This chapter is quite disturbing and contains homophobic views expressed through the character of Mr Brady. I really hope none of this offends anybody; the character is scum and obviously none of the views are my own!

XOXO

He couldn't remember much. Vaguely he could remember a car… the low hum of the engine, the fast-moving shapes and lights that soared by the window. He could kind of remember a mans voice… humming along to the radio… though that could equally be a dream. Hazy recollections swished in and out of his brain… of dancing… of drinking pints… c'mon lad. I'm taking you home, someone had said. That was someone Ste had haphazardly given all his trust to… had slumped into that persons arms… had allowed that person to lower him into the back of the car… to drive with him… where are we goin'? Ste remembered himself asking. Or had he just thought that? He didn't remember getting an answer.

And now, the next morning, he was here.

His head was pounding, his mind was racing, he felt dizzy as he looked around the strange room he was lying in. It was pretty much empty save for a haggard looking television set, coffee table, and the sofa that Ste was slumped on. His initial thought was uneasy. How the hell had he got here? Why couldn't he remember? Who had bought him here and how would he get home?

He fished clumsily in his jean pocket for his phone. Shit. It wasn't there. He must have dropped it in the club, Christ, how did he get so drunk? He'd only had a few drinks – it didn't make sense.

"Oh, you're awake."

Ste froze. Because more than any of the bizarre events that were running through his head… that was not a voice he welcomed hearing. The lazy Irish drawl… the crisp husky sound of old age…

Brendan's father walked casually into the room, a cigarette between his lips and holding out the packet for Ste to help himself. Ste ignored this.

"Where are we?" He asked uncertainly.

"A mates house." Mr Brady answered simply. "I didn't know where ye lived."

"Oh right…" Ste muttered, licking his lips, feeling increasingly uncomfortable.

"Ah, to be young and drink yer liver away." Mr Brady smiled, but it didn't show in his eyes. It was fake. For show. "Have a cigarette, Steven."

"No thanks, I don't smoke."

"I said… have one." Mr Brady spoke with dark authority that reminded Ste of Brendan… only worse.

Ste reached and hesitantly pulled a cigarette from the pack. He looked at it uncertainly. What was going on here?

"What are ye scared of?" Mr Brady asked.

Ste shrugged, "Cancer an' stuff."

"You don't need to worry about that, lad, believe me."

Something about his tone unnerved Ste. That and the way his eyes hung on him unwavering… like piercing daggers with their harsh intensity. And where was this 'mate' whose house it was? Why had Mr Brady bothered bringing him here?

Ste swallowed. "I better be gettin' off now… um, thanks, for… you know."

Ste stood up, ignoring the ache in his head and nausea in his stomach as he did so. Holy shit, that was some weird pint he'd drunk. But as he made a move towards the living room door, Mr Brady pushed a hand against Ste's chest… holding him rooted to the spot.

"Ye haven't smoked yer cigarette yet."

Mr Brady flicked the lighter. The flame flickered inches from Ste's face, hypnotic almost.

"Besides," Mr Brady breathed quietly, "I wanna talk to ye."

Ste took a hollow breath. He didn't like where this was going. He HATED this fucking man and he didn't know how much self-restraint he had not to bring that fact to the surface.

Still, something made him sink back down onto the sofa. He tensed slightly as Mr Brady sat beside him… the size forcing them too close together for Ste's comfort. Mr Brady took the cigarette back, lit it, and then handed it to Ste, who inhaled lightly.

He coughed, feeling the sharp sensation of smoke at the back of his throat.

Mr Brady sniggered. "Can't handle a drink, can't handle a cigarette. What can ye do, boy?"

I can throw an alright punch when I want to, you bastard, Ste thought bitterly. But before he could even think of a more suitable reaction, Mr Brady had hold of Ste's wrist. He lifted the cigarette back up to Ste's lips, and spoke gently, "Take it down to yer chest. Inhale softly… let the smoke go to yer lungs."

Ste did as instructed. God knows why, but obviously this was important. Again, he coughed; the vile flavour corrupting his taste-buds.

Mr Brady snorted in amusement, before taking a long drag of his own.

"You know once…" He spoke slowly and carefully, "When Brendan was a teenager, I caught him smokin' with some mates up town. Gettin' closer to death one drag at a time, right?"

Ste was still for a moment before he realised he was expected to answer. He shrugged limply. Why was Mr Brady talking to him like this? He just wanted to leave.

Still Mr Brady continued. "I made him eat the whole pack. Every last one. An' he never smoked since."

"Oh." Ste muttered. What else could he say really? He couldn't work out for the life of him where this was going. And Mr Brady was moving closer to him, so close that Ste could smell his breath… so close their knees were nearly touching, and Ste's hovered awkwardly.

"Course, when Bren was a teenager you were still havin' yer nappies changed." Mr Brady spoke.

"Hm." Ste replied weakly, "I guess."

"By the time puberty 'ad him scoutin' with his cock, you were still feedin' off yer mothers tits, ain't that right, Steven?"

Ste licked his lips. He didn't like Mr Brady talking like that. With an almost vicious-sounding crudeness. With the light suggestiveness that made Ste shiver.

"Look I really should be goin' -"

"Stay where ye are. I said I wanna talk to you."

Ste froze, staring straight ahead, heart starting to beat hard with rising panic and anxiety. He didn't like the way Mr Brady was looking at him. He didn't like the suggestion of conversation… didn't want to talk to this man… didn't want to say anything that Brendan would later hate him for. What did he WANT? Why couldn't Ste just leave?

"Tell me about Brendan." Mr Brady said matter-of-factly.

Ste's heart rose, hammering in his throat. "Not much to say really. He's me boss."

"Generous boss."

"How do ye mean?"

Mr Brady pulled something from his pocket. A small slip of paper… what looked like a receipt.

"£365 spent on 19th December at Dixon's on a playstation3 and 30 childrens play station games, now that's real interesin' isn't it?"

"That's nothin' to do with me."

"No? That's weird cos… I was under the impression from your Amy that that's the present little Leah and Lucas got for Christmas."

Ste's throat went dry. His palms felt cold and sweaty at the same time. How did this man know Amy? How did this man know Leah and Lucas? Why was he speaking like this, with such cold calamity even though Ste could practically FEEL the anger bubbling fiercely through the air in the room.

"You're not gonna tell me that's a coincidence, Steven, are you?"

Ste shrugged. What else could he do? What else could he say? His mind raced, looking for excuses, but he couldn't find any… he was too overwhelmed with alarm.

And then Mr Brady was pulling out another file. It was stored underneath this very sofa. A large black book… 'Chez Chez' written on the front of it. Ste swallowed, baited breath waiting for the worst.

"Lets see." Mr Brady breathed. "Week of July 19th 2011… Jaqui… £218 + tips. Rhys… £218 + tips. Steven…" Mr Brady looked up, his eyes calculating. "£290 + tips."

Ste took a deep breath, DARING to meet those eyes, "I worked more hours than them."

"Except you're lying. And I know you are."

"I'm not." But even as he said it, Ste's voice felt weak and rasped, overcome with nervousness.

"Why does Brendan do this stuff for you?"

Ste was silent. He looked determinedly at the floor. Just say nothing and he'll go away.

"Why does he care so much about you that he'll spend more money than he's sendin' over for his kids, eh? Why does he risk lookin' at ye like that… right in front of everybody? Right in front of me, eh? Why does he do that?"

Just say nothing and he'll go away. Just say nothing and the interrogation will end.

"Why does my son love ye, Steven? Why you?"

Ste's insides shrivelled in cold hard nausea. It was the same feeling he got when anyone ever dared to mention Brendan's 'love' for him… the feeling of claustrophobia, panic, confusion and adoration, all wrapped into one warped sensation. The need to run a mile and escape this dangerous trap, but also to revel in the knowledge that the man Ste loved loved him back… was his. And people knew it.

Mr Brady knew it.

And that was not good.

"SPEAK TO ME!" Mr Brady's voice shook off the walls in his intense fury. His disgust.

"I dunno." Ste croaked hurriedly.

No point denying it, was there? Mr Brady knew. And by the sounds of it he'd known a while…he'd done his research…he'd reached all the right conclusions. Now he just wanted explanations.

Now Mr Brady stood, and he stared down at Ste with eyes that reflected no more than pure revulsion. Pure hatred, as he spat the words:

"Has he fucked you?"

Ste felt distant tears prickle numbly in the back of his eyes. Oh shit. His stomach churned with humiliation, fear and guilt… he was letting Brendan down… he was acknowledging Brendan's biggest secret to the man who Brendan was most afraid of knowing.

"C'mon, I wanna know!" Mr Brady spat. "Has he fucked you?"

He didn't know what to say. It was liked the walls were closing in around him, torturing him, making him feel small weak and stupid. Whatever he said was going to get him in trouble. Whatever he said was going to make this whole situation worse. He felt his face and collar reddening under the force of the accusation… the humiliation of the suggestion… the shame at the way Mr Brady was looking at him.

Ste's silence spoke more than a million words.

Mr Brady laughed in harsh contempt.

"An' ye like that, do ye?" He mocked. "Make ye feel good, does it?"

And to Ste's further embarrassment he felt tears dripping from his eyes; tears of shame he knew he ought not to feel, and yet he couldn't bear the way that man was observing him…like dirt.

He wiped his eyes hastily with the back of his hand and found smeared red paint there… the face-paint and lipstick marks from last night were still smeared all over his face; messed up by sweat and tears. He must look a right state. Pathetic. Vulnerable.

He didn't want to look like that in front of this man; he wanted to stand up and be strong and fight for himself and for Brendan and everyone else this man held in contempt.

But Mr Brady was circling him like a vulture, scrutinising him like a bird watches its prey, and asking quietly, "What is it about YOU that makes my son want to fuck a lad?"

Ste swallowed, shakily finding his voice; "Brendan liked men before he met me."

"He wouldn't 'ave bought that shame on the family."

"'s no shame in it."

"Is that right? Why ye cryin' then?"

"COS YOUR FRUSTRATIN' ME!" Ste shouted bravely, fists clenched in nerves and anger.

"Don't speak to me like tha' you little fag!"

Ste rose to his feet, meeting Mr Brady's eye with the last piece of nerve he possessed. "You're pathetic if you can't even accept yer son for wha' he is!"

"Me, pathetic?"

"YES!"

"I'm not the one bendin' over like a bird for a bloke who wants nothin' more than an easy fuck and a punch bag, son."

Ste shook his head, hands rising subconsciously to cover his ears; he didn't want to hear this; it wasn't true, this man was scum.

"Look at yerself!" Mr Brady mocked, "'love me, Brendan, love me'. If that's not pathetic I don't know what is!"

"Shut up." Ste muttered, voice growing faint, hands beginning to shake.

"What the hell could he possibly see in you?" Mr Brady hissed. "Yer a mess. A queer. You're a waste of fucking space, Steven"

"Shut up…" Ste repeated weakly, words flooding back to him spoken by Terry, by his mum, by Amy's folks and anyone that ever had anything to do with him… waste of space. Useless. Pathetic.

"I'm not gonna let you contaminate my boy anymore." Mr Brady spoke calmly and clearly, watching Ste pace with unwavering eyes. "You'll be havin' nothin' more to do with him."

Ste turned… his watery eyes meeting Mr Brady's cold ones. And then he heard it. The sound of footsteps coming closer… moving into the room… the figures of four older men… moving in on him.

His heart raced…his blood ran cold. He couldn't even make an objection before a hard hand was gripped to him mouth, and his head hit the ground hard.