by Paul Burston
Outside the station there are more people in pirate costume and others who are stubbornly refusing to enter into the spirit of things – grey-faced men in grubby sportswear, heavily made-up women in crop tops and Lycra leggings, all sucking furiously on their cigarettes.
Tom hasn’t had a cigarette in five days. The craving is still there, together with the torment and self-loathing it brings. He hates himself when he smokes – really hates himself for it. Even as he tells himself that it’s helping him to relax, he can feel the nicotine rushing though his body, making his pulse race. But he’s determined to quit for good this time.
He reaches into his pocket for his phone – another addiction he needs to keep in check. The urge to check it every five minutes is always worse when he’s away from home, as if the constant buzz of social media somehow makes him feel more grounded. In fact, the opposite is true. It only adds to his anxiety – much like cigarettes. Resisting the urge to check his Facebook and Twitter accounts, he slides the phone back into his pocket.
There’s a bus stop and a taxi rank straight ahead, but the town centre and seafront aren’t far and he feels like stretching his legs after the long train journey. He puts on his sunglasses and follows the flow of pedestrians past the picturesque fishing boat in the middle of the roundabout.
Crossing the road at the traffic lights, he heads past a Tesco Metro and a row of estate agents. Some of the names are familiar from the internet search he conducted before leaving London. He stops to take a closer look in one of the windows, and sees well-presented studio and one-bedroom flats for a fraction of what they’d cost in the capital. There’s even a detached four-bedroom house for less than the price of a modest two-bedroom flat miles from the nearest tube. It’s high on West Hill, with a landscaped rear garden and a sea view.
Tom’s mind races. Until recently, he wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving London. It’s been his home for over two decades. But London today isn’t the city it was twenty years ago. It’s less forgiving and more violent. Knife crime is on the rise. Acid attacks aren’t uncommon. Homophobia is ever present. Tom can feel the tension on the streets. How long before his luck runs out and he encounters an adversary far more dangerous than Evie Stokes? Maybe he should get out now while the going’s good.
He could sell his flat in Vauxhall, pay off his mortgage, buy a house like this and still have enough cash left over for a small rental property or a decent-sized nest egg. But could he live in Hastings? He pictures himself at his writing desk in one of the upstairs rooms at the back of the house, overlooking the English Channel instead of the Thames; or sitting on the terrace at the end of a long sunny day, unwinding with a vodka and tonic. Sea views, fresh air and no more money worries. It sounds like a no-brainer. He makes a mental note to arrange some viewings as soon as possible.
By the time Tom reaches the seafront, there’s not a cloud in the sky. The water glitters and stretches out before him, bottle green in some places and Mediterranean blue in others. The sense of being in a foreign country is accentuated by the light. You rarely see this quality of light in London. Maybe high up on Parliament Hill, but not down where Tom lives in Vauxhall. It has the golden luminescence he associates with places like the Italian Riviera or the Greek islands. Feeling the warm sun on his face, he heads right towards the pier.
What first strikes him is the sheer scale of it. A stark minimalist structure clad in reclaimed wood, it juts out over the sea like the deck of a great ship. Standing at what he imagines to be the ship’s bow, Tom grips the handrail and gazes out across the water. Dotted here and there are windsurfers and small sailing boats, but compared to the hustle and bustle of city living, he might just as well be alone with his thoughts. He breathes deeply, filling his lungs with clean sea air, watching gulls glide effortlessly across the blue horizon. For the first time in months, he feels a weight lift from his shoulders. He could be anywhere. He could be anyone. King of the world! At least until the ship hits an iceberg and sinks.
Lowering his gaze, he watches the waves crash against the steel beams and enormous wooden supports left from the original structure. The beams are red with rust, the wooden piles rising up out of the sea, blackened and splintered with age. Some are studded with bent and broken metal bolts, like ancient weapons from some mythical battle or macabre totem poles for lives lost at sea. Tom spots a sign warning people not to jump off the pier and wonders what would possess someone to do such a thing. The average human body would die on impact long before it was dragged under by the tide, dashed against the steel beams or impaled on one of the wooden piles like some sacrificial offering to an angry sea god.
Memories of Saturday mornings watching Sinbad films flood Tom’s mind as he reaches into his pocket for his phone. ‘Guess where I am.’
‘No idea.’
‘I’ll give you a clue. I’m all at sea.’
‘Nope. None the wiser.’
‘I’ve just taken a short walk on a long pier.’
Emma laughs. ‘Lucky for you it wasn’t the other way around. Unless you can walk on water.’
‘Rumours of my divinity have been greatly exaggerated.’
‘So how’s Hastings?’
‘Gritty. But not without its charms. The streets are littered with men dressed as pirates.’
‘Poor you,’ Emma says. ‘It sounds perilous.’
‘Nothing I can’t handle. How about you? What are you up to?’
‘Oh, you know – keeping busy. My life doesn’t just stop when you disappear.’
‘Ouch!’ says Tom. ‘You’re not peeved with me, are you?’
‘Why would I be peeved?’
‘Because I’m beside the seaside and you’re not.’
‘Don’t be silly! Anyway, I can’t talk now. I’ll call you later.’
‘I’m busy later.’
‘Tomorrow, then.’
‘Fine.’
Pocketing his phone, Tom turns to face inland. Opposite the pier is the green-and-white awning of The White Rock Hotel. To his left is Warrior Square and further off in the distance he can make out Marina Court, the famous building that looks like a great cruise liner has crashed through the sea wall and up onto the promenade. His own home for the next few weeks is situated somewhere between The White Rock and Warrior Square.
He thinks he can see it from here – a tall terraced building painted a tasteful dove grey, sandwiched between two similar terraces in dark blue and pale yellow. It’s only a five-minute walk at most. He grabs his bags and sets off.
The apartment is even better than Tom imagined – high ceilings, huge rooms, flooded with natural light. Walking over to the enormous bay window, he stares down at the sea view below. The tide is out, revealing the wood and concrete groynes. They run down to the edge of the water at regular intervals, dividing the beach into sections, holding back the shingle and providing windbreaks for the lazy sunbathers who lie half buried, like birds nesting in the pebbles, or sit leaning back against the sun-baked wood.
There are fewer people than Tom was expecting, but then most of the tourists would be over by the Old Town, with its amusement arcades, fairground rides and crazy golf. This stretch of beach is fairly sparse in comparison – just the odd wooden kiosk and a concrete decostyle bus shelter, surrounded by palms. Tom watches as two young lads on skateboards speed along the promenade, dodging pedestrians and pursued by a small, overexcited dog.
Turning away from the window, he carries his bags into the bedroom, which is situated at the back of the property and is dominated by a large fireplace. Sash windows look out onto a small communal garden with a few plants in pots and a raised deck with a table and chairs. He unpacks his clothes and hangs them neatly in the wardrobe. Removing his shoes and spreading himself out on the king-sized bed, he wonders how many hours sleep he’ll manage tonight. Four? Five? When Tom was studying English at university he read all about the creative benefits of sleep deprivation – Rimbaud and his ‘derangement of the senses’; the romantic poets w
ith their fanciful notions about insomnia being the gateway to new levels of consciousness. As he’s discovered this past year, the reality is a little more prosaic. A life without regular, restorative sleep is a living hell.
The antidepressants his doctor prescribed might have helped regulate his sleep patterns, had he taken them. But despite what he told the police, the court and even Emma, he hadn’t. The doctor had warned him that possible side-effects included headaches, nausea, weight gain and the loss of libido. For Tom, this was too high a price to pay. So each time he received a repeat prescription, he filed it away in his desk drawer, together with the unopened box of pills he’d collected from the chemist the day he broke down in his doctor’s surgery. When it finally came to him giving his impact statement to the police, Tom did wonder if he’d be required to provide proof that he was actually taking the medication he’d been prescribed. But all they asked for was a letter from his GP.
Maybe he should have taken the pills. His anxiety levels rocketed in the weeks leading up to the court case, and he’s still not quite himself. For months his mind has been turning in on itself, swirling around in an endless cycle of self-doubt and paranoia. Sometimes when he closes his eyes he’s back in the witness box, being cross-examined by the defence. Contradictions trip from his tongue and beads of sweat break out on his forehead as the case against Evie Stokes falls apart and the judge tells her she’s free to leave. Tom sees her trumpeting the news on Twitter, proclaiming her innocence, calling him a fraud and a liar. The words burn behind his eyelids – branding him, shaming him.
But none of this happened, he reminds himself. She was found guilty. There’s a restraining order in place. She can’t reach him now, even if she’s willing to breach the order and risk a prison sentence. He’s a long way from home, in a town where nobody knows him from Adam. His skin crawls at the thought. Adam and Evie. She’d love that.
The tightening in Tom’s chest gives way to a yawn, catching him by surprise. It’s his body crying out for sleep. But it’s the middle of the afternoon. He’s never been one for taking a siesta. On the rare occasion that he does nod off during the day – usually on holiday, usually on a sun lounger – he wakes feeling groggy and disoriented and lacking the motivation to do anything even remotely productive. Fine when you’re on holiday. Not so fine when you have a book to deliver. Contrary to received wisdom, he doesn’t find power naps the least bit empowering.
No, napping is for nanas, Tom thinks, swinging his legs off the bed and jumping to his feet. He’ll sleep when he’s dead. Time to take a shower and grab a bite to eat somewhere. Then he’ll set off in search of a bar and possibly an adventure.
Well, it is Pirate Day, after all.
14
The website for The St Leonard describes it as ‘gay friendly’. In Tom’s experience, the chances of picking up in a gay-friendly pub are slimmer than in a good old-fashioned gay bar. On the other hand, it’s fairly close by. According to Google Maps the pub is just ten minutes’ walk from his current location. The St Leonard it is, then.
Heading along the seafront, Tom has the distinct feeling that he’s on holiday. The sun has set but there are still people clustered around the beach bars at Warrior Square. Maybe it’s the change of scenery or the moonlight reflecting off the water. Maybe it’s the effects of the bottle of wine he polished off with dinner. But he feels more relaxed than he’s felt in a long time.
The exterior of The St Leonard is painted a tasteful dark grey, with etched-glass windows. Entering the bar, Tom’s eyes are immediately drawn to a large decorative anchor hung against an exposed brick wall – a little obvious perhaps, but in keeping with the general aesthetic, which is all shabby chic and quirky illuminations, reminiscent of similar venues in Hoxton.
The place is packed. There are more women than he was expecting or would prefer to see. Not that he doesn’t enjoy women’s company. He does, very much so. It’s just that, contrary to popular belief, gay men and straight women don’t always mix well. It’s bad enough when gay bars are invaded by hen parties – as if gay men were some exotic species to be fawned over the way one might visit a petting zoo. But at least the hen parties are easily identifiable. Far worse are the lone women who take you by surprise, sidling up and assuming an intimacy that hasn’t been negotiated and isn’t welcome. Tom has come across these women before, back in his clubbing days – women who think that because gay men pose no sexual threat they can be treated as sex objects, with no thought for their personal autonomy. He even had a woman grab him by the balls one night at a club in Vauxhall. When he recoiled, she exclaimed scornfully, ‘You’re so gay!’ ‘Correct!’ he replied. ‘And this is a gay club. So show some fucking respect!’
Surveying the bar, Tom spots a number of rather alluring men dressed as pirates, seated with women who may or may not hold the keys to their hearts. Ah well, he thinks. Challenge accepted. Conscious of his own hypocrisy but confident that at least three pairs of eyes are quietly checking him out, he saunters over to the bar and orders a drink.
An hour and three large vodka and tonics later, Tom’s confidence is slowly ebbing away. Nobody has offered to buy him a drink, and not one of the men he spotted earlier has attempted to make conversation or even return a meaningful glance. They’re too wrapped up in their female companions – quite literally, in some cases. Seated at the next table, one couple have their tongues rammed down each other’s throats and are pawing at each other’s clothing. The temptation to shout ‘Get a room!’ is overwhelming.
Surrounded by such blatant displays of heterosexuality, Tom begins to wonder just how gay friendly this place is. If there are any other gay men here, they’re not exactly falling over themselves to make their presence felt. He drains his glass and is about to call it a night when someone catches his eye. A man dressed in full pirate regalia is standing alone at the bar, cradling a pint glass in one hand and staring intently in Tom’s direction. He’s well built and wears a red headscarf and tricorn hat with heavy dreads and thick black eyeliner, like Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow. Snug breeches are topped with a large belt buckle and tucked into knee-high black leather boots, accentuating his sturdy thighs. A white ruffled shirt completes the look, open to reveal a muscular chest. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, and it’s not just the resemblance to a famous film character. His smile is knowing and, as he approaches, his walk reminds Tom of someone he knows.
‘Can I ask you a personal question?’ Johnny/Jack puts one heavily booted foot on the empty chair next to Tom and leans across the table with one elbow resting on his knee. He looks even better at close range, despite the ridiculous goatee.
Tom wishes he hadn’t drunk so much and hopes it doesn’t show. ‘It depends how personal.’
The pirate pulls a cutlass from his belt and points it towards Tom’s throat. ‘Are you DFL?’
‘You mean DILF?’ Tom grins, eyeing the sword and reassuring himself that it isn’t real. ‘I’m not a dad. At least not as far as I know. But thanks for the compliment.’
The other man’s expression is cold. ‘I wasn’t paying you a compliment. I know what DILF means – “dad I’d like to fuck”. I asked if you were DFL – “down from London”.’
Tom’s smile freezes on his face. ‘What makes you think that?’
The man doesn’t answer the question. Instead he asks another. ‘You’re sure you’re not FILTH? “Failed in London, trying Hastings”?’
Tom’s skin prickles. ‘What makes you think I’m from London?’ He attempts a self-deprecating shrug. ‘Is it that obvious?’
The man’s heavily made-up eyes bore into him. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
Tom plays for time. The face is familiar but the setting is strange, and he’s more than a little inebriated. ‘No, sorry. Should I?’
‘It’s Luke,’ the other man says. He lowers the cutlass and tugs at his beard, which comes away in his hand, leaving traces of glue around his mouth and jawline. ‘We met a few weeks ago.�
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‘Of course,’ Tom replies. ‘Luke the waiter. I didn’t recognise you under all that finery.’
The man smiles thinly. ‘How many Lukes do you know?’
‘One or two,’ Tom says. Then, sensing his mistake, he adds quickly, ‘But none as dashing as you. What are you doing here?’
‘Visiting friends. You?’
‘I’m here to write. How long are you staying?’
‘I’m not sure yet. Maybe a week or so.’
Pleased at this sudden turn of events, Tom reaches to remove a glob of glue from the other man’s chin.
Luke’s hand shoots up and grabs his wrist. ‘Not so fast!’
‘You have something on your face,’ Tom insists, and gently brushes it away, feeling the rasp of stubble under his fingers. ‘There, that’s better.’ Suddenly self-conscious, he lowers his hand and changes the subject.
‘So how have you been?’
‘Since you kicked me out? Surviving.’
Tom feels his face flush. ‘I didn’t kick you out. Not exactly.’
‘You did. But I may be willing to forgive you.’
‘That’s very big of you.’
‘I’ve never had any complaints.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t.’ Tom catches the other man’s eye and feels a sexual charge pass between them. ‘So, can I buy you a drink?’