Blue-Eyed Stranger, page 8
Sad suddenly, Billy took his meal into the small sitting room and switched on both TV and laptop. Time Team was on, talking about an archaeological dig somewhere in the Mendips, cutting back through the soil of a hump in a farmer’s field, finding tools and animal bones from the Bronze Age, when the quiet agricultural landscape had been a ceremonial site, a temple to some god whose name no one would ever again know.
Billy ate his pasta, and wondered about going down to the Albert, where conversation would probably not revolve around the impermanence of things, the inevitability that even if you weren’t a ghost now you would soon become one. That someone else would dance your dances and flaunt themselves in your jigs because you’d had your chance and you had flubbed it.
Sometimes, if there were five men present and it was a six-man dance, the side would dance around the space where the absent dancer should be as if the space was occupied. It was called “dancing with a ghost.” Billy smiled painfully at the thought. Maybe that was what they felt like when he was there—that he was a nothing outlined in black.
Just stop it, all right? He could feel himself slipping towards the pit, his breathing going shallow around the clench of a dark universe in his chest. It was still a good day—he couldn’t get the thing out of him, but the tilt of the floor was shallow enough that he could dig his mental fingers in and slow the slide towards it.
He switched Time Team off, waded conscientiously through three-quarters of his dinner, ignored the call of the beer bottles in the kitchen—the only alcohol allowed in the house—in favour of making St. John’s wort tea and eating a slab of dark chocolate. The internet failed him. No one had emailed. None of the blogs he followed had anything interesting to say, and he didn’t think he could face cat pictures just at the moment.
You had a great day. You met someone interesting, who liked you.
Yeah, but he didn’t, though.
He’ll call you. He just can’t do it now because he’s in a field that has no reception.
He won’t call. He’s forgotten me already.
Maybe if you made more of an effort . . .
To be someone I’m not?
Yes. Maybe if you were someone else, everyone would like you.
Well, thanks for that wonderful advice. You’re fucking useless.
I know. I know I am.
Having reached its inevitable end point, the train of thought derailed for a moment. It was still a good day because Billy could get off at that point and look for a book to distract him. He got in almost ten minutes of browsing titles before it started up again.
Maybe if you weren’t so useless.
God, I hate you sometimes. Shut up!
Other people don’t stand in their living room arguing with themselves over how hateful they are. Other people manage to choose a book when they set out to choose a book. Other people—
A buzz, like the hum of a hornet the size of his head, interrupted his thoughts. The doorbell was ringing. Billy’s internal dialogue fell into a surly mutter at the back of his mind as claws scrabbled across the ceiling and four high-pitched doggy voices yammered protest overhead. From downstairs a cello concerto was amplified into magnificence as Mr. Kaminski turned the volume up, either to protest the intrusion or to ignore it.
For a moment, Billy didn’t stir. He had enough to do. Couldn’t the universe see that he was fighting for his sanity here? He didn’t have the energy left over to go down and open doors to strangers. He’d had a whole day of people and noise and interaction, and he could not deal with any more of it.
The buzz came again, reproachful and insistent, putting up his hackles like a violin piece played slightly off-key. Would it never shut up?
Well, no. It wouldn’t because Kaminski wouldn’t answer the door and Mrs. Webb couldn’t. If the noise was to be stopped, it would have to be stopped by Billy. He bowed his head, took two deep breaths, firmly shut the blast doors on the black hole in his chest, and went to do it himself.
He trudged down the stairs, through the hall, his bare feet cold on the Victorian tiles. The Yale lock was stubbornly difficult as he fumbled with it, that or there was some disconnect between his brain and his hand.
Finally he twisted the little knob and pulled the door open far enough to admit the night, the wind scented of green wheat and . . . burning? There was a silhouette he didn’t recognise on the step, cut out of the steel-washed moonlit sky. “Hello?”
Stepping forward into the light from the hall, Martin grinned and held out a bottle of Elgood’s Golden Newt ale. He looked quite different in real-person clothes, only the smell of woodsmoke left to suggest he had been living in the ninth century this morning.
This wasn’t possible. Billy stood quite still as his sluggish thoughts tried to wrap themselves around the vision.
“It is Billy Wright, yes?” Martin leaned forward, his smile broadening. He took Billy by the chin and turned his face to the light of a distant streetlamp. “I’m sure it is. The face is new to me, but I’d recognise those legs anywhere.”
“Martin?” When Billy looked at his watch, it said half eleven. It felt as though a dozen days had come and gone since this afternoon, and for a moment he couldn’t connect up the flirting and the dancing with this place, this very modern man.
In another universe, he thought he might be overcome with joy. Certainly something tried to leap up at the back of his mind, and fell, too heavy to take flight. Certainly a part of him wanted to bound and beam and exclaim with joy because he’d been so sure Martin wouldn’t want anything more to do with him that he’d begun to think of the man as a myth, and now he was here. Real and alive and actually here. Presumably because he had liked Billy too.
He fell back on pleasantries while his mind caught up. “Come in.”
In the glow of the hall, Martin was a sight to see. Shorter than Billy, but compact, the cut-off arms of his Metallica T-shirt displaying wide muscular shoulders, the taper of a broad back. His jeans fitted snugly to sturdy, strong legs and a fantastic arse. Billy took it all in like gulps of water, cataloguing it for later use.
Martin had taken the tie from his hair, and the many thin braids framed his face, softening it. He looked a lot friendlier without the Viking aura enveloping him in the brutal splendour of ancient days. A little seed of life unfurled into the void in Billy’s chest at the sight. His breath came deeper and easier as he smiled.
“I thought you’d be stuck in your field for the weekend.”
“They’re rehashing the battle of Hastings.” Martin followed him up the stairs, looking around with interest and no apparent disapproval. “I’ve heard it all before.”
“So you thought you’d drive for an hour to come and visit me?”
Martin’s smile broadened. “Yes,” he said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. “I was afraid if I let you get away, someone else would move in before I got the chance.”
It was so absurd, Billy couldn’t truly believe it. But it was nice to hear all the same. He got out the glasses from under the sink and poured the beer, conscious that he was not coming across as the man Martin had met. Conscious of being awkward and silent and twitchy.
Because you met him when you were on an up, and he thinks you’re this bright-eyed, doe-like, springy, confident, charming creature, and as soon as he figures out what you’re really like, he’ll be gone. And maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t turned up at all. You could have pretended for longer that you and he might have . . .
“Was that a bad idea?” Martin peered out of the window, over to where the church’s porch light was casting a creepy blue glimmer over the graveyard. His smile had changed shape in a way that perhaps indicated distress. “I mean, it was kind of forward?”
“It wasn’t.” Billy could see how the evening would fail. He would either not say enough, or he would overcompensate and say too much. Martin would get the impression that he wasn’t really wanted, and leave. After which he would never come back.
Trying to forestall the inevitable, he stepped forward and wound both hands around Martin’s forearm. A good move. He liked the feel of it, bare skin over muscle, warm with today’s stored sunshine and with life. “It was a great idea. I can’t believe you’d— I mean, I’m really grateful. I don’t deserve . . . and you’re so . . .”
Oh God, this was pathetic. He blew out a frustrated breath and tried again, still anchored to Martin’s arm, as if pulling on Martin’s strength to formulate his thoughts. “I’m sorry; I just, I crash, you know. When the day’s too good, or I dance too hard, or something trips me up.”
As if this wasn’t the death knell of any relationship, and rightly so. Why should anyone have to deal with this if it wasn’t hardwired into their own brain? “I get depressed, and—”
Martin covered Billy’s hands with his own, his look of disappointment shading into something warmer, surprisingly sympathetic. “You want me to go while you get yourself together?”
“No! No, I just. Want to apologise, I guess. I won’t be as much fun as maybe you hoped.”
Billy freed a hand to pick up a glass of beer and take a sip. His self-reproach was interrupted by the realization that this was some good stuff, light, almost citrussy on the sides of the tongue, with a flowering of unexpected depth and complexity at the back of the throat, hops and oak and grapefruit. He could actually taste it, which told him he was not quite as far gone as he feared. “I’m still glad . . . I’m really glad you’re here.”
Surprisingly, Martin wasn’t heading for the door at all. He seemed to be relaxing. He lifted the beer out of Billy’s hand and set it back on the table. Then he pushed Billy, gently but firmly into the wall. His kiss was just as Billy had hoped: no doubt behind it but very little pressure either. Not coercing him, but not needing any persuasion.
Billy could feel the kiss too. The pleasure was distant, but it was there. He pushed back and bit down a little, sliding his hands around Martin’s waist, getting them up under his T-shirt to explore the corded strength of his back and dip towards the swell of his buttocks. Not sure if the touch would be appreciated, if it was allowed, if he was doing it right. How long he’d be allowed to go on until Martin realized he wasn’t worth the effort and stopped him.
Martin just pressed in closer, and though part of Billy’s unruly mind was still drowned under despair, like a deserted village under a reservoir’s waters, certain other parts of himself registered yearning, hopeless want.
“How d’you feel about making out on the sofa?”
Billy dropped his head onto Martin’s shoulder. What he really needed was bed, to lie down and curl into the other man’s warmth, to push his face into Martin’s neck and close his eyes and be held until sleep came. If he could do that, it was not impossible that he would wake with enough energy to be cheerful and sexy and responsive in the morning. It seemed too complicated to explain. “Straight to bed?”
Martin kissed the outside edges of his closed eyes, combed his fingers through Billy’s loose curls. “Are you sure you really want that, Prancer? Because you look like death warmed up, to be honest.”
He didn’t sound too angry or too cheated to stay. This was not going at all how Billy had imagined it. For a start, Martin’s arms were still wrapped around him, his weight pressing into Billy’s chest, holding him against the wall. While he wasn’t sure if he actually had the strength in him for sex, he was damn certain that at this stage, when Martin came to his senses and left, it was going to be all but impossible to rein in the desire to plead with him to come back.
“I’m just so tired. I’m sorry. I know this isn’t what you wanted. I know I come across more . . . when I’m in a mask. But come to bed? Don’t leave?”
If he had been Martin, he’d have been out of the door now. Running out, his heart thundering, like anyone would who’d gone after a pretty face only to find the monsters behind it, all teeth and despair. He wasn’t going to blame the man, if that was how he reacted. How could he? The blame belonged right here on Billy’s messed-up head.
If only Martin had waited a couple of days, phoned him on an upswing, given him the chance to meet up when he could pretend to be a normal human being.
If only. Yeah, well he was depressed enough without dwelling on that.
“Okay,” said Martin, which made no sense. Billy found himself being manhandled across the room to where the door of his bedroom stood open, his unmade bed looking slovenly, a great barometer of a man who couldn’t muster the willpower to smooth down a duvet in the morning.
Was he really not being rejected? That didn’t compute. It raised the lid of the crypt inside which he was buried alive and let in a brief gleam of light.
If Martin wasn’t leaving, perhaps Billy should attempt to look eager. He nosed Martin’s hair aside and kissed his ear, worked his way down the man’s throat in little biting exploratory kisses. He liked the smell of the other man, under the woodsmoke. He liked the heat of his pulse, the texture of his skin.
Martin peeled Billy out of his shirt and skimmed appreciative hands over his sides, his back. Pushing him down onto the bed, Martin unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers, and drew them off, pausing with a breath of rueful laughter at the sight of him, unaroused, limp, and sleepy.
Billy turned his face into the pillows, ashamed, and waited to be left.
“I thought not.” Straightening up by the bedside, Martin gazed down on him. He was still smiling, for some reason, a smile that looked exasperated and fond and uncertain. “Well, this is what I get for being a presumptuous idiot, right? I should have phoned you to see if you were up to visitors before I just turned up on the doorstep. Are you sure you want me to stay?”
Billy couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been left already. By the magic of dodgy neurochemistry, gratitude transformed into anguish in his heart. He squeezed his eyes closed to keep it inside and could not find the willpower to ask again for what he wanted. “Do whatever you like.”
He heard how that sounded—ugly, dismissive—and bit his lip to stop the prickle of tears from filling up his eyes. There was a long moment of darkness during which he tried to feel nothing. Then he heard the faint hiss of clothes being dragged over skin, and the bed creaked and dipped beside him.
Billy was bare but for boxers. When Martin snugged up tight to him, spooning against his back, pushing a leg between his, one arm under his neck and one wrapped around his waist, he could feel the heat of the other man’s body all over him like sunshine. Something loosened inside, and that little seed of hope put out a green shoot.
Martin’s breath warmed the back of his neck. A sense of peace, of sanctuary, welled out from all the places where they touched.
He came all this way to see you, and you let him down. Now he already knows what a loser you are. He probably already thinks you’re worthless. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” Martin’s hand grazed down his stomach and curled in protection and inquiry around his soft, uninterested prick. The warmth of his palm was pleasant and the tenderness of the gesture was nothing he had ever imagined encountering in his life. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. I know about depression a little. My sister gets it. You on anything for it? Pills, I mean. Something I can get you?”
“It’ll be better in the morning. I hope. I’ll make it worth your while in the morning.”
Martin laughed, his voice a deep, smooth oceanic wave of sound that lifted Billy even as he pulled him closer. Sleep began to ease apart the plastic zip ties currently strangling his heart.
“I get to spend the night with a gorgeous bloke in my arms.” Martin tucked the duvet more firmly into his shoulder. “And I got to see your face. It’s already been worth my while.”
Martin awoke, feeling like everything had stopped. He was a long way away from the worrying decisions he had to make at work, and he was also a long way away from all the pressures of Bretwalda. He loved the group, not to put too fine a point on it. It was his baby and his pride, but shit, there was so much that needed to be done, and he ended up doing it all.
But this morning all the responsibilities he took on because someone had to if anyone was going to have any fun had been lifted off his back. It was dark behind his closed eyes—too dark for the inside of a white canvas tent on a summer morning, and the bed was too firm and too supportive for an air mattress that had been losing pressure all night long. He cracked open an eye as memory reengaged, and found that Billy had turned away from him in the night and lay on his side on the very edge of the bed, ceding Martin all the space and the duvet.
Billy looked very young there, curled like a child in the womb, his long limbs slender and coltish, his skin blued by the predawn light. Young and vulnerable.
Martin wondered what he was getting into. His sister Sheena had her depression pretty much under control now with medicine and self-help groups, but reaching a normal level of functioning was still a struggle that took up most of her daily energy. She’d changed her diet, changed her habits, given up any number of things she loved, structured her life around the illness so that she could manage it rather than letting it manage her. And still he felt the need to call every week, check with her husband that she was coping with the constant pressure of desolation on her shoulders.
Did Martin want to take on another such responsibility, given how much harder it was to hide who he was, from his father, from the school, from Bretwalda, when he was in a relationship? If he didn’t, then this would be the point to slide out of bed, throw his clothes on, and disappear. And yes, that would be a pretty awful thing to do to a guy who was as on the edge as Billy was, but it would be easier on both of them than doing it later, after Billy had begun to expect him to stay.
Billy looked cold as well as young. He’d let Martin take all the covers as though even in sleep he didn’t think he deserved them. Martin reached out a hand and touched the guy’s bare back. It was as chill as if he’d been sleeping in the fridge. Martin couldn’t have that. Carefully and quietly, he leaned in, got an arm around Billy’s waist, and drew the curled-up form against his chest, tucking the covers around them both. Billy shifted with a little complaining grumble and turned into him, tucking his head under Martin’s chin.
