The Case of the Missing Boyfriend

by Alexander, Nick

‘Yes . . . stop. I feel sick.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘No. I don’t. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Another tissue perhaps?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  What He Would Have Wanted

  I end up taking an entire week of annual leave. I’m feeling tired and a little depressed, but more than anything, I simply can’t face walking into the office and seeing Darren’s empty chair. I’m hoping that the funeral, organised on Thursday, will make this easier come Monday morning. That is, after all, what funerals are for.

  It’s a strange week though, slithering unnoticeably by in a sort of monochrome bubble of numb sadness.

  The weather is cold but sunny, so I take walks through a frosted Hyde Park and think, in an unfocused, unproductive way about Darren, and Dad, and Waiine, and my own life. Talking to the shrink has shaken everything up again, and there’s too much really to even start to think about it all, but it drifts around at the back of my mind. Hopefully at some point it will drift into some useful shape.

  I’m so lost in the freezing fog of my thoughts that the slightest of tasks – getting food in, finding a florist, reheeling my funeral shoes, or rescheduling the Cornish Cow visit, or, in ricochet, my gynaecology appointment – seem to take an entire day.

  On Friday morning, as I step down onto the platform of Plumpton station (a short platform, please disembark from the front three coaches only), I feel ready for the closure that the service will provide . . . eager, almost, to move on to whatever comes next.

  For thinking about Darren’s life has convinced me at least of one thing: that if your life isn’t working for you, you have to grab it by the throat and shake it up and down until it does. Because the alternative clearly doesn’t bear thinking about.

  As I leave the station I see two separate couples of good-looking (no doubt gay) men. All four are suitably dressed in black suits and white shirts. I follow them down the main road, assuming that they will lead me to the funeral. After about thirty yards though, one of the men pauses, turns to face me and asks, ‘Excuse me, but do you know where the church is here?’

  I shiver. He looks uncannily like Darren. I shake my head and pull my collar a little higher against the chill wind. ‘I’m sorry,’ I explain. ‘I was following you.’

  A van pulls up beside us wanting to cross the pavement to enter a property on the right. I step back to let it do so and as it crawls past I ask the man driving for directions. And then with my black-clad entourage I carry on down the road. I feel a little like Madonna – out and about with bodyguards.

  ‘I take it you’re going to the funeral?’ the Darren lookalike asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Darren Langston?’

  ‘Dan,’ he says, holding out a hand. ‘The brother.’

  He doesn’t introduce the other three men, and none of them even acknowledge my existence, so I simply nod, smile weakly and say, ‘Of course. You look alike. I’m so sorry. I’m CC. I worked with Darren.’

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Good to meet you. It’s a waste. A terrible thing. So many of us are struggling to stay alive, and then you get someone like Darren . . . anyway . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, repeating Mark’s words. ‘It’s a cliché, but that’s the only way to describe it. A terrible waste.’

  And then, there, on the left, is the little church. A perfect parish church, surrounded by a weathered stone wall, and a shabby green lawn. None of the pomp or circumstance of Catholicism here.

  I spot Mark and Ian just beyond the gate and, giving a restrained nod and a tiny wave to Darren’s brother, I step off the path to join them.

  ‘Hello,’ Ian says. ‘God that bloke looks exactly like . . .’

  ‘That’s his brother,’ I say quietly. ‘I met him on the way here.’

  ‘Wow, he really looks like him – were they twins?’

  ‘Nah, he’s two years older,’ Mark says. ‘It’s good to see your friendly face, Miss CC.’

  I hug each of the two men and then turn to look at the two distinct groups forming in front of the church. ‘Don’t you know any of these people?’ I ask Mark.

  He shrugs. ‘I know a couple of the faces – from night-clubs and stuff. But no, not really. And those people over there are his family.’ Nodding at a wiry ashen-faced woman he adds, ‘That’s his mother.’

  ‘Gosh,’ I say. ‘Imagine. The poor woman. Have you met her before?’

  ‘Once . . .’ Mark says. ‘Once was enough. Beware. She isn’t very gay friendly.’

  I frown at Mark, wondering whether to take this apparent honorary membership of the gay club as a compliment or a wakeup call.

  ‘A lovely day for it,’ Ian says, his Scottish accent, suddenly strong. I wonder if it’s like my own Irish one, stronger in moments of stress.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Cold wind though. So has it been quiet?’

  Mark pulls a face indicating non-comprehension.

  ‘At work?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been off,’ he says. ‘Didn’t you even notice?’

  ‘Oh, no . . .’ I say. ‘No, I’ve been off too. I took the whole week off.’

  ‘Ahh, OK. I just thought you were off that day I phoned you about the funeral. Stanton didn’t say . . .’

  ‘No. So how come she invited this lot?’ I ask. ‘If she’s not gay friendly.’

  Mark shrugs. ‘He left a list apparently.’

  ‘And a note,’ Ian says.

  ‘Notes,’ Mark corrects. ‘Multiple notes. One to be read out today.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I mutter. ‘Dramatic to the last.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘No sign of Victor then,’ Mark says, giving me a calculated wink.

  ‘Please don’t,’ I say. ‘I’m embarrassed enough.’

  ‘No,’ Ian says. ‘And it’s hardly appropriate.’

  ‘Were he and Darren . . .?’ I start to ask.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Mark says. ‘Yes, they were really close.’

  Which doesn’t really answer my question.

  ‘God, is Victor really coming?’ I ask. ‘I’m so embarrassed.’

  ‘Why?’ Mark says.

  I roll my eyes at him.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll make it,’ Ian says. ‘He’s on a really tough schedule . . . His colleague is off sick.’

  ‘With bird flu,’ Mark says.

  ‘Swine flu,’ Ian corrects.

  ‘Well, with whatever . . . I can’t keep up with them,’ Mark says. ‘There’s a new phantom killer virus every year, and nothing ever happens. It’s all bollocks, if you ask me. The powers that be keeping us scared.’

  ‘And never doing anything about HIV which does exist,’ Ian says.

  ‘Well, they don’t care – it mostly kills poofs,’ Mark says, a favourite subject of his.

  ‘Has she really got swine flu?’ I ask. ‘That’s not good for a gynaecologist. No pregnant woman is going to want to see her.’

  ‘No,’ Ian agrees, pointedly looking at Mark. ‘That’s why it’s supposed to be a secret.’

  A movement catches my eye, and I turn to see that everyone is moving, not as expected into the church, but towards the rear.

  ‘Hey ho,’ Mark says. ‘Looks like we’re on the move.’

  We circle the church and join the others gathered around the graveside, strictly respecting the family/friends grouping.

  The vicar, a balding, bumbling, charming man, explains the unusual order of the day.

  ‘Darren Langston was not a religious man but he did have fond memories of this church from his childhood. These, it has to be said, were probably more of hiding amongst the gravestones than attending services, but before he died he wrote me a letter asking very specifically to be buried here. He also specified who should be invited, and how the service, if one can call it that, should proceed.’

  ‘That boy was such a control freak,’ I whisper to Mark.

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ he says.

  I turn to see one of Darren’s young men
glaring at me, eyes glistening, and I pull a guilty face and lower my gaze to the casket in front of us.

  ‘Now Darren didn’t want sermons, and he didn’t want hymns, but he did permit me, in his largesse, to say a brief word, so I shall try to keep it short. Darren Langston was a lovely child who I remember well. He grew up, I’m told, to be an equally charming man who helped anyone and everyone whenever he could. He will be sorely missed by those left behind, and I pray that he is now in heaven with Our Father bringing as much humour and wit to those around him in the afterlife as he did to everyone present today.

  ‘Now, I believe that Darren’s brother, Daniel, would like to read a specific text that Darren prepared for this moment.’

  ‘God this is freaky,’ Mark whispers. ‘Darren’s double reading his . . .’

  I see Ian nudge him, cutting him short.

  Dan steps forward, and pulls an envelope from his hand. ‘Hi, um, yes. Those of you who know the family will know that Daz and I weren’t exactly close,’ he says, his breath rising in steam- train puffs. ‘That’s a bit of an understatement really. I couldn’t begin to tell you what that was all about, but of course, it all feels pretty stupid and petty now. But it’s too late to put anything right. That’s what . . .’

  His voice is breaking, and emotion is jumping across the gap between us. I run a hand across my mouth and bite my lip.

  ‘That’s what’s so hard . . .’ he says, ‘about what he’s done . . . Anyway, Darren wanted me to read this here . . . I, um, don’t know what it’s about. Knowing him, it’s probably a surprise . . . so you, you’ll, um, have to bear with me.’

  Here he licks his lips and glances at his mother so we all turn our attention to her.

  Her eyes are bulging and her cheekbones are so pronounced, they look as though, if she pulls her mouth any tighter, they might rip through her papery flesh.

  ‘Right,’ Dan says . . . waving the letter. ‘OK . . .’ His face is swelling, seemingly doubling in size. A deep red stain is rising from his collar. ‘I’m sorry, this is . . . well . . . hard,’ he says, pulling the pages from the envelope.

  He unfolds the letter and stares at it. The pages are blown shut by the wind, so he has to pocket the envelope and open them again with both hands.

  ‘So . . .’ he says, his voice cracking again. He glances at his mother again, and she rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

  ‘Dan,’ she says. ‘Stop it. I told you.’

  ‘But it’s what he wanted,’ he replies.

  The vicar steps forward, clears his throat, and says, ‘If you wish, I could read it. If that would make things easier.’

  ‘Knowing Darren, I hardly think that would be appropriate,’ the mother says. ‘Give it here.’

  Her voice is so cold, so hard, and suddenly the only thing I want in the whole world is for this woman not to be the one to read Darren’s parting words.

  ‘I can read it if you want,’ I hear myself say. ‘Please . . . I’d like to.’ Dan glances at his mother, who shrugs. A tear rolls down his cheek as he reaches over the casket to hand me the letter.

  I look at the first page, and remembering that handwriting from so many notes at work, my own eyesight goes watery; my own voice fails.

  ‘So . . .’ I say, my voice no stronger than Dan’s.

  I cough and clear my throat.

  ‘So this is it,’ I start. ‘As they say in all the best movies, if you’re reading this it’s because I’m now . . .’ I have to swallow before continuing, ‘I’m now dead.’

  I glance up at Mark opposite and realise as I do so that this is a mistake, because his own tears set off my own. I wipe my eyes, apologise, and start again, my voice now flat and controlled. ‘So this is it. As they say in all the best movies, if you’re reading this it’s because I’m now dead. Well, it was me. I did it. Not Colonel Mustard . . . not Professor Plum. No . . . it was no one’s fault but my own.

  ‘When we were kids we used to listen to the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy on the radio. Do you remember that, Dan? Do you remember the bit about the dolphins, and how man always thought he was cleverer because whilst he ran around like crazy building bypasses and bridges and sending men to the moon, all the dolphins ever did was swim around eating fish and playing with balls. And the dolphins knew that in fact they were the clever ones, for precisely the same reason?’

  ‘What is this rubbish?’ Darren’s mother mutters, causing me to pause and look up. I look at Dan and he shrugs. I glance at Mark who tearfully nods that I should continue.

  ‘. . . the same reason . . . um, and, I would have liked to have been like the dolphins. To know how to just swim around and be happy. But I wasn’t built that way. I was never satisfied. Never. And sometimes that made me a perfectionist, and sometimes, mostly, it just made me unhappy.

  ‘I’ve had moments of friendship, and I have had some great holidays, and I have had some great sex, probably more than most . . .’

  The word sex produces a gasp of pious disapproval from Darren’s mother, but this time I do my best to ignore it and simply carry on.

  ‘But it was never enough. And that feeling of never enough has become unbearable for me. Because I know it will never end. And I don’t know how to feel satisfied with what I’ve got. And I don’t know how to fix my life so that I am satisfied.’

  ‘But the good bits were good, and everyone here contributed to that. So thanks to you. Thanks to you, my family, and you my framily. And if you don’t know what framily is, you’re missing out, so ask my friend CC. And don’t feel sad, or guilty, just feel proud that your bit was one of the good bits.’

  ‘But there is one thing I have to say . . . specifically to Dan, and to Mum. And you both know what’s coming next. Because there’s one aspect of our relationship that really didn’t help me – it really didn’t work for me at all.’

  I can see from the corner of my eye that Darren’s mother is moving through the mourners around to my side of the grave.

  ‘Some of you were never that comfortable with the fact that I’m gay . . .’ I continue, more rapidly. ‘In fact . . .’

  And then the pages are ripped from my hands.

  ‘That’s enough, thank you,’ Darren’s mother says, her voice now flat and controlled. ‘I’m sorry, but this isn’t how I want to remember my son,’ she continues, stuffing the pages into her pocket.

  ‘But those are his words . . . you can’t—’ I start.

  ‘Gay, gay, gay . . . it’s all he ever talked about when he was alive. And it’s all illness and depression and . . . and there’s nothing gay about it. So enough. But thank you very much, whoever you are,’ she says. ‘You read very well.’

  ‘CC,’ I say, drying my eyes and having a vague fantasy of rugby- tackling her for the letter. ‘I’m framily. He mentioned me in—’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she says. ‘Now if anyone else has anything they’d like to say about Darren that isn’t to do with his sex-life?’

  Mark steps forward. ‘Yes,’ he says, red-faced, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘I do. Goodbye, Darren. From all your friends, gay and straight. We loved you. And we wish you had stayed around. Goodbye.’

  Ian says, ‘Yes, goodbye.’

  A hubbub of goodbyes come from the people standing around him.

  ‘Thankyou,’ the mother says. ‘Now, perhaps those of you who aren’t family could give us a moment to bury my son in a quiet appropriate way.’

  I open my mouth to say something, I have no idea what yet, but thankfully (because it wasn’t going to be something appropriate) Ian links his arm through mine and tugs me gently away. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘It’s not worth it.’

  And as we and twenty or so other people turn away, we hear the mother say, ‘Could you say a prayer please?’

  ‘That was awful,’ Mark says when we reach the gate.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘not you. You were perfect. Bloody religion. It’s always the Christians
casting the first stone.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have let her . . .’

  ‘There was nothing you could do,’ Ian says.

  ‘That woman though!’ Mark says.

  ‘We have no idea what those poor people are going through,’ Ian points out.

  ‘No,’ I agree. ‘Losing a brother. Losing a child. They’re things you just never get over.’

  When we reach the street, I pause. ‘I take it we’re not invited to the wake or anything.’

  ‘No,’ Mark says. ‘I don’t think I would want to go even if we were.’

  A man pushing past us through the gate pauses and looks at me watery-eyed. ‘Thanks,’ he says in an American accent. ‘You people were great.’

  I nod and shrug. ‘It didn’t go quite how I would have hoped, but . . .’

  ‘We’re going to the pub over there,’ he says, nodding at a building just up the road. ‘It would be nice if, well, if we all went together.’

  Ian and I turn to Mark, and he nods. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘We’ll have our own mini-wake. Fuck ’em.’

  Icy Water

  It’s amazing how a funeral can provide a sense of closure, incredible how the atmosphere can change in the forty minutes it takes to remember, say goodbye, and bury someone.

  At my own father’s funeral I was too young, or perhaps too traumatised to understand that process. In fact, the chatter and merriment of the wake made me hysterical with rage. I remember, still, feeling that I would explode, or implode, or at least slap someone if I remained in that room, surrounded by cucumber sandwiches and cheese on sticks and stupid irritating grins. I had run off instead to hide alone in a copse of trees at the end of our road, where I surveilled the drive until the last of the drinking, laughing guests zigzagged their way from our house.

  Today though, a drink is exactly what I need, and as I’m not driving, and don’t have to work I can’t see any reason to deprive myself.

  In the end there are seven of us in the pub: myself, Mark and Ian, two men who I deduce are ex-tricks-become-friends of Darren’s, a colleague from Darren’s previous job and his boyfriend. We take a table in a corner of the pub and eat fish and chips and drink San Miguel – Darren’s favourite beer – and ponder what else was in the unfinished note.