“I didn’t know your legs were injured too,” Max said, pointing at the cane.
“They weren’t. It was my pelvis and spine.” And head, shoulder, ribs, Dylan added silently. His legs had got off lightly. “I just get a bit stiff after sitting, and the cane gives me a bit of strength while I’m sorting things out before I set off. It’s also handy to have when you’re out and about late at night.”
Max’s eyes widened. “You’ve hit people with it?”
“No. I wouldn’t like to get into a real fight. Not with this.” He lifted his “clever hand”. “Too valuable to risk bashing someone with it.”
“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, what have you been up to?”
Just like before, they settled in a conversation so absorbing that the pub and its patrons disappeared from Dylan’s consciousness. Max drank in his words like he was starved of company, his lively expression emphasising the intensity of his attention. Although he didn’t understand half of what Dylan was talking about, he wanted to hear every last detail of how the hand had been developed, the other work Dylan had done on prosthetics, and how he’d changed careers so successfully.
The rest of Max’s family wasn’t mentioned, but that could be a sore point with young gay men, so Dylan wasn’t surprised. But he did want to know one thing. “Toby doesn’t work in Waitrose, does he? I saw someone who was the spitting image of you there the other night.”
“Did you? No, he’s a maths tutor for A-level students. Don’t think it would suit him, working in a supermarket. He lives at home. Saves a bit when you’re studying.”
Dylan nearly asked if Max lived at home too, but bit his tongue. He didn’t want to open that line of conversation. Not tonight. He glanced at the clock above the bar. “Hell, it’s nearly eleven.” He pulled out his phone. “Why don’t you give me your number? I can let you know when I’ll be here.”
Max looked curiously at the phone in Dylan’s hand. “What’s that?”
“My mobile phone.”
“Where are the buttons?”
“It’s an iPhone. The keyboard’s virtual.”
“A what?”
Dylan frowned, not sure if Max was being cute. “An iPhone. Made by Apple. Haven’t you ever seen one before?”
“Never heard of it. Can I look?”
Still puzzled, Dylan showed Max the screen and how the keyboard worked.
“You just touch the screen? That’s so cool.”
“Well, yeah. But it’s old tech now.”
“What’s this on the back?”
“A camera.”
“Really? You can take photos with it?”
“Of course.” Dylan quickly snapped Max’s picture, then showed him. “See? You really haven’t seen a camera phone before? They’ve all got them now.”
“I don’t pay much attention, I guess. That’s amazing. Take one of the two of us—can you do that?”
“Sure.” Dylan obliged, and Max grinned at the result. It was a rather nice photo, Dylan admitted.
Max poked the iPhone again. “But how do you get it out of there?”
“You connect it to your computer. Or to the cloud.”
“What? A cloud? You’re having me on.”
“No, the cloud. Online storage.” Max still looked confused. “Never mind. What’s your number? Do you have a mobile phone?”
Max’s expression clouded as he patted his jeans’ pockets. “Um, no?”
Did he not even know if he owned one? That was pretty flaky. “Okay, then do you have an email address?”
Max did, and Dylan entered it into his contacts. “Here’s my number if you want to call me.” He scribbled it on the back of a coaster.
“Thanks.” Max looked at the card, then up at him. “So...you’d like to see me again?”
“For a drink and a chat, sure.”
“Um...what about more? If you’re interested, I mean. Are you with anyone?”
Dylan shook his head. “No, but I’m nearly old enough to be your father.”
“I’m too young, you mean.”
“I’m not exactly a prize, Max.”
“I think you’re hot.”
The unguarded admission forced a warm flush up Dylan’s neck, and he wished he still had the scruffy beard he’d worn out of necessity more than taste before his first myoelectric prosthesis had been fitted. “Uh...thanks, but...look, let’s meet up again. I’ll email you, or you can call me. Let me, um, think about it.”
Max’s eyes lit up. “Sure.”
The barman called time. Max jumped to his feet. “Oops, better run.” He bent over and kissed Dylan’s cheek. “Please do think about it.”
Dylan smiled despite himself. “Go home, Max. I’ll see you soon.”
“You’d better. Bye!”
The warm glow from the unexpected proposition and Max’s cheerful company lasted until Dylan was halfway back to his flat and he got a text message on his mobile. Picking it up to read it—just a pointless notice from his ISP—reminded him of Max’s puzzlement over the phone. Seriously, how could you live in this country and not be aware of iPhones? The damn things were pretty much ubiquitous, as were ads and blog articles about them. Maybe the kid was a Luddite, but that didn’t fit with his obvious admiration for Dylan’s hand, and his curiosity over what Dylan did for a living.
Max was bright enough, even if his knowledge of politics was woeful. A casual remark about Cameron being a Tory dick had only won Dylan a confused half-grin. But then lots of people paid no attention to politics, and maybe Max was being polite, not wanting to drag the subject into the conversation. Max didn’t strike Dylan as a Tory voter. Fortunately.
Still, it had all been a pleasant distraction, and once again a better evening that Dylan had planned for himself. He looked at the entry he’d created for Max in his contacts list. He didn’t know if he could, in conscience, take Max up on his offer, but the kid was astonishingly good company, and decent with it. Definitely a friend in the making. Dylan could do with one of those right now.
As he sat down to watch the late news, seeing Kieran’s picture on the bookshelves gave him a jolt. Was he seriously contemplating a sexual encounter with a kid not much older than his son? He made a face at himself. What was he thinking? Okay, Max was a legal adult and looked it, even if his behaviour made him seem more Kieran’s age than his real one. But there was a fourteen-year age gap, and Dylan had never been happy seeing older gay men out with much younger boyfriends. It seemed...exploitative, even when both parties were grown up and sensible.
He sighed and turned the TV off, unable to interest himself in the latest government crapfest. He’d have to turn Max down, but surely they could remain friends. He liked Max and Max clearly liked him. It didn’t feel like Max was only talking to him hoping for a shag. Then again, Dylan hadn’t realised Max was gay at first, while Max had worked him out right away.
Getting older was a bugger. So was being single. But he’d never be able to look Kieran in the face again if he didn’t stick to his principles. Screwing someone not much older than a boy was against his personal creed.
Buying him a pint wasn’t, though. By the end of the following week, Dylan was definitely in need of some friendly company. Though he was slowly getting to know those of his fellow academics who were around over the summer, he didn’t feel relaxed enough to invite any of them out for a drink. Not to mention the fact that he wasn’t sure if inviting any of them to the local gay pub might be taken the wrong way. He hoped it would get easier once term began.
For now, Max was his only option, and a welcome one. Dylan emailed him on Thursday to let him know Dylan would be at their usual on Friday, but annoyingly, the email bounced back immediately, “User unknown.”
Bloody hell. Either he’d recorded it wrong or Max had made a mistake dictating it. Oh well. Maybe the kid would show anyway.
Unfortunately not, though Dylan sat drinking beer on his own for a solid three hours, waiting for the lanky limbs and crazy hair to make their appearance. The fail
ure to meet up dampened his spirits all weekend, unrelieved even by a rare, spontaneous and unusually enthusiastic email from his son. Kieran, Rachel, and the new man had flown south for a holiday, and Kieran was wild to show off photos from his prized camera. Dylan was glad Kieran had had such a good time, but the pictures of Rachel with her husband—soon to be Kieran’s legal father—did nothing to cheer him up.
He archived the email, along with the bounce-back message on Max’s email address. At least they weren’t in his inbox, staring him in the face every time he went to deal with work messages.
Though he spent Saturday working on some ideas he’d had for his partners, and Sunday morning reading up on the latest research papers, Sunday afternoon’s heat pushed him out into the sunshine for fresh air, though he’d rather have stayed inside to mope and nurse his back, which had stiffened up overnight. He headed down to the river, along with most of the town’s population. The heat made a short-sleeved shirt practically a necessity, so his prosthesis was thus much more obvious. People stared, or looked anywhere but at his arm, but he ignored them as he limped along the path among the families and couples enjoying the sunshine and the coolness from the river.
Fuck it, he was turning into his grandfather. Lisa would give him crap about that when she saw him next. Pity she was in France. He could have done with visiting her and Ned in Sussex this weekend.
After walking for an hour or so, he returned to town, and headed down the High Street. Seeing the supermarket reminded him he was out of milk and cereal. He needed other things but with his back the way it was, he couldn’t risk making it worse by carrying heavy bags. He’d grab the essentials, and do a grocery run in a day or two.
He regretted the impulse on discovering that half the town had decided to pick up a few things at exactly the same time as he had. His slower pace irritated other shoppers, and the naked sneers a couple of teenagers sent his way made him want to bark at them. Growling under his breath, he picked up the two items he needed and made his way to the checkout. He glared at the self-checkout aisles, refusing to try and make them work because it was a pain. The supermarkets used them to shed employees, and he hated that.
Instead he added himself to the long lines for an actual checkout operator, behind people who thought a hot Sunday afternoon, twenty minutes before the shop closed, was the perfect time to buy a months’ worth of groceries for a family of ten.
Finally it was his turn. He dumped the milk and bag of muesli on the conveyor belt, and pulled out his wallet. “That’ll be three pounds eighty pence,” the operator told him.
Dylan offered a tenner, looked up, and jerked in surprise at the man’s nametag. “You are Toby! I thought so.”
“Sir?” Toby frowned, accepting the note.
“I know your brother. I thought I saw you the other day, but he said you didn’t work here—”
Toby slammed Dylan’s change down onto the counter. “I don’t have a brother,” he said through gritted teeth. “Anything else, sir?” He turned to the person behind Dylan, pointedly ignoring him.
Dismissed, Dylan had no choice but to pick up his bag and move away from the checkout. Toby avoided glancing anywhere remotely in his direction.
Damn it, this guy had to be Max’s twin. This time, Toby’s hair was unbound and though his expression was distinctly unlike Max’s, the resemblance was unmistakeable. It wasn’t plausible that someone who looked so much like Max, was about the right age and called Toby, was not Max’s twin.
Except this Toby had no brother, or so he claimed.
What the hell was going on? Was Toby lying? Was Max? Why would either of them do that?
Dylan stared at Toby so long that he started attracting unfriendly looks from one of the other checkout operators and two customers. He had to leave or end up being arrested for being a weirdo.
He caught a bus for the short journey home, but his thoughts were so full of the mystery that he missed his stop and had to walk back, which didn’t make him any more cheerful. Hot, confused, and more than a little pissed off with life, he put his milk and muesli away and threw himself onto the couch, a gold medal winner in the miserable old bastard Olympics.
Four hours later, he was cooler and calmer, but the Max and Toby question was no clearer. The best he could come up with was that the two brothers were estranged, and Max was in deep denial. Or a pathological liar. Neither idea gave him much comfort.
He made supper, and contemplated his options. TV, web surfing, reading research papers, or a pint.
The pint won. It wasn’t much of a battle.
The pub was busy, but the warm evening had drawn most of the regulars out into the beer garden, so Dylan was able to grab the one remaining empty table inside at which he could nurse his drink and his aching back. No one bothered him except to ask if they could borrow the unused chair. No one was inclined to seek his company, which suited him fine. He would be a lousy companion right now.
The beer slipped down easily, and when he was done, he debated with himself as to whether he wanted another. He had no pressing need to get up early the next day. On the other hand, two pints would make him tiddly, and getting home was already looking dodgy, given how stiff he was. No, better to go home now. He started to get his feet under him, when he heard, “Hi, Dylan.”
Max, holding a half-pint of cider. Dylan fell back in his seat and glared up at his friend. “Where the hell have you been?”
Max stepped back, eyebrows nearly at his hairline. “What? Dylan, are you angry with me?”
Dylan took a deep breath. “No...not really. Sorry. Sit down. I’m in a shit of a mood, that’s all.”
“Oh. There’s no chair. Can I sit next to you?”
Dylan moved over and let Max in. The kid sat close and smiled uncertainly. “Did something happen?”
“No. Well, yes. How are you?”
“I’m fine. You look tired.”
“Bit sore, that’s all. I tried to email you, but it bounced back, saying the user was unknown.”
“That’s weird. Show me the address you wrote down?”
Max peered at the iPhone’s screen. “That’s right. Must be a problem with the service.”
“You do check your email, don’t you?”
“Sure. I was here on Thursday, but you weren’t.”
“Damn. I came in on Friday.”
Max nudged him with his hip. “Maybe we should make it our regular date.”
And that was not a hint Dylan planned on taking up, now or ever. “Something did happen earlier. Something strange. I saw someone called Toby at Waitrose. Checkout operator. Dead ringer for you, so of course I thought he was your brother. But he said he didn’t have a brother.”
“Toby doesn’t work in a supermarket. I told you that.”
“Yeah, I know, but he was your exact twin. And called Toby.”
“Couldn’t have been him,” Max said, shaking his head. “And he said he didn’t have a brother. So there.”
Dylan gave up. Either Max was lying or it was the world’s most unlikely coincidence. There wasn’t much point in getting into an argument over it.
“Can I buy you another drink?”
“Um, no,” Dylan said. “I was just about to go, actually.”
“Oh. Shame. I was looking forward to chatting. Maybe I could walk you back to your place? Maybe stay for coffee.”
Was that a leer? Max sounded innocent enough, but Dylan was so bad at expressions sometimes. “Max, look...I’ve been thinking about this, and I appreciate your interest, but you’re just too young for me. I’m too old for you. I have a son nearly your age.”
“A son? You didn’t mention you’d been married.”
“I wasn’t. It’s complicated.”
Max sipped his cider in silence, his expression inviting Dylan to continue. “When I was at university at Portsmouth, I shared a house with a group of friends, all fellow students. Rachel was one of the girls there, studying computer science. Very bright, very funny. A really go
od friend, but nothing more than that, although I fancied her like a lot of blokes would. Nice face, fantastic figure, you know.” Dylan looked at Max, who stared back uncomprehendingly. “Er, or maybe not. Anyway there was a party for one of our housemates’ birthday. We all got a bit drunk, and one thing led to another, snogging on the couch and that kind of thing...and we ended up having sex. Unprotected sex. I apologised the next morning, told her I was clean, and she said she was on the Pill, so that was that.”
“I thought you were gay,” Max said, his eyes fixed on Dylan’s face.
“Bi. Never have been too worried about the bits, just the person.”
“Oh. Anyway...Rachel?”
“Yeah. Turned out that the Pill failed because she was on a new medication that clashed with it. I offered to marry her, support her, pay for a termination. Whatever she wanted. It was her choice, obviously. She had a bit of a think about it, and decided she wanted to keep the baby, but she definitely didn’t want to marry someone just because she was preggers. So I supported her during the pregnancy, paid child maintenance from the start, and did what I could to be a father to the boy without being, you know, too intrusive. She was fine about it, let me build up a good relationship with the boy, and we stayed good friends. We both ended up working in Durham so I saw a lot of her and the boy. She was wonderful when I had the accident. She helped me out a lot.”
“What’s his name?”
“Kieran. He’s fourteen.”
“Dylan, that’s nothing like as old as me. I’m an adult.”
“I know. But...from my perspective, you’re not that different.”
Max pulled a face. “There’s a hell of a difference between a fourteen-year-old and a twenty-year-old. Can’t you remember back that far?”
“Ouch. Okay, point taken. Maybe I’ve been a bit hasty—”
“Yes, maybe you have.” Max rolled his eyes dramatically. “So?”
“So...the other problem is that it’s been a long time since I was with anyone. I’m rusty.”
“I could oil you.”
Dylan pointed at the kid’s face. “You’re a right caution.”
Max just grinned, and drained his cider. “So where are Rachel and Kieran now?”
Twin Effect Page 2