CHAPTER 36
Finn picked up his phone, alerted by the tone of an arriving text; he stared at the screen, saying nothing until at last Greg came towards him and gently turned his hand, letting him read the message that had arrived.
"What do you think it means?" he asked, his voice weary.
"I think it means exactly what it says," replied Greg, trying to reassure Finn. "They want to go out and not talk about it. End of; nothing more nothing less."
"Perhaps I shouldn't have involved Dora," said Finn, more to himself than to Greg.
"You didn't, the Professor did," pointed out Greg reasonably, watching as Finn began to pace in the confined space.
"I shouldn't have said anything, to either of them. I..."
"Finn!" Greg spoke sharply as he put out a hand to his shoulder, stopping him. "Finn," he repeated more gently. "You needed someone to talk to, although I admit, we should have remembered what they are like. Think back; remember how they were with you, how they weren't going to let you quit theology college. All that stuff they threw at you, even those texts they made you translate until you could cope with being gay and religious. They are formidable and Dora isn't going to stop now, not unless Aaron or Jackson ask her to stop. And they are fine, well, they are coping, they just don't want to talk about it tonight. Okay?"
Greg looked at Finn and wished, not for the first time, that he could turn the clock back for him, for all of them. He couldn't; all he could do was try to help. He pulled Finn into his arms and hugged him close.
"Sorry," mumbled Finn into his shoulder.
"What for?" asked Greg, easing back, trying to look into Finn's eyes.
"Being a drama queen. And you're the second person today that's told me off for it," said Finn.
"Why? Who else has been having a go?" demanded Greg, genuinely puzzled.
"Cain," admitted Finn, "when you went for the lager."
"What did he say?" Greg felt annoyance, anger even, beginning to prickle below his skin.
"No, he was fine, I needed it," replied Finn hurriedly, "honestly. I'll tell you later. Let's go and find the others. Did you phone for a taxi?"
...
Robbie and Simon walked down the road towards the centre of Hotton and Bar West.
"D'you think this is a good idea," asked Simon.
"Shit, I don't know," replied Robbie. "Greg said they were okay when he phoned, but this woman who's turned up would make things pretty heavy for them. Maybe we'll know more tonight, if we get a chance to speak to Finn or Greg alone."
"Makes me feel kinda awkward," said Simon, "like I won't know what to say or will put my foot in it."
"Don't be daft," said Robbie, bumping his shoulder against his boyfriend. "We just need to try and ignore what has happened, at least for tonight; not talk about it anyway."
"See, if nobody had said anything, it wouldn't have occurred to me to mention it," said Simon, "not on a night out. Now because I am thinking about not mentioning it, I probably will. And then I'll get embarrassed and won't know what to say and it will all be just terrible!"
"Drama queen!" laughed Robbie. "Just be your normal self."
"And do what?" asked Simon.
"Oh, the usual; flirt with Aaron, flirt with Jackson, flirt with Finn and Greg!"
"I do not!" protested Simon hotly
Robbie stopped in his tracks and stared at him. "You so do!" he laughed, "but it's okay cos I know it's me you love!"
"I do!" agreed Simon. "So kick me or something, if you think I'm about to say something silly."
"It'll be fine," said Robbie as they reached Bar West.
The bar was quite busy for a week night; many of the tables were occupied by couples, by groups, the pool table was in use, a line of coins stretching along the wooden rim. At the bar, a few folk stood, nursing their drinks, surveying the other drinkers, their eyes skimming over each new arrival.
Robbie and Simon nodded to friends, to acquaintances as they made their way to the bar. There was no sign of Finn and Greg or Aaron and Jackson so they bought two pints and settled themselves in seats that gave them a view of the main doors.
They didn't have long to wait, the second time the door pushed open, their friends tumbled in; they were laughing.
"Did you see his face?"
"I thought he was gonna explode!"
"He just wanted to say something the whole journey!"
"He couldn't get away quick enough!"
"We just had the most obnoxious taxi driver!" exclaimed Greg, parking Jackson's wheelchair before dropping into the seat beside Simon.
"I really thought you were gonna say something, Finn!" laughed Aaron. "What does everyone want to drink?"
"He was okay when you just said Hotton," said Jackson continuing the story as Aaron went to the bar. "It was when you said to drop us at Bar West! - his face kinda went purple!" His dark eyes danced with laughter as he told his part of the tale.
Simon looked at Jackson sitting in the borrowed wheelchair beside him, then glanced over at the bar at Aaron, at Finn and Greg, still chuckling with amusement; it was hard to remember it was all a veneer, an act; for an evening they were papering over the cracks in their world.
Aaron returned, carefully carrying a tray loaded with their drinks. "Anyone fancy a game of pool?" he asked. "I'll stick the money up."
Yeah, I'll play," said Simon; he caught Robbie's eye, caught the flash of laughter across his boyfriend's face although it took him a moment to realise why he was almost smirking at him. He smiled back at Robbie; perhaps it wouldn't be so difficult after all.
It was a while before Aaron's money was at the front of the line winding its way along the rim of the pool table and he and Simon moved onto the table. The time had passed easily, Simon reflected, conversation, banter; it could have been any of the dozens of nights they had been at Bar West together. He glanced at Aaron, all his attention seemed to be on the table, on the balls, watching their position as they came to rest after each shot. It all seemed so normal, so natural, thought Simon, yet really, it couldn't be far from any of their minds.
The crack of each ball smacking sharply against the next jangled, Aaron jumped inside but kept his features bland, calm; he smiled, joked; it was easy, he could do this! It was something of a relief to be out, away from Emmerdale again. Although he could almost count in hours the length of time they had been back, his mind, his body felt heavy with the emotion of those hours. Hours filled with an intensity he couldn't remember in its entirety, his mind cushioning his thoughts, his memories; a safety net. He smiled...and potted another ball.
Finn could swear that he could feel his heart beating, thumping, in his chest; he sipped his pint and leant comfortably against a wall that allowed him a good view of the pool table. He had done the right thing, hadn't he? He couldn't have stood by and done nothing but he had needed help; Cain believed he had done the right thing – it helped knowing that, made it easier to cope with the overwhelming insecurity he felt. If only he could turn the clock forward and see if he had done the right thing, if Dora could work some of her magic. "Have faith..." the words suddenly echoed silently in his head as he stood in the bar buzzing with noise and life; it was the code he lived by, a reminder slipping into his consciousness from...somewhere. He watched Aaron pot a ball; he smiled, have faith.
Robbie watched Simon bending over the table and couldn't help but admire the curve of his arse in his tight jeans as he lined up his eye along his cue, lifting one foot from the floor and balancing to take his shot. His mind strayed further, peeling the clothes from his boyfriend's body in his mind, imagining the scene in their bedroom later in the evening. A slight smile played across his lips; he turned to pick up his pint, his eyes unexpectedly catching Jackson's across the table; he broadened his smile, just a little; a wry camaraderie passing between them as a cold chill flashed down his spine.
Jackson gazed around at his friends; he was enjoying the evening, the banter, the escape, although he felt rather light headed, a light-headedness that had nothing to do with the painkillers he had swallowed before they came out but was all to do with the day, the hours he had spent with Aaron and Dora, hours that seemed hazy in his memory, unreal. But he was not thinking about that; he pushed stray thoughts firmly away, fixing his gentle smile more securely in place as he eased his position in his chair, moved his leg on the low stool that had been found for him and gazed around at his friends. He gritted his teeth.
Greg stood at the bar waiting to get the next round of drinks, his eyes roaming along the rows of bottles that lined the back of the bar, exotic bottles of bright, glistening alcohol, enticingly pretty but not to his taste. He fingered his phone in his pocket, resisting the temptation to take it out and read the text message once again. But he didn't need to read it again, the six words were scored into his consciousness; Don't worry, about any of them. D. He hadn't needed that final initial; her number had been in his phone for years, rarely used. But he hadn't realised she had kept his as faithfully. As he stood watching the play of light upon the liquid in the bottles he knew he needn't be worried, not any more.
...
Dora took a sip of the malt whisky that had sat at her elbow for several hours; she had a sheaf of papers on her lap, papers covered in her tiny writing; writing that was a curious mixture of words and symbols; a unique hieroglyphic code that made sense only to her.
Her phone was on the table beside her; she had spoken to her brother – to hell with the cost - she had needed to run a few things by him; his advice was always good. She glanced at the four walls of the room around her; this wouldn't do, this wouldn't do at all, she thought; Mrs Sugden now, perhaps she would be the person to ask. She would do that tomorrow, first thing; it was a good job she was an early riser, she thought wryly to herself, the next few weeks were going to be busy.
The night passed, slipped into day; she slept, but not for long, as the dawn broke she was awake, glad of the small kettle and the small tray crammed with the necessary to make tea or coffee, or even instant hot chocolate, in her room. After breakfast, she asked for the telephone number of the Woolpack and not many minutes later was walking briskly past the closed front door of the pub, turning the corner to find the discrete back door.
The smell of fresh coffee greeted her, she smiled, even faced with an unexpected guest this early in the morning, Mrs Sugden was the perfect hostess.
"Sit yourself down pet," said Diane comfortably, pouring the coffee. "The bottling up can wait a few minutes for me. Now what can I do for you?"
"This is really very kind of you, Mrs Sugden," began Dora. She had been debating with herself how much she should tell the kindly publican. She sipped her coffee delicately. "I was wondering if you might know of any properties that might be available for a short term rent. I find I need to stay in the area for a while."
Diane looked at the small, birdlike woman in front of her, weighing up the vagueness of her words, contrasting them with the bright, alert manner that was her usual demeanour. Regarding her shrewdly, she suspected she had a fair idea why her visitor suddenly needed to sat in the village, she had been the custodian of bar room gossip for long enough to understand when discretion was required.
"You might try Mr Macey, Declan, at Home Farm," she began thoughtfully, "he has a number of properties in the area, although..." she paused.
"Although?" prompted Dora.
"Although I suspect he charges top whack for rent," continued Diane quickly, sounding indignant. "He might have a house or..." she paused again, thinking. "How much room do you need? The flat above the cafe is still empty, Bob and the twins are living at Dale Head now, he might rent it to you and I'm sure he'd be cheaper than Declan! And it's furnished too!"
"That sounds a distinct possibility," declared Dora, pleased. "I shall speak to Mr Hope directly and if one or two other details work," she paused, imagining the stairs and picturing the casts on Jackson's arm and leg, "Yes, all being well, that sounds ideal."
It was all arranged with remarkable ease. Finishing her coffee with Diane, Dora crossed the road to the cafe, spoke to Bob and had a first viewing of the flat. If Jackson could manage the stairs, it would suit her very well for a few weeks, big enough for her needs and offering privacy for her visitors.
When she met Jackson later that morning, she asked about stairs, outlining her plan. Smiling, he reassured her, stairs, while inelegant and slow, were not a problem.
Delighted, she sighed in relief; now they could really begin to do some work.
...
The small flat was a godsend; it was a nest, a retreat, a safe haven hiding their tears, because there were tears, rivers of tears. There was laughter too though and long moments of silence, of reflection. There was a routine, a uniformity to the visits; Jackson would visit during the day, Aaron in the evening. Sometimes they would all three meet together; sometimes they would remove to the Woolpack.
Days passed, a week, two weeks; almost before Aaron and Jackson realised it, a month had passed; real life had moved, changed, to include Dora, to include the conversations that became hazier the more they thought about them, the more they tried to recollect the words, but around them, their world became solid, reaffirmed.