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Lawrence went to ask Tim something, but another fan came over, tapping at Tim’s arm.
“For fuck’s sake,” snarled Lawrence.
The fan eyed him through his furrowed brow as Tim looked set to try and find a way to diffuse things.
“He didn’t mean it.” Tim turned to the man. “Sorry, did you want an autograph?”
“Nah, fucking forget it, mate. You’re not that good,” said the man, eyeing Lawrence up and down as he strode off, flicking the bird at them both.
Tim came in close. “You can’t do that, Larry. These people are my bread and butter.”
“Excuse me? I don’t see you all day and all evening, and you tell me I can’t tell a silly twat with a bowl cut andThe Cocteau Twinspainted badly on the back of his jacket to fuck off. I bet he thinks they’re actual bloody twins as well. And don’t call me Larry. I fucking hate it.”
“Wow. Chill your boots. I’ve been locked up in a studio for near enough twenty-four hours and I’m back in there tomorrow. I’ve got about, what, three hours to let loose? You know how much pressure I’m under.”
Lawrence started to nod sarcastically, and a fence of whispers from other punters began to circle them. “Yeah. It’s all about you, isn’t it? You never even bother to ask how I’m doing, what I’m thinking lately. You come in and just talk about all the shit you’ve done in the studio. Orhaven’tdone in your case.” He instantly regretted the last sentence as Tim recoiled.
Then Tim threw his hand up and turned his back. He seemed to know better than to engage in a full-blown argument, especially in the middle of one of the coolest nightclubs in town, and that pissed Lawrence off more, how they couldn’t even argue properly in public as lovers.
Lawrence watched Tim head back downstairs, no doubt towards the exit, and he supped the remainder of his drink before slamming his plastic glass on the bar, cursing not being able to shatter it into angry fragments. Instead he gritted his teeth in frustration and threw an obnoxious gesture to the empty space where he’d seen Tim recede.
* * *
Four am,and still there was no sign of Tim. He’d left the club way before Lawrence, so Lawrence had stayed supping on an endless yield of JD and cokes supplied by his two friends.
He had been home for a while now, though, and had showered and washed the abundance of product from his hair. Laying in their bed in his kimono dressing gown with his mobile phone weighing in his hand, he was ready to dial Tim’s number again.
For the hundredth time at least, the dial tone was dead. Maybe it was as simple as him running out of battery? Or maybe he had turned it off, still fuming from their earlier fracas?
Knowing that it was open twenty-four hours, Lawrence had phoned the studio to check if he had gone back there to sleep in an attempt to hide away from any chance of another melee.
He’d quickly run out of places where he thought that Tim would be. Tim had no family, since he had been brought up in foster homes all of his life. The only friends of his that Lawrence knew of from the music world, he didn’t have phone numbers for either.
The stress of not being able to find Tim and worrying about his safety was far beginning to outweigh the stress of the argument that had caused this whole situation in the first place.
Lawrence prayed that he was okay. He wasn’t a religious man but had to turn to some higher power to wish him safe.
Fuck it. He’d have to swallow his own fears and call the police. They’d argued many times before, but Tim had never stayed out. It would be so out of character for him to be roaming the streets, especially in the middle of winter like this.
He flicked frantically through the Thomson Local directory, trying to find the nearest police station. He dialled the number on the home phone, sparked up a cigarette and waited for an answer.
A gruff voice came on the other end of the line, and Lawrence took a couple of seconds to compose himself. Being gay shouldn’t ever matter. It shouldn’t ever be a reason for the coppers to refuse to look, to care. Tim wasn’t just his sexuality.
“I’d like to report a missing person please.”
The policeman took down the information Lawrence gave him.
“And what is your relationship to Tim, sir?”
Lawrence paused, biting his tongue. As much as he wanted to tell the desk sergeant the truth, he couldn’t. Society had strangled that right from him.
“Friend. Roommate.” He huffed it out.
After relaying Tim’s last movements, the desk sergeant informed him that most people seem to turn up within a day or two and not to worry too much. He didn’t seem too bothered that this behaviour seemed so out of character, but told Lawrence to call back tomorrow evening if he still hadn’t turned up.
Lawrence spat a sarcastic ‘thank you’ down the line and slammed the phone receiver down, missing the body of the phone, causing the whole thing to topple onto the floor, escalating his frustration.
He finished his cigarette right down to the end and stubbed it out into the stolen pub ashtray on the coffee table. After slumping back onto their bed, he stared vacantly at the ceiling, trying to fight sleep, but that seemed a right he’d be denied too.
