4: Laserlight
ACROSS the landing from my parents' soft green under-sea cocoon, my bedroom looked out over the back lawn, which I suddenly remembered I hadn't mowed, Mum's precious rose-bushes, the greenhouse where Dad grew tomatoes, which I hadn't picked (bollocks), the fruit trees, apple and plum, honeysuckle bushes, which exuded this powerful, heady scent from treacle-coloured flowers and the bloody bramble patch waiting like that shark in Jaws.
''Nice garden.'' He was kneeling on my bed watching butterflies through the window.
We hadn't always lived here. We'd started in this like two-up, two-down in some scuzzy part of the city, the kind of place where tattooed ruffians drag unwilling, unmuzzled pit-bulls up and down the kerb, and the front doors are literally caged behind metal grilles of Fort Knox proportions, the kind of place Dad refused to park our battered Fiesta in case the wheels got nicked, the kind of place they hung washing across the cobbled street, the kind of place dodgy substances changed hands of an evening, the kind of place where a nervy, neurotic grammar-school kid whose class-mates despised him became even nervier and even more neurotic. Walking up that street in my 'posho' blazer with its bloody corn-and-crown badge and Latin motto was like yelling 'Mug me, please!' although, to be fair, it never happened. Why, I have no idea. Anyway, four years ago, Mum inherited enough money from selling her parents' Scarborough guest-house to move us up in the world, or at least to a detached house in the suburbs, and, more excitingly, to a silver Ford Sierra. Oh, come on! I was like 11, you know? Silver was like the coolest colour EVER?
''The wind-chimes are cool.'' The moons and stars were painted blue and yellow.
''Thanks.'' I felt myself blushing cricket ball-red.
''I like your room,'' he grinned. ''It's like being in a giant fried-egg.''
This made me laugh. The walls were painted bright yellow but my bedding was all white, white sheets, white covers, white pillow-cases, everything white. I liked the simplicity.
''Are these your PJs?'' Brown cotton shorts and beige T-shirt sprawled on the pillow.
''Yeah, sorry.'' My face burned like a lava-field. Hoping he hadn't seen the stains on my shorts, I chucked them on the yellow carpet with my yellow dressing-gown, dirty tennis socks, pale yellow T-shirt, damp blue bath-towel, one silver Reebok lying on its side and this single, tan moccasin. ''I like shorts in bed. Proper trousers are too hot. What about you?''
Shit. I was babbling.
''Nothing,'' he said. A thrill tingled through my spine. He slept naked! Oh boy! I had to try it. ''You've got lots of books.'' He glanced over my library. Suddenly it seemed absurdly childish, these like Ladybird books about Nelson, Scott of the Antarctic, David Livingstone, Henry V and Richard the Lion-heart, I-Spy 'In the Night Sky' and 'London from Trafalgar Square', The Observer Books of Flags, Birds and Wild Animals, Biggles of 266 and Biggles of the Interpol, the Hardy Boys Viking Symbol Mystery, Five on a Treasure Island, The Castle of Adventure, all the Tintin books, Treece's Viking Saga, The Eagle of the Ninth, The Midnight Folk, The Chronicles of Narnia, The Greatest Gresham, all the James Bond books, then these Westerns I was into, North Against the Sioux, Custer's Gold, Seventh Cavalry… thank fuck for the classics, like Around the World in Eighty Days, Black Beauty, Last of the Mohicans, Grimm's Fairy Tales, Treasure Island and a load of history, R.J. Unstead's four-volume Story of Britain, Great Leaders and Royal Adventurers, Great Escapes of World War Two, Everyday Life in Ancient Rome, Monsters and Mysterious Beasts. I had a Readers' Digest World Atlas, Fighting Men and their Uniforms, a Question of Sport quiz book, Tutankhamen, Dinosaurs, a bunch of science-fiction like I Robot, Chocky and The Midwich Cuckoos, War of the Worlds and The Time Machine, Sherlock Holmes in The Hound of the Baskervilles and my latest craze, the well-thumbed war stories of Sven Hassel.
''It's a very eclectic collection,'' he commented.
I didn't know what he meant. Defensively I said I'd read anything, except like wizards or zombies? Wizards and zombies bored my arse off, you know?
''Who's your favourite poet?''
''Ted Hughes,'' I said. ''I love the Crow poems. 'Where is the Black Beast? Crow roasted the earth to a clinker, he charged into space…' The futility of science. I love it, and 'Crow's Last Stand', ''Limpid and black – Crow's eye-pupil, in the tower of its scorched fort'' and 'How water began to play' but I like Blake too, 'The Poison Tree' and 'London' with the chartered streets and mind-forg'd manacles. They're such strong images. Who's yours?''
''T. S. Eliot.''
I'd never heard of him.
'' 'What we call the beginning is often the end, and to make an end is to make a beginning','' he quoted. I didn't understand. ''I like Dickens too'' He nodded at Bleak House on my bedside table. ''What's your favourite?''
''Christmas Carol. Utterly, utterly brilliant.''
Grinning happily, he said ''Snap'' then ''I like your models.''
A Tamiya Stuka, an Airfix Spitfire and an Airfix Messerschmidt ME109, all 1/35, hung suspended from the ceiling on black strings in this like frozen dog-fight near this Airfix Lancaster bouncing bomber. That was 1/72. 1/35 would like fill the room, right?
''Thanks,'' I repeated. ''I'm doing a Tiger tank next and I want to build this like Alpine diorama with German mountain troops?'' I showed him the little tins of Humbrol paint on my desk and the edition of Airfix magazine with the design-plan. He seemed politely interested.
''Your posters are cool,'' he said. ''You like volcanoes?''
I couldn't remember where I'd got the massive Volcano poster that covered most of the wall behind my bed but I really liked the contrast of black background and orange fire, especially the spectacular picture of Hekla erupting at night. It told me that 'eruptions occur when magma (hot molten rock) and volcanic gases are forced under pressure through weaknesses in the earth's crust', had a diagram to illustrate it and a list of notable eruptions which included Helgafell in 1973, Hekla in 1970 and Krakatoa in 1883. A massively bearded, horny-hatted Viking from 2W's trip to York's Jorvik Museum loomed from the wardrobe door. I also had this awesome framed picture of the Bloody Red Baron's Fokker Triplane over my desk and an absolutely massive gold-and-black Dalek tacked to my bedroom door.
''You like Daleks?'' he said unnecessarily.
''Sure,'' I grinned, ''but the Master's the best villain.''
He liked the Sea-Devils. I said he was lame. The Sea-Devils looked like my Gran, with their tortoise necks and shiny net nighties. Not like the black-bearded Master with his hypnotism and cynical laughter. And his TARDIS worked.
''Favourite Doctor Who?'' he said.
''Genesis of the Daleks. Scary Nazi types and real moral dilemmas,'' I replied. ''I mean, would you do it? Could you do it? Exterminate one species to save another?''
''Maybe,'' he said, ''If I had a cool scarf, a floppy hat and jelly babies.''
''But if you could go back in time,'' I persisted, ''To kill Baby Hitler or Baby Stalin?''
''They're too recent,'' said Ali. ''The Doctor says 'Out of this great evil some great good may come.' We have a different perspective on evil now, thanks to Hitler and Stalin. In a hundred years, the world may be much better because of them. Why stick to the twentieth century? What about killing Napoleon? Or Buddha? Or even Jesus?'' Shit. I touched the gold crucifix round my neck. ''It's a futile question,'' he shrugged. ''Good and evil are subjective, relative and contextually determined social constructs. Pyramids of Mars is better.''
I liked that one too, but I wasn't admitting it.
''So lame – all those phony mummies...'' Imitating one, I lumbered across the room, arms outstretched, groaning whilst he flopped back on my pillow laughing. ''Urrr, Alistair! I'm going to kill you…'' Launching myself forward, I fell into his arms. Chest met chest and I lost myself in those deep teal pools as his arms folded round my back. My breathing changed, my stomach knotted tightly. One of his hands strayed to my bottom. Closing my eyes, I pressed myself into his body. Then he gently rolled me aside and asked what else I had.
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Choking back a flare of disappointment, I threw open a cupboard and dug around for the toy Daleks. Unfortunately I only managed to dislodge a box of toy soldiers and the Afrika Korps kind of cascaded over my head in a shower of plastic. Ali said it was Rommel's revenge for saying Sea-Devils were lame. I chucked a couple of soldiers at his chest.
The Grunters had given me several die-cast metal Corgi cars over the years. I kept them on the shelf over my desk next to Ozzie. Ali was admiring this Ferrari Maranello, a Porsche 911, a Lotus Elan, an Aston Martin DB9, and my all-time favourite, the Jaguar XJS, when he spotted my Palitoy Action Men (with realistic hair and gripping hands). Blond-bearded Jim was dressed in a black jumper, blue jeans and black boots, ready to climb mountains or, in actuality, the staircase banisters, with his Special Operations kitbag of dynamite, hand-grenades, Primus-stove, cutlery, knife, binoculars, boxed radio and sub-machine-gun whilst brown-haired Bob, dressed in NATO uniform of khaki trousers, khaki sweater, black boots, black beret, shot at him from behind the potted cactus on the window-sill. As I told this story, I watched this slow grin like light his face and didn't feel stupid because he had an Action Man called Rocky, for fuck's sake.
''Man,'' I said, fishing this book, Action Man: Antarctic Explorer, off the shelf, ''You are so sad.'' The front cover depicted bearded, blond Jim dressed in this red fur-trimmed parka, white boots and red skis, a wolf, some penguins and a map of the Antarctic. Inside were the stories of Captains Scott and Oates, Shackleton and Hillary, then Action Man's Expedition, with photos and an expedition log, plus make your own Antarctic Station out of a shoe-box and make your own penguins out of toilet-rolls. Mega-bonus, right? Of course I'd made them all but had no idea where they were now. I'd even constructed my own adventure, writing a similar log. Couldn't find that either. But Rocky… I mean.
''That's so sad,'' I repeated, collapsing in a heap of giggles. This time he like chucked Afrika Korps at me until, eyes dancing, he saw the board-games stacked in the cupboard, Game of Nations, Treasure of the Pharaohs, Mouse-Trap and Escape from Colditz.
''I haven't played Colditz for years,'' he said excitedly.
''Do you want to play now?'' I said. ''I'll be the Germans. Tim Wilson always plays as the Germans, 'cos he loves the Shoot to Kill card, being a Christian and all that, or we could play Mouse-Trap.'' I sprang for the cupboard, and trod on the bloody Afrika Korps. ''Oww!'' I cried, ''Fuck it…'' Kind of yowling and cradling my foot, I collapsed on my bed. I cursed the tears that flooded my eyes. God. If I cried in front of him, I would like die of shame. Literally.
''Let me look,'' he said softly, taking my foot into his hands. Gently he blew on the pink mark. Soothing and tickling in equal measure, it made me shiver.
Kiss it better, I screamed mentally.
Please.
Kiss my foot better.
Laying back on my pillow, I prayed for his lips on my sole like James Bond in Thunderball. Instead he noticed the brown moth-eaten teddy-bear with the threadbare nose who had been with me forever and who lived on my pillow.
''Who's this?'' he grinned.
''Pickles,'' I said, suddenly cherry-red embarrassed. ''I got him when I was one.''
''I love it when you blush,'' said Ali, dangling the bear by his right ear. ''What would you do if I took him hostage?''
''It would depend on what you wanted.''
A kiss. Exchange him for kiss, my heart screamed.
''Promises, promises,'' he said, waving the bear in the air.
I threw myself at him with a laughing cry of ''Give him here, Ali!''
Next thing we were wrestling on the bed and laughing and somehow he flipped me on my back so he could tickle me under my ribs. Howling, I gasped ''Stop it! Ali… stop!''
''Beg me.'' He pinned my hips with his knees and tickled me more.
Squirming, knees raised, body thrashing under his weight, my willy was hardening.
''Please, Alistair. Please.''
''Please what?''
''Please stop tickling me!''
''Say please master.''
''Please Master…'' Oh God. I was really really hard. He must be able to feel it poking against him. And the bulge was so massive, so obvious…
Squeezing my sides with his thighs, he gazed at me with ferocious intensity.
''I love your dimples,'' he said. ''They're really cute.''
I grinned. ''You think I'm cute? What do you think I am? Five?''
He was suddenly like really serious.
''No. You're fifteen, and you're really, really gorgeous.''
The atmosphere changed. The blood in my ears hummed like wind through telephone wires. My heart thumped violently, my body seemed to melt. I reached up, put my arms round his back and drew him down onto me, chest against chest. I heard him murmur my name, twice. Now, I urged him. Now.
Kiss me.
The wind-chimes gurgled softly.
My lips parted. My stiff, hard cock strained in my shorts. I felt his, hard and insistent, pressing through his jeans against my stomach. It made me stiffen more. His eyes darkened as he leaned towards me. He cupped my cheek in his palm. His lips moved towards mine.
''Oh Ali… '' It came out as this languid, contented sigh.
I put my hand on his bottom and pulled him closer. My lips nuzzled his neck and I felt him writhe. I closed my eyes and whispered ''I love you.'' Suddenly he moaned softly, buried his face in my neck and shuddered. Oh man…
The front door slammed and Mum was calling up the stairs that they were home.
''Shit.'' I scrambled desperately off the bed. ''Shit. Fuck. Oh, fuck.''
Or not.
''Hi Mum,'' I said from the top of the stairs, straightening my T-shirt and praying she wouldn't notice the tent in my shorts. ''Did you have a good day?''
Her shopping bags sagged to the floor as Ali materialised behind me.
''This is Ali from school,'' I said. ''He came round to…''
Kiss me? Seduce me? Fuck me? What had he come round for?
''Talk about the play.'' Ali held out his hand. ''Hello, Mrs Peters.''
''Ali's going to be directing us,'' I said dully. ''He's written it himself.''
Pointedly ignoring the outstretched hand, Mum said ''Oh, Alistair Ross. You're in the Sixth Form, aren't you?''
''Rose, and I'm a prefect now,'' he said cheerfully.
''Well,'' she said tightly. ''Did you mow the lawn and cut the brambles back?''
''No, sorry. My hay-fever played up.''
Tutting irritably, she asked why I hadn't taken some lemon-balm and eucalyptus mix.
''I couldn't find any,'' I said, ''But I did loads of piano practice. I'm really getting to grips with the Berceuse.''
''So long as you weren't getting to grips with anything else. Nice to meet you, Alistair.''
Pleading, I asked if he could, like, stay for tea. I wanted desperately to resume our session, you know? He was going to kiss me. I knew he was going to kiss me.
''No, he can't,'' she snapped.
''But why?''
Fuck, I sounded so whiny, so bratty.
''For God's sake, Jonathan, just stop arguing.'' She shoved past us into the kitchen.
''You'd better go,'' I said as Mum told all the monkeys in like Borneo that I should go help Dad with the shopping.
''That was great, J,'' he said brightly. ''You're such fun. See you Monday.''
I felt awkward as he shook my hand. I had so desperately wanted him to kiss me. He must've known, mustn't he? God Almighty. What the hell had happened? I think I said I loved him! Oh fuck. How the hell would I be able to ever face him again? But I had loved the physical contact with him, loved being touched by him, loved touching him. That'd been fantastic. This was like the best day ever. And the worst.
I knew what it meant, and I wasn't, I didn't want to be, I couldn't be that.
Oh man. Someone just shoot me.
But I had previous. This was history repeating itself, that yearning, that feeling, that ne
ed for another boy, for sex with another boy…
So it hadn't been the booze. It'd been me. Oh fuck. It was me. Once was an accident, twice was… Someone please shoot me. Locking myself in the bathroom, I spurted so hard into the toilet bowl it made my knees shake.
Holed up in my room with this awesome Tamiya 1/35 King Tiger tank and the radio commentary of Liverpool vs WBA, I was vaguely aware that Alistair, like David Fosbrook and Niall Hill, supported Liverpool and would probably be listening to this same commentary. I was happy his team was 2-0 up though Leeds (supported by Dad, Gray, Collins and most of my class-mates, except Maxton who supported West Ham and Crooks who liked Aston Villa) were 0-0 with Spurs and Norwich (vaguely my team) were one up against Southampton. I didn't like Dirty, Dirty Leeds. I prefer my footballers to kick footballs, not other players.
I dabbed the plastic gun-barrel with some poly-cement so I could stick it to the olive, chocolate and red-brown turret whilst the German cross and serial number 113 were peeling off the transfer-sheet in a bowl of warm water. Arsenal (Bunny's team) went 2-0 up against Stoke and Man U scored their 5th when I decided to ask Claire out. I figured my boyish charm and good looks would get me past any lingering embarrassment from that party. Man, it was better than furtive fumblings with another boy. Claire could save me, like Mum had done.
We met at five in a café on the parade. My excited mother gave me a fiver so I could treat her. Dad even looked up from his pools coupon to wish me luck.
''Bloody hell, Dad,'' I muttered, ''It's not a date, you know. Just a meet-up.''
Consequently I just turned up on my ATB in like blue trackies and green rugby jersey. Claire, however, was in this neat knee-length black-and-silver dress. She even wore lipstick and eye-liner and had clearly done more than drag a wet comb through her hair. This made me feel really awkward, especially when some neighbours who must've like witnessed the building of Stonehenge, you know, asked if this was my girlfriend. Claire kind of radiated at the remark. Mumbling something, I buried my rowanberry-red face in a menu.
''So,'' she said across the check tablecloth, ''What were you doing?''
Making a plastic King Tiger sounded lame. Writing a story in German sounded lamer. Getting off with Alistair Rose sounded… well, you know.
''Nothing much.''
Yikes. What a saddo. It sounded like I'd only asked her out for something to do.
''Playing the piano.''
You fuckwit. You sound like that gay twat Paulus, totally, like, one-dimensional. But then what should I say? Oh, hey, I did like this twenty-five K parachute-jump this morning then a ten-K cycle-ride and then climbed Malham Cove with a piece of string. Oh, and then I did four hours of weights in the gym, after my charity marathon-training, of course. Then I'd call her 'babe' and be like a total wanker, like people who say 'K' instead of Kilometre, babe. Alternatively I could say I'd spent the morning assisting at the church soup-kitchen before cleaning and painting the hostel, like Tim and his new best-friend Charlie Rix, but then I'd sound like a pious twat, or someone desperate to impress on a UCAS form. At least I was a real boy, Pinocchio.
Claire had gone for a jog round the lake then had this taekwondo class before her mid-afternoon Arabic lesson at the university. She'd just got back.
''You're learning Arabic?'' I said as the food arrived, a mushroom omelette and fries (mine), green salad (hers). ''Why?''
''It's fascinating,'' she said, ''Especially the calligraphy. It's so beautiful.''
''Would you like a drink?'' asked the waitress.
''Coke, please,'' said Claire.
''Water, please,'' I said, explaining I didn't do sodas.
''Why?'' She had dimples too. I'd never noticed before. ''Do they make you burp?''
''It's the chemicals,'' I said. ''If you can't pronounce it, don't consume it.''
''And yet you drank so much at that party,'' she said. ''You're so mixed-up.''
''It's living on celery, carrots and pumpkin seeds.'' I speared a chip.
''You have so much talent,'' she said, ''And yet you seem to hate yourself.''
I'd gone into this total, booze-fuelled, tear-stained meltdown at that party.
''It's so hard,'' I replied, ''Having to perform to my best all the time. It's so stressful.''
''Most people would kill to have an ounce of what you have. You were wonderful as Oliver, brilliant as Puck, and as a musician, well…''
Shrugging, I forked omelette into my mouth and said these things didn't matter.
''So what do you want?'' she demanded.
''Oh, I want to play scrum-half for the school,'' I sighed. ''I don't want to look like a weedy bag of bones. I want to be taller and bigger. I want some muscles. I don't want freckles, or dimples. I want hair that doesn't hang limply over my forehead. I want longer legs. I want to grow a beard. I want hair under my arms. I want, for once in my miserable life, to take off my shirt without someone calling me Belsen Boy.''
Smiling slyly, she sucked on her Coke and said ''Some people like you as you are, Jonny. Some people think you're really cute.''
''I don't want to be cute,'' I said angrily. ''Cute is what kittens are. I want to be…''
''Mad, bad and dangerous to know,'' she finished, quoting something I'd said at the party. ''Jonny, we're fifteen. We have a lot of growing to do, you know?''
I pushed ketchup-soggy chips round my plate. ''Do you think I'm weird, Claire?''
''Oh God, yes,'' she answered, ''You're seriously weird. But that's why I like you.'' Her eyes locked onto mine. ''I mean, like you, Jonny. Really like you.''
Fuck. This was like some kind of code I just didn't get.
''Thanks,'' I mumbled through my omelette. ''I like you too.''
''Well,'' She nodded at my clothes, ''Next time make an effort, eh?''
Don't try to mould me, I screamed mentally. Ali doesn't. I wondered how the conversation might've gone if it'd been him at this table rather than her. We would've talked about school, music, books and movies, sport and Action Men and had a laugh.
''What's your favourite movie?'' I asked her.
''Titanic. Yours?''
She'd never heard of Way out West, not even when I sang 'Trail of the Lonesome Pine'.
''Favourite play?''
''Cats.''
Someone just shoot me.
But she seemed to have forgiven me for the shoes and we discovered a mutual love of The Muppets. While she enthused about 'Pigs in Space' and we chorused this joint impression of Swedish Chef - 'Puurt thuur chiir-ken airn der bewl, bork bork bork' – I felt myself relax for the first time because the future was suddenly bright. The future was Claire. The future was straight. I mean, I had a girlfriend, man, and she was like so hot for me?
She sat on my lap, safe between my outstretched arms, like Katharine Ross and Paul Newman in Butch Cassidy, and I let my bike free-wheel down the hill towards her house, the wind rushing through our hair and over our faces, making us both scream with delight. We stopped to kiss under a street-light, and I mean, KISS, man, full tongues and everything, yeah? A proper full-on 10-minute snog, and it was so awesome, you know? AWESOME. I even got my hand on her breast as our lips fused together and my tongue explored her mouth. But when I waved goodbye and was riding the half-mile home, I realised what hadn't happened, like, down below, you know? Like NOTHING, right? My body didn't want her. It wanted him.
So here it was. As I settled down for this BBC series about a female police inspector running an all-male station, and The Last Night of the Proms, Mackerras conducting the BBCSO in the usual bollocks + Sea Drift and some Percy Grainger, I was kind of like going out with Claire – we'd snogged a bit and Collins reckoned she'd fuck me and I thought so too – but I thought about Alistair more, much more. I wanted to know everything about him, every last little detail, and I felt, when he left me, like Henry Hoover had come along and sucked out my heart. Claire had never done that. Ali had, and so had Michael Crooks. Holding Ali, being held by Ali had really turned me on,
I mean so much it had hurt. And now I just wanted to die because I couldn't be that, not that. Not me. Not that. I would rather like steam and eat my own stomach, you know? With lentils and a nice dry hock.