by Claire Davis
“Yeah. I guess.” He brushed his mouth against Oskar’s then held still. “I’ve never kissed a boy before. Or a girl.”
“Neither have I. I’ve got alcohol breath.”
“I’ve kissed my cat, though, but not like this.”
“Your cat?”
A limb explosion ensued. Oskar grabbed at Bear’s hair, wanting to do something tremendous, but not knowing what. Bear held his mouth still, so close Oskar could feel trembling. “Are we kissing now? Is this a kiss?” Bear’s lips moved open and shut. “What do we do next? I’ve kissed my arm.”
“I think we shut up.” Oskar opened his mouth wide and let instinct take over. He moved his lips against Bear’s. It made his heart beat wildly and his hands grip harder. The tip of Bear’s tongue nudged his. He pushed back.
“Wow,” Bear finally whispered into Oskar’s mouth. “You’re not as hairy as the cat.”
****
“Disgusting,” Oskar declared. Vomit was on the old swivel chair, the floor and even the wall. The tiny disabled loo cubicle stank even after he’d cleaned up with extra-strength wipes. “Morris would never have transmitted drunk and spewed all over his records.” He scrubbed until no residue of sick remained, then placed several layers of thick kitchen towel on the seat before collapsing. “I dunno why I even come here. It’s dumb.”
He looked through songs on his tablet. Without thinking, he was soon talking into the microphone and switching on the reception buttons. “Not like anyone can hear, is it?” But sometimes he was sure someone was listening. “See you all same time next week. Hospital radio!” He switched off abruptly and thrust the chair under the desk, because he wouldn’t be coming anymore. There was a lot of stuff he wouldn’t be doing anymore—like speaking to Bear and Pink, and even Carol HS. Because they were losers and he didn’t need them, or anyone. Only lame-heads needed friends. Didn’t need them telling him stupid secrets or snuggling him like the night before.
Bear.
No.
They could all fuck off because here he was, at college, alone, doing the very thing he’d worked his arse off for, for the last two years, and nothing, absolutely Madonna nothing, was going to come in this rolling stone’s way.
But the room pulled him back. Three times he held the door handle firmly, as if to leave. The first time, his hand was steady. Images of Mum, Morris and Bear were safe in the deep recesses of the get lost areas of his brain, where he had control of the most powerful kind.
The second time, he actually yanked the handle down and held it there, just to prove to himself how strong he was.
On the third, something weak and ridiculous slid down his face. “Shit,” he said brokenly, and collapsed back in the sick chair. His head fell onto the controls as a wave of wet bleakness exploded. He pressed play. “I miss you, Morris. You knobhead. Why the fuck did you have to go and die?”
Chapter 10: Don’t Pull That Plug
Gareth
Dear Father,
I made an idiot of myself. I’m all churned up. I hate them. I hate myself. I’m writing this diary in two parts—first and second instalment. This is instalment one, and I warn you—it’s bad. It’s the worst.
I acted like a total fool. Don’t expect that will surprise you as I’ve always been a dumb-ass. If only I’d been like John maybe things would be different.
So here we go. Imagine there is music of doom playing in the background, not that you care enough to.
Last night, some of the boys met at midnight to do a séance. They were whispering about it all day. Even Jerk1 and Jerk2 from my room went, along with a bottle of whiskey.
Dad, I wasn’t gonna go, and I thought the whole idea was crazy. No-one wants me around, to be honest. I’ve stopped trying to join any of the clubs and anyway I don’t mind reading on my own behind the library. I miss peace and quiet. I think that’s what I miss, anyway.
But then John actually came right over and spoke to me! And that sounds like nothing, maybe, but I stammered and stuttered like the idiot I am. He just stood there all patient and smiley. We were in the hall having a talk-to about revision and not shirking now, and all that stuff. Then, at the end, we were meant to partner up and discuss aspirations—yeah, just like you had to after the rehab. Remember? I was creeping out the door so no-one had to be my partner, more to save them from the embarrassment than anything, when someone pulled me back.
John!
Dad, my face went all red like a beet and all I could think was how much I wished I’d looked at my hair and changed my clothes.
“Hey, Gareth. You want to partner up with me?”
He kind of looked me up and down as he said it, but I absolutely did not think of dirty ways of partnering up, Dad. I didn’t think of anything, but he smiled at me like I was really interesting and—wait for it—put his hand on my arm! Jeez, Dad. I wish I’d said something cool, but I didn’t. I went something like, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’d love to and let me be your servant and look at you forever.”
Hah-hah, of course I didn’t. So we sat down together at a table and instead of saying nasty stuff like usual, the other boys kept on patting my back as they walked past to their own tables, as if I was one of them. It was weird, and I know they hate me but still, it felt good. I guess that’s superficial?
But the best thing was, he kept nodding and asking me questions. Oh my god. He has this way of looking in your eyes that makes the whole world stop and you know you’d do anything to keep him there looking. So, he asked me about next year, and I say I’m going to college to do zoology, and then he said the coolest thing, like ever. I’ve set it out like a play so you can imagine us:
John: Wow that is very interesting, Gareth. And I’m not surprised because I always thought you seemed like a very moral person. (He actually said that.)
Me: Gulp.
John: But what I meant was—what are you going to do?
Me: Do? (I was lost, Dad.)
John: Me for instance, I shall be going to Oxford (obviously) to study law, but what I shall be doing is getting more into politics and finding myself. Years of the confines of school and family have stifled my inner self. I need to explore the inner me. Do you get me, Gareth?
Me: Gulp. (I think I love him.)
John: How about you? Has anyone ever told you, by the way? You have gorgeous eyes. (At this point, he put his hand on my knee under the table, and I died—and woke up—and got this huge boner. I know you won’t mind me telling you as it’s not like you’re ever going to read this anyway, so what the hell. I’m gay. Not that you will care as you have many faults such as neglecting your child, but homophobia is not one of them.)
Me: A noise.
John: (Moving his hand up and down my leg.)
Me: (In a funny voice) Um, I don’t know. To be happy, I guess.
John: Profound, Gareth. Can I call you G?
Me: You can call me shithead and I won’t care.
Hah-hah. Didn’t really say that.
Then, he asked me if I wanted to come with him later that night, to the séance in the woods. What do you think I said? Yes, of course! Oh god, Dad. We’re getting to the nasty part. If only it stopped right there and never went any further than John talking to me. When I got back to my room, Jerk1 and Jerk2 were sitting on their beds waiting for me, but instead of the usual violence, they were nice. No punches or kicks, nothing. I admit, I thought it suspicious but I was too excited about John to care.
I couldn’t sleep up to eleven when I’d agreed to meet John, and the two jerks were talking anyway. I made a lot of plans in my head about me and John. How we could go walking together and chat about life, stuff like that. Kissing. Stupid, I know. I bet you’re laughing at me now. Anyway. Then it was eleven, and we were sneaking outside and down to the woods.
It was cool, but not cold. My heart was beating, and beating with thinking about meeting John and the things he’d said earlier. And, yeah, about his hand on my knee. It happened really fast. Something was stuck over
my head and about a million hands pushed me onto the ground. I don’t think I even fought back, I was so shocked. They tied me up next to a tree with my eyes covered and a scarf, like a gag, round my mouth. I did panic then, Dad. I started trying to get out but I couldn’t. Those bastards had tied me up good. I think I would have gone out of my mind then, but John started talking, telling me it was just for the séance and for fun, and if I just kept quiet, it would be over in a few minutes and I could be his special friend.
Boy: He’s crying. We should untie him. We’re going to get into a lot of trouble, John. You were meant to get him ready for this!
John: Gareth? Please just calm down. No-one will hurt you, I promise. We just want to play some songs and have a séance, with you as a sacrifice. It’s a game, that’s all. Understand?
Boy: I am going to beat you into the ground if he doesn’t shut up, John.
John: Please, Gareth.
Me: Nod.
John: OK, good. I’m going to take off the pillow case and scarf. Please don’t shout because if the masters hear, we’ll be in deep shit. OK?
Me: Nod. (Still shit-scared but yeah, I’d do anything for John.)
John: I’m taking it off now. See—we’re just here, right by the school? I’m sorry if we scared you. (He actually wiped the tears from my face.) It doesn’t seem so funny now. Maybe we should just go back? He’s crying. I’m sorry, Gareth.
Boy: Nah, he’s OK. I’ve opened the drink. Hold him down and get his mouth open.
They forced the alcohol down my throat, and played a load of dumb songs. John helped them do it. I was uncomfortable and cold but I put up with it, just to be John’s friend. I know that’s fucking stupid but that is how low I was, Dad.
Here comes the horrible part. I can hardly write about it.
I must have fallen asleep because I woke up suddenly, from a noise like an animal. I was still tied to a tree but everyone had gone. Yes, that’s right. They left me out there all on my own. I should have shouted. You know why I didn’t and so do I, so let’s not bother with whys.
The worst thing, I wanted a pee so bad I had to just do it in my pants.
And that is the end of part one. I leave with me sat tied to a tree in the middle of the night, cold and crying.
Love, your idiot son.
****
Oskar
Bear-Mum-Morris.
Mum-Bear-Morris.
While Bear was making coffee, Oskar hurried out for an early morning walk. If he saw Bear, he knew to expect death by embarrassment, plus he hadn’t done his hair yet.
Had Bear seen him as he slept?
“Morning,” said the postman at the hostel entrance. “Load of parcels for you lot today. Will you sign for them?”
“Sure.”
The instant the postman left, Oskar grabbed two letters and a small box for Stella-Artois and shoved them deep into his pockets. Why should she get them when he got nothing?
A short walk from the hostel was a park, with swings and benches. It was the kind of place no-one would associate him with. No-one like Bear. Oskar was fairly certain his jeans had stayed on throughout the experience though he remembered Bear touching his stomach and chest.
Kissing under his neck.
Holding his hips.
Gripping his arse.
“You have to fucking stop this,” he told himself firmly, as his dick hardened again at the memory of lying on top and grinding until they both…
Came.
Orgasm.
Creamed.
Went to heaven on a pink cloud of joy.
Oskar enthusiastically hyperventilated. No good could possibly come of physical frivolity. It was a distraction from studies, and in the end even someone as lame as Bear would take-take-take and Oskar would be the one left holding the pieces. At least, that’s what the songs always said. No. He would be firm with Bear—tell him to get lost—make it clear—insult him so there were no misunderstandings—until he buggered off. The wind blew Oskar’s hair around his head. As he closed his eyelids, he remembered Bear’s face underneath him.
“Here you are.”
Oskar shrieked with shock as the aroused half-dream was rudely interrupted by a man plonking his irritating arse down next to him. “Jesus Christ! You almost gave me a heart attack leaping on me like that!” he shouted. “What the fuck?”
“Sorry.” Bear squeezed his arm. A neurological set of instructions fired around Oskar’s body leaving him staring wide-eyed, at a loss for words. “I thought I’d come find you.” He smiled. Dimples appeared in both cheeks. “Get it out the way.”
Oskar gestured his arms but no words came out. The craziness in his head seemed to still with the wind. It gave a final gust then the park was quiet except for the morning birds.
“Go on, I’m ready.” Bear laughed. As he threw his head back, his Adam’s apple moved up and down. “Shout and scream. Push me? Say cutting things. Call me an elephant-dung eater. Just do it, then we can go into town and get breakfast. It’s on me.” He raised his hand towards Oskar—who was sitting like a stupid statue—and pushed the hair from his face. “Honeybunny.”
Oskar tried to sneer, because it was all he had left; but nothing happened except a squeak. He watched Bear’s hand against his skin and summoned strength.
“Come on,” Bear urged. “I’ve noticed you hate straight talking, so…” he drew breath, “last night was terrible. Worst night of my life. I hated every minute.” His voice changed pitch several times. “Your hair is a mess. I never want to do it again.” He bit his lip. “Ever. You contrary bastard.”
It was unprecedented and weird but he threw himself right at the same time Bear moved. They landed with a crash of force. Too many arms and heads. He couldn’t stop his lips or his hands. He didn’t want it to stop. He wanted it to go on and on, and for Bear to keep moving his hand on Oskar’s jaw and face.
“Not contrary,” he said between kisses. “Don’t stop doing that.” Finally, they sat side by side. Oskar looked straight ahead, face rough and chapped from the kissing, and last night. “Shit.”
Bear laughed. “Are you OK? My tactics worked!”
Oskar appraised while holding Bear’s hand. “No, they didn’t work. I totally wasn’t going to shout or anything anyway. I’m a calm, collected person. You ought to know that by now.” Later on, he’d be going over all this and wondering where he’d gone wrong, or if he’d gone wrong. It didn’t feel wrong. “I wish I’d had time to put my make-up on.” He looked at their hands. “This doesn’t mean I won’t shout later. Just so you know.”
“Understood. Call me Lollipop.”
“Lollipop.”
****
“What do you mean, it’s for me?” Oskar stared uncomprehendingly at the parcel. “It’s not for me,” he said firmly. “It’ll be for Stella or Pink.”
“No, definitely for you—says Oskar Braithwaite on the label. See? Special delivery to the hospital along with all the rest. You’re meant to come pick them up, only you never bothered, so yours truly here got the lucky task.” The caretaker, Tony, shoved the box forward. Oskar peered.
“Others? You mean this isn’t the only one?”
“Yes, others. Dating back ’bout a month. And that one’s for your friend.”
“Friend?” Oskar spat. “I don’t have any friends.” The walls began undulating in nauseous waves of sickness.
Tony rolled his eyes. “You students are very dramatic. Just take the boxes, will you?” He ambled off, muttering.
Oskar eyed up the shiny things with suspicion, an idea forming. Cautiously, he touched one, and then pulled his hand away sharply. “Bear. Idiot.” Balancing the parcels in his arms, he raced up the corridor to bang on the door. “Did you send these?” he demanded, and placed the parcels on the floor. Kissing and groping was one thing; sending lovey-dovey shit was another. “I never said you could send me parcels! One thing I hate is unnecessary shows of affection and affectation. What’s in it, anyway? Not that I want it, wh
atever it is.” He glared at the boxes. “What is it?”
Bear laughed and pulled him inside. “What?” He grappled with Oskar, who pushed him away first time then gave in and kissed him back fiercely. “What you talking about?”
“Two huge boxes came by special delivery—one for you and the other for me. Tony says there are others, too, down at reception. Yours is grey stripes.”
Bear’s mouth fell open and Oskar saw he wasn’t lying. “Don’t open it! It could be dangerous, from that stalker.” He cautiously nudged the boxes into his room with a foot. “We should call the police. What if it’s a bomb?”
“No,” Oskar said hastily. “No need for the police. Is it ticking?”
“Doesn’t seem to be.” Bear stroked the box. “Yours has ribbons too. Who’s sending you ribbons? I wish I’d thought of sending you parcels with ribbons.” Red engulfed his cheeks. “You’ve got an admirer. I hate them. My ribbons are gonna be much better than these!”
Oskar snorted, but the jealousy affected his trousers. “What am I? A gentleman from the Jane Austen era? Let’s open them.” He ripped the paper off. “It’s a big, thick box with a lid. I’m taking it off.” He spoke slowly. “Next, I shall lift one corner and you look inside. OK, Lollipop? Nice and slow.” Bear sat close and leaned into Oskar’s side. He smelled of soap and deodorant, and something like Saturday mornings.
“Yeah.” Bear’s arm crept around Oskar’s shoulders. “If we go, we go together.”
Oskar toyed with several answer possibilities: a sarcastic quip about going off together—massive shove—head-butt—kiss. He thought for a few seconds, but the box was too intriguing to ignore in favour of emotional conundrums. “Right. I’m going in.” Cautiously, he lifted one corner. “What is it? Can you see?”
“It—looks like that stuff you put on your face?”
Oskar flung the lid off and threw it across the room. “Oh, wow!” he breathed. Inside the box was an assortment of expensive make-up and accessories, of the kind only seen on a screen. Bear squeezed his shoulders, and somehow their heads ended up pressing together. Weirdly, he thought of Mum and going with her to buy cheap hairspray and lipstick when he was a kid…and then the box he’d hidden under the bed for years until she found it and shit a brick. He pushed the box away on the floor.