Out!

by JL Merrow

  There was a chorus of groans from the less fit members of the group.

  “Ah, ya lazy bastards,” Kevin shouted over them. “I’m running the 10K and I’ve got both my littl’uns signed up for the 2K.”

  That was optimistic of him, seeing as only one of them was old enough to walk. Mark supposed Mrs. Kevin would be called on to don her martyr’s halo once again and push the littlest one around the course in a buggy.

  “I’ll be running the 10K too,” Mark said by way of moral support.

  “That’s right, show the rest of us up even more,” Rory muttered.

  They got into the nitty-gritty of the day’s organisation, which proved to be both nittier and grittier than Mark had expected. He’d had no idea what a mammoth task it was, organising people to run a few miles across country, and how hard some people involved could be to wrangle. His respect for Patrick had gone up a notch or two over the last week. Mark noted with concern that Patrick seemed quieter and more serious than usual. The pressure of bearing ultimate responsibility for the success or failure of the run seemed to weigh heavily on his shoulders—but then, they were quite young shoulders, weren’t they?

  He’d offered to help, but Patrick had said that at this late stage, there was very little he could do without Patrick having to spend hours he didn’t have catching Mark up on everything first. All the helpers’ roles had been filled weeks ago.

  Mark would just have to make sure he made a damned fine showing in the run itself, that was all.

  Barry stood up. “Right, lads. Meeting’s over, it’s Friday night, and by Spartan law, we will stand and drink until we can’t stand up anymore. Are you with me?”

  There was a general indication of approval for that plan. Mark glanced at Patrick, thinking if Patrick was agreeable to sloping off early, he’d definitely be on board with that plan, but Patrick just gave a tiny shrug.

  Beers it was, then. Mark didn’t mind. He was on top of the world—feted by his fellow Spartans and, well, if not in love, certainly a fair way along the road to it. And he’d even managed to have a perfectly civil conversation with Patrick’s mum the previous evening, having met her by chance at the Shamwell Area Preservation Society (SAPS) meeting, where he’d inadvertently let slip he was a chartered accountant and somehow found himself co-opted on the spot to become treasurer.

  He hadn’t minded that either, despite how clearly relieved the previous incumbent had been to give up the role. It was good to get involved with village life. To give something back. His book on tax avoidance wasn’t going at all well—in fact, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to write it anymore—so he had plenty of time on his hands. Why not use it for the benefit of the community?

  Mark managed to snatch a few words with Patrick on the way down the stairs. “All right?” he asked, hoping Patrick would get that he meant it to be all-encompassing, from the general state of Patrick’s health to his reaction to Mark’s failure to out them as a couple.

  Patrick’s smile looked tired. “Yeah. Rough day, though. Had this git on the committee trying to talk the rest of ’em into sacking Lex.”

  “Seriously?” Mark was appalled. “On what grounds?”

  “Trying to cut costs, he said.” Patrick snorted. “’Cept he was all for expanding the staff before we hired Lex. Like Lex doesn’t have enough to deal with without bigoted sods like that.”

  “They can’t just sack Lex,” Mark said confidently. “Charities are subject to employment protection laws, the same as any employer.”

  Patrick stared. “And you really reckon Lex’d go to a tribunal and make ’em spend all the money we’ve been raising on legal fees? Make the people SHARE helps go without support so they can get their rights?”

  Mark opened his mouth, then shut it again. “That’s unfair,” he said at last.

  “Yeah, welcome to the real world.”

  “But there must be something that can be done—”

  “There’s nothing, all right? Not without—” Patrick’s voice, which had been rising, stopped suddenly. He closed his eyes. “Shit. Just ignore me until I’ve got a couple of beers down me, all right?”

  Well, bugger that. Mark wanted to talk some more, but they got separated in the pub. Mark was dragged off by Si, who was insistent on buying him a pint for reasons unknown, and Patrick got collared by Barry. Presumably he had some more things to sort out about the fun run again, although God knew Mark had thought they’d talked it all to death already.

  Si just seemed to want to talk about the Six Nations rugby, and whether it’d been better when it was still the Five Nations, or even the Home Nations, which none of them was actually old enough to remember. Not that Mark had ever been particularly keen on rugby in any case, so why Si had chosen him to talk to about it he had no idea.

  Alasdair kept giving Si annoyed looks, though, as if he’d wanted to talk about something else entirely.

  When, after two more rounds of drinks, Patrick was still cornered at one end of the bar by Barry’s bulky figure, Mark thought he’d better mount a rescue. He was, in any case, getting a little unnerved by Alasdair’s behaviour and the way Si kept insisting on buying his beer.

  Barry and Patrick seemed to have moved on from the fun run. Barry was gazing at Patrick with big, soulful eyes. “Nobody ever calls me Baz, or Bazzer. I’d make a great Baz. Wouldn’t I?”

  Patrick didn’t roll his eyes, but he gave Mark an exasperated glance. “Yeah, but mate… You always tell people your name’s Barry. So that’s what they call you, innit? Like I’m Patrick, not Pat or Paddy or any of that crap.”

  “Yeah, but…s’different, innit? Patrick’s a good name. Solid. Barry’s just… S’like Gary, or Harry, or even bloody Larry, ’cept they’re all short for something, ain’t they? They all got proper names attached. Barry’s just…Barry.”

  “I thought it was short for something,” Rory said, huffing a bit as he climbed up on a barstool next to them.

  “Yeah? What d’you reckon, then?” Barry demanded, his tone belligerent. “Barreth? Barold? Sodding Barrence?”

  Rory scratched his head. “Nah… Bartholomew?”

  “That’s Barty.”

  “Barnaby?”

  “Barney.”

  Barry was looking like he was a bit close to thumping the table when Patrick stepped in. “Finnbarr.”

  Two pairs of bloodshot eyes turned to stare at him. “What?” Barry demanded. “Are you twisting my spanner?”

  Mark stifled a laugh.

  Patrick didn’t look like he was amused. “It’s Irish, innit? Like Patrick. And it’s what Barry’s short for.”

  “Not on my bloody birth certificate it ain’t.” Barry fumbled out his credit cards. “See there? Says B. Thompson. B. Not effing F. Oi,” he added in Mark’s direction, having finally noticed he was with them. He grabbed hold of Mark’s arm. “That look like an F to you?”

  “Ah…no?”

  Barry slapped the table. “See? My name ain’t short for Finnbarr. It ain’t short for nuffing.”

  “I knew a Barrington once,” Mark said warily. “American, obviously.”

  There was a silence, then Barry started nodding slowly. “Barrin’ton. Like it. That’s a good, strong name, that is. That name’s got class. And,” he added, leaning forward to wag a finger at Patrick, “it starts with a B.”

  “Not gonna argue with you over that, mate,” Patrick said. His faint emphasis on the that seemed to suggest they’d not been seeing eye-to-eye on everything tonight. “Right. Barrington it is. Think I’ll call you Barry for short, though—that all right with you?”

  “Course it is.” Barry gave a little wave like the Queen on a walkabout. “Course it is.” He frowned. “How’d we even get onto this, anyhow? We was talking about this fun run of yours. Something I gotta ask you… What was it? Oh, yeah—you’re gonna sort out chairs for the marshals, right? �
��Cos if I wanted to be on me feet all flippin’ morning, I’d be doing the run, now wouldn’t I?”

  Patrick closed his eyes for a moment, the tiredness all too evident again, but shrugged at Mark, as if to say, What can you do? “Barry, we’ve been through this, all right? You wanna take a fold-up chair to sit on, that’s fine by me. But you take it yourself.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Mark gave Patrick a sympathetic look and took his pint back over to Si and Alasdair, not without a look back over his shoulder. Barry seemed to have moved into belligerent-drunk mode now, from the vehement hand gestures. Should Mark have stayed?

  No. Patrick was a grown man, for heaven’s sake. If Mark kept hanging around him as if he needed protecting, it’d just look ridiculous. And, well, obvious that there was something going on between them. Which wouldn’t be a problem, really, as Mark had told Patrick he didn’t want to hide their relationship—but there was a difference between the other Spartans finding out about it by being told and by watching Mark hang around Patrick like a lovesick teenager.

  Alasdair nudged Si as Mark sat down with them. “Go on, then. Fucking ask him, for Christ’s sake.”

  Mark had known there was something going on there. Were they finally going to get to the point?

  Si leaned forward, a serious look on his face. “Spartan, what is your profession?”

  Mark blinked, then laughed. “War?”

  Alasdair made a frustrated sound.

  Si nudged his mate, none too gently, until he shut up. “No, see, I’m being serious here. What is it you do for a living? ’Cos Patrick said you was an accountant, but Alasdair here says you said you’re something else.”

  “So you want to know my actual profession? Well, still war, I suppose, but only on the tax man. I started out in accountancy, but I’ve spent most of my working life as a tax advisor.” He was quite proud of himself for leaving out the chartered bit.

  “Tax advisor, is it? So you tell rich people how to get away without paying their taxes, is that right?” Si seemed disappointed, which stung a little.

  “Rich corporations, actually, but yes. I know tax might sound a bit dry, but it’s actually a fascinating subject—utilising legal loopholes in an innovative way to help the client. I’ve personally managed to wipe out more than one multimillion-pound tax liability—got some very nice bonuses for it too. Well, the clients were grateful, of course. It made a sizeable difference to their bottom line. All aboveboard, obviously,” Mark added hastily, as Si still wasn’t looking as impressed as he might have hoped. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was involved in tax evasion.”

  “No, I don’t s’pose you would,” Patrick’s voice said from over Mark’s shoulder. His voice sounded flat and hard.

  Mark turned. Patrick was looking straight at him, his expression cold. Mark wondered desperately what he’d said.

  “Let me guess, you’ve got private medical cover?” Patrick asked, then went on without giving Mark time to say, Well, yes, doesn’t everyone who can afford it? “So it wouldn’t have occurred to you just what a sizeable difference all those millions in lost tax might have made to the National Health Service? The hospital my mum works in—”

  Bugger.

  “—has had to close down wards ’cos they can’t afford to keep them open. And there’s people having their operations put off for nigh on years. All right for you, maybe, but it’s not much fun for grannies who can’t get out to the shops because they’ve been waiting a year and a half for a new hip. Not to mention all the people SHARE helps who’ve had government funding for help slashed over the last few years.”

  “Now just wait a minute,” Mark said, the hollow space that had opened up in his stomach rapidly filling up with anger. “These are legal loopholes. In some cases, government-sanctioned schemes.”

  “Legal isn’t the same as moral.” Patrick leaned on the back of Si’s chair, his eyes as glacial as his tone, while Si shrank away.

  At any other time, Mark might have found it amusing to watch a six-foot mountain of a man trying to disappear into the furniture.

  Now, though, Mark met Patrick glare for glare. “And a successful company has the moral obligation to bankrupt itself to take care of all the people who haven’t made adequate provision for their future?”

  “What, so it’s the old folks’ fault they never made enough money at their jobs? Or the parents of disabled kids who haven’t managed to put away enough to support them all through their adult lives?”

  “I’m not talking about people with disabilities. Clearly that’s a special case. But for ordinary people—where the hell do you think this country would be if everyone was content to chug along at minimum wage?” Mark barely managed not to thump the table with his clenched fist. “Or worse, on benefits? They could have got an education, advanced their careers. Some people work hard to better themselves—”

  “Yeah, well, it’s easy to see you had everything handed to you on a plate. You don’t know what it’s like for people stuck in the poverty trap—”

  “Oh, don’t give me that bollocks.” Mark was livid. Patrick damn well knew that wasn’t true. “Anyone can—”

  Mark jumped as Alasdair cleared his throat. “Ladies, please. Let’s keep it friendly, all right?”

  Patrick clenched a fist, then unclenched it again. “Fine. Whatever. But I’ve had a fucking awful day, so I’ll leave you to it. Don’t wanna waste any more of your time.” He looked up at Mark as he said it, his eyes stony, then turned on his heel and left.

  Mark was so furious, he could barely see straight. Just what the hell made Patrick think he had the right to criticise Mark for his choice of career? In front of everyone? To think Mark had actually been beginning to fall in love with him.

  Si’s voice broke the silence. “So I’m thinking it’s probably not the best time to ask you if you’d like to take over as Spartans treasurer?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  People seemed to scatter away from Patrick’s path as he stormed out of the Three Lions. Good. Anyone who got in his way right now was just asking for it, and he’d fucking well make sure they got it too.

  The worst thing, the absolute worst, was realising how wrong he’d been about Mark. All that stuff Mark had told him about his dad being on the make—he’d said it like he disapproved. Like he was different. Like he was a decent fucking human being. It was like they’d said about Patrick when he was young, wasn’t it? The apple never falls far from the sodding tree, and Christ, if any of them showed their faces around here tonight, he’d take great pleasure in proving them right by punching their fucking lights in…

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Patrick stopped walking, breathing hard, and leaned over, bracing his hands on his legs. He should have stopped after that last beer, he knew he should have. He’d been matching Barry pint for pint ’cos after the day he’d had, that was the only way he could face the bloke’s whinging…

  Shit. He wasn’t being fair. He knew it and he hated it, but sod it, why did he even have to be fair all the time? It wasn’t like any other bugger bothered. There was Lex about to lose their job—how fair was that? It was like he’d told Mark—welcome to the real world.

  It hurt, it fucking hurt, to find out Mark was just another of those smug corporate bastards who didn’t care about anyone so long as they got their fucking bonuses. And he’d lied again, hadn’t he? At least, maybe he hadn’t lied last time, but he had this time. He’d said he was an accountant, not a fucking professional tax fiddler.

  The neighbour’s cat was in the front garden again, but this time it took one look at Patrick and fled, scrambling over the fence with a skitter and a scritch of claws.

  “’Ullo, love,” Mum said as Patrick walked into the kitchen, still in his shoes ’cos if he tried to kick them off now, he’d probably kick ’em right through a window. Then she looked up at him fr
om the cup of tea she was stirring, and just for a moment, her eyes went wide.

  “What?” It came out a bit sharper than he meant it to.

  “Nothing,” she said, and carried her mug out to the living room, her head down.

  Patrick wanted to smash something. Kick the cupboard doors in, throw a mug on the floor, lob a saucepan through the fucking window.

  Instead, he just stood there, breathing hard, fists clenched, until the white-hot rage died down like it always did, leaving him shaky and exhausted.

  Then he took off his shoes, put them neatly by the door and padded into the living room. “I’m not him,” he said softly.

  Mum smiled, her eyes looking a bit wet around the rims. “Course you’re not, love.” She stared down into her mug of tea for a moment. She hadn’t drunk any yet, but she had both her hands wrapped around it like she was feeling cold. “You look a lot like him, though. Always was a good-looking sod, your dad.” Then she looked up at him. “Come and sit down, love. You can have my tea. I’m not that thirsty after all.”

  Patrick sat down, wishing he was still young enough to put his head on her lap for a stroke. “It just all went wrong tonight. Everything. Barry was getting on my tits with his stupid first-world problems—I mean, Christ, moping about not having a nickname? What fucking planet does he think he’s on?—and Mark…” He couldn’t go on.

  Mum slipped an arm around his shoulders and gave him a hug. “And you’re all stressed out over this bloody run—which, don’t get me wrong, is a really good thing, and I completely support you—so you had a couple of beers too many, and you said a few things you shouldn’t have?”

  “I dunno, Mum. Shouldn’t I?” Patrick wasn’t sure, not right now. “You know I said he was an accountant? He’s not. He works in tax, telling people like that smug arse on the telly how to cheat the country.”

  Mum frowned. “Don’t they all start out as accountants, though? Anyway, he’s not working now, is he?”