Unnatural Relations

by Mike Seabroook

  "Is everything... is it... is it all right at the office for you?"

  Rowe came back to him and put his arm round his shoulders. “Yes, of course it's all right," he said, very gently. "Of course it's all right." Christopher put his arms round him and hugged him, rubbing his cheek against his father's rougher one. He clung to him without a sound for a long interval. "Poor old Chrissie," murmured Rowe. "My poor Chris." He held his son for a few moments longer, then gently disengaged himself. "Now, you go in and get your mother some tea," he said, briskly now. "Or give her a whacking great scotch, if she'd rather. Have one yourself. I should think you could use one. I'll see you this evening. And Chris..."

  "Yes, Dad?"

  "Don't worry. It's all over." He turned and walked quickly out of sight. All over, thought Audrey as she found her door key. I wonder if it is.

  As she lifted her key to the lock the door swung back. "Why, Neil!" she and Christopher chorused in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

  "They let me come home for the afternoon," he said. "It's maths this afternoon, too," he added cheerfully. "Double period." More soberly he went on "they knew it was Chris's case today, and they thought I'd worry about it, so they let me come home to wait for you. How did you get on, Chris?"

  "Let's get in, dear," said his mother. "Then we'll tell you about it."

  "I got a suspended sentence, Neil," said Christopher as Neil moved aside to let them come in.

  "What's that mean?"

  "It means I mustn't do anything wrong in the next two years, or I'll be sent to prison, or youth custody, it's called, for this."

  "Prison!" cried Neil, shocked into a yelp of surprise. "Can they send you to prison for being gay, Chris?"

  "They can if you're my age," said Christopher bitterly. "At least, they can if you do anything about it."

  “Fu-ckin-ell!"

  "Neil!" said Audrey. "Language!"

  "Sorry, Mum. But prison. Just for being... Wow! Wait till I tell Goose and Gander about that."

  Audrey and Christopher stared at him. "Goose and Gander?" queried his mother. "Neil, what are you talking about?"

  "Williams and Donaldson, Mum. They're in my maths set. The teachers have stopped trying to make them sit where they should be. We call 'em Goose and Gander."

  "Neil, what are you talking about?" she repeated. "If you're talking about anything." Neil grinned at her and pointed to his brother, who was beginning to laugh. "Chrissie knows what I'm talking about, Mum," he said archly. He made cow eyes and a rosebud mouth, advancing on Christopher in an exaggerated mincing walk, and planted a slobbery kiss on his cheek. Then he grinned horribly at his mother and said, "They're gay, of course". Shaking his head at the slow-wittedness of adults, he seized her handbag, put it over his arm and minced into the kitchen, leaving his mother staring after him in mingled outrage and astonishment, while Christopher sat on the stairs and laughed till he cried.

  ***

  Jamie and Christopher had hardly taken their eyes off each other while they were at opposite ends of the courthouse foyer. Looks passed between them, burdened with affection and desire, passion and concern, but mostly with a great depth of tenderness. Selfish though they were both capable of being, for each other their feelings were real enough, and pure, and they went deeper than anyone close to them had fathomed. Christopher had hoped to be able to snatch a few moments with Jamie as soon as he left the court, but Hope-Thomson had warned him against any such attempt, and his parents had offered him no chance of escaping.

  When Hope-Thomson finished conferring with Dr Lane the two men went back to Jamie on the bench. He stood up, and the solicitor shook his hand gravely, without a trace of condescension. "Goodbye, Jamie," he said. "Keep the writing up. You'll do well, I think. I wish you very well for the future." He said not a word about Christopher, but shook hands with Lane, walked straight back to the Rowes, and accompanied them outside, where he shook hands with them all, wished Christopher well, and left them.

  At the door Jamie saw Christopher step back to allow Hope-Thomson to precede him, and immediately shoot a rapid glance back. The instant he saw that Jamie was watching and that Lane's back was to him he turned back to the door. As he did so his hand opened behind him and a crumpled ball of paper dropped to the floor. Christopher was out of sight before it reached there. The whole sequence took only two or three seconds, but Christopher knew Jamie had seen.

  A moment later Lane had picked up his coat from the bench and they were half-way to the doors. As they reached them Jamie contrived to trip over his feet and slipped over. He was up again in a second; and by the time Lane was asking him if he was hurt the ball of paper was in the side pocket of his blazer. He transferred it to his trouser pocket on the walk to Lane's car, and within minutes of reaching home he had got it safely hidden in his room, stuffed into the toe of one of his trainers under his bed. Lane was waiting downstairs to talk to him about the day as soon as he had changed, so he did not dare to linger even to uncrumple it. He thought about locking himself in the lavatory and reading it, but decided he wanted to read this unexpected message with plenty of time. He changed into comfortables and went downstairs.

  They talked long into the evening, describing every detail of the case for Edith's benefit, with Jamie putting in comments on the bits that had particularly pleased or disgusted him. Edith made an occasional comment but mostly listened in a progressively appalled silence, except for a chuckle at a bravura description by Jamie of her husband's contribution. Then they discussed the implications of it for themselves, and that part of the conversation took several turns that Jamie didn't like at all, though he wisely kept quiet.

  "The long and the short of it is, Jamie," said Lane, "that I don't think you can possibly contemplate having any more contact with Christopher at all, for some time to come. I doubt if even the letters can be allowed to continue." Jamie still managed to keep quiet and calm, though his face registered slow pain. He thought the message in his shoe upstairs probably held some kind of answer to this development, which he had more or less expected. After that, he supposed he would have to rely on his own extensive Machiavellian powers to find solutions to problems as they arose. All he was sure of was that he was not going to lose Christopher, or not as easily as everybody seemed to suppose, anyway. He pretended acquiescence, kept his own counsel, and at length was relieved when they called it a night and allowed him to escape to bed.

  He retrieved the crumpled ball of paper from his shoe and hopped into bed quickly, strategically placing a couple of magazines to be picked up if either of the Lanes came to say goodnight, as they usually did. Suppressing his impatience, he took care in smoothing out the sheet of lined paper to avoid damaging it, and then read it through. Christopher's wayward writing was even more ragged than usual, showing the haste in which it had been scrawled.

  "Dearest J," it read, "had paper etc ready to write this if I got a chance after the trial just in case I cdnt see you - prison etc. Escaped into lav to write this and have only a min or 2. I'm on lead & collar from now on. No contact with you if they can help it. Don't worry my darling, will write or get messages somehow. Glad it turned out no worse than it did. Wasnt Dr L great. At least I'm still at lib. New phone no 665824, but DONT ring me, wait for me - phone out of bounds. Will meet you soon, promise. Jamie, love, whatever happens next few weeks DONT WORRY, DONT PANIC, DONT DO ANYTHING SILLY LIKE CALLING MY HOME. This important - we've both got hard time for next weeks/months. Never forget, nothings changed - nothing at all. Well be together all the time before too long. Must go now. Try to give this to you, if not screw it up, make sure you see me drop it somewhere - look like litter if you cant pick up. Till I see you will be thinking of you all the time. Love you, Chris."

  Jamie read it three times, again not surprised at what the near future seemed likely to hold. Then he kissed it, slipped cautiously out of bed and stowed it in his holdall where he kept everything from Christopher. He got back into bed, put out the light and, exhausted b
y the emotional strain of the day, fell instantly into a deep sleep.

  ***

  The next day was a Friday, on which day school ended early. Jamie ran home as soon as the bell went, intending to go fishing. He hoped that if Christopher wanted to find him, his fishing place would be the first place he would look. Besides, he had been missing fishing over the last few weeks. All through the worst times when he had been with his parents he had always found solace and relaxation in it, and he realised that he was quite looking forward to putting in an hour or two. As he let himself into the house the telephone rang. He picked it up as he passed, and fishing dropped suddenly and totally out of his mind.

  "Jamie, it's me," said Christopher. "Don't talk, just listen. If you can do what I ask, just say 'That's all right'. If you can't do it, say 'Okay'. I've got to see you. Can you come to the fishing place tonight, midnight if possible? I'll wait anyway if you can't get there till later. Can you do it?"

  As he finished speaking Edith came downstairs. "That's quite all right," said Jamie. "Good. Love you," said Christopher hurriedly, and they hung up together. "Hello, Jamie," said Edith. "Who was it?" She looked closely at him. He gave her his most disarming smile. "Some idiot in a phone box," he said, chuckling convincingly. "First he couldn't get his money in, and then when he did it was a wrong number." He stood aside politely for her to pass him and went upstairs whistling to himself. Well, thought Edith, there can't have been anything Christopher-ish about that call, at least. Jamie, meanwhile, had forgotten there was such a pastime as fishing and was bouncing up and down on his bed, with no idea of the despair into which he was about to be plunged.

  Jamie crept out of the house as he had done once before, and ran most of the four miles to the fishing place. When he slithered down the bank and pushed through the trees he found Christopher, rolled up in their old blanket against the cold night air. He ran joyously across and the black shapeless area humped and rose. He dropped and squirmed in with Christopher. It seemed as if epochs had passed since they had last been together like this. Christopher considerately let him get comfortably settled beside him before he spoke. When he did it was like being suddenly dropped into a bath of acid. "Jamie," he said bleakly, "I'm being sent away.

  "The thing is, love, they don't trust me very much, and they don't trust you at all. Can't say they're altogether wrong - we're neither of us very trustworthy, are we?"

  "Huh!" Jamie snorted. "All we want to do is love each other and mind our own fucking business, isn't it?"

  "Yes, but never mind that," hushed Christopher. "We haven't got long, and this is going to be our last time together for quite a while. I want it to be something for us to remember, so for Christ's sake let's get the talking out of the bloody way quickly. They're sending me down to my grandparents again, and I've got to stay there until I go up to university in three weeks. They've told the old folks the real truth this time, and I'll be under supervision all the time. I'm not even being given the chance to give them the bloody slip," he added bitterly. "Dad's driving me down there tomorrow afternoon.

  "They're really taking this suspended sentence thing seriously. So am I for that matter, but I'd take some risks - it's no crime just being with you. But they think it's all your doing. They don't credit me with having enough mind of my own to have a say in it, even. Except Neil - he understands how things really are. But Neil doesn't count, of course. So that's it - no meetings, no phone calls - they'll lock the bloody phone in a safe if they think I've called you on it, and you can bet your life the old couple will've been primed as well. The only thing I can do is write to you. Thank God for..."

  "But that's just what you can't do," Jamie groaned, and he told him of the latest edict from Lane. "He means it, too, Chris. They're going to come down just as heavy on me as you. Oh, Christ, Chris, what can we do? Could we go abroad, do you think?"

  "I've got to do this degree, haven't I? If we're going to live together some time we'll have to have jobs - one of us, anyway - I mean, I'd keep you willingly, though I don't suppose you'd want that. But I must get my degree. I couldn't get a course in a foreign country, and even if I could it'd take years to arrange." And he went swiftly and methodically through all the possibilities he had thought of, demolishing them one after the other. In the end Jamie had to agree. They were doomed to be parted, for a while at least, and there was nothing they could do about it. He moaned, and clutched Christopher silently.

  Christopher groped somewhere and the beam of a pen-torch shone briefly on his wristwatch. "It's just gone one," he said. "We've been here an hour already. You can see as plainly as I can that we've got no choice but to do what they dictate. Let's stop talking, for a bit, at least." He started unbuttoning Jamie's shirt.

  They lay together afterwards, a little more relaxed. Suddenly Jamie said "There is one thing we haven't thought about, you know."

  "Whassat?" murmured Christopher, waking from a doze.

  "We could kill ourselves. Have a - what do you call it - a pact. I wouldn't care. If I can't have you I don't care if I live or not anyway."

  Christopher half-laughed, then thought about the note in Jamie's voice. "Are you serious?"

  "Yes," said Jamie simply, in a matter-of-fact tone. "Why not?"

  "Christ almighty, Jamie, you're off your head."

  "Yes," he replied. "I think I probably am, a bit, at least. But why not? Do you care?"

  "Yes, I bloody well do!" he snapped, more sharply than he had ever spoken to Jamie before. "Jesus. I've got fifty years left to me, and you've got more. Even if we had to wait the full five years till you're twenty-one before we could be together we'd have a lifetime. You silly little bugger, what the hell do you think you're on about?"

  Jamie sat up. "I... I'm sorry, Chris. Please don't talk to me like that. I only suggested it. I didn't think you could wait five years, or me. So I just thought..."

  "Jamie," said Christopher, pulling him back down beside him, "I can’t wait five years, I only said if. I couldn't stay away from you for five whole bloody years, and I know damn well you couldn't wait even as long as I could. But we shan't have to wait that long. It won't be a matter of years. This court business will be forgotten about in a little while, the dust'll settle, and we'll be able to work something out. It's only right now that everybody's keeping us under a spotlight. If we can just endure it for a few months, things'll start getting back to normal. Don't forget, you'd have to do without me for ten weeks from October anyway, while I was at university.

  "Now stop talking like a silly little boy and come down here. Then we'll go. The longer we stay here tonight the worse it'll be when we have to go. The last thing I want to do is have to say goodbye to you in a hurry. If we go soon we'll at least be able to walk back along the towpath slowly."

  "I don't bloody well want to say goodbye to you at all," growled Jamie. But he did as he was told, and then they walked slowly and sadly home.

  Jamie crept silently into bed at five, and Edith had trouble rousing him at eight for Saturday games. He tottered into breakfast looking washed-out, dull-eyed and depressed. However, he kissed Edith as he usually did and set off for school, at five minutes to nine, after making some odd clatterings in the kitchen. The Lanes exchanged glances. "He hasn't slept well, poor mite," said Edith. "He doesn't look as if he's slept at all," commented her husband.

  "He was practically comatose when I went to wake him," she said. "He was overtired after yesterday, I imagine. Perhaps I'll get the doctor to look at him. Some sort of tonic, maybe?"

  "Give him a day or two," he advised. "Whatever we think of this affair of his, it's obviously very real to him, and he'll suffer badly for a while. But boys are resilient, and he'll recover fast, I'd say. I'll make sure Matron keeps a watchful eye on him at school."

  "I wonder if he's as resilient as some boys," she mused. "He's an obsessive sort of character, John, isn't he? I sometimes get an almost creepy feeling when I talk to him - especially on the odd occasions when he's been depressed. It'
s like talking to a grown-up, but one with strange gaps in his make-up. He seems to me to be half-way between a true adult and a true teenager."

  "He's been robbed, Edith, my dear," said Lane grimly. "There's your gaps."

  The telephone rang.

  "John, it's Nick Philips, and he says it's urgent," Edith said, coming hurriedly back from taking the call. Lane ran to the hall.

  "Headmaster," came the voice of the Saturday duty master, "you asked me to report to you if young Potten acted at all strangely. Well, he has - that is, he hasn't turned up at all. I gave him a few minutes, then I started across to see if he was on his way..."

  "Yes, yes," Edith heard him snap. There was an urgent note in his voice that brought her out of her chair. She stepped silently into the hall and watched his back as he stood over the telephone table.

  "I didn't see him, so I turned back, and as I turned, Headmaster, I caught a glimpse of someone disappearing into the conker trees up by the lane."

  "Was it Potten?" rapped Lane.

  "Couldn't see, Headmaster, but I ran up there. No reason for anyone to be heading that way unless they were going over the wall. Well, when I got there there was no-one to be seen, of course - he had too good a start on me. But when I got to the wall - you know the bit they go over when they're..."

  "I know it," snapped Lane. "Quickly, now, this may be urgent."

  "Yes, sir," said the man, sounding a little wounded. "Well, in the lane just at the point where he would have dropped, I found something odd. It was a packet of Panadol..."

  "What?" roared Lane into the receiver, deafening the duty master at the other end, and causing Edith to feel very uneasy indeed.

  "Panadol, sir. You know, pain-killers. One of those cards where you press the tablets through the..." But Lane had slammed the receiver down with a crash that overturned a vase of flowers standing beside the instrument on its little table. He dashed into the kitchen. Edith, following him with a great fear growing up round her, found him staring into the large wall cupboard where they kept medicines and first-aid equipment. He turned to her, with fear to match her own spread starkly across his face. "How many pain-killing tablets did we have in here, Edith?" he asked quietly. She felt the blood drain from her face and neck.