by Johnny Mains
The boys were not effete, not by a long stretch; they played rugby and cricket for their overpriced school in Berkshire, climbed and skied in Scotland, and with their fellows chased the pretty village maidens who they gamely referred to as ‘tarts.’ They were growing into perfect specimens of manhood. For the past two years they had enjoyed the hospitality of their peers during Easter and summers vacs. While dad went to his whitewashed villa with wrap-around sun terraces on a golf course in Mar-bay-ah, the boys headed to the Highlands or the Vendee. There they would dress in faded shorts and old-fashioned rugby jerseys with the collars turned up, lingering in the company of fragrant virgins called India and Kitty, Flora and Hermione. When they returned from the first such excursion, nothing back at home was ever quite the same again. Their father, who had amassed his not inconsiderable pile through plumbing supplies, was frankly appalled when they told him how the hot water packed up at the Hon. Angus’s parent’s place, as it so often did. And then there were the high flush toilet cisterns, with bits of old rope attached to the pulling mechanism!
‘Bit of a hoot, really,’ they said, echoing Angus.
‘Nah. You should bring some of yer mates here, let them see some decent plumbing, proper karseys,’ he had offered.
He was justifiably proud of the five-bed-five-bath house, a symbol of his upward mobility from Peckham to the leafy acres of Wimbledon Common. Each en suite was a different colour: peach, champagne, sea mist, eau de nil, sun blush. All very tasteful, very classy, and chosen by Staci after consultation with the developer.
‘Mmm,’ said Anton.
‘Yah, right,’ said Nic.
Christmas was looming. Before the twins were able to go and frolic on the ski slopes with India, Angus, and the gang, there was the small matter of the festivities to be endured. The Christmas period itself was bad enough with relatives descending on them, but at least there was some perverse fun to be picked from the carnage, and Dad’s legendary generosity also helped. The real problem was New Year, more specifically, New Year’s Eve. A big party. Catering. Live music. Karaoke. And dancing. Lots and lots of it.
Anton said, ‘The thought of it, Nic . . .’
‘Simply chills the blood,’ finished his brother, the older by six minutes.
Some weeks previously they had tried to negotiate a peaceful withdrawal from the end of year revelries.
‘Thing is, Dad, some of the gang will be heading up to Aviemore after Christmas. Ruairidh’s people have a place. They’d love us to join them.’
The reality was that an invitation was yet to be forthcoming, but the twins would worry about that at a later date. The priority was to avoid another ghastly New Year’s Eve with Ron.
‘I daresay they would, Nicky. I don’t doubt it. However I want my boys here for New Year. We’ll have everyone round, just like we’ve always done. They all talk about it for weeks afterwards, and it wouldn’t be the same without my boys.’
Here the proud paterfamilias stretched up and clapped an arm round each of them, the fruit of his loins. He slapped their backs with an enthusiasm which neither son felt the occasion merited.
‘Tell yer what, get yer mates to come here, Roar-ree and Anus and all the rest of ’em.’
His sons chose to ignore the charmless pun on their friend’s name.
‘Plenty of room for everyone. Whaddaya say?’
He beamed up at them, turning his head from one boy to the other, his small brown eyes twinkling with the excitement of it all.
Nic paled. Some time ago he and Anton had made an unofficial pact that none of their friends could ever cross the threshold of the family home. Not one. Never. It would be a slow and painful social death.
‘Don’t think so, Dad,’ he said.
‘No,’ added Anton. ‘They’ve made their plans. It’s a . . .’
‘Family tradition thing. They go straight up there . . .’
‘Right after Christmas every year,’ finished the younger boy, honing the lie.
They hoped Dad would empathise with the notion of family + tradition as it was close to his heart. They were to be disappointed.
‘Well, never mind, eh. You can go and join ’em after New Year’s Day.’
Nic made a last effort, a reckless bid for freedom.
‘Yah, but we sort of told them we’d join them before Hogmanay . . .’
‘Hogmanay schmogmanay, you stay here.’
‘But it’d be rude not to keep our word,’ said Anton.
Ron’s currant sized eyes glittered and turned as black as coals. He removed his hands from the boys’ backs and walked around them, rubbing a hand over his cropped bullet head.
‘They’re rather expecting us,’ continued Anton.
Their father rounded on them, faster than a bull turning into the matador’s cape.
‘Fuckin ’ell,’ he said. ‘What have I spent on your education? What part of ‘no’ don’t you get? N – O equals no. No. Got that?’
A stubby forefinger waggled under each nose, as Ron spun from Anton to Nic, then back again.
Nic towered over his father by some six inches and opened his mouth for one final attempt.
‘But we told them . . .’
He got no further. Ron drew back his hand with the be-ringed fingers and slapped the face of his first-born. A pistol crack, a stinging, then it was over. Nic stood his ground and did not even touch the smarting cheek nor staunch the trickle of blood. As his face reddened with the blow, his father’s was wreathed in smiles once more.
‘Right, now we got that sorted. Good boys, good boys. We’ll have a laugh, few bevvies, bit of a dance. Just like we always do,’ he said, treating them to a twirl in the manner of an overweight middle-aged Greek gigolo. He clapped his hands together, rubbing them with unbridled joy.
‘Yeah, just like we always do.’
The incident was not referred to again, and Nic and Anton chose not to speak of it when alone together. There was no need. Ruairidh’s people eventually issued an invitation, and so with Ron’s benediction, the brothers made plans to join their friends in Scotland early in the New Year for some skiing once the public transport system was accessible again. Next year there was the promise of seventeenth birthdays and driving tests and cars, which assuaged the disappointment somewhat. But only somewhat.
Christmas Day came and with it some spinster aunts and Staci’s aged parents, who bought a giant jigsaw puzzle for the boys. Nic and Anton managed to smile and permit furry kisses from the old girls and bore it all with a stoicism that is only found in teenagers who have been given very large cheques to spend at will.
December 30th saw the house a hive of activity as a small army of party planners took up occupation in preparation for the event the following evening. Staci didn’t want to wear herself out as she said it might bring on ‘one of my ’eads,’ but anyway Ron was happy to hand over management to a team of well drilled and highly paid professionals.
His theme, according to the printed invitations, was ‘Saturday Nite (sic) Feeva (sic)’ and guests were expected to arrive suitably attired. He had opted for a white suit with waistcoat, and a black satin shirt. In anticipation of the night to come, his mood brightened while that of his sons’ darkened. The vast array of cheques, Christmas socks and jigsaw puzzles gathered dust in their respective bedrooms, overlooked and ignored, as their loathing for the forthcoming event grew and grew. With every chair that was moved, every glass that was polished, they flinched anew. The ceremonial installation of the glitter ball in the conservatory was the final straw.
‘It’s like being crucified,’ moaned Anton.
‘Yah, like the nails going in,’ agreed Nic.
‘It’s horrible, too horrible . . .’
‘. . . to contemplate. He and Barbi are having a dress rehearsal.’
That was their private name for Staci. Her similarity to the
plastic toy with the pneumatic body and overly large blonde hair was not lost on them.
‘Trying on their disco king and queen outfits? Oh God no. I don’t think . . .’
‘. . . I can stand much more.’
‘No, me neither.’
‘If only . . .’ said Nic.
‘Yes, if only . . .’ said Anton.
They sighed in tandem.
Anton looked at Nic. Nic looked at Anton. They had inherited their mother’s very pale blue eyes and dark brown hair, plus her slender build and height.
As each boy gazed deep into his twin’s pair of icy orbs, words were no longer necessary for empathy was total. Their mother had died when they were eight and it was a capacity they discovered within themselves from that time onwards. Their father found their silent communication unnerving to say the least, that and the tendency to finish each other’s sentences. Staci agreed with her husband, it was downright creepy. In fact, she privately thought they were a pair of insufferable little snots, with their posh airs and their rugby matches, smelly, cracked old Barbour jackets, and skiing trips, and friends who spelled their names all wrong. I mean, Rory was spelled R-O-R-Y for God’s sake, not Ruairidh.
Anton went to his father’s room, the room with the super-king-sized bed, where Staci would join him on occasion. Birthdays, anniversaries, good wins for Chelsea, that sort of thing. The arrangement between husband and wife worked well enough, though she preferred to wait for the bruises to heal between visits.
Ron was standing in front of a full-length mirror in his dressing room, posing in the white suit and black shirt. The jacket was hooked over one finger and slung carelessly over his shoulder. He seemed strangely unembarrassed at being discovered thus, and unless he had lost weight in the week since Christmas, the only other possible explanation was that he was wearing a corset.
His second born was almost lost for words.
‘Wow,’ he managed.
‘Waddya think? Yer old man still got it then? Eh?’
His father came at him, aimed a jocular punch at his son’s upper torso in the way so beloved of men of a certain age. He exuded bonhomie from every pore.
‘Goodness,’ said Anton. He smiled.
‘What you two rascals up to then? Getting yerselves something fancy sorted for tomorrow night? Something to get the girls goin’ then, eh?’
This was accompanied by a nifty bit of footwork and a swift one-two jab-jab at Anton’s body.
If he touches me once more I might just break his back, thought the boy. He was capable.
‘Well yes, we’re working on something. Something a bit special.’
He only avoided the two playful taps his father was about to place on both his cheeks by sidestepping a little and pretending to arrange his fringe in the mirror.
‘Brilliant! Bleedin’ marvellous!’
‘Pleased?’
‘’Course I am. My two boys! Who wouldn’t be?’
Anton took the plunge.
‘So well, all that unpleasantness before, when we said we wanted to go to Scotland straight after Christmas . . . ?’
He let the question hang. He knew his father would pounce on it.
‘Nah. All forgotten. Me and my boys, that what counts.’
Ron looked ready to split in two; he was beaming harder than seemed possible. And was that a glint of something moist in his eyes? His lovely boys were planning something special for New Year’s Eve, and it was all for him! Blessed, that’s what he was. Blessed.
Anton sighed, suddenly downcast despite this tender rapprochement.
‘Thing is, Dad . . .’
‘Woss up, son? Woss wrong?’
‘Thing is, Nic’s a bit, well, he’s still a bit hurt by um, what happened then. The slap thing? I know we had a great Christmas and all that, but you know how he takes things to heart, and well . . .’
He trailed off, leaving his father to ponder a while.
Having given him time to consider, he then applied his masterstroke.
‘Dad, could you, would you tell him you’re sorry? You don’t even need to say it to his face. You could write it. Just let him know you’re sorry. Then we can all start afresh. New year, new start, all that?’
Ron looked up at his younger son, in some ways so much the wiser than his sibling.
‘Nicky put you up to this, ’as he?’
‘Oh Lord, no. He’d be really hacked off if he knew . . .’
Anton smiled, a picture of innocence, and tossed his fringe out of his eyes to gauge his father’s response.
Ron went to his bureau, took a blank piece of paper, wrote just one word on it and signed it. He folded it over, handed it to the boy and said,
‘Garn, now get outta here.’
As Anton left his father’s room and walked the length of the upper landing towards his brother’s, he heard the dreaded opening bars of ‘Stayin’ Alive’ and his father joining in with the lyrics.
Some hours later the house, decked in all its seasonal finery, was in darkness. Staci slept in her own room, as she didn’t feel strong enough for a visit with her husband just yet. She couldn’t leave it too long though. Due gratitude must be shown for the Lexus. Ron slumbered in the master suite while frost twinkled on the stone lions at the gateposts.
The house held its breath for the excitement that was to come.
A figure crept into Ron’s room; a shadow stole across the carpet and leaned over the hillock in the bed that was his body. Somewhere a clock struck three and the only other sounds were his own measured breathing, and the slightly shorter breaths of the intruder.
A hand reached out, touched the sleeping man on the shoulder, then shook him. Struggling with the duvet, he fought his way to consciousness, angered at the invasion of his domain.
‘Whatthefucksgoinon?’
Anton revealed himself.
‘Shhh, Dad. It’s only me.’
‘Tony?’
‘Dad, you need to come downstairs. I think there’s someone in the garage. I couldn’t sleep and I thought I heard something. I went into Nic’s room, and he’s gone down already.’
Ron shot out of bed, and for a big man could move with some speed when stirred. Without even bothering to get slippers or robe – no need as there was under-floor heating, and the house was kept at a constant temperature throughout the night – he hurried past his son, out onto the landing and down the curved staircase. He didn’t stop to consider how his younger boy might have heard noises travel all the way from the downstairs garage area to the bedrooms on the upper floor, but logic did not dictate his reactions. Concern for his Aston Martin and for Staci’s Lexus did.
‘Those fuckin caterers, they’ve been sniffing round all day. I bet one of them’s behind it. Cunts. Woss Nicky gone down there for? Fuckin idiot. He could get his head stove in.’
With Anton hard on his heels he went through a connecting door from the hallway to the garage, which was in darkness. Ron slapped the switch, once, twice, nothing happened. Unbeknown to him, the overhead light bulbs had been loosened some moments before. He heard a movement and saw a figure beside his Aston Martin, bending over the windscreen.
‘Oi you, just fucking stop right there. Tony, go and phone the rozzers.’ He couldn’t help himself, he often spoke like a character from a second-rate television drama. Anton stayed put.
In the murkiness of the garage, the only faint light was from the buffed bodywork of a quarter of a million pounds worth of motorcars. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom the figure propped against his prize car began to take on a more familiar aspect.
‘Nicky? That you?’
‘Yah. ‘S’me.’
Ron stumbled over to him. ‘Where’d the fuckers go?’
He slept in brown silk pyjamas with his initials on the pocket and presented no immediate threat. How t
he ‘burglars’ would have laughed!
‘Panic over, there was nobody here after all,’ said Nic, lounging on the car’s bonnet. ‘Must have . . .’
‘Imagined it,’ added Anton, joining him at the car.
Ron leaned over, his hands on his knees, as if he had been running and needed to catch his breath.
‘Thank Christ for that. Fuck me. Coulda been nasty.’
‘Could have,’ agreed Nic.
‘Very,’ said Anton.
‘Still could,’ said Nic, for his brother’s ears only.
‘Mmmm,’ said Anton.
Their father rose to his full five feet and five inches.
‘Right. Well then, get away from the car, and let’s go back to bed.’
Neither son moved.
‘I said, get away . . .’
‘From the car. Yah, heard you,’ said Nic.
Until the night’s act of assumed, if thwarted, heroism, the boys had been banned from the garage for the past three years since one of them – he never knew which – had scratched that season’s Ferrari with careless parking of a bike. Their bicycles from that day forth were left in a specially constructed shed.
Suddenly and swiftly, working as one and with no prompting, Nic and Anton, graceful as black cats, moved towards Ron. They pounced. His feet left the ground as he was lifted onto a footstool, barely thirty centimetres high. Anton wrapped him in an embrace that was designed purely to pinion his arms at his sides and confound his struggles.