The Slow Road to Hell

by Grant Atherton

  He turned to face me. His eyes blazed, and when he spoke again, there was a bitter edge to his voice. "You want to know why I'm so angry? It's because this is what you gave up our relationship for. This sordid pathetic excuse for a life. Is this all you ended up with, Mikey? Is this what you left me for? Is it?"

  I blinked and turned away, unable to meet his gaze. My heart pounded. This was the emotional reckoning I had anticipated when we met two days ago. And now that it had finally erupted like this, I didn't know how to deal with it.

  "Nothing to say?" He turned on the ignition. "Well, there's a surprise."

  He didn't wait for an answer. Not that I had one. just put the car into gear and drove off again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  But for the constant rasp of the wipers and the clatter of rain on the roof, the rest of the journey passed in silence.

  I huddled up against the side window, my shoulder pressed against the cold glass, still reeling from that unexpected broadside.

  The worst of it was knowing he was right. I'd made a mess of my life. But I needed to make him understand how and why, and that we don't always get to choose our own paths through life, that there are so many pressures to conform, and sometimes we're left floundering, trying to make the best of the choices that are forced on us.

  I shot him an occasional glance. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead, jaw clenched, his knuckles white against the wheel. Until he had calmed down, there seemed little point in trying to explain. And so I kept quiet, enduring the uneasy silence, and when we reached our destination, it was a relief to get out of the car.

  Nathan, still not speaking, led the way to the house, part of a row of old worker-style cottages in a cul-de-sac off the main road. He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stood aside to let me in.

  "You have a key." I said as I passed him.

  "Yes." His tone was curt.

  "A close friend?"

  "None of your fucking business." He followed me in and closed the door behind him.

  He was still seething, so I didn't bother to respond. Anything I said would only exacerbate his mood.

  Until now I hadn't given much thought to Nathan's personal life. I'd been so wrapped up in my own problems, I'd not stopped to consider that he may have a relationship. Or relationships. But of course he would.

  Nathan said, "I'll go back to the Fairview and ask Karen to pack your belongings. I'll be back with them as soon as possible. In the meantime, stay out of sight. The press will be looking for you."

  As he turned towards the door, he added, "Not that it should be a problem for you. You've become quite the expert at hiding."

  So much for our amicable working relationship. As relationships went, it was anything but amicable and it certainly wasn't working. At least not for me.

  "Did you ever ask yourself why," I said, "or is that all I get? Just a cheap shot?"

  His hand on the door handle, he turned back to face me, nostrils flaring.

  He was still angry. But what the hell. So was I. It was time to stand up for myself. I was tired of taking the blame for the choices I'd been forced to make.

  I stepped towards him. "Well, guess what. The world doesn't revolve around you and your troubles. You think you were the only one who had a rough deal? Did you ever stop to think what I was going through while you were wallowing in your own self-pity?"

  He let go of the handle and, with an angry growl, launched himself at me across the room, his face distorted with rage. "You fucking dare give me that crap after what you put me through?"

  He grabbed me by the collar, slammed me against the wall.

  The blunt force hit me hard. A shock of pain raced through my back and I cried out. Fear stirred inside me and pumped through my veins. So much anger.

  "You fucking selfish shit." He was out of control.

  I gasped for air. "I'm trying to make you understand." I shouted the words into his face. My chest tightened.

  "Oh, I understand." He clutched the neck of my shirt in his fist and twisted it, his face close to mine. "You're spineless. Too much of a coward to face up to your problems. It was so much easier to run away, wasn't it, Mikey?" He spat the words at me, his body pressed against mine.

  "That's not how it was." Adrenalin surged through me. I thrust an arm against his throat, forced him back.

  He responded fast, grabbed my arm, twisted it to one side, pinned it against the wall. His chest heaved against mine, our faces almost touching. "That's just how it was. Time you manned up, Mikey, and took a good hard look at yourself. Time you took responsibility." With each jibe, he rammed me hard against the wall.

  I gulped in more air, my free hand against his chest, trying to hold him back.

  We both paused, gasping, and I steadied myself against him, his hard muscular thigh pressed against mine, his chest moving against me, his ragged breath on my cheek.

  And at that moment, the unthinkable happened. A stirring in my loins.

  In the heat of a fight, our primitive limbic brains, following their own primal instincts, wrest control from our conscious minds and flood our bodies with a mix of chemicals to boost our strength and stamina. They give us the energy we need to flee or stand our ground and fight. But it is this self same mix, adrenaline and neurotransmitters, that rouse us to satisfy our carnal needs.

  It is well known amongst those for whom combat is a way of life that sexual arousal is all too often a consequence of those heightened emotions that aid them during conflict. And my body was responding to my own emotional high fuelled by the chemical surge that raced through my blood, seeking release.

  At such times, our bodies don't listen to reason. Nor take account of our wider circumstances. And so, when I tried to quell the unbidden urge and push it from my mind, my body wouldn't let me. It was remembering. Recalling times past. It remembered the crush of his body against mine, the taste of his breath in my mouth, the strength in his arms, his smell.

  I couldn't let this happen.

  Writhing beneath his grasp, I fought for release and tried to push him away. But he was stronger and held me fast. I couldn't break free. Screwing my eyes tight shut, I tried to will my body into submission and bring it back under control. But in vain.

  I hardened against him.

  His response was immediate. With the shock of realisation, his hand tightened on my collar and his body stiffened. When I opened my eyes, he was staring directly into my face. The wide-eyed expression of surprise faded and he loosened his grip. A flicker of amusement crossed his face and his mouth curled. All I could do was stare back, at a loss to explain or rationalise what was happening.

  Leaning even closer, he whispered, "Is this what you want Mikey? Is this how it is for you now?"

  As he spoke, he pressed me to the wall and moved against me in that old familiar way, stirring up memory and desire and heat.

  And in a single moment all the years fell away.

  I wanted to stop him but I couldn't. My body responded to his, picking up familiar cues and matching his rhythm with my own. He played my body as he had so often before, moving me in ways I remembered well.

  "Please, Nathan, please." I gasped for air, breathed in his musky scent.

  His lips brushed my cheek and he murmured, "Please, 'yes' or please, 'no'." His breath was warm against my skin.

  "I don't know," I said. But I knew. And when his lips sought mine, I pressed my mouth hard against his as the fire stirred in my loins. I arched my back, pressing into him, wanting him, all recent memory of anger and recrimination lost in the moment.

  And for that one moment nothing else mattered but this overpowering need.

  And then it was gone.

  He pulled away and stood back, a look of undisguised contempt on his face. His mouth twisted into a sneer. "What a joke you are."

  I cried out, confused and hurt, and slid down the wall onto the floor at his feet, shaken and sobbing. "Why?" I mewled.

  But he didn't reply. He wa
s already heading back towards the door.

  "Please don't hate me."

  He reached the door, turned back, and said, "I don't hate you. I may have come close once. But not any more. Now I just pity you. You're just a sad sorry joke."

  As he left, he added, "I'll send one of my men round with your belongings." And he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

  I stayed down on the floor for what seemed like an age but was probably no more than a few minutes.

  The look on his face in those final moments was burned into my mind. How he must have despised me. Had I done that to him? Made him so bitter? Had I been so focused on my own problems, I couldn't see the harm I was doing? Well I sure as hell knew now.

  Bundled into a ball, I sat with my arms locked around my legs, rocking back and forth, my mind a roiling mix of confusion and despair. Eventually, I rolled over onto my knees and pushed myself to my feet. I was still shaking but my heart had stopped racing.

  There was a set of yellow plastic chairs over by a matching plastic-topped kitchen table and I made my way over to one of them and dropped into it. The ground floor of the house was open plan, the furniture bland and utilitarian like the table I sat at. There were no personal items around, no ornaments. It was stark and empty. Like me. Like my life.

  I didn't know what I was doing anymore, where I was going. My life was in meltdown. Two failed marriages, a father who had never liked me and an ex-lover who hated me.

  One thing was for sure. I couldn't go on like this. Nathan was right; my life was a joke. What had I got to show for it? An expensive house in Mayfair; a flat in Islington; a car beyond the economic grasp of most people; the resources to enjoy the best of everything; a high profile public image, the clean-cut, well-connected man of means.

  And here I was, on my own, incapable of sustaining a committed and loving relationship, snatching what intimate pleasures I could in back-street dives with anonymous strangers.

  Well, no more. The experiences of the last few days had been a wake up call. It was time to face up to those past mistakes.

  I took out my mobile and, with a shaking hand, tapped in the familiar number. Karen answered.

  "Nathan is on his way to you. He's arranging to have my belongings picked up. Tell him not to bother. I'm on my way back."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It's amazing what a change of lighting can do for a place. The Fairview had been transformed.

  Harsh overhead lighting had given way to the subdued amber glow of the wall lights spaced around the open reception area. Soft music played in the background, further improving the ambiance.

  The low hum of voices and clink of glasses drifted out from the bar. Obviously, the hacks were making the most of their expense accounts.

  By the reception desk, Nathan was in animated conversation with Karen. Judging by his expression, I guessed he had learned of my decision to return.

  Karen was the first to see me approach. Her face creased into a show of concern.

  Nathan followed her gaze and scowled when he saw me.

  As I drew near, he reached out and grabbed me by the arm. In a low voice - presumably, so as not to draw attention from the bar - he said, "What the hell are you playing at?"

  "I'm taking your advice."

  That seemed to confuse him. He let go of my arm. "What?" He furrowed his brow.

  Karen crossed her arms and said, "Would one of you please tell me what's going on here?" She glared at each of us in turn.

  "I'm tired of hiding," I said.

  Now it was Karen's turn to be confused.

  But the light of recognition dawned in Nathan's eyes. "What are you thinking of doing, Mikey?" It sounded more like an admonition than a question.

  I answered with a question of my own. "Why don't you both join me in the bar?"

  I didn't wait for an answer.

  One of Karen's hired helps, a harassed-looking young woman in a bright red tabard, was carrying a tray of food through the archway opposite to the dining room beyond. I followed behind her and turned into the bar.

  Two reporters I recognised from the press conference were being served at the counter and a group of five more were seated around a larger table over by the window. I was pleased to see that John Chesterton, the sleazeball, wasn't amongst them. Even so, this wasn't going to be an easy ride.

  One of the two men at the counter spotted me. "Hey. The wanderer returns. We thought you'd done a runner."

  That raised a few hearty laughs from the others. They must have found out I'd been staying at the Fairview.

  "How could I possibly pass up on the pleasure of your company?" I took a seat at the bar and ordered a double scotch from the bartender.

  "I'll get that," the wisecracker said, producing a wallet. He was a heavy set man with a florid complexion which didn't go well with his bottle-green jacket.

  "Damn right you will. Fair exchange for the lowdown on my private life I would have thought."

  "Sure," he said, suddenly more alert. He held out a hand, "the name's Brian Driscoll, Sunday Echo."

  I shook his hand. "I don't suppose there's much point introducing myself. By now, you probably know me as well as I know myself."

  "Well not quite," Driscoll said. "But your wife has been very helpful with the more recent details."

  This time I joined in the laughter. "She always did have a big mouth."

  The bartender handed me a glass and I took a large swig.

  The group by the window were paying more attention now. They had their notebooks at the ready.

  Nathan and Karen had taken up positions by the open entrance to the bar. Nathan was scowling again but Karen still looked concerned.

  I took another large swig of scotch and said, "Well, go ahead. What do you want to know?"

  "I'm sure you know the answer to that." He reached into a pocket and produced a notebook of his own. "He held it up. "Do you mind?"

  "Not at all."

  "So is it true? You split from your wife?"

  "Yes, it's true. And before you ask, yes, it was another man."

  "You want to tell us about him?"

  "No. I don't to drag him into it. It was nothing serious anyway."

  "You were in the habit of having casual sexual relationships?" Driscoll jotted down notes as he spoke.

  "Let's say I've had my moments."

  "How did she find out?"

  "She had me followed. And got some very good photos for her money. Maybe she'll let you have them. Some of them might even be printable."

  Driscoll stopped scribbling and looked up. "You're being surprisingly candid. You do know what effect this is going to have, don't you? That blue-eyed wonder boy image of yours is going to be ripped to shreds."

  "To hell with it."

  I could already see the image that would be plastered over the front pages of the gossip mags. No matter how hard you tried to avoid it, the media always managed to get a shot of you looking like a deranged serial killer with an insane grin or a hollow-eyed degenerate with sunken cheeks. Bless them. They sure did like their stereotypes. I wondered which type of shot they would choose for me.

  Driscoll continued to stare into my face.

  "I've had good cause to rethink my life choices since coming back here." I drained my glass.

  "You want to explain that?"

  I signalled the bartender and held up my empty glass. He took it from me and refilled it. "This is on you too," I said to Driscoll.

  He nodded. "On my tab," he said to the bartender and turned his attention back to me.

  "Let me tell you something about my childhood here," I said.

  And so it all came out. The whole sorry saga of life in a family oppressed by the iron will of a father who demanded nothing short of Godly perfection in all things, a control freak who saw any deviation from biblical teachings as a mortal sin, worthy of eternal damnation in the fires of hell.

  "I'm not saying he was a bad man," I explained, "just misguided. In some ways h
e was a kindly considerate man who cared deeply for the well-being of his parishioners. But that was his public face. In private, with his family, he was a different man, overbearing and strict."

  Driscoll and the other hacks scribbled furiously. I related the events of the night my father found out I was gay and in a relationship with another man. I declined to name names.

  "You can imagine the effect that had on him," I said. "It was like our own private Third World War."

  I explained how, still a young man, still influenced by my parent's values, I had tried to be the respectful god-fearing son rather than live with my father's contempt.

  "It mattered to me what they thought."

  "And now?"

  "And now? Enough is enough. I was stupid. I've been a fool and wasted my life living a lie. I thought it was more important to live up to someone else's ideal of the sort of life I should lead, instead of just being myself. And I've hurt too many people along the way, myself as much as anyone else."

  "Where do you go from here?"

  "I don't know. Coming back here stirred up old memories. Of a time when I still had my whole life in front of me and I still had choices to make."

  I explained how, by making all the wrong choices, I had lost what chance of happiness I had with the one person who ever mattered.

  "It's too late to change the past," I said, "but one thing I do know is that I won't live a lie any more. From now on, I'll live the life I want. If I'd been honest with myself and everyone else, none of this would have mattered."

  "What about your show? Will you carry on with that?"

  "I haven't made any decisions yet. Though it's possible that's one decision that will be made for me."

  I couldn't imagine the BBC being too happy about renewing my contract after I'd tarnished my reputation in such a dramatic way. I put my empty glass on the bar and slid off the stool. "And now if you'll excuse me gentlemen. It's been a long day. And I need some down time."