Chapter 5
By the time they'd finished eating, Ghost was troubled. First, there was Roach's incessant cheer and grim determination that they would Have A Good Time, which was having exactly the opposite effect. He didn't seem to tire of talking or asking questions that Ghost didn't feel comfortable answering, and he refused to take the hint. It was starting to become irritating. He had taken Ghost's tiny revelations about his personal history as an indication that he was ready to tell him everything about himself, but he was wrong, and the need to think up excuses was becoming exhausting.
Secondly there was the constant presence of comfortable sexuality in their surroundings. Ghost cast sidelong glances at the other happy pairs of men in the room. He watched the man at the table opposite take his partner's hand in his own and rub his thumb along a simple band of gold on the ring finger, as he spoke in a soft voice. Ghost couldn't understand the words, but he knew from the tone that they were content, something that Ghost had never experienced. Jealousy sliced his heart.
Finally, there was the fact that he was pretending to be something he wasn't: a gay man. Being in a room, alone, with Roach, he had started to feel that he could cope with his desires for men, enough to start taking the initiative to show his feelings, but this was too much and too soon. All his thoughts melded together in a gestalt emotion of envy, fear and anger, not just about the evening ahead, but the looming mass of Manchester on the horizon.
He'd never been back, and now he realised what a mistake that had been, not to face down his demons. He thought of the canal and he was filled with a deep sense of dread that permeated every inch of him. It had been fifteen years, and he'd learnt a lot since then, but it didn't help. Inside he felt like the boy he'd been: desperate, naïve and grateful for any quarter shown.
Roach had been right about the club: the bar was full of people with money and people pretending they had money. Ghost disliked the place instantly; its pretentiousness rubbed against him like sandpaper, melding with the seething anger that was starting to bubble inside. He felt like a fraud and a class traitor.
Roach had set him down at a table in the corner: a snug booth with black and purple velvet upholstery in a headache-inducing twisted pattern. Around him, the air was filled with chatter over the obnoxiously loud dance music, and Ghost hated dance music. Looking for a distraction, he picked up the drinks menu. If hadn't realised he was out of his depth before, he knew it when he saw there was a separate champagne section that was two pages long. He scowled at the list of alien French names.
“Cheer up!” said Roach, slamming a silver ice bucket onto the table and sliding a tall, fluted glass in front of Ghost.
“What the bloody hell is that?” he asked, looking suspiciously at the fizzing, golden liquid being poured into it. Roach hefted the bottle so that he could read the label. “Vino spumante?” said Ghost.
Roach grinned. “It's just Italian for fizzy wine, but it just sounds a bit like cum.”
Ghost grimaced. “You're awful.” he said.
“Anyway, cheers!” Roach tipped his glass so that it butted the edge of Ghost's and chimed. “To us, and our new job.”
“Whatever.” said Ghost. He eyed the wine glass suspiciously, as if would bite him.
“Oh lighten up!” said Roach, rolling his eyes. “It's not that bad, really?”
“It's bloody awful.” said Ghost. “Look at these smug bastards.” he picked up the glass and gestured out into the room. There were a few groups of sophisticated men, dressed in elegant suits and cashmere scarves, chattering amongst themselves and eying up potential mates. It was a living shrine to elegance and refined sexuality. Ghost watched their ease with each other, their perfect social grace as they laughed, hugging and touching naturally. They didn't need to hide who they were, and this burned him. Further along the wall, in another booth, he could see a couple of waif-like young men kissing passionately in the candlelight. He snorted with disgust and then downed the contents of the glass in one swift gulp.
Roach sighed. “Can we not pretend, just this once, that we're just two guys out to have a good time. We're not going to get a chance like this again. Please?”
Ghost scowled. The petulant whine in Roach's voice grated. “Can we just finish this poncy crap and go home.
Please?” he snapped, mimicking Roach's tone.
Roach pursed his lips, like he was thinking of saying something, but then he thought the better of it. A heavy, oppressive silence descended. Roach pulled out his phone and scrolled through the text messages for a few minutes before he sighed and put it back in his pocket.
“Doc and Archer got back safe.” he said, eventually.
Ghost grunted his indifference. He picked up the bottle and tried to pour himself another glass only to have it fill with bubbly froth. He growled at it and then checked himself.
It's just wine, he thought, but it was another scratch on top of all the other wounds he'd felt so far today and it hurt.
Roach picked up Ghost's glass and, after the foam had settled, tilted it almost horizontal whilst he poured in the wine. “You have to fill it like a beer glass,” he said. “I used to work the bar when I was a student.” He set it down in front of Ghost, who ignored it.
“Why're we drinking this piss?” he snapped. His head was starting to go fuzzy.
How many had they had so far? He'd lost count in the restaurant, hoping that continuing the flow of alcohol would in some way make him feel better. It hadn't and now he realised he was veering into foggy drunkenness.
“Because we're trying to fit in, remember?” said Roach. He sipped at the edge of his narrow glass, holding the stem delicately between his fingers. “It's not bad, eh? Bit dry.” he mused.
For fuck's sake! Thought Ghost. It was the straw that finally broke him. “I'm going out. I need some fresh air.”
Outside the night had fallen the plaza had a steady stream of partygoers were passing through. There was a queue outside the club already. Ghost took a deep breath of the stale city air, but it didn't make him feel better. He could feel the anger ready to boil now, just waiting for a locus around which to explode. It itched inside his body like static waiting to spark. He closed his eyes and let the breath out.
Opening them again, Ghost surveyed the scene and then something caught his eye that made him start. Leaning on one of the saplings marking the corner of the plaza, was a young boy, no older than sixteen. He was underdressed for the weather: jeans, light canvas shoes and a thin jacket. He dug his hands deep into his pockets and pulled his neck down into the collar against the cold.
The dark waters of the canal were still. At the edges, ice was starting to form. Simon leaned over the railings, the metal cold enough to burn his fingers. Winter was already settling in, and October wasn't even over yet. He sucked back the saliva in his mouth and spat over the water, watching the ripples spread from where it landed. His breath hung in the air, forming clouds around him. It had been a poor day: the Mancunians feeling less than generous despite the bone-aching coldness of the weather. He had wanted to buy some gloves, but there was barely enough in his pocket to cover the cost of a bag of chips. To top it off, the council had been round clearing up the cardboard city that had sprung up around the park. He'd been building a cosy nest for a week, and whilst he'd been out trying to drum up some sympathetic cash, it was gone. He was pissed off. It was then he'd looked up and seen the man further up, taking a deep drag on a cigarette and then blowing smoke rings across the empty air. He'd stared up at the black sky and then turned to catch Simon staring. It was fifteen years ago, but Ghost could remember the details like it was yesterday.
“
You'll catch your death like that.” said the man. Simon shrugged. It wasn't like he was dressed in an old tracksuit and some worn out trainers out of choice: he'd found them in the bin behind the gym. They'd talked for a while, or rather, the man had talked and Simon had grunted. It wasn't unusual, sometimes there were Jesus types about and if you could stand it, they would sometimes be helpful. Yet the man didn't seem like a Jesus type: thin, with a thick grey coat and a fine, expensive looking woolen scarf. His hair was long, but well kept. As he got to the end of the cigarette he'd pulled out his wallet and handed him a five pound note, saying that Simon was too pretty to be freezing out there and he should get himself something warm. At the time, Simon had thought it was weird, but a five pound note was a five pound note and he wasn't going to turn his nose up at it. He turned it over in his hands and watched the man saunter away, up towards the bars. Ghost felt sick at the thought of how stupid he'd been, and then angry, a burning rage at the world for being so cruel. His hands were clenched so tightly into fists that they were shaking.
The boy looked up and Ghost looked away. He couldn't have been much older than Ghost had been at the time, but the years were not being as kind: his face was a cratered moonscape of acne and his hair was dirty, the lank strands clumping together with grease. He squinted myopically in Ghost's direction.
The passers by came close, but they didn't seem to notice the boy against the tree. It was as if he was invisible. Then Ghost saw one do a double take and slow down.
Nothing's fucking changed! He thought. He was suddenly furious that this
child was alone, late at night, in the middle of Berlin and the only people who gave as shit were those who thought there was something to gain from it. He ground his teeth.
The man in question walked on, and Ghost knew he would look at the shop fronts, the menu in the restaurant and then circle back, trying to look inconspicuous.
Cunt. Thought Ghost. Then he would strike up some seemingly innocuous conversation, probably offer the lad a cigarette.
Fucking, utter cunt- “What're you up to?” said a Roach, appearing behind him. “I thought you'd run off.”
“Shut up!” snapped Ghost.
“There's no need-”
“I said:
shut up.” Ghost growled.
Roach stepped back, looking angry. He opened his mouth to speak, saw Ghost's expression and thought the better of it.
Ghost turned and started walking. The world seemed to slow down around him as he strode down the steps into the plaza and he could feel his whole body shake with every beat of his heart until he reached the tree. The boy looked up and they were standing, facing each other. He could sense the nervous curiosity radiating from him and he wanted to reach down across fifteen years and slap his younger self for his same lack of self-preservation. He grabbed the boy before he could react, pulling his arm up and jamming fifty Euros into his hand.
“Take it!” he hissed. “And go. If you've got a home to go to, go there. Don't do this!”
The boy looked up at him, frightened and confused. Ghost realised he probably didn't speak any English.
“Go!” snapped Ghost. “
Gehe!”. The boy stepped back a few paces, looking Ghost up and down, then he fled, his thin shoes slapping against the cobbles as he ran. Ghost watched him go, zig-zagging through the crowd until he was out of sight.
“Si! Simon!” he ignored the sound of Roach behind him. He was furious and he didn't want to talk to anyone. He kept walking out of the plaza and into one of the narrow side streets. “Hey!
Hey!” Ghost felt a hand grip his arm.
“Fuck off!” he yelled.
Roach stood his ground.”What the fuck is wrong with you?” he yelled back. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Just piss off!” Ghost snarled.
“What was that about?” Roach gestured back towards the plaza, to where the boy had been standing.
“None of your fucking business!”
“I want to know!”
Ghost grabbed him, roughly, pulling up hard on Roach's shirt and pushing him back into the wall, stumbling over the bins. “None of your fucking business!” he spat.
Roach twisted and Ghost found the shirt pulled out of his grip. He felt Roach's body push hard against his and he stumbled backwards.
“Fuck you!” yelled Roach. “Fuck you and your fucked up... whatever the hell is going on!” Roach's face was an ugly mask of anger, the tension visible in his twisted lip and strained jaw. He pushed towards Ghost, looking like he was going to explode, and Ghost snapped.
The rage that had been building finally burst, flooding through him in an almighty fury. He launched himself across the small space between them, aiming to grab Roach again and try to pin him down, but Roach was quick and Ghost was drunk so he found himself grabbed instead. He twisted and Roach's forehead collided with his face, the bone in his cheek blossoming with pain. As Roach's head bounced back, Ghost pushed off, brought back his fist and slammed it into Roach's jaw. Roach stumbled and fell backwards, rebounding off the wall. He shook his head and rushed at Ghost, who was struggling to keep his balance.
Pain burst in Ghost's eye, and his vision was filled with blurry swirls and sparks. He didn't realise that Roach had hit him, a sharp punch that had bounced off his cheekbone and slammed into his eye, until he felt Roach's body colliding with his, and then they were both falling, Ghost twisting as he fell so that Roach hit the ground heavily first and Ghost landed on top of him. Ghost could feel the fury coursing through him as he pushed himself up, his vision swimming and fading. He pulled a handful of cloth into his fist, pulling Roach partially upright and then punched him, hard in the jaw, knocking his face sideways.
Ghost flopped forward, feeling a sudden rush of nausea. He clamped his mouth shut and concentrated, trying to suppress the sensation but it was no use. He felt his stomach heave and he was sick, spewing up his guts onto the damp concrete.
Eventually, the retching spasms abated and he was left shaking, half-collapsed over Roach. He pushed himself upright and sat back on his heels, panting. Roach lay still, out cold, beneath him.
Fuck! What the fuck have you done? Ghost squinted at Roach, his vision blurry. His head was thumping. Blinking, he waited until the colours had settled. Roach moaned, twisting his head.
Thank fuck! He sighed with relief.
Beneath him Roach groaned and then Ghost could hear the sound of distant sirens.
Shit! “Get up, Roach!” Ghost couldn't even understand himself as he spoke. The words muddled together. “
Get up!” The sirens were definitely coming closer, and although Ghost knew they hadn't put the flashing lights on for two blokes having a set-to, he didn't want to be caught by some jobsworth making up the numbers. He hauled himself upright and pulled at Roach, tugging him into a sitting position and then yanking him to his feet.
“Come
on!” He gripped his hand, driving his shoulder under Roach's arm to take some of his weight and started to move, Roach stumbling along beside him.
A few streets later, they emerged into a quiet residential square. Ghost dropped Roach onto a bench, dizzy with the effort. Roach collapsed down and then, a few seconds later, came to. He spat, a blob of bloody saliva landing on the ground by his feet. Fumbling in his pocket, Ghost found a napkin. He pushed at Roach's head, trying to tip his face into the light to see where the blood was coming from.
“Fuck off!” Roach slapped his hand away.
“I'm just-”
“Just fuck off!” Roach stumbled to his feet.”I don't want your fucking help!” His words came out slurred and incoherent. He put his hand to his face and it came away bloody. He looked up at Ghost, blood dripping from his swollen, split lip into his mouth. He bared his bloody teeth and snarled.
“Let me-”
“No! I don't want you doing nothing!” He pulled a tissue from his pocket at held it to his face. “I don't want you fucking near me. You're a fucking nutter!” He stood up straighter, swaying slightly, gripping the bench to help him balanced. “Fuck!” he said. “Don't fucking touch me!” he spat and started to walk away.
“Gary! Roach!” Ghost called, but Roach kept walking, stumbling and staggering, into the dark.
