Hideous Beauty

by William Hussey

  Later, hours after I’ve helped him scoop the rubbish out of his car, I lie on my bed and read and reread the IOU. I know it’s crazy, but I even put it to my lips and kiss the kisses back, then roll sideways and say his name, just a few dozen times. It takes me a long time to fall asleep that night, and when I do the yellow page is still in my hand.

  I’m not embarrassed. Taking out my wallet, I retrieve the IOU you gave me the day your car was vandalized and show it to Mike. It matches perfectly with the torn page I received in the mail this morning. While Mike turns it over in his hands, I squat down and graze my fingers through Beckham’s black and white underbelly. A deep, satisfied grumble rises up from the loveable old mutt.

  We’re sitting on the double swings that Mike’s dad hung from the old beech tree in their garden a million summers ago. Mike’s an only child but his dad didn’t think twice about the second swing. I lean back and follow the creaking rope up to the sunlight, beams cutting through a cage of branches.

  “Thanks for showing me this.” He holds up the side with my picture and your words. “It’s very special.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I mumble, “He loved you too, Mike.”

  Mike nods, smiling. “Then we were both really lucky.”

  We were, El. Even with you gone, I know it.

  He turns my picture over and studies the Gemma-witch on the back. She’s levitating over your car, fingers twitching and twirling as her dark magic spews filth and rubbish through the broken driver window. In the foreground, and almost twice the size of the Nissan, lie the shattered remnants of the dashboard snow globe, Aunt Julia’s moving-in gift.

  “He knew she’d done it,” I say. “She trashed the car as a way of getting back at him.”

  “For what?”

  I sometimes forget there are big parts of our story Mike doesn’t know. I wonder if this feels weird for him; we used to tell each other everything.

  “For dumping her and chasing after me.”

  I tell him the story of that day at Hug-A-Book and the library. Usually with something like this I’d leave out the parts that seemed intimate and special for us, because they were our treasures and I lived for the hours when we’d relive them, sitting in your car or cross-legged in your bedroom, sorting through our favourite memories, laughing and arguing and getting hot over the details. But I only have Mike now to share these things with, so I walk him through every moment, even us on the library floor.

  “I never thought to link her with it at the time,” I say. “It just seemed like this random act. But something about what El said that day, about how he looked… Right from the start, I think he knew it was her. You should’ve seen the look she threw him at Hug-A-Book when he came over and started chatting to me.”

  “Gemma doesn’t deal with rejection well, that’s for sure. Just ask Ollie.”

  “What happened with her and Reynolds?” I ask.

  Mike shrugs. “Turns out he couldn’t live up to her idea of the model boyfriend.”

  “Same with El,” I say. “He was supposed to be her ideal gay BFF, but that didn’t work out, and then he dumps her before she can dump him. She seemed okay with him afterwards, but they were never close again.”

  “Because she’d already got her revenge,” says Mike. “What a psycho.” He hands the paper back to me. “So who do you think sent this? One of our mystery guys? The porno perv? Whoever scared El at the dance?” He clicks his fingers. “Maybe none of the above! Maybe it was the stalker in the garden.”

  I frown. “Who?”

  “Remember yesterday I thought I saw someone watching us in the crematorium garden?” Mike says. “Maybe that person overheard us talking about our suspicions. He wants to help but doesn’t want to do it face to face for some reason.”

  “Okay…” I hesitate. “But how did he get hold of El’s journal?”

  “Loads of crap flew out of the car when you crashed, right? What if El’s journal did too? Maybe it was thrown really far from the accident site. Our guy is out wandering by the lake, finds it, decides to keep it, then he overhears what we said at the funeral.”

  “I don’t know.” I press my hands between my knees. “Doesn’t that all seem a bit coincidental? And why would he keep the journal in the first place? And why does he even want to help us?”

  “Search me,” Mike says. “But whoever he is, he’s given you a start, hasn’t he?”

  I nod. “So you think Gemma could be the person who rescued me?”

  “Or the person who scared El. I can’t see her as the porno perv. But now we know that at least one person had a grudge against Ellis. The question is, what do we do about it?”

  “We ask her,” I say. “Confront her.”

  “All right, but…”

  “But what?”

  Mike looks again at the drawing. “You’re sure you really want to do this, Dylan? I know you want justice for El, but I’m worried. I’m not sure when you get your answers it’s going to make you feel any better.” He catches my glance and looks away. “Okay, then I think there’s something you should see.”

  He gets up and starts towards the house. Becks grumbles onto his paws and follows.

  We enter through the patio door at the back and take off our shoes: Mumzilla Nest Rule #14. In the kitchen, Mike hunts through a pile of post on the breakfast table while I battle memories that try to swamp me: you at this very table, El, leaping to your feet as Carol and Big Mike bustle into the room with armfuls of shopping. We’d been secretly dating for three and a bit months, and I was so desperate for my surrogate family to fall for you. I needn’t have worried, of course.

  Mike shoots me a troubled look and hands over this stiff piece of card. It’s designed to look like an order of service for a funeral.

  TUES 28th APRIL @ GEMMA’S

  THE WAKE

  Put on your pearls and come party, in memory of our boy Ellis

  “I’m guessing you didn’t get one? Dude, I’m so sorry, it’s really sick.”

  I shake my head. “It’s exactly what we need. We’re going.”

  Mike potters around the kitchen, frying up one of my favourite junk-food breakfasts: a double-bacon cheeseburger. I know, El, my arteries, but I need this, and anyway my heart’s already ruined. So my tally of high school parties is fairly pitiful, not only because of my crowds thing but, let’s face it, before you arrived in Ferrivale, I wasn’t exactly popular. Those shindigs (shindigs? I can hear you laughing) I did get invited to usually came my way because Mike had had a word with the host. But I’m genuinely puzzled by this Wake thing. Though Gemma and I have never been friends, I would’ve thought she’d want me there – the grieving boyfriend – as her centrepiece.

  My burger lands, greasy and gorgeous. I take a bite.

  “Mate, is it okay if I hang around here until the party?” I ask between mouthfuls.

  Mike drops into the seat beside me. “What’s happened?”

  “McKee stuff.”

  He nods, because he’s known my family almost as long as I have.

  And so we have an old-fashioned Mike and Dylan day together. We battle the undead and get under Mumzilla’s feet and eat family-size bags of crisps and start lots of conversations with “Remember when…?”, and I suddenly realize how much I’ve missed this. Just the two of us, wasting hours.

  Our Mike and Dylan day soothes me, although it isn’t quite like old times. Around four o’clock he gets tired and has to go for a nap. I watch him lope upstairs, his chin sagging to his chest, knuckles white as he grips the bannister. He stumbles a bit and I jerk forward, but he waves me away. When he’s out of sight, I feel an arm settle around my waist and I turn my head into the crook of Carol’s shoulder. We stay like that for a long time.

  “Sure you’re up to this?”

  “Dylan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I am so going to out-party your ass.”

  Mike zips up his jacket and we head for the door. We’re almost at the road when Big Mi
ke calls us back and tosses his son a baseball cap.

  “But, Dad, it’s my plan to come out as a big bad baldy tonight. Girls are going wild for chemo-head this season.”

  Big Mike forces a wonky smile. “Wear it there and back. You can rock the cue ball as much as you like once you’re inside. Oh! And, Dylan, if he gets tired and you need a lift?”

  I wave my mobile. “I’ll call you right away, Big M.”

  Big Mike shoots me a salute.

  “My dad is such a tool,” Mike sighs.

  “Your dad rules and you know it.”

  “God, you’re right,” he groans. “It kind of kills me.”

  It isn’t far from Mike’s to Gemma’s. Kids ride bikes in lazy circles, the setting sun thrumming off silver spokes. People in designer jumpers mow their lawns and leave the cuttings for the gardener to deal with.

  As we walk, I’m reminded again how this side of town is a world away from your old estate, El. You said once that the “over here”, as you called it, felt like a Hollywood film set, all cardboard houses and actor’s smiles and scripted opinions.

  “By the way,” Mike says, “I’ve been doing some detective work.”

  “Okay, Sherlock, share.”

  “Alistair Pardue? Remember him?”

  I do, El. I remember him flat on his homophobic arse after you belted him one.

  “Well, he wasn’t exactly Team Ellis, was he? Prime suspect for at least one of our mystery men. Unfortunately he was in Scotland camping with his family the night of the accident.”

  “Jesus, his poor family.”

  “And I’ve been thinking,” Mike continues, “if we’re saying Gemma could be the person who rescued you, well, I don’t want to sound sexist, but could she really have dragged you out of a sinking car?”

  “That is kind of sexist,” I say, “and don’t forget Gemma is netball captain, swim team captain, and head ballbreaker of the new cheerleading squad.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Mike throws out his arms, waggling imaginary pom-poms.

  “And maybe she wasn’t alone,” I say. “She’s seeing Paul Donovan now, isn’t she? A strapping rugger-bugger like him could do some serious heavy lifting. And Donovan has a car. If for some reason Gemma wanted to confront El that night, they could easily have followed us from the dance.”

  “Dude.” Mike frowns. “Are you even allowed to say ‘rugger-bugger’?”

  I’m saved from answering this by my phone bleeping. A new message from Mum. Eighth since this morning. I delete it, along with the rest.

  Looking up, I see we’ve reached a confluence of streets that all seem to feed into Gemma’s. The invitation didn’t mention a dress code but virtually everyone pouring down the road is in black. The mood doesn’t entirely reflect the clothes, though. Kids are arriving in loose groups, fingers hooked through six-packs, passing around half-drunk bottles, everyone grinning and gossiping. Mike catches my eye.

  “Sure you’re sure about this?”

  I nod and we join the swarm.

  I don’t know what Gemma’s parents do for a living, but my guess is they either own an airline or run a drugs cartel. We reach the end of the drive just as the sun finally dips and the sleek modern house in front of us, all steel and glass, glows like an ember. Trance beats pulse through the open door and sheer white light flashes in time at the windows.

  I don’t want to go inside. This feels like what it is – an exploitative ego trip, an excuse for Gemma to insert herself into the narrative of your death – and it makes me feel nauseated. Plus, there are a lot of people already here: our year, lower-sixth kids, even a few of the cooler Year Elevens. I can see the masses heaving in the entrance hall and the thought of having to squeeze through them…

  Can I turn back, El? Will you let me?

  “Dylan?” Mike murmurs.

  “I’m okay.”

  The entrance hall is all marble, what I can see of it. Heads bob around me to the music that seems to be coming from one of the rooms off the hall. It all looks pretty minimalist, with hardly any ornaments or pictures, unless that stuff’s been packed away for the party. I’m guessing Gemma’s parents have been packed away too.

  Some kids come over and say hello. A few even give me a hug and say how sorry they are, and what an amazing couple we made, even though their knowledge of us together is based on that single dance the night you died. Prisha Banerjee even bursts into tears and I end up having to console her. All this is okay, nice even, but there’s this other weird vibe going on – a kind of low-level hostility biding its time.

  Mike steers us out of the entrance hall and into the kitchen. The Argyles have this Aga the size of a small family car and a huge wooden breakfast bar with a sink so big you could re-enact the Battle of Trafalgar in miniature, all seventy-four ships engaged. The music follows us into the room and I realize the beats are being pumped throughout the house.

  It’s here, in this oversized kitchen, that I find you staring back at me, El.

  Mike grabs my arm. “Mate.”

  “I’m good,” I say, walking slowly over to you. “I’m okay.”

  A massive free-standing poster of you dominates the room. It’s black-and-white and clearly a blown-up version of the headshot from our yearbook. Before I can reach you, this couple I don’t recognize come blundering over and stand either side of the poster, grinning like they’re in a fairground hall of mirrors. They cross their eyes and their buddy takes a picture. I just stand there. Then another group comes forward for a memento of the evening, and suddenly Ollie Reynolds is there, shouting and shoving them aside. Ollie’s pretty built, so no one argues.

  “Dylan, I’m sorry you had to see that.” He comes over and places a hand on my shoulder. “This sucks on so many levels. I don’t know what that crazy cow is thinking. Hey, Mike.” He nods to his teammate. “Maybe we should all just get out of here? My cousin owns this bar in town and he can get us discounted beer, if you fancy it?”

  I wonder vaguely why he’s turned up at all, if he disapproves so much, and especially with the whole him-being-Gemma’s-ex thing. I’ve always been on friendly terms with Ollie, mainly because he’s Mike’s footie pal. We don’t have much else in common though, and I can’t remember ever having a meaningful conversation with him.

  “Maybe later,” Mike says. “Me and Dylan have to do something first.”

  “Oh. Okay. But look…”

  Ollie guides me like a geriatric over to the breakfast bar, where drinks have been set up. I’m still a bit stunned, and I can sense you behind me, El, smiling in that yearbook way – not too formal, not too cheeky. Ollie busies himself pouring us all a glass of this gloopy yellow stuff called advocaat. He orders us to down it and I gag. It tastes like custard.

  “So.” He refills and chinks my glass. “I just wanted to tell you how cool Ellis was. He was, like, the coolest, wasn’t he, Mike?” He slaps a frowning, nodding Mike on the back. “Never seen a left foot like it. And in bloody pearls! Guy was a beast. And you were so lucky, Dylan, you know? I don’t give a crap who’s gay or straight or bi or whatever, I know love when I see it. Not bullshit love.” He bends down and breathes fumes into my ear. This clearly isn’t his first drink of the night. “I mean proper twist-your-heart-in-two kind of love. You had that, man. ’Mazing. ’Mazing.”

  While he’s talking my gaze has wandered to the open kitchen door. Gemma is in the hallway. She’s wearing this beautiful black dress, slightly torn at the hip, as if she’s been mourning in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. She’s flapping at her face but I can’t see any tears. The committee girls are gathered around her, offering Kleenex and comforting without touching. She’s teetering slightly on her heels, so either she’s really wasted or she’s playing the role of grieving drunk. I think she’s seen me already but suddenly her head twitches my way and she makes quite a display of looking me up and down.

  “Didn’t I say it was invitation only?” She sniffs and struts away, acolytes in tow.

  I start f
or the kitchen door and Mike follows. Ollie’s still mid-flow, praising El’s keepy-uppy skills. He stumbles, literally and verbally, as he trails us through the hall and into this immense living room.

  It’s like a mausoleum decorated by Versace. Every surface is laced and ribboned and crêped in black and white and there are duplicates of that blown-up yearbook picture everywhere. She’s trying to claim you, El. Remake you as she wanted you to be all along. You hated this kind of repetitive, lyric-less, meaningless music. You hated the idea that a single image could ever sum you up or define you. You even hated black and white, explaining once that your pencil sketches were all about gradations. How you pressed and held and feathered the pencil gave you an almost infinite variation of grey, each suggesting other colours.

  “This is wrong,” I tell Mike. “All wrong.”

  Maybe I said it louder than I intended. Maybe they’d been told to creep up and listen.

  “You don’t get to have a say,” Katie Linton practically purrs in my ear. She circles us and comes to stand in front of me, committee sister Suzie Ford joining her. “You weren’t even invited.”

  “He came with me,” Mike says.

  The girls give him this long sympathetic look. “Oh, you can stay, Mike. This isn’t about you.”

  “What the hell is it about then?” Ollie fumes.

  “Mike, will you please call these two a taxi?” Suzie pleads. “They’re not wanted. Gemma’s put a lot of effort into tonight’s celebration of Ellis’s life. She loved El.”

  “No,” I say quietly, “I loved El. None of you even knew him.”

  Katie laughs. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a sound like it before. It’s all claws and blades and vinegar.

  “You loved him? Then why did you leave him in that car? You might as well have murdered him. Hey” – she throws out her arms and twirls on the spot – “maybe you did! Who knows? No one was there. Maybe he passed out and you held him under the water.”

  “And why the hell would Dylan do that?” Ollie spits. “He was El’s boyfriend.”