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Fighting Back
It was one of those nights when Mike was out with a girlfriend and I'd long since given up the idea of making up foursomes to be near him. My cousin was on leave and was going to the pub with my father. I was reading a book about some pop star and my fallen hero was taking the piss.
'You still into all that?'
When they arrived home from the pub they were both drunk and my father sent his supper crashing into the back of the fire with a curse. He raised his hand as though to hit my mother. What I did next came out of pure reaction. I jumped up from my chair and grabbed my father by his coat lapels. I lifted his sixteen stones off the ground and sat him down on the rug in front of the fire.
'If you ever, ever lay another finger on my mother or anyone else I swear to God I'll kill you!'
His face was white as a ghost with shock. I'd stunned the room into silence. My cousin stood silently as did my mother. I stormed out and headed up to my room. My fallen hero followed me, caught up with me halfway up the stairs and hit me one almighty blow under the chin. The remarkable thing was I didn't seem to feel it.
'Don't you ever hit your father,' he commanded.
'Look, I'll never forget you took his side or that you hit me. Now, piss off.'
I went into my room and he tried to follow so I grabbed my coat and went downstairs just to see if my mother was alright. She signalled that she was so I went out. Within the hour I'd earned enough from the local toilet to go downtown. I headed for Lime Street station where I'd heard from other boys and punters that business was brisk. Twenty minutes after getting there I was sitting in a restaurant with a punter. A pleasant enough man who entertained me lavishly and allowed me to tell him all about my family and Mike. I had sex with him later and refused his money. He'd given me what I'd needed so I gave him what he needed. It was fair enough and he told me about London. A place called Piccadilly Circus where boys charged a fortune. A place to remember.
As had now become the norm, I left the house with no clear notion of a destination in mind. I was without purpose. It was just important to get out into the potential life-giving air. Outside, I could breathe, I could feel the chains fall away. Usually the chains just melted from consciousness as my feet hit the steps leading from the house to the street. Today, though, my head was all fucked up and the chains stayed with me as I left the house. If I stayed at home I tended to end up being all wrapped up in the damn chains. Going out gave me another chance to find some purpose and identity. It was as though I went out kind of empty and allowed the experience of what came to fill me up. Whatever came, became me. Know what I mean? Each time I went out I hoped and prayed that I'd find myself. A self I could live with. Then I could bring it home and be it. More often than not, however, I brought home a depressed, fucked-up Catholic rent boy and I didn't care for that at all.
Today, my confidence was at an all-time low and the depressions had become top dog. I avoided eye contact with people and could only think about being a Catholic queer rent boy. Walking through the streets I seemed to see nothing but I felt everything. I walked and tried to make sense of my life, but I couldn't. Thoughts flew into my head and before I could do anything with them they were pushed out by new ones. I walked slowly but my mind was speeding and I felt as though it would crash and I'd go out of my mind altogether. I almost welcomed the notion of going crazy because that would be one way of explaining my fucked-up life to myself. Death was another alternative. Yes, to die would solve it all in one go. I didn't want to die, you understand, I just wanted the pain to stop. Death held the answer. That way I'd come face to face with the ultimate reality, God, and he would explain everything to me.
Today, my life had no colour to it. It was like a black and white film. Mostly black though. It was hopeless, sad and all fucked-up. I felt utterly alone. But there's always God, right? So I prayed, I begged him to help me. Nothing! There was never an answer when I prayed. I figured that I should have to pray in a church so I found one - there were plenty about. I stood in the back, letting my eyes wander down the aisles and along the walls. Though I'd never set foot in this church before, I knew it. It looked just like all the other Catholic churches in Liverpool. I stood there, at the back of the church, for ages, looking. I was looking for a sign. Hope. I prayed, 'If you're real, please help me.' Nothing! There never was. It's all a fake. A trick. Father Christmas wrapped up in rituals. Phoney. These thoughts scared me because if they were true that meant I really was on my own and I didn't think I could make it on my own. I'd asked God to help me in the street and there was no answer. I'd asked him in church and there was still no answer. What now? My grandmother always lit candles. An offering? That was it! I'd not made an offering. I lit a candle and said a prayer, 'For the love of God help me!' Nothing! It was all space and no touch. I gripped the bench in front of me and could feel the panic inside. I searched the church with my eyes. A light over a confessional box. A priest. There was a priest here. That had to be it. It was a sign, right? I almost ran to the box. There's always hope see? Never give up hope. I knelt in the box and became overwhelmed by guilt. The guilt of having sex with men, for money and for free. The boy in the mirror was there, right before my eyes, telling me that I'd enjoyed it and to stop being phoney about it. He recalled all the sex. All of it, in graphic detail. All the times men touched me in parks, toilets, cinemas, buses, fairgrounds, school. I couldn't shut him up. These things happened because I was me. Simple. It was me that caused these things to happen. The priest coughed. He was waiting for me to say something. I stood up and left the church.
The river Mersey looked incredibly inviting. It was full of touch. It would wrap itself around me and carry me with it wherever it went. It would never give me up. It would hold me to itself without judgement or question and become part of me. The river looked dirty and its waves were covered in oil. That was good. It was perfect, in fact. All that stood between me and it was the railing which was cold to the touch. I gripped the cold railing tightly and let the cold enter my hands. Nothing was forever. Not even the railings. When these railing had rusted away, others would take their place and the river would keep on flowing. The river would eventually cleanse itself of everything which men now polluted it with. The river had a future. I, on the other hand, had none. Death in the river was a better option. All I had to do was climb over the railings and join the everlasting river. The ultimate reality wasn't God. It was the river. Death.
'Looks cold doesn't it?'
I thought the question had come from inside my head so I answered it silently.
'Yes, kind of cold warmth.'
'Saw you standing here, see...'
The voice was alongside of me.
'...and I... It's busy today. Plenty of ships.'
I was startled by the intrusion and looked to my left to see him, a man. It's always a man. Like a fly, he'd found something rotten to feast upon. I stared at him, which caused him to speak again.
'That's a Blue Funnel Line isn't it?' He pointed to a ship in the centre of the river.
I continued to stare at him. He became all the men I'd ever known, had sex with, been touched by, loathed.
'Aren't you cold?' he asked.
Like all the others he wanted to sound friendly. I knew what he wanted.
'Why don't you just fuck off and leave me alone?' 'I'm sorry?'
'Just leave me alone can't you?'
I couldn't work out why I was sobbing. 'Are you alright?'
'Fuck off!' I screamed at the top of my voice.
He reached out to touch me.
'Keep your filthy fucking hands off me you dirty bastard.'
'Look, son, come away from here...'
'I'm not your fucking son!'
Other people began to gather and a man asked, 'You okay kid?'
'For fuck's sake leave me alone, all of you...'
I ran, and ran, and ran.
Carried along like a leaf on the wind I went with it. Drivers of cars cursed at me to look where I was going and didn't seem to realise that they were supposed to run me over. Suddenly, I stopped and asked myself, Why? I was going out of my mind. I was closer to cracking up than I can tell you. I looked up and recognised the building in front of me. It was now dark but there were lights on inside. Eventually I pressed the bell. The door opened but I didn't recognise the woman who answered.
'Hello, what can we do for you?'
'Is this, erm, I mean is this, you know, is the woman in?'
'Mrs Johnstone?'
'I'm not sure...'
'The counsellor?'
'Yes.'
'I'm sorry love, they're well gone. They close at six. I'm just the cleaner...'
It was hopeless.
'...But I can ring her if you want, if it's important...'
'No, it's okay.'
'If it's important, she told me to ring her if it was important. Are you sure love?'
'No. It's not important. I'm sorry.'
As I walked away she called after me.
'Let me ring her, love... Can I tell her who called?'
'Okay.'
It wasn't until I was in the next street that I realised she was asking me my name. I turned back to tell her and the door was shut. I carried on walking.
I was tired of walking but couldn't take a bus or anything because I had no idea where I was going. I didn't know why I was going and I didn't care one way or the other. It crossed my mind that the man at the river was probably okay and I'd made a fool of myself. It was better not to trust men, though, if I didn't want to get hurt. But perhaps, if I did get hurt... I mean really hurt. You know, killed. That was almost better than the river, right? It had more justice to it. So far, I'd put myself in relatively safe situations with men and I didn't reckon I'd been hurt beyond what I'd deserved. What if I went with a real, rough, tough-looking man? I mean, kids do get killed, right?
I stood outside the main line railway station on Lime Street and waited for him. The man who'd do it. It wasn't long before men approached. First, a handsome young man of about twenty and then a whole stream of others. I put them all off by acting like I didn't know what they wanted. If that didn't work I asked them if they were queer or something. That sent them packing. I was there for hours before I saw him. He was rough, real tough-looking and when he spoke to me he was staggering and smelt of booze. He was perfect. He didn't waste time either.
'How's business?'
'Kind of slow.'
'How much?'
'That's up to you?'
'How long for?'
'As long as you want.'
He gave me a weird kind of look and questions darted across his face but I guess the booze told him the answers he wanted to hear. He called a taxi and we got in. He really stank of booze. He'd obviously gone drinking straight from work judging by his clothes. His conversation consisted of burps, farts and apologetic gestures as he bounced around in the cab. His face looked as though he was a boxer and so did his hands. He was an ugly son of a bitch. I could imagine the hovel he must live in.
But it wasn't! It was a perfectly clean and tastefully furnished semi. He threw his coat on the back of the chair, pointed to a cabinet and said, 'Help yourself to a drink. I need a piss. A whisky for me.'
When he came back into the room I was still trying to find the whisky and my heart was racing with anticipation and fear. I hoped he'd do it quick. He grabbed me, flung me around, and kissed me full on the lips.
'You're beautiful.'
He was loathsome.
'Upstairs.'
It sounded like an order and he pushed and pulled me towards the stairs and then up them. When we entered the bedroom he began to pull at my clothes. My shirt ripped and he mumbled an apology. I took it off along with everything else and waited for him to pounce. He pushed me back onto the bed and collapsed on top of me. This was it! Nothing! Then, snoring? Yes, he was bloody well snoring. My killer was asleep on top of me. I pushed him off and cracked up laughing, in an hysterical sort of way. I could have been crying, I'm not sure. Fuck it! Having thrown all caution to the winds I climbed under the sheets and cried - or was it laughed - myself to sleep.
I woke when he entered the room. He had obviously bathed and was wearing a bathrobe. In his hands was a tray.
'I've made you some breakfast.'
He was different. Soft. Like a big teddy bear. I sat up and looked around to get my bearings. He put the tray on my knees and said, 'I'll leave you to it.'
At the door he spoke, without looking at me. 'I've run a bath for you, when you're ready.'
Then he was gone. It was crazy, right? I mean there was my killer serving me breakfast in bed. I looked at it. It looked good, smelt good and tasted even better. On the tray was a tiny vase with one flower in it. I couldn't believe that such a rough tough man could do such a thing. I went to the bathroom, soaked in the hot water and put on the robe. My clothes had gone. What the hell was going on? I crept downstairs with the tray like a cat, ready to run. Music was coming from the kitchen, music which seemed out of place for it was opera. It was all so crazy. I looked into each room as I passed and saw beauty. Weird. I took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen. He was sat reading a newspaper and there were my clothes all clean and folded on an ironing board. The shirt had been perfectly repaired. I just stared at him then at the clothes.
'I'm sorry about last night... I was drunk... I know that's not a good enough excuse... You see... my mate... a workmate... a good man ... well, he was badly injured in work... I'm a docker... I've done your gear.'
He was pointing to the clothes.
'Yes, I saw.'
'The shirt should be okay.'
'It's fine. No problem...'
I let my hands wander over my clothes on the ironing board.
'... Are you okay?' I asked.
'Yes. Are they okay?'
'Yes, great. Thanks.'
'Could you drink some tea?'
'If you're making some, yes.'
I couldn't make sense of any of it. When he stood to put the kettle on I instinctively rushed across to him and threw my arms around him. He held me tight. Real tight. He began to apologise for his behaviour all over again and I told him that it was as much my fault as his. I kissed him and made love with him there in the kitchen. It was the first time that I'd had sex and love all at the same time. It was beautiful.
We made no arrangements to see each other again. It was what it was. A once and for all happening which could never be repeated. He kept thanking me and I kept thanking him. Money was not mentioned and I left him about noon and took a bus home. I had been touched deeply and felt I owed him my life. I never saw that beautiful man again.
When I arrived home I was expecting all hell to break loose. You know - 'Where have you been? We've been worried sick.' They must have assumed that I'd stayed with Mike because they didn't ask. I wanted to tell them that I'd made love to a huge docker on his kitchen floor and that I was homosexual. They didn't ask so I'd have to let them know that I hadn't stayed at Mike's.
'Has Mike phoned?' I asked.
'No,' my mother replied.
'What? Not at all?'
'Not since yesterday. He said he had to go to his aunt's in Derby somewhere.'
Then she knew, they knew, that I'd not stayed with him. So why didn't they ask?
'I thought about killing myself yesterday,' I said to the space between them.
'Don't talk such nonsense,' my mother scolded.
The space between them seemed frozen in time and I heard it say, 'Don't kill yourself please, we love you so very much.'
'Bloody nonsense!' my father said.
'You don't give a damn anyway.' And hoped they'd say they did.
'Is Mike coming tonight?' my mother asked.
She used this kind of ploy to change the subject whenever things got too difficult to handle. I'd seen her do it many times.
'How the hell do I know. I've not seen him, have I?'
My father raised his head and I saw questions in his face but he closed his eyes and put his head back into his hand. He said nothing more.
Mike telephoned to tell me of their family trip to see his aunt in Derby. His father had made a real big deal of stopping at all the service stations. I didn't want to hear how good a father he was. I tried to tell Mike about how I'd been feeling the previous day but he kept on about his bloody perfect father. Then he told me about this real nice girl he'd met and how beautiful she was. I wanted to tell him that I'd made love to a man and wanted it to happen again and again. He went on about the girl.
Afterwards I lay on my bed and allowed thoughts to come and go. Thoughts of men and thoughts of girls. I was convinced that I was now a fully paid-up member of the homosexual world and I knew too, from priests and teachers, that homosexuality was not only a mortal sin but a mental illness as well. If that's the way thing were then so be it.
A couple of months later, when I'd just turned fifteen, I left school. By which time I'd come to recognise that my need to have sex for money with men was because in a way they loved me, cared for me, paid attention to me, wanted me. Like with that docker. These men supplied everything I'd ever wanted so I supplied what they wanted. What's wrong with that?
After one almighty verbal fight with my father I started to think about leaving home for good. London came to mind. What was the name of that place? Piccadilly Circus, right?
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