"The fucker just hit it – put his foot down and fucking ran it over on purpose!"
Justin is angry. No, scratch that … he's incandescent.
He'd stomped into the diner, thrown down his bag and treated us all to an eye-witness account of the murder of a pigeon in broad daylight by a "fucking ASSHOLE" in a blue Porsche.
"I hope it cracked his windscreen. I hope he drives straight into a lamp post and fucking dies."
He slams down his coffee and I notice his hand trembling. I'm not sure whether it's anger or not.
We all sit in uncomfortable silence. Justin is usually so calm, so level headed; it makes his occasional outbursts all the more unsettling.
Michael shifts in his seat. "Well, I guess it must have been upsetting. But still … it was only a pigeon."
I smother a grin. This, coming from the guy who held a wake for Captain Astro, for Chrissakes.
"Right, so it doesn't matter. It's okay to kill something just for fun – not to eat it, not because it was a danger to you or anything, but just because you felt like it … because you could."
This is a big issue with him right now, since Darren's bashing; since fucking Cody dredged up all the shit that I'd mistakenly imagined was safely buried for good. Justin doesn't realise how bizarre it is, all dressed up in his Pink Posse fatigues with his Mace spray strapped to his belt, freaking out because he saw a pigeon get squashed.
How ironic that he'd had his head shaved to make himself look tough like Cody, only to end up seeming younger and more vulnerable than he had before. There's nothing now to hide the delicacy of his bone structure, the graceful shape of his skull – or the faint scar above his right temple, a mute testament to its fragility. Cody looks like what he is, a fucking thug.
There's another difference between Sunshine and Liberty Avenue's self-appointed guardian of public safety, another thing that he doesn't get. Justin cares about the pigeon because to him, all injustices are one and the same and he doesn't discriminate between one inflicted on a man or a bird – Cody Bell would squash either without a qualm if it would serve his purposes.
That's what scares me most about the little shit.
But Justin's still fuming. He glares at me. "If you ever did something like that while I was in the Jeep … I'd .."
He doesn't have to finish the sentence, his eyes say everything.
Right. No points for squashing innocent pigeons.
"What if he gets in a fight … what if he gets hurt?"
"Then at least he'll know that he stood up – that he didn't run away."
Daphne had come to my office that afternoon, driven by fear, hoping I could make a difference. I already knew I couldn't; but it was easy enough then to speak calmly, trusting Justin's good sense not to let himself get in too deep; easy to ignore the misgivings in my gut.
If she were here now, close to midnight, listening to sirens in the distance, a growing pile of cigarette buts in the ashtray, and asked me the same question, would I give her the same answer?
Would I fuck.
He's out there – the worst of it is, I know where. I just don't know where.
Cody said he'd found out Hobbs' address from the phone directory.
Right.
Do you know how many Hobbs, C. are listed? I do. I looked them up.
What was I going to do, call them all? Hi, is this the right number for the homophobic prick who went to St. James Academy and bashed in a schoolmate's head and got a slapped wrist for it? Good, because you'd better tell him not to go out alone tonight.
Or even better, the police. Warn them that my boyfriend/lover/whatever-the-hell is running round the streets with a gun looking to right an old wrong?
That fucking gun.
Why hadn't I just taken it off him when I had the chance, tied him to the bed rather than let him walk out? What the fuck was wrong with me?
It's all very well having this non-interventionist policy, the let-him-learn-by-his-own-mistakes bullshit. But if Gus were about to stick his hand into a fire would I let him do it just so he could learn that not all pretty things are safe to touch?
Of course I wouldn't.
So why didn't I stop Justin?
I call his cell for probably the twentieth time as I pace backwards and forwards by the window; hearing his voice, Hi, it's Justin, leave a message. My nerves are screaming to do something, anything, to jump in the Jeep and drive round till I find him, but I know I have to stay in the loft. In case he comes back.
In case the cops come. Or the hospital rings.
Besides, I want it noticed that I'm home tonight. I might need to prove it.
Christ, I want a drink.
But I can't do that, either. If I start I won't stop, and I have a sickening feeling that I'm going to need a clear head.
******************
By two o'clock I'm a nervous wreck and I'm one more cigarette away from calling the hospital with his description, when I hear footsteps on the stairs. They don't sound like Justin's; lately he's come racing home from his patrols so hot and horny that he's been tearing off his clothes before he even gets inside. But then I hear his key and the door slides back, and I lean against the wall because my legs have just given out and I'm not sure that I can stand without support.
He comes in slowly, pulling the door behind him. "Hi," he says, not looking at me; he heads straight for the Jim Beam on the kitchen counter, gets a glass, pours himself a shot.
I let go of the wall with no clear idea of what I'm going to say or do. All my attention is focussed on him, scanning him for injury – his face, his knuckles, his clothes. But I can't see anything wrong except for his silence, the way that he won't look at me. And then I grab him into my arms, holding as tight as I can so that he won't feel me shaking. It's like hugging a plank. He lets me hold him for a moment, then pulls away; he still won't meet my eyes.
I'm thinking I'm going to have to drag it out of him kicking and screaming, but he takes a mouthful from his glass, swallows, and then draws a quick, shaky breath.
"I nearly killed someone tonight."
That qualifier. Nearly. Does he mean that Hobbs is lying in some alley, beaten half to death?
No, there'd be blood on his hands, his clothes. Or is he saying that he shot the fucker but not fatally? Are the police already on their way?
Somehow I keep my voice calm. "Chris Hobbs." It isn't a question.
His eyes widen in surprise. "Daphne," I explain, reaching for the bottle of JB and taking a pull. The liquor burns my throat. "She told me."
I can see him thinking about this, nodding. "Yeah, she was pretty freaked out. I thought she might say something."
"She was worried about you. We're all worried about you."
He's silent, his eyes on the glass in his hand.
"Justin, are the cops after you?"
His head jerks up and for the first time he meets my eyes. "What? No, of course not."
I study him carefully, and no, he's not lying. I let out a long, long breath and take his arm. "Come on, sit down. You need to tell me what's happened."
So he does, sitting on the couch next to me, turning the glass nervously in his hands, his face averted; he tells me in a flat, unemotional voice how he'd gone with Cody to Hobbs' house, waited for him to come home, ambushed him in his own back yard before he could get inside. How Cody had handed Justin a gun, shown him that it was loaded; how he had forced Hobbs at gunpoint on his knees to apologise.
"I made him beg," Justin says and there's wonder in his voice, that he'd actually discovered that much power. "It wasn't enough. I wanted him to regret everything he'd ever done to me, everything he'd stolen – to finally understand that he couldn't just walk away anymore. So I stuck the gun in his mouth and watched him cry, and it felt so fucking good, Brian, I felt so fucking strong. And Cody kept saying do it, do it, you know this is what you've wanted… and he was so right."
Cody Bell had better make sure he's not in the same city as me anymore.
I wait for Justin to go on, my heart pounding. I know he'll tell me in his own time.
"I couldn't pull the trigger. I just … couldn't." He manages a weak smile. "He'd fucking crapped himself, Brian. He was so … pathetic."
I swallow, hard. "So what did you do?"
"I told him to get up and go inside. Told him not to call the cops. I don't think he will. Nobody saw anything, except for Cody."
The relief is indescribable. Until that second I really hadn't known how much shit we'd have to deal with. I'm glad that Justin isn't looking at me, because I'm totally sure my face isn't under control right now.
"And where is your fearless leader?" I can't disguise the bite in my voice either, but Justin doesn't seem to notice.
"He doesn't want anything to do with me anymore." He sounds so young, so unsure again. "He told me I was a cowardly little faggot, a fucking pussy, and I deserve everything I get."
Did I say city? He'd better not be in the same State.
"You are not a coward." I move closer and try to put arm round him, but he jerks away.
"I am too a fucking coward!" He stares at me with wide blue eyes, his breath hitching; I can see him struggling to hold back tears of anger and frustration. "Darren said the same thing, remember? Hobbs never paid for how he hurt me and I did nothing, and I had the chance to put it right and I wanted to, I fucking wanted to, but I wasn't brave enough!"
I grab his shoulders and shake him hard. "Listen to me, Justin." I take hold of his chin and force him to look at me. "You are not a coward. Cody knows jackshit. He wasn't there. I was."
I keep my eyes locked on his, because he has to understand this; I have to make him accept it.
"I've watched you go through enough shit to bury a man twice your age; your dad, your teachers, your parents getting divorced, fucking Chris Hobbs; learning to draw again, getting back to college … standing up to Stockwell. You've even managed to deal with me, for fucksakes. I've never once seen you back down. So don't you sit there and give me this bullshit, because you're far too intelligent for that."
His face is so solemn, his eyes so guileless; still so much pain. I have to stop it, now.
"This was always going to come out sooner or later, and it's as much my fault as Cody's." I can see him about to object, but I don't let him. "I'm the one who kept telling you to forget about it, not to think about it … I wouldn't ever let you get all that anger out of your system. That's my way of pain management; I shouldn't have assumed it would be right for you, too."
I run my fingers gently over the cropped velvet of his hair. "You're stronger than anyone I know, Justin. I'm proud of you."
His mouth falls open a little and his eyes search mine uncertainly. I will my face to show him my honesty, to let him see that I'm telling him the truth. "Don't you understand? You beat the big bad bully. You showed Hobbs the compassion he never granted you – and you proved yourself more of a man than either him or fucking Cody Bell."
"But I wanted him dead …" His voice is a whisper.
"Doesn't matter what you wanted. It's what you did that counts."
He drops his head again, but I can see him considering. Good. He's smart – he'll get it.
But there's one other thing I need to know. "Justin … have you still got the gun?"
He shakes his head. "I gave it back to Cody."
Just the answer I wanted. Let the little fucker keep it.
"Okay. Hobbs won't know him anyway. But if the cops should get involved, you've been here with me all night."
He stares at me. "You'd lie to them for me … give me an alibi?"
He's priceless. No, Justin. I'll hand you over to be judged by a society that not only didn't care enough to protect you in the first place, but let the prick who nearly killed you off with a warning. Let you pay the price again, the way you have been for nearly two fucking years. Let them serve you their bigoted, homophobic shit and call it justice. Sunshine in prison? Not while I have breath.
Sometimes he's such a little twat.