CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

I'll only give you till the morning comes, till the morning comes;

I'm only waiting till the morning comes, till the morning comes.

- Till the Morning Comes – Neil Young

BRIAN

"Jesus Christ, Brian. What a mess. What a god-damn mess!" Carl paces backwards and forward beside the bed. I'm grateful that he's come alone; I know Deb and the family will have to be filled in on the situation, but the last thing either Justin or I need is to have Deb descend in full overbearing-Mom mode tonight.

"You're sure Justin's okay?" Mel asks for the third time. I'd asked a nurse to page her in Gus' room as soon as we'd arrived, and now she's sitting, pale and taut, on the chair beside my bed.

"Christ, Mel. Same answer as last time." Justin had needed a couple of stitches, but his CAT scan was fine. The lad seems to have more lives than a cat. However, since this was his second concussion within a few months nobody was taking the injury lightly, and his neurologist insisted on his being kept under close observation - a decision with which I heartily concurred. I was diagnosed with second degree burns combined with mild smoke inhalation, but the doctor still wanted to keep me overnight with an oxygen mask handy in case I developed breathing problems. Under normal circumstances it would take a damn sight more than a sore throat, a bandaged hand and a bitch of a headache to keep me in hospital, but since they were keeping Justin and I didn't intend to leave without him, I'd called Boot (or rather, a nurse had placed the call for me) and told him to hold the fort until we got back. He'd stayed at Britin to deal with the fire department when they belatedly arrived, and he'd confirmed what I'd already thought; the studio and stables were burned to the ground.

Of course, Lindsay has been admitted, too. She's suffering from smoke inhalation and minor burns like me, plus a badly sprained ankle and some cuts and bruises from when I'd dropped her limp body through the hay hatch. The difference is she's under arrest for arson, assault and attempted murder, and when she's discharged she'll be taken straight into custody. Carl, I have to admit, has been great; once he understood what had happened at Britin he took immediate charge, meeting the ambulance at the hospital to make the arrest himself, with a female officer in tow to guard Lindsay.

I realise that just about every member of my personal family is here as either patients or visitors, which says just about everything about how fucked-up the situation is.

"I've spoken to the doctor who treated Gus ... Sanchez? And she confirmed your story," Carl says.

"You thought she wouldn't?" Mel demands. "You think Brian and I would lie about something like that?"

"No ... of course not." Carl looks more harassed and agitated than ever. "Although, since the drug she gave him is non-prescription, she hasn't technically committed an offence where Gus is concerned. But to use him that way ... to deliberately make him sick just so she could keep you out of the way ..." He stops pacing and gestures helplessly. "That just doesn't sit with the Lindsay I know."

"The Lindsay we all thought we knew!" snaps Mel. "And don't you dare give me that bullshit about how she hasn't technically committed a crime ... she acted with both knowledge and forethought, and that makes her as guilty as sin in my book!"

Carl shakes his head. "Deb and I always thought she was devoted to the kid."

"She is," I tell him. My throat's sore as fuck, so I reach awkwardly with my left hand for the water glass from the bedside table and swallow some. "The same way she's devoted to me. The trouble is, it's not the kind of devotion Deb has for Michael, or Mel has for Gus and JR, or that you have for Deb. It's the kind that makes her want to destroy the object of that devotion rather than see anyone else enjoy it."

He fixes me with a look. "So why didn't you tell anyone what was going on?" he demands. "Either of you?"

We exchange glances. "Because it was personal," I say. "We hoped we could draw a line under the thing and go on. None of us realised how bad she really was ... not until it was too late."

"It wasn't like she was acting like a crazy woman," Mel agrees. "She was just a little ... off sometimes, but then she always was. It's easy to look back with hindsight, for fuck's sake."

Carl drags his hand through his hair. "Well, the system will take care of things from here on. She'll be given psychological evaluation before they decide where to remand her. You'll have to come down to the station to make a statement, as soon as you feel up to it ... Justin, too." His face softens. "I guess that won't be easy for you."

He has no idea how difficult it will be. While I understand and agree absolutely with the need to do it, I loathe the fact that I have to. Lindsay poses a threat to the two people I love most in the world, and she must be dealt with as such: but she's also inextricably linked to one of those people, and to hurt her is to hurt him. The thought of trying to make Gus understand how his Dadda could be responsible for his Momma being taken away from him makes me sick to my stomach. How do I begin to explain to a six-year old – even a smart one – that his mother was prepared to make him sick enough to be hospitalised so that she could try to kill Justin, for no other reason than that Gus and I love him?

I don't think Justin gets that. I didn't like his comment at Britin about my fucked-up loyalties, like he thought I was worrying more about protecting Lindsay than protecting him. He'd spoken as if I might have tried to stop him calling the police or some fucking thing. Like I wouldn't have insisted on it. He's not the scared, friendless kid he was after Hobbs bashed him; he's a man, and he stands up for his rights. No; what had knocked me sideways was the realisation that Lindsay was fucked-up-big-time-loony-toons, and nothing was ever going to be quite the same again.

Christ ... what kind of mother would deliberately drug her own son like that? I thought Joanie was the worst example of maternal compassion I'd come across, but her sin had been that of compliance rather than instigation. I think even she would be appalled by Lindsay's cold-blooded manipulation. And Justin ... she hit him. Knowing what he'd been through before, knowing the danger ... even if I could ever be persuaded that burning down the studio had been an act of drunken stupidity that had gotten out of hand, does he really think I could ever forgive her for that, nor want her to pay for it?

I know he's upset about my risking my life to get Lindsay from the studio ... but, fuck, I couldn't have just walked away. How could I have looked Gus in the eye and said, Sorry, Sonny-Boy, there wasn't a thing I could do? Sticking her in prison pales into insignificance compared with leaving her to fry. Anyway, I would have done the same thing for a lot of people ... shit, if the truth be told I don't think I could leave anyone in a situation like that if I thought there was a chance I could get them out. Neither could Justin; fuck, the lad wouldn't have left a kitten to burn, let alone a person. No, he's just freaked and upset and angry, as he has every right to be. Once again he's been betrayed by someone he thought he could rely on, and it's bound to have thrown him through a loop. I get that.

I'd wanted to explain all this on the way to hospital. I'd wanted to tell him how I'd felt, turning away from him, knowing there was a good chance I might die. Knowing I might never see his face again; knowing exactly what I could be losing. How it was only the thought of him, and of Gus, that gave me the strength to get Lindsay through that hatch – thank fuck Boot hadn't sealed it up – and carry her through the choking, blinding smoke, trusting rather than knowing that he and Boot would have figured it out and got the door open. I wanted to tell him how much I fucking loved him. But talking had been kinda difficult what with all the coughing and the subsequent wearing of an oxygen mask; and Justin hadn't been talking either. He'd just sat beside me, pale and dishevelled, another bloody bandage around his head. He'd held my hand, but he'd hardly said a word.

He hadn't met my eyes, either.

I remember telling him not to burn the house down before I got there, and wishing for the heaviest snow in years; and I remember once warning him to be careful what he wished for, in case he got it. I should have taken my own advice.

"What the fuck are we going to tell Gus?" Mel moans, burying her face in her hands, and bringing my thoughts back to the present.

"The truth ... or at least, we'll be as honest as he can bear," I reply. "And we'll do it together. Tomorrow."

Looks like I'll be doing a lot of talking.

Fried lungs or not, I wish I had a fucking joint.


JUSTIN

Everything was fine up until I saw that look on his face when Boot told him he had to call the cops. Well ... not fine, exactly; not with us both nearly dying, and dealing with what Lindsay had done to Gus as well as me, and the studio burning down. But all I'd really cared about was the fact that we'd made it out alive and relatively unscathed, and I was so fucking thankful for that.

Then I saw that he'd realised the full implications of what had happened ... that Lindsay was going to end up inside one way or another. I saw how much the idea hurt him.

It's not that I didn't understand; fuck, if someone told me I'd have to give evidence against Daph and maybe send her to gaol, I'd be sick too. And no matter what Lindsay's done, the thought of her ending up as new meat to some bull-dyke lag isn't an image that gives me any satisfaction. I learnt how pointless vindictiveness was when I shoved a gun in Chris Hobbs' mouth.

Lindsay. I can't even begin to work out how I feel about her. I don't want to hate her ... I don't want to hate anyone ... but how else am I supposed to feel about someone who has deliberately undermined my relationship with Brian for years? About someone who was prepared to compromise her son's health in order to further her own ends? Who tried to fucking kill me because she couldn't get rid of me any other way? And yet none of that hurts so much as the fact that all the time she pretended to be my friend, my advisor. I'm used to being hated, but it's always been by homophobes ... my father, my teachers, Hobbs, Stockwell. At least their hatred was open and honest. Lindsay betrayed me in a way I never thought possible, and I'll never forgive her. But that doesn't mean I wish she'd died ... I know I came across like a petulant, selfish brat at Britin, bitching at Brian about saving her, but I didn't mean it. I understood he couldn't run away and leave her there - fuck, I'd been trying to get her out myself, and I had more reason than him to hate her.

I'd been scared when the studio went up, but it was nothing compared to the terror I felt when I thought Brian was going to burn in it. That terror had been replaced by euphoria when I realised he wasn't. But then, when we were both safe, my joy had morphed into something else: something like fury. At Brian, because he'd risked himself for her. Because he'd been prepared to leave me alone, to face the rest of my life without him; because he'd been prepared to leave Gus without a father ... probably as an orphan. Pissed that he'd put her first. And yeah, that old resentment reared its head: my exclusion from the Grand Fellowship of Brian, Michael and Lindsay, because their bonds had been forged in the past, not the future; and they were more binding than any more recent ties.

I've always understood this; I've always accepted it. Maybe I don't like it, but I can live with it.

But somehow, understanding that didn't help. I resented the fuck that he hesitated, that her welfare should have even been worthy of consideration at that point. I was scared, and I was angry, so I yelled at him.

I listened while he talked briefly to Carl, and I gave my own version when Brian handed the phone over to me. Then Brian took the phone back and asked Carl to please keep Debbie in the dark, at least until tomorrow. Carl promised he would, although he must have known Deb would give him all kinds of holy hell when she found out what was going on.

And all the time I was getting more and more freaked, and more and more angry. I couldn't even stand to look in Lindsay's direction. My heart was racing erratically, and my mouth kept filling with saliva so that I had to keep swallowing, and that made me feel nauseous. Boot wrapped us in blankets and served us with tea, and all the while he kept shooting worried little glances at me. I resented the fuck out of that, too. I was glad when the fire truck showed up and distracted him.

Not long after that an ambulance battled its way up the drive, and the medics carried out their assessments and rendered basic first aid before bundling Brian, Lindsay and I inside and ferrying us back to Pittsburgh.

I sat beside Brian and he kept trying to talk to me even though I could see it hurt every time he took a breath; but then he began to deteriorate and he started making that horrible, hacking cough again, so the medic fitted an oxygen mask over his face. I held his hand and tried to hold back tears again; I hadn't forgotten the terror I'd felt when I thought he was trapped in the burning studio, and mostly I was still just scared for him. But another part of me blamed him, because his smoke-filled lungs were his own fault – just like his burned hand wasn't a badge of honour, it was an emblem of his foolhardiness.

When we finally arrived safely at Allegheny we were whisked into different cubicles while the doctors did their thing. I answered their questions, let them peer into my eyes and ears, squeezed their hands when asked and counted raised fingers. They took blood samples and assessed my coordination. They did a CAT scan. Eventually they let me take off the stupid neckbrace the medics had insisted I wear, and allowed that I might have been lucky again. But they were still insisting I had to remain under observation.

And all the time I was worried sick about Brian. I managed to sweet-talk one of the nurses, a pretty little brunette called Josie, into going to find out how he was doing; I was on tenterhooks until she returned to say that he seemed to be suffering from nothing more serious than smoke inhalation, but they were keeping him in overnight to make sure he didn't develop any adverse reactions. After that I managed to relax a little, and once I was installed in my room I wrote him a note, which Josie agreed to take to him: Glad you're OK. Wanted to come see you, but they won't let me out of bed. : ( . He sent one back: Neither will I. ; D. I'm not allowed up either, so I'll see you in the morning. Sweet dreams, Sunshine.

In a way I was glad. I didn't want to see him right then; I wanted a little distance. I needed to work through all the shit going through my head. But first I had a couple of visitors.

Carl, looking tired and upset; he gave me a brief summary of his talk with Brian, and reassured me that Lindsay was under arrest and would be taken into custody as soon as the hospital released her. He patted my shoulder in his kind, gruff way, told me I'd had a lucky escape, shook his head heavily and predicted that Debbie would break her heart. He said that I'd need to make a formal statement, and that if I didn't feel up to going to the station he'd come to the Loft or Britin.

I told him I'd be fine.

Next came Mel. She was quiet and subdued … shocked, I guess you could call it. She hung round my neck and cried a little; told me how sorry she was, how she'd never imagined Lindsay would be capable of such a thing. I managed a smile, and told her it wasn't her fault and not to worry. I asked how Gus was; she assured me that he was well and that the doctors expected a full recovery. I told her to give him a kiss for me.

But all the time I was numb; I couldn't feel Carl's sympathy, or Mel's regret. All I could feel was disbelief that the cosy, secure world I had been building with Brian had been pulled out from under my feet … again.

Now I'm alone at last and the lights have dimmed, and the bustle has subsided into the usual quiet hospital night time murmur. The nurse will be round soon, to wake me and make sure I haven't slipped into a coma in my sleep: I know the drill.

Somehow I don't think she need bother. I don't think I'll be sleeping.

No, I'm lying here thinking about why I'm freaking, and what's really making me wonder if Brian and I have a future together.

It's nothing to do with my jealousy.

I know how much Brian loves me; I'm only too well aware how much I love him. But the thing I long for more than anything else ... for him to look on me as his equal ... that seems as elusive a prospect as ever.

I could have helped him with Lindsay. Together we might have got her out of the studio before the fire blocked the door, and he'd never have had to risk his life escaping through the stable. But once again he'd made my decision for me, as though I was some kid who had to be protected, not as a man with the right to make his own choices. He'd treated me like he would Gus, not his partner. So he'd told Boot ... oh, sorry, my hired bodyguard ... to carry me out of harm's way like a poor little helpless wife while he got on with the manly heroic shit.

It seems that, no matter how much respect Brian might have for me intellectually, emotionally he will always react in the same way. I'll always be twelve years younger than him, even when I'm fucking fifty. No matter what he promises, he will always assume he knows the best way to take care of me, and my opinion won't ever come into it. After all, he'd pushed me away again. No matter how you look at it, that's what it comes down to; despite his swearing (on Gus' life, no less!) that it would never happen again; despite my promise never to come back again if it did, he'd still done it.

This has always been the cause of every rift between us. I'd believed things had changed after New York, but I realise now that they never will. What I have to decide is, am I prepared to live the rest of my life as a junior partner, with Brian paying lip service to the notion of consultation and equality but ultimately calling all the shots? Is that the kind of relationship I want? No matter how much he loves me and I love him, no matter how good we are together ... can I really ever respect myself if I live with him on those terms?

TBC