"Bloody hell, Mr Brady, you almost gave me a heart attack!" Ste clutched at his chest, theatrically and grinned, "I'm a nervous wreck here!"
Mr Brady laughed, "Made you jump out of your skin, did I?"
Ste laughed too, "Yes, actually. Er, are you alright?"
"Course Stephen," replied Brady, tipping his head to the side.
"Good," said Ste, confused. "What you doing out here, then?"
Mr Brady stepped closer. "Looking for you actually," he said amicably, but seriously, "I was hoping you could help me."
"Right…" Ste stopped to think. He had a pretty good idea what was coming. Should he tell Brendan's father the truth or should he lie? He wanted Brendan to be out, and alright with it, and maybe this was the way to do it. After all, he'd told Cheryl, and that had worked out all right. Eventually.
But it wouldn't be worth anything if it was him who told Mr Brady. Brendan could barely admit he was gay when they were in bed, but if he was going to let all that continue, it had to be Brendan who admitted to everything he was. He decided not to say any more, hoping to avoid the questions.
Mr Brady surveyed him by the light of the streetlamp at the end of the alley. It lit up half the older man's face in that eerie orange glow, while leaving half in the darkness. He stepped forward again, closer to Ste, who could now feel Brady's breath on his face. His eyes were boring into Ste's.
Then Mr Brady kissed him.
The kiss was on the lips, harsh, almost violent, but shallow. Ste lurched backwards before a single thought could process. He was simply shocked.
Mr Brady didn't seem deterred. He took another pace towards Ste, and tried again. Ste held him back this time, with his hands on the older man's shoulders. "What are you doing?" he demanded. But Brady didn't answer. He just knocked Ste's hands away, and pushed Ste the small distance to the wall, held him by the shoulders and kissed him again. Ste tried to push him away without hurting him; after all, he had to be in his 50s at least to be Brendan's father. And of course, he was Brendan's father. "Mr Brady!" he managed.
"What?" cooed Mr Brady, in a low, quiet voice, "isn't this what you do for my son?" He moved his mouth to Ste's neck; lips and tongue, and a touché of teeth.
"Stop, please, stop!" It wasn't begging, Ste was just desperate for this to stop before one of them resorted to violence. He was scared it might be him, and there'd be no way back from that. He pushed against Brady's shoulders again.
"Stephen!" Brady groaned, moving his head back so he could look Ste in the face, "Why are you fighting this? Does Brendan let you behave like this? Of course not! He'd have given you a good slap by now, wouldn't he? I don't want to resort to that!"
"No!" Ste exclaimed, not certain if it was to the question or about the situation. There were elements of truth in everything the older man just said, but it was such a twisted distortion that Ste felt revolted by it.
Brady tilted his head, smirking, "What, you're suggesting my son doesn't make use of your pert little arse, or that wicked mouth of yours?"
Ste pushed, still trying not to hurt the man, but his resolve on that crumbling. Brady just laughed. "You're so weak, Stephen."
He pressed his body against Ste's. Ste could feel his hard on digging into his hip.
Ste couldn't handle any more. He let out the energy he'd been holding back and punched the man on the face.
Brady lurched back, freeing Ste. Ste didn't run straight away; he was too shocked at what had just happened. Brady held his face, rubbing gently. He was laughing.
"What were you thinking?" Ste asked, his own voice breathy and breaking.
"What do you think? I fancied a shag, thought you were the place to go." Brady didn't look anywhere near as guilty or ashamed as Ste thought he should. He was furious at what Brady was suggesting.
"Well, you were wrong! Yes, I do sleep with Brendan, but that's because I love him. And you know what? He's in love with me, too. So find your shags somewhere else. But check they want to first, yeah?"
He turned on his heels and stormed from the alley.
If he hadn't been so angry, he might have thought more about Brady's quiet response.
"I thought so."
…
When Brendan arrived home, he tried to be quiet, assuming his father was asleep somewhere. He left most of the lights off for the same reason.
The place felt wrong without Cheryl, like its heart had been stolen and all that was left was a cold, broken shell. Lonely and sad. Like his life had been before Cheryl and Stephen.
He smiled again.
Then shook himself for being so silly, and poured himself a night cap.
The door opened forcefully and suddenly a few moments later. His father stormed in and slammed it. Brendan felt a flutter of annoyance; his father was doing it again, gambling with his own happiness, along with that of his family.
"You left the club an hour ago," he mumbled accusingly.
"What, you the only one allowed secrets, Brendan?" The older man's voice was heavy, angry.
Brendan harrumphed. He knew anything he said more would be hypocritical.
With a theatrical flourish, his father switched on the main light.
And Brendan saw the redness – the beginnings of a black eye. "What happened to your face?" he asked, appalled.
His Dad looked straight at him, making the most of this moment, enunciating every word. "Your wee boyfriend punched me," came the unbelievable reply.
"What?" Brendan couldn't process a word of what had just been said.
"That wee lad," His father revelled in the information, "the one you've been working so hard at hiding from me. You know, nice arse, might be fun on a weekend when the wife's away. Now, why would he think he could get away with hitting your father, do you think?"
Brendan's mouth seemed sealed shut, his lips forced together. Every muscle in his body was tense. This was it, the moment he was dreading. His father carried on.
"You know the rules of this, Brendan. And they're for your own good, and you know that too." The older man clutched his son's face in both of his hands. "You left your wife. I get that, I did the same. Maybe you might even forgive me for that now. But you are not a man unless you have a wife and a family." He let go of Brendan's face unkindly, and pushed him away.
"I get the Stephen thing" he continued, "you know what I want to do to him, but he is distracting you. Cheryl says her friend Lindsey's been staying here. She's pretty, she's a nurse, she's kind, polite, wouldn't say boo to a goose. Why's she not on the list of possible Mrs Bradys? And this village is full of beautiful young women. You get yourself one of them, and you do it soon, before they all find out what a pathetic waste of space you are. Keep Stephen if you want, but get him to behave himself, or he has to go. You know it as well as I do."
Brendan wasn't sure he could speak. Everything was falling down around him, and he didn't know if he could save the things he cared about.
"Why…" Brendan needed to cough before he could continue, "why did Stephen hit you?"
"Because he's not under your control!" Brady said nastily. "Does Cheryl know about him?"
"Yeah" Brendan breathed.
"And she hasn't thrown you out?"
"No. We didn't talk for a while but that was because of Malachy."
"Well, you were lucky son. When my Ma found out about Paddy McBride, she locked me in the cellar for three days then sent me to the priest. Between the two of them, I learnt my lesson. Do what you like behind closed doors, but don't get caught."
Brendan put down his drink and covered his face with his hands. His father didn't stop there. He invaded Brendan's space again.
"You know what she's thinking, though, don't ye?" he whispered in an ugly voice.
"Who?" His own voice sounded quiet and broken to himself.
"Cheryl," he snapped, "what she thinks about you now? No?" he stepped right in front of Brendan, put his face up close. "She thinks you're a disgusting, pathetic little queer. A pansy. A shit stabber. I bet she can't even look at you without wanting to be sick. You're a stupid little poof. You didn't tell her anything about me did ye?"
"No" Brendan mumbled.
"Good. Destroying her big brother is one thing; I won't have you destroy her father for her too." Brady walked away again, and leant on the stairs. "So, go sort out that little rent boy of yours, give him a good smack and talking to, then we can move on. You've lost Cheryl, but we can salvage Eileen and the kids. They don't have to know anything. We can salvage this."
Brendan's mind was reeling. Everything his father had said he had expected from Cheryl- disgust, hatred, for her to want nothing to do with him. But she'd never even been angry, except about the lies. 'You're gay, it's no big deal.' He remembered her saying that.
"He's not a rent boy." He said aloud.
"What?" his father growled.
"Stephen. He's not a rent boy. He's not something filthy on the side he's…"
"What are you wittering on about now?"
Interrupting. It was an intimidation tactic Brendan used himself. It didn't work on him. "He's not someone to be ashamed of. I'm not ashamed of him. I love him." He said it all quietly, because he expected an explosion in response. A fight. A big one.
His Dad's voice stayed calm, quiet, calculating, "Yeah," he said, "he said as much."
Then he punched Brendan.
"You are not a queer! No son of mine is going to wonder around like some love sick girl over some boy! Grow up and be a man!"
Brendan touched his face. He'd barely felt the punch. He'd had much worse in prison.
"I am a man, Dad," he said quietly.
"No you're not!" his father shouted, poison lacing his words, "you're a weak, pathetic little shite, and we should have got rid of you before you were born. I wanted to you know. Never wanted to marry your mother, told her to get rid, but she wouldn't have it. You think you're in love? Real men don't fall in love!" He raised his fist again, but Brendan was ready this time. He knocked the fist aside, and pushed the older man over onto the sofa. He grasped him by the collar.
"If I'm not a man, then how come I'm so much stronger than you, eh?"
"Get off me, you little shite!" the old man shouted, struggling.
"No," Brendan growled. "You don't get to tell me what to do any more. The tables turned when you got old, and I grew up. You are not in charge here now."
His Dad stopped struggling, and just glared at Brendan. Brendan relaxed his grip and let go, but kept an eye on the old man. The Bradys were infamous for their tricky, sneaky fighting.
"I'm still your father," he spat.
Brendan shrugged. "Yeah, a shit one." He took another drink. "I'm not going to breathe a word to Cheryl, but when they come back, you leave. Maggie can come back whenever she wants, but you; you don't come back here. Not ever. You stay away from my kids, you stay away from Eileen and you stay away from here. Do you understand?"
The two men glared at each other, hatred carved into every muscle of their bodies.
Brady broke the silence.
"You haven't won you know," he whispered, "I can still get you where it hurts." His back straightened as he talked, as though clarity was dawning on him, "It's my duty as your father to stop you destroying yourself and this family, to protect my wife and daughter. You should do as I ask now, son, or I shall know how to act."
Brendan snorted. "Yeah, yeah. You know where your room is. I'd tell you to sleep well but… you know."
He smirked, turned and stalked to his own room.