When he arrived back with Carmel from the trip to Barcelona, Brendan was looking forward to seeing Stephen. It was a feeling that unsettled him. He told himself that it was just because he hadn't had sex for five or six weeks now, and as this was the lad he had decided to target, it was an understandable response: of course he wanted to see Stephen, so he could carry on working on seducing him. The fact that if a fuck was all he was after, he could have shagged that barman in Spain (what was it about barmen?) was neither here nor there.
He had gone far longer than this without sex though, many times over the years, either when he hadn't been able to get away from home to a city where anonymous men were easy to find, or when his disgust at himself had got so overwhelming that for a while he'd tried and tried to be a normal husband. It was just that lately, he had become accustomed to having someone there whenever he wanted: a year or so with Vinnie then about the same with Macca, with just a few weeks in between when he'd had no-one. Well, no-one except Eileen, but that didn't count - it wasn't what you'd call real sex, there was none of the visceral urgency and recklessness that only another man could give him and take from him.
Back from Spain, Brendan was ready to try a different tack with Stephen. The way he had treated him so far, with the intimidation far outweighing the few crumbs of appreciation he'd thrown him, didn't seem to be getting him anywhere, especially since he'd threatened to use Amy in place of Carmel on the drugs run. Too far. Time to be nicer: make Stephen want him as a friend. But before Brendan had a chance, the boy was at it again with his pious disapproval, sneakily searching for the smuggled cocaine, and accusing him of trying it on with that airhead Carmel. For fuck's sake. It made Brendan angry: Stephen seriously disliked him. Maybe he should admit defeat and look for someone else, someone less difficult.
There was another lad around, as it happened, a student who'd done one or two little jobs for Brendan. Little American guy called Doug. Had an air of rootlessness about him, sadness even, which along with his flexible morality, would have made him easy prey. He had lips that Brendan could almost taste when he looked at them. But this kid was foolish. He hadn't figured out that drugs were for selling, not for using, and not for pushing to your friends. Some girl Doug knew had got some pills from him and decided she could fly: crashed to the ground and might never walk again. Brendan wasn't surprised when Doug took an overdose – he recognised the urge to make it all stop. But the lad had had his stomach pumped and survived, although he'd have to live with the guilt of how his friend had been injured. It would haunt his dreams, Brendan knew.
Someone said he'd left the country as soon as he left the hospital. So that was that.
:::::::
Macca wished he could speak to Eileen to square things with her, if that was even possible. But when he'd told Brendan on the phone that this was what he wanted to do, Brendan had told him unequivocally to stay out of her way. And Macca usually did what he was told by Brendan: it was easier, and it was safer.
He'd been steering clear of the family since Eileen had started hating him, frightened of what they might have heard. But he missed his nan – Eileen's mum – and so he phoned her. She asked him over after Mass on Sunday and, because he missed her Sunday lunches too, he said yes. Macca tried to find out who else would be there, but his nan wasn't sure yet. He couldn't hide away for ever, though, so he went.
It was a warm September day. Nobody answered the front door, but Macca could hear voices coming from out the back so he opened the side gate, squeezed past the dustbins and walked down the narrow path between his nan's house and the house next door, and into the garden.
The first person he saw was Padraig, Brendan's younger son, who bombed towards him shouting "Macca!" and nearly knocked him flying.
"Hiya, Padraig." It was too late to leave now. "Alright, Declan?"
The older boy was sitting on the swing, the one Macca had played on when he was little, as had all his nan's children and grandchildren over the years. Declan had long outgrown it now. He looked up, smiled and said "Hi," then carried on texting. Macca left his cousins, and went through the back door into the kitchen.
"Hello, stranger," his nan said. Macca was short, but she was tiny, and his hug lifted her off the floor. Then he saw Eileen. As their eyes met, Macca thought of the last time he had seen her, when she'd walked in and found him and Brendan in bed. He knew that she was thinking the same thing.
"Eileen."
"Macca." Eileen busied herself laying the table, every now and then shooting at Macca a glance of pure animosity. He felt himself beginning to sweat, and wanted to run away. Brendan had been right, he should have kept his distance.
"Oh mum," Eileen said, "While I think of it, are you still okay to have the boys for me?" It was clear she wanted Macca to hear this.
"Course, love, I'm looking forward to it," his nan smiled.
"It's from after school on Friday," Eileen continued. "I'll be in Manchester for the weekend, then with Brendan for a few days. Not sure how long, depends how it goes."
Macca's stomach tightened. He knew that Eileen and Brendan were over – there was no going back from what had happened - but the thought of her going to see him, when Brendan had forbidden him from doing the same, filled him with despair.
He barely ate, and as soon as the meal was over he said he had to go.
Eileen followed him to the door.
"Was it worth it?" she asked, quiet and intense. "Betraying me? Betraying my boys?"
Macca couldn't look at her.
"Well, Macca?" she asked again.
"Yes." He met her gaze just for a second. "He was worth it."
:::::::
Stephen Hay was a good barman. He was an awkward, argumentative little fucker, hardly employee of the month, but with the punters he was all charm and smiles and happy-to-help. Brendan often watched him from the office doorway or from the other end of the bar; occasionally Stephen caught him looking, and Brendan would harden his glare, leaving the poor lad flustered and wondering what he'd done wrong this time. He wasn't doing anything wrong, though; he did as he was told. Moaned about it, usually, but did it, whether it was shifting crates or cleaning up or running to the cash-and-carry. Brendan knew he was giving him more tasks to do than the others, but it gave him an excuse to talk to the boy, even if it meant putting up with his grumbling.
Flirting with the customers was part of the job for the bar staff, and Stephen was good at it, mainly because he didn't know he was doing it. Girls seemed to like him: it was the boyishness, Brendan supposed, which made him seem safe and unthreatening. Whatever floats your boat. It was fine, seeing him flirt, but less fine was his relationship with Amy. She sometimes dropped in to see him, and the way they were together, laughing and squabbling and close, made Brendan think that he'd misjudged things and would never be able to have him.
He was lying awake in the early hours, wondering where to go from here, when his phone buzzed. It was a text from Macca. Things had been so simple back in Belfast, with Macca always ready for him and knowing what he wanted and giving it to him unselfishly; Brendan hadn't appreciated it at the time.
:::::::
What Eileen had said at the weekend, about going to see Brendan, played on Macca's mind and he had hardly slept in the few nights since.
It was after one o'clock in the morning. He picked up his mobile and wrote a message to Brendan.
# Cant sleep. How about u? xx
A few minutes went by. No answer: Macca hadn't really expected one. He pulled the cover up to his chin and snuggled down. Then his phone beeped, and he was wide awake.
# Me neither
God. Quickly, he typed another message and pressed send:
# Wish I was with u now xx
He began to wish he'd left the kisses off when there was no response, but then Brendan's text came through:
# What if you were?
Okay. Keep it casual.
# What u mean?
In a few seconds the reply came:
# If you were here what would you do?
# Strip for u. Macca hesitated, then sent it.
# And then? came back from Brendan.
# Kiss u. Too soft? Oh well, here goes. Send.
# My tongue in your mouth
Fucking hell. # Your hand round my throat
Nothing came back. Macca worried that he'd said the wrong thing, made Brendan feel that he was accusing him – or that he knew him too well. Then his phone sounded again, making him jump.
# My fingers in you
Macca's breathing quickened; he lay on his side and drew his knees up and slid a hand into his boxers, grasping his stiffening cock. Then he texted, # My legs round yr neck
# Say it
Macca made him wait, and Brendan texted again, # Say it
# Fuck me
# Fucking you
# Harder
# Holding you down
# Harder
Macca waited for a reply, and tried to hold on. Then from Brendan:
# Say my name
# Screaming your name
Macca came into his hand, and lay panting, wondering if Brendan was doing the same. He waited perhaps ten minutes, then texted, # Night xx
# Night
:::::::
Brendan got up to clean himself, then went back to bed.
The limbs that he had imagined embracing him, were long and golden. The voice that he'd thought of crying his name hadn't had a Belfast accent, but a Manchester one. The eyes that in his mind had looked up at him, desperate with wanting him, weren't brown. They were long-lashed and blue.