Friday 03 September 1999
Charlie was standing outside Liam's house - he couldn't call it his house, not any more - when the familiar (and loathed) mustard-yellow Volvo pulled up. He could see Tess in the front seat, looking anxious but excited, while his mother appeared anxious and worried.
Charlie jumped in the back with Bridget and buckled up as his mother pulled away from the kerb.
"Thanks for picking me up," he said.
"That's all right, dear." said his mother. "I'm just glad you can come along to say goodbye to your sister."
Charlie smirked. "Oh, I'd never pass up an opportunity to say goodbye to Tess."
"Charlie! Behave yourself."
"Yes, Mum," he said in mock contrition. He turned instead to say hello to Bridget, who was eager to boast about how well she'd done in her GCE scores - better than Tess, obviously, and better than either Liam or Charlie had managed. She was headed for sixth form college in a few weeks, hoping to do four or five A-levels, and was happy to tell Charlie all about her plans for getting a scholarship to one of the Oxford colleges and do languages.
Charlie made all the right encouraging noises, but only part of his attention was on the conversation. They were heading down the A34, and the last time he'd come down this road he'd been with Rory... was it only four weeks ago? It seemed more like a lifetime; so many things had happened since then.
It didn't take long to get to the airport, but parking the car and getting Tess's luggage out took a while longer. Then Tess spent a good twenty minutes in the queue to check in, while Charlie and the rest of the family waited off to one side. Finally, Tessa's baggage was swallowed into the system and she came back to them, clutching her boarding pass and passport in her hand.
"I'm checked through to Sydney," she said.
"Oh, that's good, love. I didn't like the thought of you having to carry your suitcase around Heathrow."
"It’s got wheels, Mum, but yeah, all I have to worry about now is the backpack and my tickets." So saying, she carefully stowed her papers in the bag. "I still have to go through customs at Heathrow, but that shouldn't take too long, and then I can check out the duty-free shopping."
"We've still got time for a cup of tea, I think," said Meg, checking her watch. "The flight doesn't leave for another hour."
"Well, all right."
They sat in one of the airport cafes and chatted in a desultory fashion for about half an hour, until Tess decided she absolutely had to get to the departure lounge.
"Now, Tess, love, you know where you have to go at Heathrow?"
"Yes, Mum."
"And you've got Uncle Colin's number in Sydney?"
"He'll be there to meet me."
"Well, just in case he isn't."
"Yes, I have his number. And his address."
"Good. Now don't lose them. And you have your phone card?"
"Yes, Mum."
"And remember what I said about staying in the busy areas. Don’t go off into any little corridors. And don't take any drinks from men. And-"
"Mum!" Tess had obviously had enough. "I'm eighteen, not eight. I know how to look after myself. I'll be all right, honest."
Meg looked as if she seriously doubted this statement, and for two pins would stop Tess from flying halfway around the world - on her own! - and bundle her off home to be cosseted and looked after.
Charlie put his arm around her shoulders. "It's OK, Mum," he said, soothingly. "Tess'll be fine. You'll see."
Tess threw him a grateful look and smiled back. She hugged everyone, then gathered up her bag and coat and walked towards the scanners. She passed through the screening, then looked back and waved at them before walking out of their view.
Meg was mopping her eyes, barely comforted by Charlie on one side and Biddy on the other. "Oh, she's so young."
"Tess was born thirty," Charlie countered. "She knows how to handle herself. I'd be sorry for any man who tries to take her on - they wouldn't stand a chance."
Meg gave him a watery smile and a pat on the hand. "You're a good boy, Charlie-love."
Charlie smiled, but said nothing, just hugged her and waited until she was ready to move. It wasn't long before she straightened up, blew her nose, gave her children a determined smile and led them back to the car.
"Are you coming back to the house?" she asked Charlie as they pulled out of the car park.
"Sure." There wasn't much else he could do anyway, and it would please her. Besides, he could probably stretch it into a meal before heading over to Pat's for band practice. And then he had the very unwelcome task of begging her for money - and if that didn't work he'd really have to swallow his pride and ask his father.
* * *
They sat in the kitchen, just Charlie and Meg, and drank their tea. Biddy was on the phone to one of her friends, trying to arrange an outing over the coming weekend, and Kevin was still over at his friend Brian's, leaving mother and son alone and somewhat subdued.
Charlie was staring into his teacup, trying to work up the courage to ask her for money, when he noticed that the room was very quiet. He looked up to find his mother examining him intently.
"What's up?" he asked, the cheery note in his voice ringing false even to his ears.
"I could ask you the same thing, love. You've been very quiet."
Charlie shrugged. "Not much to say."
"So what did you get up to while we were in Ireland? We missed you, you know - your uncle Jim asked after you a couple of times, and so did your cousin Mary."
Charlie squirmed in his seat. "I couldn't go, Mum. I'm sorry, I was busy."
"Doing what?"
"Stuff."
Meg didn't' seem satisfied with his answer but, to his relief, didn't pursue it. "Have you had any luck with the job-hunting?"
"I put in loads of applications, had a couple of interviews, but nothing more. Too many school-leavers at the moment. It'll get easier in a month or two, I hope." He spoke with an optimism he didn't feel.
"I'll say a few prayers for you," she said, and smiled. "I'm sure you'll find something soon."
"I hope so."
"How are you getting on with Liam? He didn't say much when I asked him about you last week. Have you had another fight?"
Charlie shrugged. "Not really."
"No more bones broken, I hope? You're going to have to get a grip on that temper one day, pet."
"How did you know -?"
"Charlie, I'm your mother. Of course I know. Both of you looking daggers at each other, and you looking guilty when you thought no one was watching... it's always been the same. I wish you two would get on better."
"Might as well wish for the moon in a bucket, Mum. We're always going to fight."
"I suppose that's true, sad as I am to admit it. Though why you insisted on moving in with him, I don't know. You should have realised it would only make things worse."
Charlie shrugged again. He'd asked himself the same question many times, even before he'd lost his job, but had never taken the trouble to move out. Then, with only the dole between him and starvation, he'd had nowhere else to go.
"Why don't you move back home?" she went on. "Tessa's room is free for the next twelve months at least. That would give you plenty of time to get back on your feet. I wouldn't charge you any rent while you're on the dole, and if you do get a job we can sort out what's fair."
"What about Dad?"
"What about him?"
"Well, would he be OK with me moving back in? He wasn't too happy with me when I left."
"That was last Christmas, dear, and he was worried about you. I'm sure he'd much rather have you safe at home than out on the streets."
Charlie's head jerked up. "Did Liam actually tell you that? Bastard."
"Tell me what?"
Oh, shit. Too late, Charlie realised he shouldn't have said that. He'd almost given Liam away, and that was more than unfortunate, it was bloody dangerous. He had to think fast - he had to give his Mum a good story before she went and interrogated Liam, or Liam would have no hesitation in revealing everything that had been going on. Much as it sickened him, he'd have to tell his Mum about the sublet in a way that made Liam look good.
"Well," he began, a little hesitantly, "I haven't been able to pay any rent since May, when I lost my job, and he's been paying my share as well as his own, and then Ben was talking about moving out, and ... well, it was all getting a bit too much for him, so he sublet my room. Don't worry, though, he's not throwing me out, but it means I'm sleeping on the couch. Just for the time being.
Meg set her cup down with a thud. "That does it, young man. You're moving back home right now."
"Mum -"
"Charlie. I cannot and will not stand by and see a child of mine on the streets. Ever."
"It's not that bad -"
"You can't live in a place where you don't even have a bed, or even a room of your own. I know you, love, you love to tinker with that guitar of yours, and you can hardly do that if you're sleeping on the couch. And where would you put all your things? No, I won't allow it."
Charlie muttered under his breath, but he knew it was useless. His mother was on the warpath and there were very few who could resist her onslaught. And while he didn't want to take her charity, it was better and more reliable than Liam's, so he forced the words out: "All right, Mum. No need to go mental about it. I - I would like to move home, if it's all right with you and Dad."
"Of course it is."
"Are you sure about Dad? We had a right barney over me moving out."
"He won't say anything at all. Not if he knows what's good for him." She nodded in a way that boded ill for Michael Pace if he dared to voice any objection, then smiled brightly at Charlie. "How about I run you over there now and we can pick up your things?"
"No!" He couldn't risk her seeing the place in the state it was in - not to mention the absence of various items that Rory's men had taken. While he could no doubt explain the disappearance of CDs and even the TV, there was no way he'd be parted willingly from his guitars, and she knew that. "No, it's... well, it's not convenient. It would take me a couple of hours to pack up, and I've got a band practice at Pat's this evening. I'll pack up my gear in the morning and you or Dad can pick me up then."
"All right, dear. I suppose that means you'll want your tea here?"
"Yes, please."
"Fine, I'll get you something." She stood up and took her mug over to the sink.
At the table, Charlie took a deep breath. It was now or never. "Mum?"
"Yes, dear."
"There is one more thing."
"What is it, dear?"
"Could I borrow a hundred quid?"
* * *
"Hey, Charlie. How's things?" called Patrick as Charlie walked into the garage they used as a practise room.
"Fine, thanks," Charlie answered, though it was a complete lie. "Listen, did you -"
"Yeah, it’s over there. And don't you dare scratch it."
"I'll be careful. Promise." He walked over to the case and opened it up. The bass seemed to glower at him, dark and brooding, so different from the warm wood tones of his own bass. He grasped the neck and pulled it out of the case, noting how different it felt. The body was heavier, the neck a little longer. He didn't get a good vibe from it at all. Still, it was all he had for the evening, and he was grateful to Patrick for having borrowed it for him.
He sorted out the cables and made sure he was plugged into the amps. Then he tried a soft chord. The guitar was slightly out of tune, so he spent a few minutes fiddling with it until he was happy.
Sinjin strolled in and they spent a few minutes catching up on the news of the last month as Sinjin got his own guitar out. Charlie gave a carefully-edited version of his own summer, leaving out any mention of money, and simply saying that he'd been staying with someone.
"So, where's Liam?" asked Sinjin, looking around as if he expected their lead singer to be hiding in a corner.
Charlie shrugged. "Don't know. He said he'd come straight from work."
"How's his wrist?"
"Seems OK. I haven't heard him playing, though."
"Our first gig's on the sixteenth - he'd better be OK for that."
"He'll be fine," Charlie reassured them with a confidence he didn't feel in the least.
The door rattled open and Liam ambled in. "Hey, everyone," he greeted them. He nodded to Charlie and gave Sinjin and Pat a friendly thump on the shoulder before showing them his wrist. There was still a visible lump, and his movements were a bit stiff, but already it was much improved from the week before.
"How is it?" asked Patrick.
"It's OK. It gets sore after a bit, but I'll be fine by the sixteenth."
"You'd better be," muttered Sinjin. "Five gigs we missed because of you."
"Hey," protested Liam. "Wasn't my fault. Charlie pushed me over, remember?"
Charlie rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, it's always my fault. Get over it. We've got a gig to prepare for." He picked up the borrowed bass and started strumming the intro to one of the songs.
Sinjin's eyes narrowed as he looked at the bass. "Where did you get that? What happened to your old one?"
"It's gone. Kaput." Sinjin seemed to accept that for the moment, and Charlie continued, "This one's not mine. I'm just trying it out. Don't worry, mate, I'll have a guitar before the gig."
"You'd better be right. I'm not going to let you lose us any more gigs."
"Don't worry. I'll sort it out." He cursed silently and tried a scale. The pitch was still slightly off, and he fiddled with the tuning knobs until he was happy with it. The tone of the instrument was a bit harsher than he liked, though, and he was glad he only had to put up with it for one night.
The others shuffled around, getting into position.
"What do you want to do first?" he asked.
"How about Going to Ground?"
"OK". It had a bass introduction and he launched into it, hoping that his own wrist would hold out after not having played for nearly five weeks.
* * *
All in all, the practice went about as well as could be expected, which is to say, not well at all. Charlie's hands were a little clumsy from lack of practice, while Liam's wrist was stiff and slow. The other two became more and more frustrated as they switched from song to song without much improvement.
Finally, Liam bent over and unplugged his guitar. "That's it for me," he declared, rubbing his wrist. "I can't do any more tonight."
"But we're only halfway through," grumbled Pat.
"I can't do it, Pat. It's too sore. I'll put some ice on it and keep working, but I have to take it a bit more slowly."
"But we've only got a fortnight!"
"We'll make it, honest. But you can't expect me to play for two hours when I've only been out of the cast for ten days. Just be thankful I managed as long as I did." He smiled cruelly. "Charlie didn't do much better and he doesn't have a broken wrist as an excuse."
"Fuck off." Charlie didn't trust himself to say any more than that. It would be useless to try and defend himself - both useless and dangerous. Any mention of Rory McManus or the precise way in which he'd lost his guitar would bring out the whole story, and while the others knew he was gay, he didn't want them knowing about the Agreement he and Liam had worked out with McManus, or the details of how he'd spent the month of August.
"I'll practise," was all he said as he, too, unplugged and started packing up.
It didn't take long to pack up the three guitars, and soon Sinjin and Liam were wandering out the door.
"Hey, Charlie," said Pat. "Are you really OK?"
Charlie conjured up a rueful smile. Pat was one of his oldest friends and he really didn't want to lie to him. "I'm OK," he said. "I'm not a hundred per cent, but I'm OK."
Pat gave him an understanding smile in response. "Listen, if Liam gets too much for you, I can ask Mum if you can doss down with us for a while. We could drag the camp bed into my room."
Charlie felt an enormous rush of gratitude at the suggestion. "Thanks, mate, but I'm moving back home tomorrow. Tessa's just left for her gap year, you know, so I'll be using her room for a while, just until I can get myself sorted."
"Do you need a hand? I could bring the van around."
"Thanks, but I don't have much. Just a couple of bags, and my Dad's going to pick me up in the car."
They shared a grin - they both had the same opinion of the Pace family Volvo - and Charlie nodded, a little embarrassed. "Yeah, I know. I said I'd never get in the bloody thing again, but..."
"Yeah, man, I know how it is."
"Thanks for the offer, though - lift and room."
"Well, it's still open. If your Dad gets on your wick just give me a call."
"Yeah, I'll remember that."
Charlie finished packing away the bass guitar and closed the case. "And thank for the guitar."
"No problem. As long as I get it back in the morning he'll never know it was missing." He winked at Charlie, who winced.
"I don't want you getting in trouble, mate," he said. "Can't risk you losing your job."
"Stuff it. What's the point of working in a music store if I can't give the goods a test run now and again, eh? Now bugger off before Liam leaves you behind."
"OK. See you."
Sunday 05 September, 8:50 am
Charlie woke hot and wet and sticky, and groaned. He'd had another dream about Rory, where Rory was wanking him with a strong fist and holding him close... only to find that the fist was his own and he'd made a horrible mess of his pyjamas again.
He opened his eyes and looked around the room, which still seemed so unfamiliar. It was the girls' room - well, Tess's room. Now it was Charlie's room for the next twelve months, at least until he could find a job and a place to stay. He wasn't going to be in such a hurry to move out this time, though.
There was a knock at the door and his mother popped her head in. "Morning, love," she smiled. "Are you coming to mass with us?"
Charlie smiled back, but shook his head. "Not this week," he said, trying to make it sound like an exception and not the rule.
Thankfully, his mother didn't press the point, saying "All right, dear. We'll see you later on."
"Bye."
He spent the next few minutes listening to the sounds of the family getting ready to leave. Kevin's voice could be heard complaining, "But why do I have to go? Charlie's not going!", and Charlie smiled. Sometimes it felt very good to be the favoured one.
Truth to tell, he wouldn't mind going to mass, but he hadn't been to confession in months, and he had no idea when he'd ever have the courage again. Not here, anyway, not with Father Maurice on the other side of the grille. There was no way he could tell him about all the things he'd done in the past year. He'd never mentioned that he was gay, not even in the days when it had been a burden to him, not even when he'd thought that confession might ease his mind. He'd known even then that there was no point in confessing to something he couldn’t change. It wasn't as if a couple of "Hail Mary"s were going to turn him straight. He loved cock too much to give it up, loved the sex, loved the way a man could grow hard in his hand, loved the way men kissed, loved the way they smelled after a good hard shag...
He spurted into his hand again.
Fuck.
* * *
The family returned around midday, by which time Charlie had got up, showered and dressed. He could smell the roast beef in the oven as he came down the stairs, and checked that the vegetables were ready to put in as soon as everyone got home. He even set the table, which earned him a hug from his mother.
"Thanks, love," she smiled "Feeling more rested?"
"Yes, Mum," he smiled back, glad to be there.
Liam turned up at one o'clock. Charlie glared at him, daring him to mention anything about the previous month, but Liam kept quiet, for once, and the meal proceeded without incident, except for Kevin being told to go and wash his hands again.
"And this time use soap!" his mother chided. "Honestly, how do you manage to find so much dirt in so short a time?" She shook her head, but she was smiling all the same, and Kevin just grinned as he scampered off to run his hands haphazardly under the tap.
After they'd finished eating, Meg called Liam into the kitchen to help her with the dishes, while Charlie and Biddy cleared the table and tidied up.
He walked into the kitchen, and gently deposited his burden on the bench before creeping back into the living room. His mother didn't see him, but Liam did, and gave him a glare that made Charlie want to cringe. Meg was obviously trying to be quiet, but her voice was rising as she got more and more worked up, and Charlie clearly heard her say, "Liam Benedict Michael Pace! You're my first-born son, and there's nothing you can do that will stop me from loving you, but I swear by the Holy Mother and all the saints in heaven, if you ever treat your brother like that again I'll skelp the living daylights out of you!"
Charlie winced; Liam was never going to forgive him for that. He sidled out of the kitchen and wondered if he should go for a walk until Liam had cooled down, or if he should stay and get the inevitable confrontation over with. He opted for discretion and was just heading to the front door when Liam grabbed his shoulder and swung him around.
"Come back here, you cunt!" Liam's face was as black as thunder, and his voice threatened serious bodily harm.
"I didn't tell her, I swear!"
"Well, how else did she find out, then? Bloody osmosis?"
"Look, she said something, and I thought she already knew, and I asked if you'd told her, and she pounced on it. You know what she's like - she could interrogate for England! I didn't have a chance."
Liam advanced on him, and Charlie backed away. "You can't hit me. Mum'll kill you."
"Won't matter if you're already dead."
Charlie found himself up against the wall, about to be on the receiving end of a nasty left hook. He wondered if he could escape by darting under Liam's right arm – which still wasn't at full strength, after all – when salvation appeared in the form of their father.
"Oy, you two! Break it up. I'll have no fighting in here."
Liam hesitated, and Charlie honestly thought he was going to get a beating in spite of his dad's presence.
"Liam!" his father warned again, and Liam slowly relaxed his grip and let him go.
"You owe me for this," he hissed into Charlie's ear, then opened the front door and walked out.
"What was all that about?" asked Mr Pace.
"Nothing. Just stuff." He stuffed his hands in his pockets so his dad didn't see them shaking, and walked upstairs to his room.
* * *
Charlie looked at the mess in his hand and sighed. Three times today he'd wanked, and he still kept thinking about Rory bloody McManus.
He got up and went to the bathroom, washing his hands and then taking a pee. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and stopped, looking critically at his irregular features.
"What ever made you think he'd be interested in you?" he asked himself. "Not exactly Stuart Alan Jones, are you? Not exactly the rage of the Manchester clubs. He's got money, he's got the looks, he could have anyone he wanted. He wouldn't even have to ask. So why would he ever look at you?"
Because I love him.
"Stupid idiot."
He dried his hands on the nearest towel and went back to bed.
Monday 06 September
Charlie was in despair. He'd been walking around town all day, going from one music dealer to another, but still hadn't bought anything. He'd looked at brand new guitars (not a hope of affording them, of course, but he couldn't resist looking), and then at second-hand ones, but he hadn't been able to find one that he'd really liked. He'd tried several, but there was always something wrong - the tuning knobs were loose, or the tone was sour, or the circuits kept cutting out, or they hissed when he turned the volume above a whisper. Nothing had tempted him to hand over the small bundle of cash he'd managed to extract from his mother. And he had to get a bass before the band's next practice – he couldn't rely on Pat being able to smuggle another guitar out of the shop.
Dispiritedly, he wandered through the less salubrious streets, trying hard not to go past anywhere he'd been with Rory. He couldn't stop thinking about the man, but that was no reason to risk running into him. He had to accept that it was just something that was going to hurt like hell for a few months. Didn't make it any easier.
He hadn't even thought of the pawnshop, to be truthful, until he was walking past and saw the dusty goods in the window - radios, bicycles and chinaware rubbing shoulders with cheap jewellery and videos, but then... in the corner there was an acoustic guitar. If they had one guitar, they probably had more.
It can't hurt to look, he told himself, and pushed open the door. The inside of the shop was even more cluttered than the display window, with items standing cheek-by-jowl in every conceivable space. There was a whole corner devoted to instruments, with several guitars, and he went over for a closer look.
He felt his breath catch. There it was... his guitar, in a case in the corner, looking lonely and welcoming at the same time. He went up to have a closer look, holding his breath. Could it be? Could it possibly... ?
His shoulder slumped in crushing disappointment. It wasn't his. It was the same make and model, but it wasn't the one he'd carried around for three years – he knew that guitar like the back of his hand, and this one didn't have the same marks and scratches on it. It wasn't his guitar.
He took a deep breath and tried to calm down. All right, it wasn't his own guitar – but it looked close enough, and with a bit of luck it would have the same tone. And if he could get the pawnbroker to accept a discount for cash, he might just be able to afford it. He looked for the price tag, and saw that it read one hundred and thirty pounds (case included) - which was ridiculously overpriced, and more than he had in his pocket, but if they gave a discount for cash, and he added in the whole of his dole money... he'd be penniless for a while, but that was nothing compared to getting a decent guitar again. And there was no reason why anyone need know it wasn't the one he'd been playing before... all he had to do was make sure he had the same strings, and tune it up the way he liked. Nothing difficult about that.
The sales assistant – a pretty brunette with a professionally-bright smile – came up to him and asked if he was looking for anything in particular.
He tried not to appear to eager. "Not really. Well... I was sort of looking for a guitar. Thought I'd have a look around a bit, see what's available, check prices. You know."
"Yeah, I know." The smile faded a little. "Seen anything you like?"
He nodded to the bass. "That one doesn't look too bad. Mind if I try it out?"
"Well..." she was a bit hesitant. "I could let you try it out on headphones, I guess."
"That's all I need." He picked up the guitar and shook it gently, but there were no rattles. He ran a finger over the strings – they were hopelessly out of tune – and fiddled with the tuning knobs.
The assistant, meanwhile, had attached the power cord into one of the sockets behind the counter (Charlie rolled his eyes at the tangle of cables and cords and prayed that he wouldn't start a fire) and handed him a dusty pair of headphones. He plugged them in. Concentrating hard, he adjusted the tuning and tried a few chords. It was hard to tell from memory, but this guitar didn't seem to have quite the same warm tone that his old one had. Still, it was pretty good – the pickups worked well, the sustain didn't buzz, and the tone was OK right up to full volume. He ran through a couple of bass riffs and nodded. It wasn't ideal, but it was close, and he was unlikely to get anything better for the money he had. The fact that it looked like his old guitar would be a distinct bonus.
"I'll take it," he said to the assistant. "Any discount for cash?"
"Five percent," she answered promptly.
Charlie smiled. "Done." He unplugged the guitar and placed it back in the case, then took out his wallet and counted up the notes. He was still six pounds short. "Umm – could you just hold it for a while, so I can get a bit more money out?"
The girl frowned. "I guess... though I'm not supposed to hold anything."
"It'll only be for ten minutes." He smiled winningly at her, willing her to be charmed. It seemed to work.
"Oh, all right. But don't be long."
"I won't." He raced out of the store and ran the two blocks to the nearest ATM, withdrew ten pounds (grimacing at the measly balance printed at the bottom) and ran back to the shop. The girl was attending to another customer, and he waited impatiently, shifting his weight from foot to foot, until she was free.
She smiled at him and brought the case up from behind the counter. "There you are. All safe and sound."
He opened the case and gave the guitar a quick check while she rang up the sale. Everything appeared to be in order, so he closed it and placed it by his feet.
"Good luck with it," she said, as she handed him the receipt.
"Thanks, I'll need it."
He put his wallet away, picked up the case and strode out of the door, feeling a thousand times better than he had an hour before. He had a guitar again. He had a place to live. He still had no money and no job, but he could work on that. Somehow, the world seemed almost back to normal