Who Lies Inside Read online

  I put my coat on in the hall, knowing it would be cold out. Mum watched me and I could tell she was itching to straighten the collar and poke at the buttons. Steve used to say it was true that women only wanted to serve. But I always felt my Mum, as every woman, wanted more than that.

  Mum opened the front door for me as if I was royalty on its way out, though I wasn’t at all dressed up, just in my jeans and jumper, though the coat was new. Mum must have spent four wage packets on it. The thought of it almost made me feel guilty. For four weeks Mum had sat at a cash desk at the local Co-op just so I’d be warm in winter. But Mum didn’t seem to mind. She was pleased she’d got a good buy. It would last for years, Mum said, and I could wear it when I went to college in the autumn. I wondered if that worried her, the prospect of me leaving her alone with him.

  “Have a nice time,” Mum said as I stepped outside.

  “Thanks, Mum.”

  It was all I was allowed to say and I didn’t even try to take her hand and touch her, knowing she would prefer things this way.

  Mum didn’t say goodbye, but I think then,when I looked at her, that she was proud of me, glad I’d grown up to be such a tall, strong young man. There had been two miscarriages before I’d come along and I was such a big baby I almost killed her. The doctors had warned her against having another child and advised an operation. I never knew whether she’d had it, my Nan would tell me no more, and when I was with Mum I knew it was a thing I couldn’t ask. Sex and babies were pretty much taboo in our house.

  I stood in the crowded bar of the Roebuck and supped my Guinness. The air was filled with smoke and chatter as everyone, young or old, did their best to enjoy their Saturday night out.

  I was tapping my foot in time with an old Beach Boys record and trying to hear what Steve and Jim were yakking about, when I caught Jim’s eye and realised that something was up. I turned to Steve and saw that he was too involved with airing his views on the form of Bristol City to see that Jim was upset. I’d always been good at sensing what people felt, but it was a talent — if you could call it that — which I’d never put to much use. No one talked about what they felt at home, and I guessed no one would here in the pub, and so I winked at Jim and hoped that made it all right. Jim winked back, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. His eyes weren’t smiling.

  “You two got something going,” said Steve, grinning.

  “Any time,” said Jim, playing up to it. “Shall we go outside and bugger each other on the lawn?”

  I never said much when they joked like this, but then no one else minded, because it was all meant to be a bit of a laugh. Tonight though, I looked across and saw Charles perched on his stool in the bar opposite me. I was scared to look right into Charles’ eyes, but I could see he was wearing his make-up.

  Charles had thick red hair and a beard trimmed very short. His eyes were always lined with black and coloured slightly on the lids with pale purple or blue. Once there had been the vaguest trace of rouge on his cheek. He always gave me the creeps somehow, in his skin-tight black jumper and white jeans. He was in his mid-thirties I suppose, perhaps a little older, and gold bracelets flopped round his thin wrists, matching the thin gold earring in one ear.

  Charles wasn’t afraid to look at anyone, though I always thought he looked more through you than at you with his questioning green eyes. Everyone was used to him in the Roebuck and left him alone. Only strangers to the pub wanted to pick fights or tumble him out into the street. Occasionally there was a red scratch on his face and once a black eye, though none of us ever said anything. I could tell Steve loathed him, the way he almost bristled if Charles breezed by on his way to the gents leaving a faint trail of scent behind him.

  “Bleeding poof,” Steve would say angrily and then he’d catch me looking at him and grin at me, his face relaxing. “You don’t hate anyone, Jumbo, do you?” he used to say, and the way he said it I wasn’t sure if he meant it as a compliment or not. No one in the rugby team wanted to be accused of being soft.

  Tonight, looking at Charles and ignoring Jim’s crude remark, I felt sorry for the man, and then just at that moment, Charles turned and saw me. Nonchalantly, he blew out the smoke of his cigarette, but I knew his eyes were smiling at me. I turned away, back to Jim and Steve, remembering suddenly the slip of paper in my pocket that Gerald had given me.

  “You’ve been quiet all evening,” Steve said.

  “I was listening, in a listening mood,” I explained.

  “We made enough noise and sang enough after the match,” Jim said, running a hand through his curly blond hair.

  ‘‘There’ll never be another next year,” I said, but Steve cut me short.

  “Don’t start that, Jumbo. You’ll have us all in tears.”

  “It is … a shame,” Jim said carefully, as if he thought it was wet to say he was sad.

  “I know it is,” Steve added, and I glanced at him, knowing deep down he was as feeling as anyone else. “It’s just talking about it makes it all worse. It’s bad enough leaving school.”

  “I don’t know,” said Jim. “Seven years is long enough for me.”

  “I’ll be glad to go,” I said.

  Steve turned to Jim.

  “What about Sharon?” he said. “She’ll be off to college, won’t she?”

  The grin left Jim’s face and then he tried to force it back, but it wouldn’t fit into his sad expression.

  “She might be,” Jim said.

  “Linda told me she was,” said Steve.

  Linda was Steve’s girlfriend, and as much as I liked. Steve I sometimes wondered if he was good enough for Linda, whether he’d be gentle enough so she wouldn’t be hurt.

  Jim took a draught of his pint and I thought it best to change the subject. There’d been rumours that he and Sharon were splitting up. Even though I didn’t want to hear it all again I knew there was one thing that would occupy Steve’s thoughts and allow Jim some peace.

  “We played great this afternoon, didn’t we, lads. That try of Gordon’s, well …

  And of course that set Steve off.

  It was as I was going out for a pee that I realised Charles was a few steps in front of me making the same journey. For some reason I wanted to turn back. Charles gave me the creeps. He was the only man I knew for sure was queer, and of course there were stories about what Charles did to you if you weren’t looking when you bent down. The toilets at the Roebuck were foul-smelling and dimly hit and I didn’t fancy coming across Charles lurking in the shadows.

  But before we even stepped out of the pub door something happened that scared me far more than anything I’d anticipated.

  A tall, pot-bellied man quite deliberately pushed Charles into his friend. Hardly more than a gulp of beer was spilled on the floor, but they were determined to take it out on Charles, who protested to the pot-bellied man’s friend, in a quiet voice, that he’d been pushed.

  “Who’d touch you, you stinking faggot?” the friend said, flint-eyed.

  The pot-bellied man dug Charles in the kidneys and Charles choked a little with the pain. I could see the panic in his made-up eyes, and I felt sick because he was frightened and I couldn’t help.

  “You should be locked up and castrated.” Another thump in the kidneys. The pot-bellied man looked an expert at this kind of thing. Charles grunted and did his best to stand up straight, as if trying to hold onto a last scrap of dignity.

  “I’d like to stick you, Charlie,” said the flint-eyed man in a hushed voice that chilled me. “Only it wouldn’t be fun, oh no, not with steel.”

  Charles whimpered as the pot-bellied man hit him harder, only a tiny movement, but I could hear the agony in the whine that escaped Charles’ trembling lips.

  I had the awful feeling that half the people in the pub knew what was going on. I could feel their eyes burning on my back and the tension in the air. Suddenly it had gone all quiet and it seemed as if everyone was holding their breath. But no one raised a finger to help Charles. N
ot one person.

  Then the landlord, who’d been serving in the other bar, came back and shouted out. Perhaps a barmaid had seen the trouble and called him over.

  “You leave that man alone,” he yelled, and I, and everyone else in the pub, could tell he meant it. Henry Wilcox was six foot and fourteen stone and no one argued if they wanted to drink there again.

  “He ain’t a man,” the pot-bellied man called back. “He ain’t a man at all.”

  “I said, leave him alone.”

  “We’re only helping him out the door, to the gents.” This from the flint-eyed man. Together he and his friend grabbed hold of Charles and bundled him none too gently through the swing door.

  Someone laughed. It seemed the cruellest sound I’d ever heard. I took a deep breath and walked forward, pushing my way through the door. Some loud-mouth yelled out to me to watch myself.

  As the door swung shut behind me I thought how the cold air outside had never seemed fresher. I wanted to forget what I’d seen inside the pub; it had been cruel, unfair and I would have liked to have kicked the pair of bullies in the teeth. As I walked into the gents Charles gave a little involuntary cry and took three quick steps back against the wall.

  No one had ever jumped away from me like that, as if they were sure I was going to hurt them. Something shuddered inside me and for a minute I wondered if all the beer I’d drank was going to come up again. I looked into Charles’ face and wished I hadn’t. I think I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.

  I’d never seen a grown man cry before, but the tears were wet on Charles’ pale face, and the traces of make-up around his eyes were smudged. He shied away from my glance and I heard him sniffing and wiping his face with his hands. His expression had been a mixture of child and adult that unnerved me. The trim red beard and moustache made him look mature, but his eyes had been the wide, frightened eyes of a child that had been hurt and knew it would be hurt again.

  For a moment I wanted to reach out and put my arms around him and tell him it would be all right, but then my own gentleness startled me, and I took a step back. Charles turned at the sound of my footsteps and saw the revulsion in my eyes.

  The vulnerable expression on his face withered away and became a smooth mask. I thought that he hated me, knew I hated myself, only I was scared and I didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to think about him, only wanted to put him clear out of my mind. Then I remembered his frightened eyes and I was sorry inside, only the revulsion remained fixed on my face and I knew I’d need a knife to scrape it off.

  “Do you have to stare?” he said, and I knew that he realised I was more frightened of him than he was of me.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean … ”

  “Of course you didn’t,” he said bitterly, spitting out the words as if they were tiny stones. “I’m not a peep-show. You don’t even have to pay money to look.”

  “I’m sorry … ” I said again. I seemed to be stuck like a record.

  “I don’t need your sympathy, or your pity. Spare that for yourself or for them in there.” Charles gestured to the bar. “It’s them you should be sorry for. They don’t even know they’re alive.”

  I stared at him, not understanding what he meant, what he was trying to say.

  “They shouldn’t have done it,” I whispered.

  “Oh no,” said Charles softly. “They know best, don’t they? I should be beaten up or locked away. Like a sick animal. Don’t they know … ”

  And then he stopped. We both heard the swing of the pub door, and I turned, saw the fear again bright in his eyes. I was shaking too because I knew I couldn’t bear to watch them violently beat him up.

  But it was Steve.

  He took one sharp look at Charles, then glanced at me.

  “Are you all right?”

  “He hasn’t bothered me … ” I began, and then I froze, because it sounded as if I thought the same as all the others, that he was some kind of animal that couldn’t be trusted. I wanted to say sorry, or explain, but of course I was worried to with Steve there, frightened of what Steve might think.

  Charles blew his nose into his handkerchief and shuffled out, leaving the toilets by the back door which led out into a side-street. I half wanted to follow him, so that we would both understand. But it was too late.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I made myself grin and laughed nervously, the sound hollow in the air.

  “It was nasty … beating him up like that,” I said at last.

  “We couldn’t see what was going on, not where we were.”

  “They jabbed him in the kidneys … experts … ” My voice tremored and I saw Steve glance quickly at me, and I didn’t trust myself to say any more. I could tell Steve thought that Charles had received only what he deserved.

  “The poor bugger,” said Steve, surprising me, and he shook his head and spat on the floor as if trying to get rid of a bad taste.

  Then I remembered what Charles had said and I wondered if that was what hurt him most of all, more than all the insults, kicks and funny glances. Pity. Pitied because he was a queer. Pity could take away any dignity or self-respect he had left, and yet I pitied him, couldn’t help that quavering feeling inside me. My insides seemed to have turned to water.

  I took four urgent strides to a toilet and slammed the door shut, turned and vomited into the pan. It was over so quickly it was as if it hadn’t happened. Then I smelled the stink of sick on my own breath and wiped my mouth clean on a sheet of toilet paper.

  Steve called out, but I didn’t hear what he said. I was too busy with my own thoughts. My head seemed to whirl round like my stomach had, a crazy merry-go-round that wouldn’t let me get off until the final churning moment. Then suddenly my head cleared. The sweat was cool on my forehead. Steve banged on the door, but I still didn’t reply. There was one thing I knew I had to do. Trembling, I reached into my back pocket, and found my wallet and the slip of paper that Gerald had given me.

  Unfolding it I saw there was a telephone number written on one side. I tried not to look at it, scared I would memorise the numbers. I closed my eyes, saw once again his dark hair and the secret look on his face. I thought of Charles, thought of the pain and the pity, and screwed up the piece of paper, threw it in the pan and pulled the chain, hoping it and everything else would be swept away.

  Steve banged on the toilet door again.

  “Martin!” he shouted. “Martin! Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” I called back. “Fine.”

  I unbolted the door and came out, not looking at Steve, and took a few shaky steps to the sink, leant down and splashed handfuls of cold water over my face. But I knew nothing would wash the memory of the evening away, knew inside I’d never forget.

  2

  Monday began with the postman bringing me the news, in a long brown envelope, that I’d been accepted for a place at Norton Teacher Training College in Hull. I’d be learning to teach P.E.; a B.Ed. in Physical Education. Naturally, Dad was over the moon. I could tell Mum was excited too, but she kept looking at me worriedly, wondering what I thought.

  “I might not pass my ‘A’ levels,” I said.

  “Course you’ll get them, son, if you work for them.” Dad thumped my shoulder and went downstairs whistling, leaving just Mum and me in my bedroom.

  “You pleased, love?” Mum said, pretending she was checking the window-ledge for dust.

  “I don’t know.” I laid back in the bed where Dad had surprised me with the news, holding the letter aloft as if he was Neville Chamberlain with the treaty that said war had been averted.

  “You must think something, Martin,” Mum persisted. “Your Dad’s pleased for you.”

  “I know. It’s just that I’m not sure … ”

  “Not sure what?”

  “Do I really want to be a P.E. teacher?” I said, asking the ceiling.

  “It’s a good job,” Mum insisted. “Teaching is. You could do a lot worse.”

  “
Perhaps … ” I could feel myself giving in to the anxious light in her eyes, the lines of worry on her face. We both knew there’d be murder to pay if I turned down the place on the course. And her dear husband and my dear father would be the hatchet man.

  “I’d like you to be a teacher,” Mum said, quietly, not looking at me.

  And of course, that was the final blow.

  “What if I fail my ‘A’ levels,” I said, but I knew I was in shallow water now. In a minute I’d be tugged out onto dry land and that would be that.

  “You’ll just have to work harder,” she said, and gave me a limp smile.

  “I haven’t the brain for it,” I began. “Not for English anyway.”

  “You’re imaginative,” Mum said carefully, anxious to say the right word. I thought how she was afraid to say sensitive. It was a word Dad didn’t like.

  “You drew pictures as a child. Lovely pictures. Birds and wild seas and trees. You always could draw.”

  “It’s not the same, drawing and English.”

  For once Mum was not dissuaded or silenced by the edge in my voice.

  “But it shows you could be creative,” she protested. “You can think creatively. Isn’t that what English is? Creative writing, and you have to think like that to understand it.”

  “I suppose so,” I said, determined not to be convinced.

  “Oh, Martin … ” Mum gave me a helpless look and straightened her skirt with her hands. “Your father’s breakfast,” she said, and then turned and left the room, her footsteps hurried along the landing.

  I wanted to call her back, but I knew it was no good. There seemed nothing I could say.

  In the mirror in the bathroom I viewed my face critically. I never thought it up to much. My jaw was too heavy and my eyes were too small, not large and set perfectly apart like Gerald’s. I splashed water over my face, regretting that thought, and reached for my tube of shaving cream. I still hated shaving, dreaded cutting myself and having spots. I counted my blessings that I’d so far avoided acne.