Home Stretch

by Graham Norton

  Looking down Hope Street he could see the other cathedral glowing in the darkness. It couldn’t have looked more different, with its fat blunted spire and dark red stone turned golden by the spotlights. Connor hesitated for a moment but then reminded himself that nobody knew him here. Why shouldn’t he have a look inside the Protestant church if he wanted to? His breath trailing in the early evening air, he set off. Reluctantly he had to admit that he was enjoying himself. It was as if he had a purpose.

  Hope Street itself was quiet enough but at each junction he could see the crowds milling around downtown in search of friends or gifts. He found that he was strangely relieved not to be having to deal with Christmas this year. He hated the pressure of buying gifts and couldn’t remember the last time one of his family had given him something he genuinely wanted or liked. It had become a formal way for his parents and sister to announce that they didn’t really know him. The windows of the Philharmonic pub looked inviting and he hesitated, but then decided against going in. On the street, you had permission to be alone, but in a bar, it attracted attention or pity. He walked on.

  From outside the cathedral he could hear organ music and singing. He paused, fearing he might be interrupting a mass or service but then two people walked past him into the building, so he followed. Inside the pews were empty, save for three or four people scattered around with heads bowed or staring up into the darkness of the vast vaulted ceiling. At the far end, the choir seemed to be rehearsing. Connor didn’t recognise the music but it reverberated through the space, managing to sound both loud and distant. A few tourists were shuffling around the side aisles looking at tombs and peering into side chapels. One of them seemed younger than the others, with blond hair and a leather jacket worn over a denim one. He was taking pictures with what looked like an expensive camera. Without really deciding to, Connor began to walk towards him. The combination of the floor and his trainers produced a strange squeaking sound, so he stopped and pretended to be interested in various wall plaques and memorial windows as he studied the stranger. He was slim, and his jeans fitted in a way that none of Connor’s did. They managed to make him seem more naked than dressed. The young man pushed a hand through his long blond fringe and his jackets rose up to reveal a thin strip of tanned skin above the waistband of his jeans. It was as if he knew he was being watched, putting on a show just for Connor.

  When the man turned, Connor quickly switched his focus to a small brass panel on the wall. The blond began to walk back towards where he was standing. Although he knew it was ludicrous Connor felt his heart beating faster and he had to make a conscious effort not to hold his breath.

  ‘Interesting?’ An English accent. Not exactly posh but nor was it Scouse. Connor froze.

  ‘Sorry?’ His voice sounded like a whisper in the echoey gloom.

  ‘What you’re reading?’

  Connor turned to his new English friend. He could feel his face flushing. This man wasn’t handsome in the way some of the boys at school had been. This was what actors and models looked like. Symmetrical features placed carefully in blemish-free skin. He was smiling at Connor, almost laughing. His perfect mouth stretched back to reveal impossibly white, even teeth.

  ‘I … I wasn’t really reading it, just, like, looking at it, like.’ His breathing was slightly heavy from the effort of speaking.

  The Englishman cocked his head to one side. ‘Looking at it. You like looking?’

  Connor felt almost dizzy with embarrassment but there was an excitement as well. He managed to hold the gaze of the stranger and say, ‘I do, yeah.’ They both smiled.

  ‘Matt.’

  ‘Connor.’ They shook hands. Cool and soft. He noticed a few silver rings. Connor wondered if Matt was older than he looked. There was an air of confidence about him but perhaps it just came from looking like a model.

  ‘You’re not from here, are you?’

  ‘No. Ireland.’

  ‘Dublin? I love Dublin.’

  ‘No.’ Connor shook his head. ‘Cork.’

  This provoked no response from Matt, or at least none he felt like sharing. He seemed to be looking at the young man from Cork, as if assessing him. Connor felt as though he was a new piece of furniture that Matt was unsure would fit through the door. Connor shifted from one foot to the other.

  ‘Know anywhere nice around here to get a drink?’

  A slight fear crept over Connor. Was this all moving very fast or was he the one making assumptions? Perhaps Matt just wanted a drink? Maybe he didn’t even intend to invite Connor along. He remembered the warm lights spilling out onto the pavement. ‘The Philharmonic isn’t far from here. It looks nice.’

  ‘Right. Can I buy a Paddy a pint?’

  Connor bristled. He didn’t like being called a paddy, but far more than that he didn’t want to stop looking at this beautiful man.

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘Great. You lead the way.’ Matt put his hand on the centre of Connor’s back and encouraged him towards the door.

  In the lull after the concert across the street had begun, and before the late-night drinkers had arrived, the pub was relatively quiet. Connor sat on a low stool at a table away from the windows. He watched people’s eyes following Matt with his blond hair and tight jeans as he went to the bar. He nervously tore the corners off a beer mat. It was so obvious what Matt was and he was with him. He felt people looking at him, making assumptions about him, thinking they knew him. What made it worse was that they were correct.

  Matt put two pints of lager on the table and then sat on the stool closest to Connor. He felt their knees touch. Had it been an accident? He shifted his leg slightly, but Matt’s knee followed and pressed against him with a little more pressure.

  ‘Cheers, Paddy!’

  Connor raised his glass but couldn’t look Matt in the eye.

  ‘Cheers. Thanks.’

  ‘You’re not a Guinness fan?’

  ‘No. No. I’m a lager man. And even if I wasn’t, it’s all Murphy’s stout down where I’m from.’

  ‘I see.’ This information was evidently not interesting to Matt. He looked around.

  ‘Lovely in here. I’ve passed it a few times but first time inside. Lovely.’

  Connor agreed. This was, by quite some margin, the nicest pub he had ever been in. He felt the drink steady his nerves and his shoulders relax.

  ‘Are you on your holidays, Matt?’ He remembered being behind the bar and making stilted conversation with Europeans struggling through pints of stout they had ordered and then regretted.

  ‘No. Working. I’m a choreographer. I was doing the panto up here. Heading home tomorrow.’

  This information removed yet more tension. Whatever might happen, it was finite. He could get up right now and run off with no fear of ever bumping into this man again.

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘London. South London. Brixton. You know it?’

  ‘Never been.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll have to come visit!’ They grinned and clinked their glasses but both men knew the invitation wasn’t real.

  Connor felt he couldn’t leave after one pint because he had always been taught to buy his round, so a second pint was had. By the end of that Connor didn’t want to leave. Matt had called him handsome. He had told him that he liked his freckles. The Christmas tinsel and coloured lights took on a new sparkle and while Connor might have felt nervous, even frightened, about where this evening was leading, he also felt excited and hopeful. Matt bought them shots of some brown sticky liqueur that tasted sweet, even as it was burning his throat.

  ‘Do you want to go somewhere else?’ Matt leaned across the table so that their faces were close, so close that … Connor jerked his head back.

  ‘What’s wrong with here?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing. Will you have another?’

  Connor nodded and drained his pint.

  After that drink, Matt tried again. ‘I know a place. It’s more fun than here. They play good music. Yo
u’ll like it. Come on.’ He was standing now, holding his coat. Connor somehow knew that by agreeing to move on to this mysterious second venue, he was making a decision beyond having another drink. He pulled his duffle coat off the stool beside him and stood up. He found he needed to steady himself against the table. ‘Right, let’s go.’

  The cold air outside gave them both a bolt of energy and they headed off, laughing about nothing but the wind and the possibility of adventure. Matt knew where he was going and walked quickly while Connor, trying to button his coat, struggled to keep up.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s not far, Paddy.’

  Connor stopped walking. Matt looked back at him quizzically. ‘I don’t want to be a prick about it but I’m Irish. I’m not a paddy. OK?’

  ‘Sorry, I …’ For the first time Matt’s confidence faltered but then he grinned and continued, ‘It’s not far, Irish!’ He turned and began to walk away. Laughing, Connor followed him.

  In the pub their conversation had mostly been a monologue from Matt about the work he did and the various shows he had been involved in. Gossip about people Connor had heard of but didn’t really know. Now, his new English friend began to quiz him about back home. Where was he from? Did he have family? Why had he come over to Liverpool? Connor gave his stock answers, but he found he was tempted to say more. The combination of drink and this stranger he would never see again made him feel as if he could just blurt out the truth without consequences, like throwing a stone through a shop window and running off into the night. No. He couldn’t. To tell the truth would be to relive it, and make everything real once more. For this night to continue, he had to stick to his story. The only possibility for happiness was starting over and that meant leaving everything, especially the truth, behind.

  At first it looked as if Matt was just leading them down an alley but then Connor saw light spilling from a doorway with a small tattered awning above it. A thick-set woman with short hair was sitting on a stool just inside, a steep staircase behind her. A half-smoked cigarette perched on her lower lip. From somewhere above came the muffled thud of dance music. Connor glanced over his shoulder only to remember that no one knew him here. He could do what he wanted. Why then did he have a knot of anxiety?

  ‘It’s two pounds, boys. Is that all right?’ The woman’s voice was a disinterested monotone.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Matt replied.

  ‘Top of the stairs.’

  Matt held out his wrist and the woman pressed an inky stamp against it. She kept the stamp in the air waiting for Connor. He held out his hand. Looking down at the mark it appeared to be just a dark blue smudge. Matt was already halfway up the stairs.

  Past a deserted cloakroom, they padded along some sticky carpet towards black double doors. Beams of coloured lights could be seen through the twin porthole panes of glass. Matt put his hand against Connor’s back and pushed him though.

  After all the anticipation the greatest shock wasn’t the volume of the music or the strange stench of smoke and chemicals, it was how few people there were. Two grey-haired men in leather jackets were crouched over the far end of the bar. They looked up from their pints to see who had just walked in but only for a moment. Their heads slumped in unison back to their drinks. Four younger men in T-shirts were perched on high stools smoking and all four were laughing in a way that made Connor think they were only pretending to find something funny. To their right the dance floor disappeared around the corner. A short woman draped in an unexpected silver poncho was twirling around to the music with a grim determination.

  ‘We’re early,’ Matt explained over the music as he steered Connor towards the bar. ‘What will you have?’

  The thought of another pint made him feel queasy. He stared at the bank of brightly lit bottles. The serious-looking blonde woman behind the bar stubbed out her cigarette and stepped forward.

  ‘You again.’

  ‘Last night,’ Matt replied with a grin. ‘You’ll never see me again!’

  ‘I’m crying on the inside. One for the road?’

  ‘Bacardi Coke please and …?’ Matt turned to Connor.

  ‘The same.’

  They took their twin drinks and sat at the table behind the giddy foursome. The one in the baseball cap nodded at Matt as if he knew him. Matt muttered a greeting in return and this was followed by a quartet of giggles. Connor just stared at his drink, not wanting any explanations.

  Matt sat and put his hand on Connor’s arm. ‘This is a good last night, Irish. I’m glad I bumped into you.’ He rubbed his arm and then gripped it tightly with purpose.

  ‘Me too.’

  They sipped their drinks.

  Matt moved his hand under the table to stroke Connor’s thigh. This was overwhelming. His jeans tightened with desire. He wanted and didn’t want all and none of this. Matt was talking again.

  ‘If you ever get to London, give me a ring. Here’s my number.’ And then he was writing on a beer mat and pushing it towards Connor.

  ‘Thanks.’ Connor folded it carefully and shoved it in his constricted pocket.

  Matt slipped off his high stool and came around the table to Connor. He bent forward and whispered in a hoarse yell above the sound of the music, ‘I’ve been wanting to do this all night.’ And then without pause for explanation or objection, he kissed Connor. Now that it was happening, now that his tongue was inside his mouth, it all seemed so inevitable. Connor stood up and Matt, without releasing his embrace, turned him so that his back was against the wall. The kissing became more intense, their hips pressed against each other. Connor could feel the hardness. It was thrilling. Not just the kiss but also the music and even the sound of voices. People could see him kissing this man and it didn’t matter. There was also a seed of panic. Even in this moment Connor’s mind was racing ahead. Far from home there was no reason for this to stop, nobody to put on the brakes.

  Just as abruptly as it had begun, Matt suddenly pulled away and smiled. He brushed a finger down the side of Connor’s face.

  ‘Sexy.’

  Unsure how to respond to such an unprecedented compliment, Connor just smiled back. Matt half turned and looked over his shoulder. ‘Dance?’ he asked as he gently pulled Connor towards the dance floor. He thought he heard the boy in the baseball cap say, ‘Have fun,’ but he couldn’t be sure.

  The silver-ponchoed dancer seemed to have run out of energy and was now just stepping from side to side in the corner with her head slumped forward. The walls were lined with posters advertising a variety of club nights, strippers and drag queens. A few more people had come into the club and were standing in clumps between the bar and the dance floor. Matt pushed through them and then put his hands on Connor’s hips and they swayed to some pop song that Connor didn’t recognise. Matt was staring into his eyes and then they were kissing again. Matt’s hands moved around Connor’s hips to hold him closer and push himself forward. Connor pushed back, laughing. ‘I thought you wanted to dance?’

  Matt moved his head to the side and licked Connor’s ear. ‘I do, Irish. I want to do all sorts of things.’

  Matt twirled away into the centre of the dance floor and Connor followed him. Now that he was around the corner, he could see that there were four small booths at the far end of the space and above them on a platform the DJ’s thinning hair was scraping the ceiling. In the booth to the far right two men were buried in a deep embrace, their hands rubbing denim thighs. It wasn’t simply that they were two men kissing that caught Connor’s eye. There was something else.

  As Matt grabbed Connor’s hand to dance, one of the men in the booth reached forward for his drink and as he did so looked towards the dancers. Connor froze. It was Robbo from the house.

  It was as if the whole world simultaneously stopped and jerked into fast forward. Their eyes locked but only for a moment, before Robbo picked his glass up and turned his back. Had he seen him? Connor pulled away from Matt, clenching and unclenching his fists. He looked around at the red and green lights t
hat were stabbing the dance floor. Even over the music he could hear the high-pitched laughter of the foursome. His mouth was dry, and his heartbeat seemed out of control. Without even looking back at Matt he pushed his way past the drinkers at the edge of the dance floor and through the double doors. He half ran, half stumbled down the stairs. He could hear footsteps behind him. A small group were gathered at the door paying the woman with the short hair. Connor elbowed his way through them muttering, ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘She didn’t like the music, did she?’ A burst of laughter and jeers echoed down the alley as Connor ran towards the lights of the street at the end. He heard Matt’s voice. ‘Irish! Connor!’ followed by another volley of whoops and catcalls.

  He wasn’t sure which way to turn when he hit the wider street. Nothing looked familiar. He turned left and ran up the hill. If only he could see a landmark, then he could get his bearings. He began to swing his arms to try and stay warm. He had left his duffle coat in the club. He checked his pockets. He had his keys and his wallet. The street was curving down to the right now and the buildings were becoming smaller and less lit. This couldn’t be the right way. He was heading away from the centre of town. To his left there was a long straight laneway that led down towards some lock-up garages, but beyond that he could see brighter street lights. Connor crossed the street and ran as fast as he could, splashing through puddles, and hugging himself for warmth. He just needed to get back to the house. Everyone else would be gone by now so he could just sneak in, go to bed and tomorrow he would just avoid Robbo and … and … and that would be the end of it. Wouldn’t it? Robbo must be as panic-stricken and embarrassed as Connor, surely?