I remained rooted to the grass, bewildered. Boys didn’t kiss boys: boys kissed girls. If a boy kissed a boy, he was queer. All I knew about homosexuality was that queers were to be feared and, if found, given a good kicking. They were dirty old men who sat alone in cinemas waiting to touch young lads if the opportunity arose. Or they ended up in prison for doing filthy things to each other that I didn’t really understand.
I was at a loss as to how I should respond, so I hurried through the consequences of confiding in someone else. Should I tell my father or Roger what had happened? Or would they think I was a queer too, for not knocking his block off? I didn’t want to be found guilty by association. And if others knew, I wouldn’t be allowed to play with Dougie again, to spend time at his house and be a part of his family. I didn’t want to be the one to blame for sending my best friend to jail. So, because I had more to lose than him, I kept quiet.
The next morning, I stopped at Dougie’s house as normal to walk with him to school.
‘Come on, we’re going to be late,’ I said.
He looked at me – confounded, I’m sure, that I’d gone anywhere near him again. And as we walked briskly down the High Street, from the corner of my eye I kept seeing his mouth opening and words forming, before sentences evaporated into nothing. Eventually, he spoke.
‘The other day . . .’ he began.
‘Forget about it.’
‘Have you told—’
‘Of course not. Now hurry up, or we’ll get detention.’
It was the last time the subject was ever touched on. But it didn’t mean I ever forgot.
My second first kiss was with Catherine, not long after. As we sat together on Dougie’s bed reading an interview with David Bowie in Melody Maker magazine, she leaned over without warning, cupped her hand under my chin, pulled my face close to hers and kissed me.
It was a wonderful, warm, sweet kiss. She tasted of Parma Violets. I knew the longer it lasted, the more chance Dougie would catch us. She gradually pulled away and gave me the most beautiful grin I’d ever seen. Then a shadow caught our eye, and we turned to find Dougie standing in the doorway holding a tray of snacks.
He processed what he’d witnessed before he reanimated his blank face and placed the crisps and sweets in the centre of the bed, pretending he hadn’t seen anything.
I knew I’d wounded him, but I didn’t know then how long he would wait to retaliate.
20 March
I scanned the row of Brooklyn brownstones a second time, then slipped across the street to a shabby vehicle wedged in among the line of cars tightly parked by the curb. I’d watched its owner forget to lock the door as she struggled up the stairs with two bags of groceries and a whining toddler.
There was a fist-sized dent in the passenger door, and the simulated-woodgrain vinyl panels were sun-bleached and had begun to peel from its body. The rear seats bore the scratches from a large dog’s claws. A sticker with the name ‘Betty’ had been placed in the bottom left-hand corner of the rear windscreen. She had a history, but then so had I.
I slipped casually inside the Buick Roadmaster station wagon and entwined the wires beneath the steering-wheel column like Roger had shown me when I’d lost the keys to the Volvo. Then, after trial, error, a spark and a splutter, Betty burst into life.
I could have chosen something a little grander and perhaps a little more modern. But she possessed the basic criteria required – she was practical and unremarkable to look at. She had plenty of space inside her to offer passage to other travellers, and her two rows of back seats folded forwards, enabling me to sleep inside her if I wished.
I’d grown restless after two months of exploring New York’s nooks and crannies. The signs of better days ahead in the dilapidated Meatpacking District, the magnitude of Central Park, the illuminated glory of Broadway, and the bars and brothels of Soho had nothing more to offer. City life had exhausted me and it was time to explore further.
I pulled out into the street and scowled at the crucifix swinging from the rear-view mirror. I yanked it off its chain and threw it onto the back seat. It bounced off something – a child seat. Suddenly I recalled the long car journeys we’d taken to the Lake District and the Devonshire coast, with three young children in the rear of the car. I remembered listening to James and Robbie fighting over whose turn it was to use my Walkman. Emily was still a baby and more concerned with her rattle. Catherine was asleep in the front seat, gently snoring, and as I drove I listened to the buzz of the family we’d created together and smiled.
I didn’t want to miss any of that, but I did.
Now I was about to take another journey into the great wide open, although this time, I’d be alone.
Northampton, today
1.20 p.m.
She’d watched him grow uncomfortable and tap his finger against his lip each time their children were mentioned by either of them. She was pleased that her plan was working. Slowly and surely, she would break him down piece by piece until he showed some remorse for what he’d done to his family.
Remember why you’re here, he told himself. Remember who’s in charge. He’d fought quite successfully at the start to convince himself that not seeing the children the morning he left had been the correct thing to do. But deep in the pit of his belly, it was his one regret. Because after forcing himself to erase their young faces from his memory, it had later proved an impossible task to bring them back to life.
He’d thought about them more and more since meeting Luciana, and had to rely on guesswork as to how they might look now. He wondered whom they’d taken after genetically, and if it was just James who’d inherited his father’s smile. How did their laughter sound? What were their personalities like? He felt a little downhearted knowing his own would’ve had little bearing on theirs. No matter what they’d taken from him biologically, she’d shaped them, not him.
He imagined what might happen if they were to meet under other circumstances. Would they like him? Ideally they’d get to know him first as an old family friend, and decide he was a decent fellow. Then, when the truth finally came out about who he was, it would be harder for them to burn bridges with someone they liked.
While he daydreamed, Catherine stewed on his recollections of sleazy liaisons with whores and pretty young things.
‘So you ran away because I couldn’t satisfy you in bed? Or did you just want to sleep with girls half your age?’ she asked indignantly. ‘You sound like a pervert.’
‘Of course I’m not.’
‘Well, you’ll forgive me for saying so, but all I’ve heard so far is that your wife was a lousy lover and your morals were no better than a dirty old man’s. And while I was coming to terms with your death, you were burning down hotels and screwing your way around America!’
Heard from someone else’s perspective, he conceded that’s exactly how it sounded, even though it couldn’t be further from the truth. He bit his lip, frustrated both by his tactlessness and by her, for being too focused on the finer details to understand the big picture. He needed to regain control of the situation, but it was proving hard to wrestle from her grip.
‘At any point are you going to ask about your children, or how they managed without you?’