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I continued walking, not ready to face him. Not ready to be punched or yelled at or outed. I’d never be ready for that. Or prepared for whatever else Alex Valentine had lined up.
Hurried footsteps caught up with me as I trudged to the top. One flight of concrete steps, then a corner, another flight, another corner. So far, I’d counted thirty-three steps. By my calculations if there were eight more flights then I only had another—
“Matt. Stop, please.”
He reached my side and curled his hand around my upper arm. Shrugging him off, I upped my pace. I wanted to tell him to fuck off and leave me alone, but I couldn’t trust my voice. With bursting lungs, I rounded another corner, panting heavily, while Mr. Rugby Star next to me barely needed to take a breath. His long legs matched my pace effortlessly, even though, as we spiralled upwards, I had the inner, shorter route. The dull ache swelling in my chest had nothing to do with my lack of fitness. Astonishingly, my eyes remained dry; maybe because I hurt like hell, but was bloody pissed off with him too.
“Shouldn’t you be with Binita?” Anger seethed in the pit of my belly.
He wrinkled his nose in confusion. “No. Why?”
“Well, you know, now she’s your new maths buddy and everything.” I shot him a furious glare. “She failed the last mock exam though, so don’t believe everything she teaches you.”
We’d reached the top storey, and as I’d surmised from previous rum and coke drinking excursions up here with Phil and Brenner, at this time of day, midweek, it was empty. I turned my back on him, trying not to collapse as if I’d just run a marathon. With my elbows resting on the cold, rusty rail running around the perimeter of the carpark, I pretended a fascination with the view of plastic refuse sacks piled up at the back of the Co-op, the dreary pensioners queuing at the bus stop, and in the distance, the forbidding, heavy iron gates of the MB factory. A raging pool of bitterness, misery and pure spite twisted in my guts. An unbearable urge to hit himandthrow my arms around him filled my voice with sourness.
“Oh, and Phil says she doesn’t put out, so don’t expend too much energy trying, will you?”
Alex made some sort of spluttery noises behind me. “Is that what you think is happening?”
“But he also says her tits are great, so maybe she’ll be worth a bit of effort.”
Below us, the bus slowed to a stop and the pensioners started to delve into bags and pockets for money and bus passes. I sensed Alex take a step forward. If I turned around, I reckoned I’d be within hitting range. I could take whatever he threw my way when the time came. Granted, he was muscly, but I bet my old man hit harder.
“Matt, honestly, I am not having a crack at Binita. She’s just a friend. I’ve known her since forever. Our mothers play tennis against each other on Tuesdays. Her dad and mine went to dental school together.”
“Of course they fucking did.”
Middle class life. All so bleeding cosy, wasn’t it? The bus trundled away, merging into the light afternoon traffic circling the ring road. The punch would come any second now. Hoping a tremor wouldn’t betray me, I affected a bored tone.
“Does Binita know you kiss boys when you’re drunk?”
He was barely six inches away now, I sensed the heat of him. The street noise below seemed far away; we were so high, no one would hear me scream when his fist connected with my nose. I flinched in anticipation of punishment about to be inflicted. He’d teach this queer boy a lesson he wouldn’t ever forget.
“I was sober, Matt. Stone cold sober.”
Alex spoke in the same determined manner he’d used when Brenner had confronted him. “And that’s the fucking problem. I’m not gay.”
I shrugged. “You keep telling yourself that, mate. Worked for Goebbels.”
“Who the hell is Gerbils?”
Jesus, what on earth did they teach well-to-do kids in expensive schools these days?
“A Nazi. If you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes the truth. First law of propaganda.”
I should know, I’d been practising what I preached for years.
Steeling myself, I twisted round to face him. To get it over with.
“I don’t kiss boys.” His voice was a trembling, insubstantial whisper. “Drunk or sober. Please, Matt, don’t tell anyone.”
I dared rake my eyes over him. All the usual elements of Alex Valentine were present and correct; the neat polo shirt, the muscles of his arms and chest, tidy hair, the intoxicating bloody scent of him. A big hand that had once squeezed my hip so wonderfully rubbed across his mouth, the other he pushed through his hair. And then it hit me. He was even more terrified than me, on the verge of tears, in fact. Petrified I would spill the beans.
“Why didn’t you stop me, Matt?” he pleaded. “We could have been seen. Christ! Why the hell didn’t you stop me?”
“Why do you think?” I gave a brittle laugh.
My first ever kiss with another boy, and here I was, agreeing to pretend it had never happened. Alex trying to kid himself it hadn’t been what he wanted. Is this how it would be, for the rest if my days? Denying myself, torturing myself, colluding to erase furtive, fabulous moments in time? My gaze drifted towards the drab street below. Maybe I would throw myself off the top of the carpark after all. Although I couldn’t be certain the carpark was high enough. Knowing my luck, I’d probably just break my back and end up paralysed from the waist down and never have sex with anyone, let alone find another Alex Valentine to love.
