Blue-Eyed Stranger, page 20
They hadn’t taken away the despair, the voice that told him he deserved to be annihilated, that he took up too much of the world’s resources by breathing and thinking and standing still. But they’d put a barrier in place between Billy and the darkness. The voice’s words were muffled and distant, easier to ignore. The weight that pressed him down was easier to lift and therefore there was more energy left over to cope with the things that would once have overwhelmed all of his resources.
Often now, when he watched Martin smile or dance or deal with life in a deft combination of patience and bluntness, something new would slip across the surface of that barrier. Something better than the occasional heart-racing satisfaction of dancing, more solid than the out-of-body bliss of music. He hesitated to call it contentment, though that was the only word that came close.
Martin had done this for him—rescued him from his own demons, pulled him back from the brink of an abyss so deep it had no end. He eyed Martin’s new haircut with ridiculous pleasure, itching to get his hands into it. He had loved the braids, but he loved the symbolism more. He wondered if Martin knew that his reaction to letting Billy down was to make himself into a new man, to ruthlessly cut off what he didn’t like and start something new. The thought caught at Billy’s heart with hooks of joy. Martin had remodelled himself for him.
He was a keeper, that was for sure.
“So I’ll see you all in the morning,” Martin was saying now. It made Billy smile and catch Annette’s eye as she hurried up to find them. There was a show for the Early Dance Group to put on under cover in the beer tent, and after that . . . home.
Home, where his emptinesses had begun to be filled with Martin’s things, Martin’s presence. Home, where even if he did crash again, it would be with Martin’s knee under his cheek as he lay on the sofa. With Martin smiling down on him as they gently squabbled about something unimportant. Martin, who had looked past the mask and seen something valuable in Billy that even Billy didn’t know was there.
Martin made him wish to, strive to be real. Because, inexplicable though it might be, Martin seemed to think that when he was with Billy, he was not alone.
It was a heady experience, being seen. But if there had to be only one person in the whole world with eyes open enough to take Billy in, he was glad it was Martin.
“You ready?” Martin asked, leaning down and picking up Billy’s hearpe, handing it to him. The ancient instrument had become part of Billy over the past months. He kept finding more and more in it, as if once unsilenced, once passed to a player who understood how to let it sing, it was grasping at the opportunity, leaping forward into life, blossoming and teaching him underneath his fingers.
He knew how it felt. “Yeah,” he said and gave in to the impulse to lean forward and run his fingers through Martin’s springy hair.
“I never asked if you liked it,” Martin said quietly, as they strolled down the hill, the discordant soundscape washing over Billy, as easily ignored as air.
“I really do. But I don’t think there’s anything you could do to it that would put me off.”
He caught a sheen of nervous sweat on Martin’s forehead as Martin glanced away. Protectiveness, unfamiliar but welcome, welled up inside at the thought that what had just happened must have been harder for Martin than he thought. Stopping, he wiped Martin’s face with the sleeve of his under-tunic, and then with his palms, leaving it warm and dry, and slightly downcast.
“What’s wrong?”
Martin took a moment to lean his face into Billy’s hand and close his eyes. They stood together in the sunshine and the scent of chimney cake and candy floss, while Billy had an uncontrollable urge to destroy whatever it was that was putting doubt on Martin’s face now.
“Nothing. It’s silly. I know.”
“Come on,” Billy wheedled, “tell me. I’m not the only one in this relationship who gets to demand to have their every whim pandered to, you know. You get to ask for things too.”
Martin chuckled, but it wasn’t a particularly happy laugh. “It’s just . . .” He turned and began walking again towards the red-and-white marquee where they were due to perform. “You seem . . . more solid. Stronger now. On the meds, I mean. You seem more on an even keel.”
Billy was not so much better that he didn’t immediately think, God, this is good-bye. Despite everything he’d been thinking moments before, his voice still came out sharp. “And you liked me more when I was needy and dependent on you?”
Martin’s eyes flicked up to meet his, dark as the night sky, dark as the universe. “No! Not that. It makes me happy when you’re happy.” The gaze dropped again. His mouth tugged in as if trying to keep back something bitter.
“I just . . .” He walked faster, muttering something indistinguishable at the toggles on his shoes.
“What?”
“I just think that maybe you don’t need me anymore. I messed things up so badly, I don’t know how you can forgive me. You deserve so much more than me, and maybe now you’ll find someone who can give it to you. Someone employed. Someone better.”
While they talked, the ground had gone by under their feet and now they were at the beer-tent entrance. Billy backed into one of the guy ropes to make room for the push of singlet-clad men and halter-topped women in and out of the door.
“There couldn’t be anyone better for me than you,” he said, earnestly, racking his brains for something poetic to say that would convince Martin. Didn’t the man know he’d been forgiven a long time ago? That Billy thought he was uniquely wonderful, the centre of his universe? He tried to think how he could show Martin that, how he could tell him and be believed.
But then the compere inside announced the Early Dance Group on the microphone, and they had to hurry to Annette’s side so she and Billy could tune their instruments to each other.
Martin walked out to begin his talk. His step was a fraction slow, his mouth turned down. It was clear the reassurance hadn’t got through.
Martin dreamed of being in a Viking boat rowing over a choppy swell, and woke to find it was nine thirty in the morning and Billy was shaking his shoulder with frenetic glee. He blinked the world into focus, began to say “nnuh, what?” but Billy leaned forward and put a hand over his mouth. He shut up.
Billy’s eyes were opened wide, his face shining. He handed Martin his mobile phone and mouthed, “It’s the school.”
That cleared Martin’s head instantly. Struggling out of the duvet, he swung his legs over the side of the bed so he could take this one while sitting up. “Martin Deng.”
“Mr. Deng? It’s Anna Crewe at Trowbridge Academy here. I’m pleased to say . . .”
Martin bit the side of his mouth, trying to stop the squeak of anticipatory pleasure.
“. . . that we were all very impressed with your interview last Monday. Unfortunately . . .”
Thank God he hadn’t made a noise. It was bad news after all.
“. . . we don’t have a permanent place to offer you, but we would like you to come in on a temporary contract with the option of upgrading you in future if a permanent position becomes available.”
No, it wasn’t! It wasn’t bad news. After so long trying, so many rejections, he couldn’t comprehend it or believe it all at once. Was it really happening? Was he just dreaming the whole thing? Oh, who the hell cared? Why not enjoy the sensation while he could? He covered his mouth, pinched his nose closed for a moment to foil the squeak again, and managed a passable imitation of someone who was calm and together and decorously pleased.
“That’s wonderful news. When would you like me to start?”
Billy frisked away like the gazelle he was and returned with a notebook and pen so that Martin could take down the details, which he did with a hand that trembled so badly from relief and joy that he half feared he would never be able to read them again.
In two weeks, as it turned out. They wanted him to start at the beginning of the new academic term, on the fourteenth of September. He barely kept the laughter out of his voice until he’d firmly and decisively accepted the position and taken down all the instructions. He rang off, dazed, threw the phone onto the bedside table, caught Billy by the back of the head and dragged him into a filthy kiss.
Getting his hands into Billy’s hair, he tugged, and Billy crawled up onto the bed with him. For some reason, Billy was already dressed. But that was easily remedied, and they celebrated Martin’s new job in a flurry of discarded clothes and triumphant, joyous sex.
It was a full hour later that Billy looked at his watch—which he had not bothered to take off—and said “Oh no, we’ll be late!”
He rubbed his cheek and then his bruised throat along Martin’s crisp new haircut, giving an exaggerated shiver of delight at the texture against his skin, then looked at Martin, side-eyed and sly.
“Late?” Martin asked, stretching the afterglow out of his limbs. “What for?”
“I arranged something to cheer you up.” Billy shrugged his trousers and T-shirt back on. After a glance through the curtains, he added a flannel shirt on top and gave a rueful chuckle. “But it will probably do for a celebration instead.”
He padded out to the kitchen, and Martin, still feeling expansive and obliging towards the whole world, had a very quick shower, cleaned his teeth, and was half-dressed before Billy returned with two mugs of coffee and his meds.
Billy took the pills unself-consciously under Martin’s gaze. They hadn’t discussed this as a ritual, and Martin would certainly have never asked for it—he would love Billy just the same if he never took the things again—but it seemed to have happened by itself. Perhaps Billy just needed Martin to see him do it, in the same way that he liked Martin noticing that he existed. Maybe it helped with some kind of placebo effect?
Billy fidgeted when he was done, bouncing on the side of the bed with his face turned away from Martin. He looked indecisive, as though the job offer, welcome though it was, had thrown a crimp in his plans. “I . . . uh. I don’t want to overshadow the good news. I didn’t know this was going to happen like this. I think.” A lick of the lips and he glanced at Martin and away again. “I would have chosen a different day, if I’d known. I’m sorry.”
Martin sobered, allowing his bubbling sense of relief to go off the boil, letting it just rest there under his heart like a little source of warmth. Whatever this was, it was obviously important to Billy, and Billy had done it for him. So he would damn well appreciate it to the best of his ability.
He dressed quickly: new socks, a jumper because autumn had begun to make its presence known and there was a nip in the air, but the bright-yellow one, cheerful as he felt.
“It must be a hell of a surprise if it can top the new job,” he said, grinning as he shovelled down a bowlful of cereal. “I’m sure I’m going to love it. Hey . . .” The thought struck him because he wanted to do something nice for everyone. “Once I have some money coming in, we could install a stair lift. Get Mrs. Webb one of those mobility scooter things so she could go outside every now and again, what d’you think?”
Billy bit his already kiss-swollen lips, keeping them plump and red. He gave a wide, slightly frantic smile of approval. “I think . . .” He checked his watch again. “I think we really ought to go.”
“What should I bring?”
“I’ve, um. I’ve done it.” Billy hefted on the backpack, his eyes sliding past Martin’s as he looked out of the window rather than meet Martin’s gaze. Something furtive about the gesture tripped up Martin’s contentment and placed the sliver of sharp ice back in his gut. What was going on?
“Okay. Lead on, then.”
The bus journey to the bottom of Wednesday Hill only wound the screw tighter, Billy shifting all the way like he had a full-body rash and needed to scratch. As they walked up the footpath to Urd’s well, Martin tried to think what he might have done to cause this. Was Billy worried that now he had a job he wouldn’t need the support anymore?
No, that didn’t make sense because he’d obviously arranged this before the job. Was he working up to letting Martin down gently? Some kind of tactful breakup plan now he didn’t need Martin anymore? He’d said Martin was good for him, he seemed happy enough, but Martin couldn’t help fretting that . . .
One good thing came into his life, another left. Meeting Billy, he’d lost his job. It would be poetic justice, maybe, if gaining a job meant he lost Billy. Expecting to have both at once did seem like an excess of good luck, now he thought about it. More than he deserved, perhaps. Billy had still not said that he was finally forgiven, after all, and he kept not daring to ask.
They reached Wednesday Keep, the hill fort, in uncomfortable silence, Martin’s mood reflecting back to Billy, Billy’s to him in a feedback loop of increasing uncertainty.
“Are you okay?” Billy said, coming in close to take his elbow in a gesture that never failed to warm him with its old-fashioned fifties’ movie charm. He managed a smile.
“Never better. What are we up here for?”
Billy echoed it, a tiny flash of hope and mischief in his eyes. “Come on.”
He led Martin to the blue plastic tent around the excavation and knocked against one of the metal poles that held it up.
“Finally!” A muddy man with spiky caramel-coloured hair lifted the flap and smiled at Billy with recognition. He gestured them inside, peering at Martin with friendly curiosity as he came. “And you must be Martin. I’m James Huntley, curator at Trowchester museum. I have oversight over this dig. How d’you do?”
Martin shook hands, slightly reassured. A dumping didn’t seem to be the kind of thing one did in front of observant academics. “Hi, I’m Martin—”
“Billy’s partner.” James smiled, turning to lead Martin to a corner of the dig where a rectangular patch of soil had been marked out with string, divided into two plots of one metre square. They hunkered down there together. Martin noticed that the soil in one half seemed darker, softer than in the other. “Yes, I know. He told me you’re keen on archaeology? You wanted to have a go?”
Martin’s anxiety eased open like a mantrap, leaving him feeling bruised and shaky but free. James handed him a trowel and a brush, indicated the notepad and pen lying next to the marked-out area. “Well, I have an hour before my students arrive, so we’ll go over this first square together while I show you how it’s done, and then you can do the second by yourself.”
He looked up at Billy. Some kind of exchange of information was made, but Martin couldn’t work out what it was. “I should tell you,” James went on, when Billy gave a shrug of resignation, “that we have been over the second square already, but I’m convinced it was done badly and there’s something we’ve missed.”
All this nervousness about doing something so thoughtful? Straightening up, Martin strode over to squeeze Billy tight in a relieved hug. “This is brilliant! Thank you! Is this what you were worrying about? Silly old thing! It’s like a birthday—two presents at once. Thank you!”
Billy did a good job of smiling, but Martin could feel the tension all along his spine that said whatever it was that was bugging him hadn’t been resolved at all. He went back to James with his delight over the surprise slightly marred by worry and puzzlement.
It was still fascinating, when James showed him how to peel down the soil, how to distinguish different shades, different textures of soil from each other. What this faint colouring of red meant, or that line of black. The bump when he hit his first object with the tip of his trowel was a full-body experience of excitement like the shock of loosing a bow.
Billy rolled up the sides of the tent around them as they worked on the first square, James showing him how to catalogue the potsherds he found, and the—“Oh, that’s nice!”—the stippled twist of green material that turned out to be a broken bronze finger ring.
The light inside turned golden as he worked, almost losing himself in the fierce focus of the discipline, prevented from it only because every time he raised his head, he found Billy pacing.
There was something going on. Something more than this. What the hell was it?
“Okay,” said James, as they reached the final corner of the first square. “I’m going to go light the camping stove and make us all some coffee. Why don’t you get started on the second square?”
He ducked out from under the awning and walked off across the hill top, disappearing through the gate in the inner bank. His stove must be in his vehicle down in the car park.
Martin looked at Billy, who was chewing his lips again, and thought of throwing the trowel down, going over, and demanding an explanation.
But that would be a poor show of appreciation in the middle of a treat Billy had arranged. Maybe Billy was nervous because he wanted to see Martin enjoying himself and Martin wasn’t. Well, he was. He was, he just wished he knew what was going on. He wished he could somehow rule out the idea that this awkwardness was the way everything ended.
Billy gave him a too-bright smile, folded his arms, turning to look out at the bowl of grassy walls around them. Martin turned to the second square, glad that it had already been dug, aware that he was too on edge to do it justice.
His heart still leapt into his mouth when he felt the thunk on the end of his trowel. Something was there. He slowed his pace, dropped his gaze, and carefully lifted the soil from around the end of it. The high sun shone slantwise against something that glittered back.
Gold. A gold edge. Some kind of design on it that looked familiar. He followed its lines along, gently, revealing the sharp side of a small gold box, with faience insets of orange and turquoise in the shape of outspread wings.
The moment he’d scraped enough soil off, he knew it was a reproduction of a box from Kush that could not have landed in this cold dark soil by accident. He dropped the trowel and unearthed it from its bed of dirt with his fingers, lifting it out.
What?
Billy must have put this here, staged the whole thing so that he would dig this out and know it couldn’t have been meant for anyone but him.
