—shelves and hung with portraits. A wide, polished oak desk sits in front of the window that gives onto the garden. The curtains, white and silk-like, have been drawn, so no light from the outside floods in.
Luther crosses to the desk, grabs the cord of the Tiffany lamp and snaps the light on. The glow of it spills over the desk’s surface, over the files and folders, the framed photographs and the bulk of the computer screen.
“Should we…” Martin asks, sidling from foot to foot and wringing his hands. “…you know, even be here?”
Luther, who’s slid behind the desk, looks up sharply, eyes wide and wounded. “I thought we’d agreed.”
“Yeah, but if my mum finds out,” Martin says, licking his lips, “she’ll have my hide. Besides it isn’t fair to your dad.”
“You know he won’t talk about my mum to me,” Luther says, jaw locking. “How am I supposed to find out? How—” His voice breaks and Martin wishes he’d never opened his stupid, stupid mouth. “How am I supposed to know about her?”
Air whooshes out of Martin’s lungs in one painful rattle. “No, you’re right. Oh, hell,” Martin says, not afraid of Uther anymore, not caring if he marches in right now and gives him the dressing down of the century. “Let’s start with those files.”
They go through the folders – mostly business stuff that has nothing to do with Luther’s mum – and through his drawers. They find stationery, a calculator, some other documents, and a packet of condoms. “Ew, says Luther, scrunching his nose up. “That’s not something I wanted to know about my father.”
“Oh come on, Luther,” Martin says, “you weren’t thinking…”
“What?” Luther says, tilting his head back so he can look up at Martin out of rounded eyes.
“You know,” Martin says, riffling through papers. “That he was being abstinent.” He feels his ears heat up as he watches Luther go beet red. So he stammers on the first thing that comes to mind. “I mean everybody has sex.”
Luther swallows. “Yeah.” He drops his gaze and opens one of the folders they’ve already gone through. “Do you?”
Martin coughs. “Yeah.” He scratches the side of his nose. “Yeah, you?” “Sure,” Luther says, “sure.”
Martin’s heart’s beating too fast for him to concentrate on anything other than its rhythm, the way it pulses in his neck, and in the pads of his fingers. He’s a little out of it, so he startles when he realises that Luther has not only turned his father’s computer on but he’s already moved on to trying passwords.
“Crap, Martin,” Luther says, “I can’t enter.”
Martin blinks, then leans against Luther, his hand on the back of his chair. “What have you tried?”
“Combinations of his name, the company’s name,” Luther says, leaning his weight against the chair and tilting his head up at Martin. “Even his date of birth.”
“Mmm,” Martin says, making sure he’s got his eyes locked on the screen and not on Luther’s expectant face. Looking at him would surely undo all thought processes for a reason. “Have you tried yours?”
Luther shrugs. “Worth a try,” he says, as he types in the numbers. His shoulders go down when they don’t unlock the screen.
“Lin’s?” Martin suggests.
They have a go at a few more tries but nothing happens. Luther is by now thumping at the keyboard.
“Wait,” Martin says, putting a hand on his shoulder and leaning over him, Luther’s body warmth seeping over to him through the fabric of his tee. “Try this one”, he adds, as he types the word one handed.
The start screen appears.
“You did it, Martin!” Luther says, standing up and wrapping an arm around him, his face tucked against Martin’s neck. “You did it. What was it?”
Martin can do nothing but inhale the scent of Luther’s skin, rich with the smell of the shower gel he used. He can only feel how hot his body is under his shirt, how wide his shoulders have become in the past few months. It confuses Martin, so he’s slow to answer. When at last he does, he stammers, “Ygraine. It’s Ygraine. The password.”
Luther’s head snaps up and he walks out of the embrace. “Really?” he says, with a sniffle. “Yeah,” Martin says. “He loved her. It makes sense.” “He never talks about her.”
“I know but,” Martin says, drumming his fingers over the back of his chair and looking down, “maybe he thinks about her all the time.”
Luther makes an indeterminate kind of noise, like he’s sucking in a lungful. Turning on his heels rather brusquely, he sinks back onto the chair fronting the screen. “Let’s see if there’s a clue in here.”
They open random folders. Most of them are job related and therefore hold no clue as to the key. Several contain photos of Luther and Lin – on holiday, at home, at parties – and Uther’s first wife, Lin’s mum. Of Ygraine herself there are no pictures. Luther’s face falls at that. He stabs his finger at the enter key, looking for a photo of his mother. “Why isn’t there one?” he mutters sotto voce.