Page 2 of Electric Boy

“Aisling and me’d be married already if it weren’t for you being all… third-wheel. Always getting in the way.”

The words hit him hard and sharp in the chest, threatening to puncture his heart. He doesn’t mean it, he tried to convince himself. He’s smashed. Aisling’s upset him. He’s just having a bit of a tantrum, that’s all. It was with great effort that Rahul trampled the well of emotion threatening to bubble over and plastered on a placid smile beneath his moustache.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Do too. I use up all the good part of me on you, and then I’ve got none left for her.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Jules. Obviously you’re upset. I can see that. Let’s just get you home and we’ll talk about it like adults.” He wrapped his fingers around Julian’s upper arm, but the shorter man shook him off, swaying dangerously on his stool as he did so. He turned eyes on Rahul that burned blue as an electrical fire.

“That’s just it. You’re always trying to control me. You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you? Just ‘cause you went to your fancy uni and I stayed back here. Just cause your dad owned shops and I never even had a dad.”

“How could you think that I…” Rahul trailed off, shocked into silence. He had never, since he’d met Julian as a child, thought himself better than him. They both came from nothing. It was one of the founding principles of their friendship. And they still had nothing. Nothing but each other. Julian knew this, consciously. This wasn’t him talking, it was the booze, and Rahul had to keep that in focus before he lost his temper.

“Look,” he began slowly, carefully metering out his words. “You’ve had a long day, yeah? I know I’m around a bit more than I ought to be sometimes, but that’s because I’m taking care of you. You know that. Mel knows that. She asks me to take care of you. I’m sorry that Aisling has a problem with it, but that can hardly be helped. Next time you see her, tell her I’m sorry. Now. Why don’t you come with me and we can forget all about it, yeah?”

He reached for Julian again but this time Julian’s hand struck first, finger extended into a sharp point that thrust into Rahul’s chest like a very entitled dart. He poked him. “No. No no no. You listen to me,” Julian slurred. His blue eyes that had once burned were now melted back into glassy puddles that couldn’t quite focus on Rahul. “You don’t come in here like a… a… a jumped-up ponce with an anaemic caterpillar on his lip and tell me what to do, yeah? I’ll leave when I wanna leave. And you don’t control me, like Ash says. I’m my own man. I do what I want.”

Rahul flinched from the poke as if he’d been pushed. Anger surged in him like an ungrounded electric current. He chugged the remainder of his pint to keep his ire from boiling over and slammed the empty glass down on the counter. The resentment from years of Julian taking their friendship for granted began to rise to the surface. It was with monumental effort -- a deeper tribute to his love for Julian than Julian would ever know -- that he reined that rage into a dull simmer, something that would burn but wouldn’t scald. But even the bravest of wounded animals still lash out.

“You do what you want, eh?” Rahul snapped. “Or you do what Aisling tells you?” It wasn’t fair, of course, but hurt people hurt people, or so they say.

“Least I have somebody who tells me what to do.”

Rahul’s chest tightened. Julian clearly wasn’t playing fair either.

“I’d rather be alone than shackled to that girlfriend of yours,” he ground out.

“Or you’re just jealous.”

“Or you’re just an entitled little twat that can’t tell when someone’s trying to help him.”

“Trying to help me? Some help. Who asked you?”

“No one. You know what? Absolutely no one.” Rahul threw up his hands and stood, his heart pounding in his ear. He and Julian hadn’t fought like this in… he could scarcely remember when. They hadn’t even fought like this back when they’d… Well. Back then. Pulse thundering, he donned his coat and took off for the cold, drizzly London streets, not stopping to check if Julian was following him.

He still felt himself choke with guilt, however, when he made it halfway down the street and realised his friend had stayed behind. He would be fine. Right? Surely he would be fine. He’d been drunker than this on his own and made it home all right. He’d be fine… Wouldn’t he?

No, it wasn’t Rahul’s problem. If Julian wouldn’t let him help, then there was nothing for it. He couldn’t help someone who refused to be helped. Until he begged Rahul’s forgiveness and of course Rahul buckled like a flaccid accordion. Like he always did. Because it was Julian. And he was Rahul. And that’s how they worked. Or didn’t.

Chapter Two: Every Breath You Take

Michael had first laid eyes on the young man nearly four months ago. He hadn’t been to this pub much before that. It was close to his flat, true, but there were pubs that were closer, pubs that had better ambiance, pubs whose pints weren’t watered down. But he’d come in from the rain and hadn’t felt like venturing out again to find another drinking hole. He’d sat at the very same booth he currently found himself occupying. He’d only just begun tucking into his watery lager when his gaze had landed on a mane of dark hair at the bar.

Skinny under a faux-leather jacket speckled with hand-sewn patches. His knobby, pale wrists protruded out from under the too-short sleeves. He’d been on his own then. When he’d turned to order a drink, Michael could just make out his Roman-coin profile, nose as flat and straight as a penknife. He’d nearly gotten up then. To talk to him. To buy him a drink. To just be near him. Nearly gotten up. It was a good thing he hadn’t, because moments later the young man was joined by a young woman, a tall, buxom brunette with more curves than a country road. She sidled up to him, arms snaking around his narrow waist. They made a handsome couple, the sort of trendy Camden couple one might see in magazines or smoking outside an avant-garde art exhibit. Michael had wanted to rip her darkly painted fingers off him.

But that feeling soon passed. It was clear there was nothing he could do but watch, and what use was there in feeling propriety over someone he could never approach? Instead, he chose to enjoy the couple’s attractiveness, their effortless coolness, the endearing way in which they seemed to be lost in each other, oblivious to the rest of the world. They talked, they kissed, they cuddled. The boy’s hand sneaked up the girl’s skirt and she tucked her head beneath his chin. Michael watched them until they left. They were so engrossed in each other that he was sure they were leaving to make love. He waited until the rain had somewhat calmed, then made his way home through damp Hoxton streets.

He returned the following night, around the same time. He didn’t see what harm could come from having a look, just a peek, to see if his boy might be back. He could be a regular. One never knew unless one tried to find out. Michael’d been waiting nearly an hour before the young man made an appearance amidst a loud, already slightly drunk group that came through the door humming and hanging onto each other. The boy’s hair was sprayed and teased, smeared eyeliner making his already enormous eyes appear massive, and with leopard-print leggings straining over his toned legs. The group must have been out clubbing or at a party. It hardly mattered. All Michael cared about was that he was here. He was back. And he was sure to be back again.

From that moment onward, Michael was at The Barber & Pony every Friday and Saturday night. The nights with the girlfriend were his least favourite. He could have grown to enjoy their amorous displays, but those were just as often interspersed with fights where the girl did a great deal of shouting until the bartender had to chuck them out. Michael was always hopeful on such occasions that this one, this time, might be the final straw and they’d split up at long last, only to find himself disappointed the following week when they’d be as all over each other as ever, as though the row had only stoked the flames of their desire.

Some nights the young man drank beyond what was good for him. He would drink until he swayed on his feet and would have to be propped up by his friends. Sometimes they left with him. But sometimes the young man left alone and Michael worried.

So he followed him. To make sure he got home safely, of course. The streets were dangerous, as infested with gangs as an old house was with termites. Crime was as ubiquitous as smog with Thatcher in charge of the country. The boy could be mugged, or worse. He was a slight young man, average of height but thin of build, and in a state of intoxication that severe he’d never be able to fend off an attacker. Not like Michael, who, aside from his towering height, took pains to maintain an extraordinary physique. Michael could handle himself in a rough situation. This dandy could not.

So of course he tailed him from a safe distance. Michael watched the lad’s Cuban heels splash in the shallow puddles under the sickly glow of the fluorescent street lamps. They didn’t walk far. After only a handful of streets, the boy turned down the stairs outside a block of flats, disappearing behind the door of a basement apartment. Seconds after he entered, a warm rectangle of yellow light appeared in a window through which a good portion of the little apartment was visible if one stood behind the hedge on the pavement. Michael saw a small television with a bent aerial, an antique coffee table with old takeaway containers on, and a beat-up sofa with a garish ‘60s pattern. The boy had thrown himself down on the latter and promptly fallen asleep. Michael had waited and watched a little longer. Just in case.

He had followed him to ensure his safety, he assured himself. Finding out where he lived had merely been a bonus.