Chapter Four: The Morning After

Of course, Gethin didn't sleep, not for hours, thinking about the man downstairs on the sofa. About 1 a.m. he realised it might be less distracting to think of his guest exclusively as Aunty Dilys, not possibly-Jonathan, not Not-Frank Spencer... it made it easier not to have impure and lascivious thoughts about him...

Well, a bit.

Briefly, he thought about his actual Aunty Dilys and her tall, narrow house with its prim windows... it was as close as he could get to thinking about his mother without pain and shame and anger rising like bile in his throat, that tall, spinsterish house where he'd visited every other Saturday through the summer, once a month in winter... a real character, she was, Aunty Dilys...

And he was still thinking about her, and the summer pebble beach a mile from the house, when he finally fell into sleep...

He woke to the relief of Sunday, no problem being up late, but it wasn't actually that bad, half nine.

Tottered out of bed, across the landing to the bathroom, staggered back again, yawning and scratching, heard a perfectly pitched, if fragile voice from down the stairs, shocking him into full wakefulness as he remembered he had a house guest...

'Excuse me, Bookshopkeeper... is there a bathroom? May I use it?'

'Um, yes, yeah... top of the stairs, turn right, furthest along, door's open,' Gethin said, and shut himself into his room while he dressed.

It shouldn't have taken him ten minutes to choose which jeans, what tee shirt, but it did. Light jeans, black tee, somehow it mattered.

His guest still hadn't made it downstairs by the time Gethin got busy with the kettle, and he wondered if it was manners, shyness or he was going to have a lot of cleaning up to do, but presently, Aunty Dilys reappeared, still in last night's skirt suit, but minus wig, shoes, gloves and tights. And no coat, and it was cold out, even for mid-to-late February.

'Well, I'm going to draw some looks on the bus home,' Aunty Dilys said with a long-suffering tight-lipped smile.

'Sorry, I've nothing I could lend you,' Gethin said. 'Not that would fit, anyway.'

'Don't worry about it. I suppose I should get moving... what's this?'

'Coffee, like you had last night. Black and sugared.'

'You remembered. Wish I bloody could... Ah... did we...? Sorry, sorry, that's awful of me... I wouldn't have woken up on the couch, still dressed... and I'd have remembered you, I'm sure...'

Something in how he stressed the word 'you' made Gethin's heart thump and he felt the colour rush to his cheeks. He decided to start cooking breakfast, something to do, he could hide behind the work.

'You were looking for someone called Luke, who wasn't here,' he said.

'Oh, Christ! Luke!' Aunty Dilys ran his hand across his decidedly-stubbled chin . 'What...?'

'He wasn't here,' Gethin said. 'But while we were discussing the matter – me from the window, you down on the street – the local beat bobbies got interested. Especially when you started rattling off book titles...'

He was talking too much, garrulous, he was, couldn't help it, how to stop...

'Oh, God, what was it? "Invisible Dick"? No, I was saving that one...'

'Doesn't matter,' Gethin said. 'I brought you in for safe keeping, had to tell them you were my Aunty Dilys.'

'Well, thank you. Possibly. No, come on, tell me which one it was?'

Gethin lit the gas under the frying pan, began spreading margarine on bread, got the bacon out of the fridge and slid several rashers into the melting fat. He shook his head, though; he wasn't saying that to Aunt Dilys. Especially not on a Sunday

'Here, bacon butty, drive the hangover away, sauce if you want it?'

'Well. You're just the perfect host, aren't you?' Aunty Dilys added ketchup and folded the sandwich back together. 'Protection from the police, coffee and breakfast all with no strings...'

'Don't mention it,' Gethin said, turning back to the pan where his own bacon was ready for bread. 'Sort of comes with the job, really.'

'Only not quite to this extent, I should imagine.'

Gethin shook his head, made his breakfast and sat at the kitchen table to eat, where he could see his guest but wasn't too close, not wanting to intrude, not wanting to start babbling again... not even to ask his name, better to think of Aunty Dilys, like a cold shower on hot lust any day, that thought.

They ate in silence, Aunty wolfing down his breakfast so Gethin felt obliged to offer more food, more coffee, perhaps?

'No, no but thank you. That really hit the spot.' The empty plate brought to the kitchen, the sad, tired-eyed smile. 'Listen, would you mind if I used your phone? If I can get hold of Luke, he can bring me a change of clothes, if that's all right, I can get out of your hair then...'

'Phone's in the hall,' Gethin said. 'Help yourself.'

He busied himself with cups and plates and sink so he wouldn't overhear, but there wasn't anything to hear, as his guest was back, in the kitchen doorway.

'Um,' he began. 'Look, I hate to ask, but... if I ring Luke, he's going to ask what happened, and I'm going to ask him the same and before we know what's happening we'll be screaming at each other on your phone and...'

'You'd like me to ring him for you.'

'Would you?' Aunty Dilys asked.

No. Duw, no, get involved in something that even from here looked about to get messy and unpleasant. No. No way.

Yet somehow Gethin found he'd followed Aunty Dilys out into the hall...

'I, ah... I'd need to know who to say...?'

'Jonathan. Jonathan Blake.'

Jonathan extended his hand, the handshake firm and strong, the simple contact calling up unexpectedly potent responses from Gethin's emotions.

'And the number?'

'Let me write it down for you.'

Jonathan leaned across to scribble down a series of digits on the pad.

'You can catch me there quite a lot. Which is why I didn't give you my number when I asked about that book, imagine someone ringing me at Luke's and offering me "Invisible Dick", for example, him being just a tad on the histrionic side...'

Gethin grinned.

'Okay, leave it with me.'

'Didn't get your name? Or did you tell me last night and I forgot that too?'

'Gethin Roberts.'

'Then, thank you, Gethin Roberts. Best of luck.'

Gethin nodded and lifted the handset, dialling the number, slipping into his shopkeeper mode as the ringing stopped and there was a click. Answering machine, excellent, best result possible.

'Good morning, this is 'Gay's the Word' bookshop calling; I have a Mr Blake here, Jonathan Blake, asking whether Luke could bring a change of clothes for him to the shop some time today, please? If you need to get in touch...' He reeled off the shop number as well as its address; he wasn't sure he wanted this Luke to have his personal number, even if it did mean he'd have to open up downstairs. 'There'll be someone here all day. Thank you, goodbye now.'

'Answering machine?' Jonathan asked, and Gethin nodded. 'Figures. It's not half ten, yet. What now?'

'I guess you've got time for that other coffee. Or tea, if you prefer.'

'Tea would be great, thanks.'

'I'll just run down and open the door to the back room, in case he rings – gave him the shop number, more official, that way, then get the kettle on. We can wait downstairs if you like.'

It was more than an hour later when a car pulled up on the street outside and its door slammed. Gethin looked up from where he'd been pretending to sort stock and glanced towards the door just as the knocking started.

Before Gethin could get to the shop door to open up, Jonathan had jumped up from the back room table and hurried down the corridor past the stairs to shoot back the bolt and twist the Yale and fling back Gethin's private front door.

'Luke! Over here...!'

And then the shouting began.

Gethin hid towards the back of the shop, keeping out of it for as long as he could, trying not to listen to Luke's hurled accusations, how he cut over Jonathan's attempts to explain, growing shrill, louder again when Jonathan manage to ask, why hadn't Luke been there after the meeting anyway?

'I... Before it!' Luke screamed. 'I said before it, thought you'd come in with me, didn't I?'

'An under 25s group?' Jonathan said. 'Me? Flattered, but...'

'Anyway, that's not the point, you stayed out all night and if you think...'

And it started again, the language worse, the more Jonathan tried to speak calmly, the more irate Luke got until there were banging, thumping noises interspersed with all the usual words, pervert, queer, poof, Luke screeching and swearing and spitting the words like they were poison in his mouth to be got rid of...

Through the window Gethin saw a briefcase come arcing through the air towards the flat door, heard a bang as it landed, and even as Gethin decided, enough was enough and headed through to try and stop this, Luke started in again, damaging, destructive, personal insults Gethin forever after wished he hadn't had to hear.

'And look at you! The state of you – you're pathetic! You're... you're an old slapper, past it, just a sad old queen and... and you look like a docker in a frock, you're desperate, and cheap and...'

Heading into the hall, Gethin paused to take stock. He could see a couple of suitcases on the floor, one burst open, its contents scattered about from the force of its impact.

Jonathan sat huddled on the stairs, clutching the briefcase to his chest, a shield or a security blanket, one or the other, and with such a look of defeated pain on his face that Gethin swallowed down a sudden upswelling of rage.

Nobody, nobody should be allowed to say anything to make another human being look so pathetic, so ashamed, so... so diminished...

And Luke outside, looking so young he was barely legal, surely? Bleached blond hair in a prissy mullet, face twisted and ugly with insults, small and slight and so full of rage as he vomited out more and more vitriol, each word, each hurtful phrase making Jonathan deflate and huddle further into himself. No fight left in him, nothing to argue with, anyway, just abusive language, unanswerable.

'...and you can come for the rest of your shit this afternoon and get the fuck out of my house! And my life! And you can just go and be pathetic somewhere else, if anyone'll have you!'

Gethin was halfway across the road after the young man before he realised what he was doing and made his fist unclench. Best not knock the fellow's teeth down his throat; from the depth of Jonathan's reaction, the way he'd tried so hard at first to calm things, he really liked this fellow, wanted to make up.

So instead of offering hot violence as he blocked Luke's line of sight to Jonathan, he stifled his fury and offered advice.

'Look here,' he said, trying to sound reasoned. 'Last night, what happened, he came to meet you after the First Quarter group, got here late. Heard him knocking, saw a couple of police looking interested. So I brought him in. An arrest outside the shop, not good for business. He had the sofa, that's all.'

'You're way too old for him!'

'Yeah, I suppose I might be, but so what? Look, I can see you're upset, that means he matters to you. And look at him, you matter to him, too. Now, whatever your problems...'

The young man threw up his hands and rolled his eyes.

'So where was he then? Bet he was pissed, too...'

'All I did was stop him being arrested... look, why don't you think it over? When he comes for his stuff this afternoon, why not try talking to him. Just in case you regret it, later? Just... give it some thought?'

The young man pushed his hands at Gethin's chest, shoving back from him.

'Way too old,' he muttered.

'Yes, we've established that. So... Think about it, will you?'

But he was talking to nothing. Luke flung himself into the car, preparing to drive off, and Gethin had no choice but to return to the trainwreck of a man in last night's gladrags sitting on his stairs and try to find some way to give him back his dignity.