by Harry Cook
I stared into Jesse’s eyes, desperate to see what I was sure had to be in there somewhere. A hint of compassion. A dash of decency. But there was nothing. Just malice. Just darkness.
And that was when I left that car, that garage and those two twisted jerks still celebrating their evening’s sport.
4
Fin
“Mr and Mrs Whittle. We regret to inform you of your son’s unnatural tendencies.”
Muffled laughter.
“We have evidence that you are raising a pervert . . .”
By the time I got home less than half an hour later, that was the message that some “worried parents” had left on our home phone.
Mum and Dad weren’t entirely convinced by Jesse and Jake’s acting skills, but still they asked me if I was “really a queer” to which I responded “yes”.
This simple, honest answer made my mum cry and my dad’s face turn the colour of the beetroot salad we were having for dinner. After which, their fits of outrage escalated throughout the evening. It’s true that both my parents were raised by stalwarts of the Irish Catholic community; however, in my opinion, all this catastrophising seemed dramatic and extremely unnecessary. More to the point, I knew they weren’t as concerned about religious principles so much as they were worried about their friends finding out they had a gay son – a son who, in their eyes, is no longer “normal”.
After pacing the house for a solid twenty-four hours without sleep, they packed me off on a clapped-out old bus to stay with Aunt Carla out in the middle of nowhere while they arranged the “relocation” to Lochport. One that they assured me they were “forced into”, thanks to moi. Bad news for moi that my dad’s job as an engineering adjuster means he can pull off this kind of move.
Who knows what – if anything – they told my older brother Elliot about the commotion. He’s been backpacking his way around the world for the past few months. I miss him, but can’t face trying to contact him. No headspace. Elliot’s always been the “normal” one of the Whittle brothers. And, being “normal” – whatever that actually means – is incredibly important to my parents.
Which brings us to the fun-filled here and now.
*
This upheaval to Lochport is my parents’ idea of giving me a “fresh start” and “removing” me from any “distractions” that I might succumb to back in our old town. If only I’d known I was living in such a gay mecca I could’ve set my sights higher than kissing that weasel Jesse.
I take a breath and collect our bags from the car before trudging my way back up into our new abode. The house itself is bigger than any other house I’ve ever set foot in before. I have no idea how we can afford it; however, my one good guess is that it’s one of those murder houses that make their way onto the market cheap after some horrendous crime. The floors are solid oak and the light fixtures are crystal. My room, I’ve decided, is the loft on the third floor. It’s one of the smallest in the entire house, but it’s perfect. One giant window seat as comfy as my bed sits atop an inbuilt bookcase; the view above of nothing but our new garden and the woods beyond.
Dad spared no time or expense in packing us up as quickly as possible, and so all our furniture arrived the day before yesterday. My parents hired movers, notified schools, arranged work stuff with lightning speed, citing a “family emergency”, all before collecting me from Aunt Carla’s on their way along the highway. The fact I survived even a day at Aunt Carla’s is a total miracle. I can’t stand cats, so when Dad told me I would be temporarily living with her (a woman who’s homed not one, not two, but eight ex-stray felines), I was certain it was an assassination attempt.
With my bed neatly fitted in the corner of my new room, various boxes labelled “School”, “Books”, “Clothes”, “Toiletries” sit squashed together near the wardrobe, but the mere thought of unpacking it all really does make me want to throw myself out of my third-storey window. Instead, I collapse onto the window seat, and stare morosely out at the view. I get the feeling this new town isn’t going to be any more welcoming than our old one. Emily was my only real friend back in Pittford and she was different. One in a million. To top it off, “fresh start” or not, I know my parents definitely won’t like my sexuality here any more than they did in Pittford.
Great stuff.
5
Fin
On the morning of Halloween, I finally muster the energy to leave our new house and explore. Apart from some serious “get me out of here” messages to Emily, I’ve barely spoken to anyone; Mum and Dad have been busy cleaning and unpacking and organising the house and any conversations we’ve had have been tense . . . and that’s putting it mildly.
As I head out the front door, I hear Dad’s voice.
“Uhh-uhh, hold up, Fin,” he says, coming out of the kitchen. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To explore.”
“I think we need to have a talk.”
“Dad, come on. I’ve been stuck in house for two days. Can’t I go have a look around?”
Honestly, what does he think I’m up to – a chem-sex hook-up?
He stares at me. Clearly he’s not going to let me out the front door until he’s given me a talking-to, but strangely enough, both he and Mum seem to have calmed somewhat while I’ve been at Aunt Carla’s. My guess is either Valium or Xanax.
“Fin, listen. I know this must seem like a lot to you. You might not understand it now, but one day you will recognise that what we have done is for the best. Your mother and I believe that a change of scenery, a fresh start will remove any . . . unnatural temptations. Otherwise, life could be an extremely difficult road for you.” He takes a deep breath before delivering his killer line. “We – We just want the best for you, Fin. For you to have the same opportunities, the same lifestyle as we – and your brother – have. A normal life. Do you understand?”
I nod, desperate for the chandelier above my head to detach and crush me. There’s that word again: normal.
Dad stares at me for a second before saying shortly: “Okay. Good. Be home no later than seven.”
It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. He’s gifted me a solid eight hours of exploring. Perfect.
I wander down the street, the sky the colour of honey and the trees full of acorns. I have to hand it to Lochport; the town itself is pretty cute. I stroll into the centre, which takes about five minutes from our place, and find it full of maple and oak trees, rustic old buildings with shop signs like “Smith’s Candies” and “McElroy’s Fish & Chippie” and a wooden dock that looks like it’s from the set of JAWS. A bright yellow bike with a pink seat leans against the window of McElroy’s. It has a scribbled sign that reads “Free to a good home” followed by another sign underneath that reads: “Just kidding. $50. Pay within for the key.” The bike’s wheels are locked with a chain. I have a small wad of savings, $150 to be precise, from my job at a coffee store back in Pittford, and I figure a bike of this kind – especially that pink seat – is a sensational investment. I open the door and let myself in, a bell jingling somewhere out back. The smell of fish overpowers me like a chemical attack.
“Hello?” I say, calling into the abyss. “I . . . I’d like to buy the bike.”
A rummaging noise comes from behind the plastic curtain and a woman wearing a yellow rain mac, high-top wellies and a fisherman’s hat comes out to greet me; she’s plump with big kind eyes and a button nose.
“Sorry, love. We just got a new delivery in and my hearing ain’t what it used to be. You been waiting long? What can I get for ya?”
I smile. Her warmth is contagious.
“I was . . . I’m new here,” I say. “I was actually hoping to buy that bike out front?”
“Oh that?” she says. “Oh, take it. You’d be doing me a favour! My daughter, Poppy, she put that fifty-dollar sign out front under mine. She calls herself a ‘hustler’.”
The door behind me swings open and cool air tickles the back of my neck.
�
�Speak of the devil. We were just discussing your hustling skills, darling.”
Poppy, dark hair with piercing green eyes, leans over the counter next to me and gives her mother a kiss on the cheek.
“Poppy McElroy,” she says, offering me her hand to shake. I can’t help but notice that it’s emblazoned with a ring on nearly every finger.
“Fin Whittle,” I reply.
“And I’m Isla,” Poppy’s mother says, walking around to the front of the counter with a key on a pompom fob. “They call me a local treasure.”
“Yeah, right. I take it you didn’t get the fifty dollars for my bike?” Poppy asks, a crease in her forehead the size of the Grand Canyon.
“Mr Whittle here is kindly giving your old bike a new home,” Isla says with a grin as we follow her out on to the street. “I refuse to take money from a new neighbour,” she continues, unlocking the bike and presenting it to me like it’s a showroom-fresh Mercedes S Class.
“Thank you so much,” I say, glancing at Poppy who rolls her eyes and gives me the hint of a smile.
The three of us stand silently for a moment, the only noise coming from the splash of the ocean against the dock just across the street.
“I see Rye still hasn’t caught anything,” Poppy says, giving a nod to where a guy roughly my age is sitting on an upturned bucket with a fishing rod bobbing up and down in the grey sea. Next to him squats an English Bulldog, drool pooling under its cheeks.
“Not a thing,” Isla says with a giggle. “Your friend’s a terrible fisherman.” And with that she heads back into the store to serve a customer.
Poppy turns to look me up and down.
“Fin, was it?”
I nod.
“Cool name,” Poppy says, flashing me a grin which just as suddenly fades as something behind me catches her eye.
I follow her gaze across to the wharf.
Two guys and two girls are now standing a little way off from Poppy’s friend Rye and laughing. At first I pay no attention to anything other than the adorable English Bulldog, but then I hear the word.
“Fag” rises up from the wharf’s wooden slats. The air seems to echo with it; it’s painted the sky the shade of hate and now it rains down like poison on the entire town.
Poppy doesn’t miss a beat. “Come on!” she instructs me as she storms across the street and onto the wharf. I attempt to keep up, my new bike squeaking like a wheelbarrow as I push it across the road after her while simultaneously making a mental note to buy some WD40.
“Right, which one of you bastards said that?”
The four break apart from their huddle next to Rye and stare daggers at Poppy. I’m painfully aware of the ear-piercing squeaky noises my bike is making and I’m relieved when I can finally lean it against the wharf.
“I said, which one of you?” Poppy repeats.
The air is still, and the fisherman – Rye – has stood up, ready to defend himself if he has to. Tall, with dark skin and eyes like rock pools in summer, he’s ridiculously handsome. So much so that he actually takes my breath away. His bulldog is snoozing next to him, completely unaware of the drama unfolding around her.
The difference between Rye and the two other guys is stark. They both look like they’ve never seen sunlight. The taller of the two is gangly and practically translucent, while the guy next to him stands rooted to the spot like the trunk of a tree. The girls are dull and model-esque in that catwalk, high fashion model/alien/vampire kind of way. Together, the four of them look like the undead or an incarnation of the Manson family.
“It was me, what of it?” the paler of the two girls says. Her hair is practically white; the dark circles under her eyes create the impression of a chronic case of anaemia.
“Seriously, Paisley?” Poppy snaps. “You think you can go around calling other people names with a name like that?”
Paisley scoffs, taken aback by Poppy’s brazen response. “I’m the fourth Paisley in a long line of –”
“Couches? Old people couches? Is that what you were about to say?”
The girl next to Paisley looks ready to retaliate on her behalf when Poppy goes on: “And don’t get me started on you, Bronwyn. It’s impossible to take you seriously while you stand there looking like you’ve been struck by lightning. Seriously, do you not own a straightener? Or at the very least, an iron? You look like you’ve been trapped in Jumanji for the past decade.”
Bronwyn takes a sharp inhale and cups her mouth with her hand. Poppy’s right: her try-too-hard tousled hair is a sad and wispy bird’s nest.
“And you two!” Poppy’s really getting going now. “Mark? Hugh?”
I grip my bike handlebars and stare at her, feeling both impressed and slightly terrified to witness this woman I’ve only just met in all her gladiator fury.
“Yeah, you two. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumber. Since when did you leave your caves before nightfall? Shouldn’t you be collecting sticks?”
The two Tweedles take a moment to understand what she’s actually saying. Eventually they figure it out but are too late to respond, as Poppy has already moved on.
“Now, I would love to stay and chat with you all, but I have a pleasant evening planned with my friend Rye here and my new friend Fin.”
I feel my cheeks glow as she gestures to me.
“It’s Halloween after all,” Poppy goes on, “and we still need to figure out our costumes. Do you lot have any suggestions? I take it you’ve gone with The Hills Have Eyes theme this year, no?”
Dumbfounded silence. Mouths hanging open.
“No? Right, well . . . Away you go,” Poppy says with a flick of her wrist.
The four of them turn on their heels and stomp off, still muttering under their breath.
Poppy spins around to smile at Rye and then me. “All good?” she says, fumbling in her pocket for a packet of gum and offering us a piece.
“Thanks, Pops,” Rye says.
“That was . . . That was amazing.” I can’t help it. I’m in total awe of her.
She curtsies and bows like a circus performer and Rye lets out a laugh before turning to me with his hand outstretched.
“Rye,” he says.
Those eyes. That smile.
“Fin,” I say, my tummy doing a thousand backflips.
He’s cute. Far too cute. Maybe the cutest damn thing I have ever laid eyes on. But I’m not about to be fooled again. Nope. No-sir-ee. I’m not stepping on that bear trap again.
Well, that’s what I think until his eyes meet mine and he says three little words that hit me like a truck.
“Fin? Cute name.”
Here we go again.
*
Arriving home a few hours later, I bound up the stairs two at a time, race across the landing and up the ladder to my room. Mum texted earlier to let me know she is out buying groceries and I can hear Dad somewhere downstairs rummaging through the boxes scattered across the floor.
For the first time ever, I didn’t fluff the chance at making new friends. I’m not far from doing a private dance of victory round my room.
Poppy invited me to join her and Rye at the local diner tonight and I have about an hour to figure out what I’m going to tell Dad, as well as figuring out a costume to wear for my first Halloween in this new town. I want to come across as cute but not too innocent; hot but not to the point of desperado.
“You okay?” comes Dad’s voice drifting up from halfway up the ladder.
“All good,” I reply, trying to sound casual.
“Whose bike is that outside?”
“It’s. I . . . uh. I met some people . . .”
My face cringes into a shape that cannot be described.
“Some people?”
Dad has popped his head through the hatch now and is leaning on his forearms, trying to seem nonchalant.
I really didn’t want to start off my “fresh start” with a whopping great lie, but I know how difficult – by which I mean impossible – it will be to explain that I’ve
already fallen for the very first guy I’ve met in Lochport.
“A girl. Just a girl down at the fish shop. I . . . I bought this bike off of her and –”
Dad’s master plan is taking shape before his very eyes. “A girl?” His whole face lights up. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear wedding bells.
“Yeah. She invited me to the diner in town tonight. It’s got a dress-up theme and –”
“Say no more. I have just the thing.”
I release a giant breath of air, my lungs relaxing after holding my breath for what feels like an eternity. Thirty seconds later, Dad is back with a tattered football jersey (shoulder pads included), shorts and helmet.
“It’s . . . Halloween,” I hear myself saying without much of an idea at what’s going on.
“Exactly,” Dad says, grinning like an idiot. “Zombie football player! You can wear my old uniform, rip it up a bit, add some fake blood.”
“But . . .” I’m speechless. Elliot has always been the footballer, the one who bonded with Dad over sport. Like Elliot, my dad was captain of the school football team – and it’s still a huge part of who he is. “Don’t you want to save that? You know, pass it on to Elliot?”
“Elliot’s got his own gear. Besides, I want you to have it. Take it from me. Girls love this kind of thing.”
“They do?” I ask, baffled at the workings of heterosexual desire.
“Absolutely. Girls like to feel protected.”
“By zombies?” I reply, attempting not to laugh in his face. The whole thing is absurd, but I’m glad he’s speaking to me normally again, even if it is about girls and football. We haven’t exactly been spending much quality time together since the whole thing blew up back at our old home.
He winks. “Be back no later than midnight.”
He gets halfway down the ladder then springs back up like a Jack-in-the-Box.
“Oh, one last thing –”
I raise my eyebrows.
“What’s her name?”