Rodney Piggott was not a happy man. He was standing in a fluorescent orange uniform, made of skin-chaffing polyester, staring at a cold artificial light-bulb as it stuttered and flickered through a deserted café.
Who, in their right minds, would want to dine at a roadside café at three o'clock in the bloody morning, that's what he wanted to know. But try telling that to Stuart. In fact, he had tried telling Stuart earlier that day, as soon as that the cocky upstart had told him that he'd be doing the graveyard shift this week. Some kids just didn't wear a manager's badge well.
He continued to stare at the blinking light, growing more and more incensed by its unpredictable dance. Maybe he could try to fix it, he considered. It wasn't like he had anything else to be doing. Granted, he didn't have very much experience of electrics, but how hard could it be? Red wire, blue wire, right?
Just as he was contemplating dragging one of the metal chairs across the tiled floor to have a closer look, the door swung open, surprising him. Two men walked in, hair dripping wet and covered in sand, and plonked themselves down in a booth near the window. Rodney studied them suspiciously. They were an odd pairing. Too close in age to be father and son, but not close enough to be natural mates either. They sat, leaning into each other, as though they were conspiring about something very secret.
Drugs, Rodney thought, knowingly. Why else would they be skulking around the middle of nowhere at three in the morning? And where had all that sand come from? No good, that's where from.
The older one, he looked like a bit of a gangster, actually. He was dressed in an expensive suit, kind of light brown and shiny, the kind of suit that someone wore to show off in. His shirt was expensive too, a few buttons left open at the top to display a bit of bragging chest hair. And a heavy gold cross. Rodney always thought that was a bit hypocritical, these criminals strutting about, crosses around their necks. As if they'd ever said a prayer to God in their lives. And then there was that ridiculous moustache. He had to be either a gangster or a seventies disco star.
The younger one was a bit more ordinary looking. Hunched over, scrawny, body swallowed up in an oversized hoody, soles peeling slightly from his Adidas runners. Like a hundred other council chavs Rodney could think of. Probably the grunt-worker, doing the street-level stuff, Rodney thought.
With one last petulant glance at the maddening, flickering bulb, he picked up the fluorescent orange notepad and pencil and started to make his way over to the table.
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"Then I'll take care of you."
Brendan had stood, immersed in the black October sea, frozen fingers welded into Stephen's. His throat was raw, burning from retching sobs. His breath was ragged, panting from the panic when that vat of memory finally tipped and flooded its contents onto the sand. His heart was throbbing, painfully pumping blood around his broken shell.
But Brendan had forgotten those things. The physical world – the cold, the burning, the panting, the throbbing – it had faded, disappeared into the murky October greyness. He was in two pools of crystal blue, drowning and disbelieving.
He had told him. His worst, his dirtiest, his vilest secret. His gruesome shame. The reason for everything, for all the twisted and disgusting things he was, for all the things that he could never be. The massive gully that separated them, that separated Brendan from everything that was good and clean and beautiful. He had told him.
And he wanted to take care of him.
The pulse of heat that had travelled through Brendan's body at that moment was electrifying. It exploded from him, banishing the coldness of the water, the darkness of the night. His hands were on the naked boy in front of him, exploring him, tasting him, caressing him. He was receiving his kisses, starving frenzied kisses, kisses that had been waiting on his lips for months. Hands were in his hair now, on his back, on his hips. Lips found his lips, his teeth, his ears, his chest, his arms. Every inch of soft intoxicating skin was not enough, every thrust of wild exploring tongues made him want more. The heat blazed, scorching his fingers as they found their way downwards, roaring pulses in his ears as he felt Stephen find him. When he plunged inside they were wrapped in each other, breathing in unison, moving as one.
They had climbed from the sea after, still entwined in each other. Brendan was still sinking in blue pools, still pressing clinging fingers into the smooth flesh of his back, feeling fingers dig into him in return. His teeth were chattering, Brendan saw, as he gazed up at him with a sheepish grin he tried to suppress. Brendan let his thumb roll over the shivering smiling lips, awed by the strength and compassion. He pressed his closed mouth against the lips, shutting his eyes as the salty smell of sea-drenched skin filled his nose.
Slowly, they dressed each other, allowing fingers to trace over contours, breath to linger on skin as they did. It was something they had never done before, something Brendan had never known before. Nakedness. Closeness. Unity.
When their sand-covered clothes were draped over their wet bodies again they turned, together, and faced the crumbling white house.
"Let's get out of here, yeah?" Stephen had said.
"Yeah," Brendan had answered.
Hand-in-hand they had walked back up the winding path to the car, climbed inside, and driven away.