Hideous Beauty

by William Hussey

  “Dylan, do you know you’re in shock?” He tutted at himself. “I’m sorry, stupid question. Now look, I can’t sugar-coat this for you, I wish I could. What you’ve experienced tonight…” He shot a glance at the door and then gave me the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. And suddenly I knew who this man was. It woke me up, just a little. “It’s better for your generation than it was for mine,” he confided. “When we lost someone we loved it wasn’t always easy to show our grief. Not that any of that matters tonight, or at all, really. The grief’s exactly the same. But, Dylan, it is important that you do grieve. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” I told him. “Course.”

  He looked uncertain. “All right,” he said finally. “Now I’m going to attend to a bit of paperwork while the nurse takes a look at your head, and then I’ll let this police officer in to see you.”

  Right about then my brain went into free fall. Time got confused somehow. I have my head glued by the nice nurse, and I freak her out, and now the police officer is coming in just as I’m remembering my chat with the doc. Honestly, I have no idea what the officer looks like or what he’s saying to me.

  “Well, that’s enough for now,” he murmurs as I resurface. “A horrible accident. I’m really sorry about your friend.”

  My friend? Does he mean El? I shake my head. “So what about the guy who rescued me?” I wonder why I haven’t asked this before. Shock, I guess, just like the doc said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The person who pulled me out of the car? Didn’t he help Ellis too?”

  The officer’s frown deepens. It’s weird because even now that I’m concentrating, I still can’t really see what he looks like.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Jesus. Why is this man so dense? I’m not asking him the socio-economic causes of the French Revolution. It’s a simple bloody question.

  “Who,” I say slowly, “saved me?”

  And as I say it, the hideous extension of the question plays out in my mind: Who saved me…and why did they leave El to die? Because there was time. There had to be. The car wasn’t all that far from the shore. Whoever dragged me out of the window only had to wade back a little way and drop me on the bank, then return for El. In fact it’s simpler even than that. El wasn’t trapped by his seatbelt. It would have been just as easy – no, easier – to pull him free first, then try to unharness me.

  But they didn’t do that. Which means it must have been a choice.

  Ellis, they deliberately left you to drown.

  “Who was it?” I shout.

  Because I want to find them and then I want to kill them. I don’t care that they saved my life. I don’t want this life. Ellis is dead, I believe that now, and it’s just like the poem says: Darkness there and nothing more. So who showed me mercy and condemned him? Who stood by and let the lake claim my El? I rise and fall with these questions as I tear the bed sheets from my body. I’m throwing things, I don’t know what, pushing, wrenching, scratching at my own face until the glue that holds my cheek together breaks apart.

  “WHO WAS IT? WHO SAVED ME? BECAUSE THEY KILLED HIM! THEY MURDERED HIIIIIIIIM!”

  And then I see Dr Luthor swim into view. I’m on the floor. Has the officer knocked me down? Did I fall? I don’t know. I just don’t. The doc kneels over me, cradles my shoulders, smooths the blood from my face. His voice switches: softness for me, sharp orders for the nurse. He names drugs that sound like characters in a comic book.

  “He was mine,” I sob, and he nods and says:

  “I know, Dylan. I know.”

  “I miss him.”

  “I know. You will.”

  And I feel the tiniest scratch.

  The world becomes distant again. Edges blur. It’s like drowning, I think.

  “I loved him. He was mine. I miss him, I love him.”

  “All right. All right.”

  I’m lifted; sheets are straightened around me.

  “They saved me. They left him. Why?”

  Luthor shakes his head. He’s a very long way away now. His glasses gleam like car headlights failing in the blackness of the lake.

  “But there wasn’t anyone,” says the officer. “A passing motorist saw some of the debris in the road and called it in. The kid was alone on the shore when we found him. No one rescued him, doctor. He got himself out of that car. So why…?”

  “Guilt,” whispers the doctor. “Survivor’s guilt maybe. He’ll realize the truth, in time…”

  Mr Morris treats me to a half-hearted disapproving stare, then sighs and drops into the chair behind his desk.

  “Your grades are good, Dylan, no one’s disputing that. In fact, I’ve never had a better student in all my years of teaching… Oh, no offence, Mr Berrington.”

  Mike looks up from his desk where he’s been role playing strategies for the footie team, crumbs of rubber eraser standing in for players.

  “Huh? Oh, no offence taken, Mr M. Please, continue finding faults in the amazing McKee.”

  I shoot Mike the stink-eye. We’re having our appraisal together simply because we’re Dylan and Mike. It’s understood we come as a pair, like Caesar and Brutus, Batman and Robin, social media and low self-esteem.

  “You’re doing pretty well in your other subjects too,” Morris continues, as images of Mike’s Batcave flash through my head. Mike would clearly be the Dark Knight in this combo, me his accident-prone Dick Grayson. The Boy Blunder. “But” – clearly my favourite teacher can tell I’m daydreaming – “as I say, there is this one weakness.”

  “Is it his ankles?” Mike asks. “Because that’s not really his fault, sir. He’s always had weak ankles. It’s pitiful, really. You should’ve seen him as a baby fawn emerging from his mummy deer’s gunk and trying to stand up. He was all trembly and cute and then some hunter went and shot his mum and… No, wait, that’s Bambi. Sorry, I’ll shut up.”

  “If there’s a God, you will.” Morris leans back and uses thumb and forefinger to smooth his nicotine-stained moustache. “Now, you must understand, I do have some sympathy with this whole ‘school community spirit’ thing, and the plain fact is, McKee, it’s been noted that you show absolutely no interest in any extracurricular activities.”

  I look at him as if he’s just told us that he secretly hates history.

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “No clubs, no societies, nothing. You too, Mr Berrington. Although in your case the accusation is softened due to your excellent performances on the football field.”

  “Oh God.” Mike’s head hits the desk, scattering his rubbery teammates. “C’mon, Mr Morris, you hate this bullshit as much as we do.”

  “Language.”

  “But, sir, Mike’s right,” I say. “This is all Gemma Argyle. Branded sweatshirts, school dances, charity bike rides, hero-worshipping the football team—”

  “Hey,” Mike interjects, “she has the occasional good idea.”

  I ignore him. “She’s been watching too many bad American teen movies. Now she’s like this ruthless social engineer, determined to make Ferrivale High into her own personal Hollywood high school nightmare. C’mon, Mr Morris, don’t I contribute enough by getting good grades? Me and Mike alone are carrying half our class.”

  Mr Morris slaps his hands on the desk. “It is bullshit, boys, you’re right. But you will find out pretty soon that ninety-nine per cent of your entire adult existence will be spent wading through other people’s bullshit, and you’ll have no choice but to smile and nod like it’s the most fragrant summer stream. So. The Guy Fawkes Bonfire. Be there.”

  “Can you honestly believe this crap?” Mike says as we head down the hall. Posters for tonight’s entertainment are splashed everywhere – they’re basically this drawing of a scarecrow figure wreathed in flame. It looks like a human sacrifice; kind of feels like one too. “I guess I should be grateful. All the profits are going towards new strips for the footie team. But ‘A Guy for the Guys’? Woooohoooo! Who came up with that tit
le?”

  Mike makes a limp-wrist gesture and skips around me as we walk.

  “Yeah.” I force a smile. “Lame.”

  Why can’t I just tell him? Mike would be cool, I know he would. Cooler than my parents anyway, although they pride themselves on being painfully liberal. I think my mum would actually be okay with it, but maybe only because she already has this alpha male firstborn. If Chris didn’t exist and I was her only kid? I don’t know. It makes me nervous to think about it, so I try not to. But Mike? I’m pretty sure my own personal Batman would grin this huge Bat-grin and pull me into a massive Bat-hug and parade me around on his Bat-shoulders telling the world how Bat-proud he is of me. One thing I do know – he’d be mortified about all the gay jokes. To be fair, they are few and far between, yet every time he lets one slip it kind of kills me a little inside.

  Death by a thousand Bat-cuts.

  The school’s quiet; we’re probably the last students still here. I grab my bag from the sixth-form common room and we head for the exit. We’re pushing through the main doors when Mike takes this sudden deep breath and reaches for the wall to steady himself.

  “Hey.” I grab his elbow. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m good.” He looks at me. I know his face better than my own. I see it more regularly anyway. He can’t hide stuff from me. “It’s nothing.”

  “Mate, I’ve told you before: go – to – the – freaking – doctor. This is, what, the third time this has happened? I’m sure it’s nothing, but if you don’t go I will take you the hell down and haul your gorgeous arse there myself. Understood?”

  “You think my arse is gorgeous? What would you give it out of ten?”

  I roll my eyes. This is an old routine. “I’d give you a seriously hard ONE and you’d love it.”

  He titters, tells me I’m the worst, and skips off towards the bike sheds.

  So this is the weird thing: I am not attracted to Mike. I never have been. But we have this stupid gay banter and it kind of blinds him to the reality of what’s really going on with me. It’s a technique I trialled and developed when we were twelve and it’s worked beautifully for six years.

  Right, and how many times have I wished he’d call me on it, just once?

  “Hey! What about the Bullshit Bonfire tonight?” I shout after him.

  “See you there, Sweet Cheeks!”

  He blows me a kiss, which I catch one-handed.

  Back at home I can hear my brother slaughtering zombies in his room. This is Chris’s daily routine: breakfast around noon, followed by an hour in the tub, followed by an undead apocalypse. He’s twenty-one, doesn’t study, doesn’t work. My dad’s vaguely irritated but Mum likes having him around as her own personal chimp butler. He drives her to the shops, carries bags, compliments her latest night-class creations. She’s lonely, I guess.

  I dump my stuff on my bed and lock the door. I do not fancy Mike, but that stupid air-kiss? I don’t know. I scoot onto my beanbag, flip open my laptop and bring up a couple of my favourite porn comics. I’m not really into “proper” porn; I can’t see how anyone is. Two impossibly built dudes humping away? It makes me feel both pervy and inadequate. But comic-book-style ridiculousness? Now, that’s my world. And so, as Deadpool and the Joker and Mister Fantastic look down at me from my wall, I beat one off to this really well-drawn pirate porn comic. Despite the horrible historical inaccuracies (I’m pretty sure hot pants were not all the rage on the high seas in the seventeenth century), the story of Captain Colossus and his lusty crew does the job.

  When I’m done I delete my browser history and use a wet wipe to mop up any spillage. TMI? Sorry. My mum’s a snoop and my dad sometimes borrows my computer without asking. I’m just pulling up my trousers when the lady herself shoulder-barges the door. I know it’s locked but still my penis shrivels immediately.

  “What’s going on?” she calls.

  “Door’s locked!”

  “Why?”

  “Um. Because I’m seventeen?”

  “Oh.” It takes a moment to compute. “Right. Sorry, love. Laundry?”

  An hour later, I’m sitting on a stool in our stupidly immense kitchen spooning chilli into my mouth and checking my watch. I’m going to be late. I get up, throw my dish in the sink, and start towards the door.

  “So this bonfire jamboree thing sounds exciting!” Mum calls after me.

  “It’s not a jamboree.” I frown. “I don’t know what a jamboree is exactly, but this isn’t one.”

  “Will there be any girls there?” She smiles like she thinks there’s some food stuck in her teeth and she wants me to check.

  “I think that’s very likely,” I say.

  She pouts. “When will you get a girlfriend, Dylan?”

  “When he grows pubes,” says Chris, then glances around like he’s the reincarnation of Oscar Wilde. My dad doesn’t look up from his laptop and Mum ignores him, for once. “You should just get yourself out there,” Chris advises. “I’ve started dating this total babe called Hannah. Bit out of your league, bro, but—”

  “Don’t make your brother feel inadequate,” Mum scolds.

  “It will be a cold afternoon in waster hell when that twat makes me feel inadequate.”

  I flash them a grin and head for the door. I think Chris is probably still working out the insult. Anyway, I can’t hear the rumble of a heavy primate advancing on all fours, so he’s not following me.

  There’s a pinch in the air as I cycle down my drive onto Denvers Row. Already I can smell that smoky autumn bite, and above the trees and rooftops the sky glows here and there with the orange thumbmark of bonfires. It takes less than ten minutes to reach the football pitch, where I screech to a halt, turning a few heads in the queue for the entrance. Their vaguely hostile gaze makes me nervous as I wheel my bike to the stands.

  I hate the idea of queueing up without Mike, but maybe he’s already inside. I try his mobile. No answer. Crap. Taking a deep breath, I shuffle forward. Some people I don’t know pile in behind me and, lost among them, my nerves finally start to settle. Being at the end of a queue always makes me feel horribly exposed.

  Up ahead, I can see Gemma and the committee girls taking money and handing out tickets. Bloody Gemma Argyle. I was even thinking of discreetly checking out the LGBTQ safe-space group before she added it to her fiefdom.

  “Hello there.” She frowns at me as I reach the head of the line. “I want to say…David.”

  “You can say David,” I tell her. “That is your right. But my name’s Dylan.”

  “Of course it is,” she beams, as if my first name had been her idea all along. “Are you alone tonight, Dylan?”

  “Seems so.”

  “Oh, but you are just the most terrible date! Disowning me the first chance you get? Two tickets please.”

  I smile up at Mike as he elbows me aside and hands over a few quid to Gemma.

  And so, the “Guy for the Guys” Bullshit Bonfire… It hurts my Gemma-loathing heart to admit it, but the committee has done a pretty good job. We wander around the field, grinning at the spectacles. Terrifying Miss Harper is behind a shooting gallery, snagging any passers-by with a hooked stick and basically bullying the cash out of their pockets. Mr Robarts is doing a roaring trade standing in the stocks while eager students pay fortunes to pelt him with wet sponges. Under a string of fairground lights, Mr Denman, the obscenely young new art teacher, is also raking it in drawing caricatures. Just about every girl in our year waits in line. Denman gives us a wave as we pass. He’s pretty cool, and, if I’m honest, the subject of quite a few daydreams.

  “Well.” Mike grimaces as we reach the huge unlit bonfire at the centre of the field. “This kind of doesn’t suck.”

  “I know. Maybe our school isn’t the lamest place in the cosmos.”

  “Well, let’s not go crazy.”

  Mike’s laugh hasn’t changed since Year Six. It’s still a bit high and jittery and totally doesn’t go with his footballer’s physique. I sort of love
that about him.

  A random firework goes off from one of the houses neighbouring the school and Mike’s grin is lit in blue and red flashes. I should just tell him. Worst case scenario: I spill my secret, he looks at me like I’m a bit of dog shit on the toe-end of his shoe and walks off, never to talk to me again. That would kill me, of course, but there’s no way it would ever happen. Because he’s Mike, and he’s awesome.

  Okay. So I’m telling him.

  Here goes.

  “Mikey boy! Bro, what was your deal today?”

  Ollie Reynolds marches up to us, fist-bumping Mike. I don’t dislike Ollie, but right at that moment I picture him strapped to a chair, the helpless victim of Slaughter Master, this comic-book villain Mike and I made up in primary school. Denzel Dreyfuss, aka Slaughter Master, is a mild-mannered candyfloss seller by day, but at night he captures superheroes in his sticky pink webs and tortures them in all kinds of inventive ways: pulling fingernails out, branding with hot irons, taking selfies with stupid candyfloss moustaches. Ollie would get the full treatment.

  “Oh, hey, Dylan,” he says, noticing me at last. “Now listen, Mike, I know you’re captain and everything, but I have to be honest, you are starting to suck out there. I mean, majorly suck. You barely made it through the first fifteen minutes this afternoon.”

  Mike shoots me a glance and, in another firework flare, I notice how exhausted he looks. There are these deep purple bruises under his eyes. Shit. What is going on with him? I need to get him alone, and I’m about to make up some excuse so we can take a walk, when Gemma and half the committee girls roll up. We all give her the compliments she’s clearly expecting and she smiles and loops her arm through Ollie’s. I had no idea they were dating. Weirdly, Ollie looks surprised too.

  “So what are we all discussing, as if I can’t guess!”

  “It’s a really amazing night, Gemma,” one of her handmaidens trills.

  “Not that.” Gemma shoots her the stink-eye. “I mean our new arrival.”

  Ollie grins. “Yeah, he made quite an impression at training today.”

  I have no idea what they’re talking about. Some new kid? Big deal. I just want to go somewhere I can talk privately to Mike.