Trials, Temptation and Triumph - Ch 12.3 (Charlie/Shark, NC-17)
In which Rory attends a funeral.
For introduction and warnings go here
12.3 Family Traits
Wednesday 18th August, 9.30am
Rory eased the hire car out of the hotel car park. It was still raining heavily, though it had lessened from the torrential downpour of the day before, and heavy clouds made it dark and gloomy. The roads were slick with rain and oil, and most cars had their headlights on as they made their way slowly and cautiously through the city streets.
He was glad that they had decided to fly up to Inverness rather than drive up. It was a long trip even in good weather, but the storms over the last couple of weeks had been so heavy that many of the roads in central Scotland were now blocked by landslides or floods, and if they had tried to drive all the way they would probably still be stuck south of Edinburgh. Charlie had suggested flying instead, and Rory had agreed it was better not to risk the leased BMW. So, here he was in a hired Ford, on his way to meet relatives he hadn't seen in years. He wondered if he'd recognise anyone apart from his Uncle Gordon.
Frank wasn't going. Rory had rung him on the Sunday evening, but, as he had suspected, his father had no intention of going to the funeral. The truth was that Frank and his mother-in-law had never got on, even in the early years of the marriage. Nana had blamed Frank for her daughter's depression, and, later, for the delay in diagnosing her cancer. Frank, on the other hand, had blamed Nana for interfering in his marriage and turning his wife against him. Their last contact had been at the funeral of Rory's mother, fifteen years previously, when they had pointedly ignored each other.
Charlie wasn't going, either. They had talked it over a couple of times, and Rory had offered him the chance to accompany him, but Charlie -- usually so insistent on being recognised, and resentful of being kept in the background -- had decided that his presence would cause problems that Rory didn't need right now, and had opted for a day of wandering the streets of Inverness instead. To be truthful, Rory was thankful for that: he could have coped with the interest and speculation from his relatives, but it would have made things awkward, there was no denying it. He was also thankful that Charlie had made the decision on his own, and voluntarily. Maybe both of them were improving with therapy.
He followed his uncle's directions to Cromarty and parked the car on the waterfront. The rain had eased a little and he hurried up the side street to the church, hoping he wouldn't get too wet. The hearse was already at the door and he hurried inside, finding a space in a pew towards the back. The church wasn't as big as he remembered from his childhood, but back then it had seemed enormous, with the high roof and gallery and the huge pulpit dominating the east wall. It was still much larger than he would have expected for the size of the town, and he wondered if it had ever been filled to capacity. It was very plain, like most Scottish churches, with no decoration save a vase of flowers to one side. It was clean and bright, though, and the woodwork shone with polish. The pews held about fifty this morning, which was more than Rory would have expected, but then of course his grandmother had grown up here and knew almost everyone in the town. He was glad for her sake that so many had made the effort to show their respects.
The service was short, comprising three hymns, two readings and a short eulogy from his uncle, the eldest male relative. He was glad that it wasn't more elaborate -- his grandmother had always hated fuss, and she would have wanted a plain, simple funeral. His two uncles and -- he presumed -- two of his cousins took up the coffin and carried it down the aisle to the waiting hearse, followed by his aunts and the rest of the family in the front rows, and then the general congregation.
People milled around at the front but there was no movement towards the cars, and Rory looked around for someone who might be able to tell him what was going on. He spotted his uncle standing on the steps of the church and introduced himself.
"Uncle Gordon? It's Rory McManus."
"Aye, Rory, I thought it was you." They shook hands and Gordon looked him over. "You're very much like Frank was at your age, when he married Heather."
"I'm told I look a lot like him." He placed a careful emphasis on the work look.
Gordon nodded, taking the hint. "There's a lot of your mother there though as well, I can see that."
"M'da told me to give his apologies -- he's tied up with work in Glasgow." That wasn't quite true, and they all knew it, but it allowed them all to observe the social niceties.
"I'm sure he's a busy man."
"Aye, he is."
Rory then greeted his aunt Catriona with a kiss on the cheek. She was a short, plump woman, very motherly and warm. "Hello dear, I'm pleased you could get up here. Isn't the weather terrible?"
"Aye, we -- I -- flew up last night. I didn't want to risk the journey by road."
"I'm not surprised, I've never known so many roads closed. Landslides and floods and goodness knows what else. Jim and Mandy -- Gordon's cousins, Rory, you remember them? -- they're completely cut off at Lairg. They rang last night and said there was no way they'd get here, poor things."
His uncle cut in. "Speaking of which, did anyone tell you we've made a slight change in the plans?"
"No, what change?"
"Well, Catriona thought it wasn't safe for all of us to be following the hearse to the crematorium."
"Forty miles in all this rain, I should say not," she stated, vehemently.
"So Alasdair and I will go with the hearse, and everyone else will go back with Catriona to Mum's house."
"That sounds like a good idea," said Rory, though in truth he wasn't sure that it was. He hadn't fancied the long drive to the crematorium at all, especially in a hired car, but this way he'd have to stay at the wake at least until his uncles returned, trying to talk to people he barely knew.
"Do you want to walk up with me now, Rory?" asked Catriona. "It's just around the corner so unless your car is blocking something there's no point moving it."
"No, it's fine, I left my car on the waterfront as Uncle Gordon said."
"Good, it should be safe there."
Catriona collected a few more people and they started the walk up to his grandmother's house. It was a white semi-detached bungalow, neat and tidy, which just missed out on a sea view. Once inside, Catriona disappeared into the tiny kitchen to make tea, and Rory looked around at the pictures on the walls and the cheap but well-maintained furniture that had been moved against the wall to open up the rooms as much as possible. The oil heater was on, giving the room a warm glow.
"So much better than a draughty church hall, I thought," said Catriona, coming back with a plate of sandwiches. "I know it's August but the weather's been so dreadful I thought we'd want a bit of thawing out."
"Aye, that's true."
Others from the church had followed Catriona and Rory, and were now taking off their coats and milling around. A few of the women offered to help with the food and making tea, so the men clumped together and started chatting. Rory introduced himself but otherwise said as little as possible, listening to the others catch up with family news and keeping one eye on the clock.
He managed to identify various groups, based on age, accent and conversation. There were two separate groups of older people with the soft accent he always associated with his Nan -- they would be the locals. Then there were the cousins, ranging in age from about fifteen to thirty, with accents varying from Inverness to Edinburgh.
Standing on his own was a man of about fifty, with dark hair starting to turn grey at the temples. He was neither handsome nor ugly, neither tall nor short -- just a normal, everyday sort of a man. His suit, however, was a little better cut than those worn by the locals, and he had the air of a city man.
He caught Catriona's arm as she came in with more sandwiches, choosing one at random. "Who's the man by the mantelpiece? I can't place him."
Her faced closed off. "Oh, him -- that's Alasdair's ... well, he lives with Alasdair." The distaste in her voice was evident.
"Oh," said Rory, non-committally, while at the same time his mind was saying, Thank God she doesn't know about me and Charlie. Some evil genius prompted him to add, "It's not illegal, you know."
"I know, but it's not natural. You'd think he'd have had the manners to stay away from a family occasion like this, especially a kirk service."
"Maybe Uncle Alasdair wanted his support in this time of bereavement. It's not easy to lose a mother, no matter how old you are."
Catriona paused. "Oh, Rory, sorry, I forgot that you lost your mum so young."
"Aye, well, I got over it."
She nodded, her eyes a little misty, and then turned to meet someone else who had just come in.
Rory sighed and took a bit from his sandwich. A glance at the clock on the mantelpiece told him that Uncle Gordon was at least another two hours away, and he really wasn't sure that he could cope with much more of his aunt. Her combination of cloying sentimentality and irrational prejudice was grating on him, and he wanted nothing more than to get in the car and go back to Inverness, back to Charlie.
What would Charlie do if he were here?, he asked himself. He snorted as he realised that he knew only too well what Charlie would do -- Charlie would have taken up the gauntlet thrown by Catriona and given her a lecture on gay rights and how gays were no different from anyone else in other respects. Somehow, the thought was reassuring, even if he knew full well that a row of monumental proportions would have followed -- it would have been worth it to see the look on his aunt's face. But Charlie wasn't here, and Catriona was, and he had to make the best of it until his uncle got back and he could legitimately escape.
Catriona was escorting the new arrival through the room to one of Nana's friends. She had to go past the man Rory had asked about, and the way she carefully avoided even looking in his direction made Rory grit his teeth. He took another cup of tea and forced himself to walk over to the pariah.
"I don't think we've met," he said, holding his hand out. "I'm Rory McManus, Alasdair's my uncle."
"Jonathan LeFevre," the man replied, shaking hands briefly. "I'm sorry about your grandmother."
Rory shrugged. "Thanks. I loved my Nan, but I didn't see her very often. I'm thinking that my uncles will be feeling the loss much more than I do."
"It hit Alasdair fairly hard," Jonathan agreed.
"It would. It's never easy to lose your mother."
Jonathon nodded. "I lost mine a few years ago -- I still miss her."
"Aye, I lost mine as a boy."
There was a short pause, then Jonathan said, somewhat hesitantly, "I saw you talking to Catriona a few minutes ago."
"Aye, she was telling me you're Alasdair's partner."
"I'm sure she never said anything so straightforward," Jonathan said with a rather wry and bitter smile.
"Well, no, she didn't put it like that exactly."
"I knew it would make things difficult, but Alasdair insisted, he said I'm part of the family now and she'll just have to get used to it."
"Some people never do," countered Rory. "It just makes it worse when you try to force them."
Jonathan looked at him shrewdly. "I take it you've encountered this sort of thing before."
Rory hesitated, before saying, "I've seen a lot of prejudice."
Jonathan looked slightly disappointed but accepted Rory's evasive comment. "Did you have to travel far to get here?"
"From Manchester. I was going to drive but the hurricane seems to have dropped half the Atlantic over the hills, so I flew up to Inverness last night."
"Wise. We drove up from Edinburgh and the number of roads closed was unbelievable. I'm just glad that the A9 stayed open."
"Aye, that's a blessing." He paused, then asked, "What line of work are you in?"
"Publishing, actually. I'm a senior editor with the Edinburgh University Press."
"That would be interesting."
"Well, it has its moments. Most of my job is trying to make up for the abysmal level of English education in our junior academics." He shook his head. "You would think an MA or a PhD would be able to cope with simple grammatical forms, but what I see every day is enough to make a grown man weep."
"Just think of how bad it will be in another ten years, when the leet-speakers and texters make it to post-graduate jobs."
Jonathan shuddered. "I hope and pray that I will be safely retired by then."
"No such luck for me. The way the pension age is rising, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to retire."
"Indeed. One of my colleagues is an economist and his views on the future of the country are dire."
"Aren't they always, though? I thought economists were like farmers -- you know, no matter how good things are, ruin is just around the corner."
"Pretty much, yes, I have to admit." Jonathon smiled. He was really very attractive when he smiled, and Rory began to understand what his uncle might see in him.
"So," Jonathon continued, "what do you do in Manchester?"
"I run a cleaning business -- offices, mainly." He began the usual carefully-edited account of his work, and they continued to chat desultorily until the return of Gordon and Alasdair. To Rory's amusement, once it became clear that he wasn't moving from Jonathon's side, several of his relatives came up to say hello, and although a couple of them ignored Jonathon completely, most were at least tolerant if not openly accepting. Still, it was a sense of relief that he saw his uncles walk through the door. Gordon was waylaid by Catriona, while Alasdair made his way towards them.
Rory could sense Jonathon's slight relaxation as his partner walked through the room. There was no blatant display of affection, but he recognised the subtle scrutiny they gave each other as Alasdair approached. It was the same thing that happened between him and Charlie when they had been separated for any reason -- Are you all right? I'm fine, nothing bad happened -- question and answer in a the blink of an eye.
He stayed a few minutes more, but now that Alasdair was looking after Jonathon he found himself without a focus and was overcome with the urge to get out of there and find Charlie and check that nothing bad had happened to his own partner.
He made his farewells to Alasdair and Jonathon and the few of his Nana's friends that he remembered before approaching Gordon and Catriona.
"Rory," Catriona greeted him. "Are you away now?"
"Aye, I thought I'd head off back to Inverness before the next lot of rain."
"Good idea," Gordon nodded..
"What are you doing this evening?" asked Catriona.
"I didn't have any plans," he began, cautiously.
"Would you like to come and have dinner with us? It's been so long since we've seen you, we ought to catch up properly."
And be catechised on his work and personal life? It wasn't an appealing prospect, especially now that he had something to hide from them -- and there was no way he was going to expose Charlie to her prejudice.
He shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm very tired and it's an early flight. Maybe some other time."
Catriona looked disappointed, but accepted his refusal with grace. He gave her the briefest of hugs, shook hands with his uncle and stepped out of the bungalow. It was time to go home.
He'd almost reached the car when he realised that home was no longer Scotland. Home was wherever Charlie was.
It was odd, but he didn't seem to mind that in the slightest.
Friday 20 August- club in Leeds
The club was crowded, the air a little hazy from the cigarette smoke that crept through the room in spite of the best efforts of the air conditioners. Rory sat on a stool in the shadows at the far end of the bar, where he could see, unseen, all that happened on stage.
Charlie was nearing the end of his set, and his voice was getting a little husky. It suited the slightly melancholy mood of the crowd, though, and increased the vicarious intimacy of the performance. The audience was appreciative, listening without heckling, and several of them had bought Charlie's five-song CD during the break. He'd be a happy boy when they finally got home.
Rory sipped his beer and looked at his watch. Only another ten minutes to go -- a little more if the crowd insisted on encores -- and then they could pack up and be on their way. At this time of night it wouldn't take long to get home, and they could sleep in until lunchtime the next day if they wanted. It was worth the hassle of leaving work early to be here with Charlie.
As if he could sense Rory's thoughts, Charlie glanced over at him at the start of the next song -- "Deus ex Machina" and Rory lifted his glass in salute. This was his song, the one Charlie had written for him on Valentine's Day, and it still thrilled him to hear Charlie sing it, whether it was for him alone or in front of several hundred people.
"Excuse me," said a voice at his elbow.
He turned away from the stage, reluctantly, and saw a petite woman, dressed in a fashionable top and skimpy trousers.
"Hi," he answered, neutrally.
"My friend and I," she turned and indicated a nondescript girl sipping a drink at the far end of the bar, "were wondering if you might be able to introduce us to Charlie Pace. We saw you talking to him in the break and I guessed you're a friend, or his manager, or something."
Rory sighed. It certainly wasn't the first time it had happened, and as long as Charlie kept performing it was unlikely to be the last, but it didn't make it any easier to deal with. And it was totally illogical for him to feel absurdly jealous when people wanted to reach Charlie through him.
"I'll see what I can do," he muttered, "but he'll be tired after the set. He won't want to chat for long."
"Oh, that would be great! I'm such a fan. I was devastated when DriveShaft broke up. Do you think they'll ever re-form?"
"I don't think so." Over my dead body, he added, silently.
"Oh, that's such a shame. There's a rumour going around that they might be getting back together, and I was so excited when I heard about it. Especially when I thought that Liam might come back from Australia. He was always my favourite. Those gorgeous eyes!" She realised, belatedly, that what she'd said was hardly flattering to present company, and added, hurriedly, "Not that Charlie isn't good-looking as well, of course, but there's just something about Liam."
There certainly is, the wanker, thought Rory. Paradoxically, the girl's fixation on Liam made him feel a lot better -- she wasn't likely to do more than ask Charlie for his autograph and then maybe (if they were lucky) buy a CD. The ones he feared were the die-hard Charlie fans, the ones who were determined to get into his pants and his bed. Rory was apt to deal with them rather abruptly.
"I'll see what I can do," he repeated, and watched her as she returned to giggle with her friend over the prospect of meeting Charlie Pace.
Rory smiled. At least some fans were better than no fans. The nights he dreaded were the ones where no one appreciated Charlie's songs or Charlie's style, when there was only desultory applause and no sales. Those were the nights when Charlie was apt to question his talents, his skills and his very existence, and it took all of Rory's efforts to stop him becoming almost suicidally depressed. Those were the nights when Rory threw caution to the winds, plied him with whisky and fucked him into oblivion.
Sometimes he wondered if Charlie realised how hard it was for Rory to support him all the time -- to cater to his moods and whims, to be supportive and placatory and firm in turns. Sometimes Rory longed for Charlie to be a little more logical and pragmatic, less volatile, easier to reason with. But then, of course, he wouldn't be Charlie at all, and that would be worse.
Charlie's song came to an end, there was a gratifying amount of applause, and then the usual wait as Charlie sorted whatever he had to with the manager before he came out to the bar.
"So how'd we do today?" he asked.
"Was good from this side," Rory replied. "There are a couple of girls keen to chat, if you've the time -- sounds like they're DriveShaft fans with a Liam fixation, but they seem harmless enough."
Charlie made a face. "You get me a beer and I'll chat to them. Did they want CDs?"
Rory handed him the beer he'd already ordered, saying, "Don't know. There are still some in the bag, if they do."
"Ta." Charlie chugged half the beer and Rory felt a stirring in his groin as he watched Charlie's throat move. He wandered if he could get away with marking him tonight -- he had no more gigs for a fortnight, so the only people who'd see them would be his therapist and the pharmacist who handled his methadone, and they already knew about Rory.
He passed several minutes with half his mind envisaging some very pleasant bedroom scenarios and the other half keeping a watch for anyone who might be a threat. Eventually, though, Charlie excused himself from the group of fans, pleading exhaustion, and they finished packing up.
It wasn't until they were nearly home that Charlie spoke again. "Those girls said they were really keen to see the band re-form."
"Aye."
"They can't be the only ones. If there's a lot of support for the idea it might help to get Liam to agree."
"Not likely."
"Sinjin told Pat he'll do it if Liam will. All we need to do is talk to him."
"You've tried talking to him."
Charlie was silent for a few minutes, then said, "Maybe I should go there and see him in person."
"To Australia?"
"I can talk him around."
"I doubt it."
"Are you questioning my powers of persuasion?"
"No, lad, I'm just pointing out that Liam is without doubt the most selfish person I've ever met and there isn't enough money in this deal to make it worth his while. I don't see him abandoning his job and his pregnant wife to go on tour again."
"He loved being on tour."
"He loved the attention, he loved the women, and he loved the booze and drugs. For him, the concerts were just a way to get there."
Charlie sighed. "He loved the music too, be fair."
"Well, maybe he did, but he didn't work at it like you did. The number of times I watched your gigs ... it was easy to see the difference between you. You had your head down or your eyes closed, completely in the music. He was scanning the crowd for girls."
Charlie had to concede that. "Yeah, he always scanned for girls, didn't matter how well it was going."
"So now he has a wife and a family and a father-in-law he doesn't want to piss off. If he can't use the band as a means of getting sex, there's nothing in it for him anymore."
Charlie was silent for the rest of the journey. Rory couldn't believe he hadn't worked it out for himself, but apparently he hadn't. He told himself it was a good thing, that Charlie would take this new knowledge and think it over and see how bad an idea it was to try to get Liam back.
Yeah, right. But he could always hope.
Chapter 12.4
This entry was originally posted at http://alassenya.dreamwidth.org/101982.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
For introduction and warnings go here
12.3 Family Traits
Wednesday 18th August, 9.30am
Rory eased the hire car out of the hotel car park. It was still raining heavily, though it had lessened from the torrential downpour of the day before, and heavy clouds made it dark and gloomy. The roads were slick with rain and oil, and most cars had their headlights on as they made their way slowly and cautiously through the city streets.
He was glad that they had decided to fly up to Inverness rather than drive up. It was a long trip even in good weather, but the storms over the last couple of weeks had been so heavy that many of the roads in central Scotland were now blocked by landslides or floods, and if they had tried to drive all the way they would probably still be stuck south of Edinburgh. Charlie had suggested flying instead, and Rory had agreed it was better not to risk the leased BMW. So, here he was in a hired Ford, on his way to meet relatives he hadn't seen in years. He wondered if he'd recognise anyone apart from his Uncle Gordon.
Frank wasn't going. Rory had rung him on the Sunday evening, but, as he had suspected, his father had no intention of going to the funeral. The truth was that Frank and his mother-in-law had never got on, even in the early years of the marriage. Nana had blamed Frank for her daughter's depression, and, later, for the delay in diagnosing her cancer. Frank, on the other hand, had blamed Nana for interfering in his marriage and turning his wife against him. Their last contact had been at the funeral of Rory's mother, fifteen years previously, when they had pointedly ignored each other.
Charlie wasn't going, either. They had talked it over a couple of times, and Rory had offered him the chance to accompany him, but Charlie -- usually so insistent on being recognised, and resentful of being kept in the background -- had decided that his presence would cause problems that Rory didn't need right now, and had opted for a day of wandering the streets of Inverness instead. To be truthful, Rory was thankful for that: he could have coped with the interest and speculation from his relatives, but it would have made things awkward, there was no denying it. He was also thankful that Charlie had made the decision on his own, and voluntarily. Maybe both of them were improving with therapy.
He followed his uncle's directions to Cromarty and parked the car on the waterfront. The rain had eased a little and he hurried up the side street to the church, hoping he wouldn't get too wet. The hearse was already at the door and he hurried inside, finding a space in a pew towards the back. The church wasn't as big as he remembered from his childhood, but back then it had seemed enormous, with the high roof and gallery and the huge pulpit dominating the east wall. It was still much larger than he would have expected for the size of the town, and he wondered if it had ever been filled to capacity. It was very plain, like most Scottish churches, with no decoration save a vase of flowers to one side. It was clean and bright, though, and the woodwork shone with polish. The pews held about fifty this morning, which was more than Rory would have expected, but then of course his grandmother had grown up here and knew almost everyone in the town. He was glad for her sake that so many had made the effort to show their respects.
The service was short, comprising three hymns, two readings and a short eulogy from his uncle, the eldest male relative. He was glad that it wasn't more elaborate -- his grandmother had always hated fuss, and she would have wanted a plain, simple funeral. His two uncles and -- he presumed -- two of his cousins took up the coffin and carried it down the aisle to the waiting hearse, followed by his aunts and the rest of the family in the front rows, and then the general congregation.
People milled around at the front but there was no movement towards the cars, and Rory looked around for someone who might be able to tell him what was going on. He spotted his uncle standing on the steps of the church and introduced himself.
"Uncle Gordon? It's Rory McManus."
"Aye, Rory, I thought it was you." They shook hands and Gordon looked him over. "You're very much like Frank was at your age, when he married Heather."
"I'm told I look a lot like him." He placed a careful emphasis on the work look.
Gordon nodded, taking the hint. "There's a lot of your mother there though as well, I can see that."
"M'da told me to give his apologies -- he's tied up with work in Glasgow." That wasn't quite true, and they all knew it, but it allowed them all to observe the social niceties.
"I'm sure he's a busy man."
"Aye, he is."
Rory then greeted his aunt Catriona with a kiss on the cheek. She was a short, plump woman, very motherly and warm. "Hello dear, I'm pleased you could get up here. Isn't the weather terrible?"
"Aye, we -- I -- flew up last night. I didn't want to risk the journey by road."
"I'm not surprised, I've never known so many roads closed. Landslides and floods and goodness knows what else. Jim and Mandy -- Gordon's cousins, Rory, you remember them? -- they're completely cut off at Lairg. They rang last night and said there was no way they'd get here, poor things."
His uncle cut in. "Speaking of which, did anyone tell you we've made a slight change in the plans?"
"No, what change?"
"Well, Catriona thought it wasn't safe for all of us to be following the hearse to the crematorium."
"Forty miles in all this rain, I should say not," she stated, vehemently.
"So Alasdair and I will go with the hearse, and everyone else will go back with Catriona to Mum's house."
"That sounds like a good idea," said Rory, though in truth he wasn't sure that it was. He hadn't fancied the long drive to the crematorium at all, especially in a hired car, but this way he'd have to stay at the wake at least until his uncles returned, trying to talk to people he barely knew.
"Do you want to walk up with me now, Rory?" asked Catriona. "It's just around the corner so unless your car is blocking something there's no point moving it."
"No, it's fine, I left my car on the waterfront as Uncle Gordon said."
"Good, it should be safe there."
Catriona collected a few more people and they started the walk up to his grandmother's house. It was a white semi-detached bungalow, neat and tidy, which just missed out on a sea view. Once inside, Catriona disappeared into the tiny kitchen to make tea, and Rory looked around at the pictures on the walls and the cheap but well-maintained furniture that had been moved against the wall to open up the rooms as much as possible. The oil heater was on, giving the room a warm glow.
"So much better than a draughty church hall, I thought," said Catriona, coming back with a plate of sandwiches. "I know it's August but the weather's been so dreadful I thought we'd want a bit of thawing out."
"Aye, that's true."
Others from the church had followed Catriona and Rory, and were now taking off their coats and milling around. A few of the women offered to help with the food and making tea, so the men clumped together and started chatting. Rory introduced himself but otherwise said as little as possible, listening to the others catch up with family news and keeping one eye on the clock.
He managed to identify various groups, based on age, accent and conversation. There were two separate groups of older people with the soft accent he always associated with his Nan -- they would be the locals. Then there were the cousins, ranging in age from about fifteen to thirty, with accents varying from Inverness to Edinburgh.
Standing on his own was a man of about fifty, with dark hair starting to turn grey at the temples. He was neither handsome nor ugly, neither tall nor short -- just a normal, everyday sort of a man. His suit, however, was a little better cut than those worn by the locals, and he had the air of a city man.
He caught Catriona's arm as she came in with more sandwiches, choosing one at random. "Who's the man by the mantelpiece? I can't place him."
Her faced closed off. "Oh, him -- that's Alasdair's ... well, he lives with Alasdair." The distaste in her voice was evident.
"Oh," said Rory, non-committally, while at the same time his mind was saying, Thank God she doesn't know about me and Charlie. Some evil genius prompted him to add, "It's not illegal, you know."
"I know, but it's not natural. You'd think he'd have had the manners to stay away from a family occasion like this, especially a kirk service."
"Maybe Uncle Alasdair wanted his support in this time of bereavement. It's not easy to lose a mother, no matter how old you are."
Catriona paused. "Oh, Rory, sorry, I forgot that you lost your mum so young."
"Aye, well, I got over it."
She nodded, her eyes a little misty, and then turned to meet someone else who had just come in.
Rory sighed and took a bit from his sandwich. A glance at the clock on the mantelpiece told him that Uncle Gordon was at least another two hours away, and he really wasn't sure that he could cope with much more of his aunt. Her combination of cloying sentimentality and irrational prejudice was grating on him, and he wanted nothing more than to get in the car and go back to Inverness, back to Charlie.
What would Charlie do if he were here?, he asked himself. He snorted as he realised that he knew only too well what Charlie would do -- Charlie would have taken up the gauntlet thrown by Catriona and given her a lecture on gay rights and how gays were no different from anyone else in other respects. Somehow, the thought was reassuring, even if he knew full well that a row of monumental proportions would have followed -- it would have been worth it to see the look on his aunt's face. But Charlie wasn't here, and Catriona was, and he had to make the best of it until his uncle got back and he could legitimately escape.
Catriona was escorting the new arrival through the room to one of Nana's friends. She had to go past the man Rory had asked about, and the way she carefully avoided even looking in his direction made Rory grit his teeth. He took another cup of tea and forced himself to walk over to the pariah.
"I don't think we've met," he said, holding his hand out. "I'm Rory McManus, Alasdair's my uncle."
"Jonathan LeFevre," the man replied, shaking hands briefly. "I'm sorry about your grandmother."
Rory shrugged. "Thanks. I loved my Nan, but I didn't see her very often. I'm thinking that my uncles will be feeling the loss much more than I do."
"It hit Alasdair fairly hard," Jonathan agreed.
"It would. It's never easy to lose your mother."
Jonathon nodded. "I lost mine a few years ago -- I still miss her."
"Aye, I lost mine as a boy."
There was a short pause, then Jonathan said, somewhat hesitantly, "I saw you talking to Catriona a few minutes ago."
"Aye, she was telling me you're Alasdair's partner."
"I'm sure she never said anything so straightforward," Jonathan said with a rather wry and bitter smile.
"Well, no, she didn't put it like that exactly."
"I knew it would make things difficult, but Alasdair insisted, he said I'm part of the family now and she'll just have to get used to it."
"Some people never do," countered Rory. "It just makes it worse when you try to force them."
Jonathan looked at him shrewdly. "I take it you've encountered this sort of thing before."
Rory hesitated, before saying, "I've seen a lot of prejudice."
Jonathan looked slightly disappointed but accepted Rory's evasive comment. "Did you have to travel far to get here?"
"From Manchester. I was going to drive but the hurricane seems to have dropped half the Atlantic over the hills, so I flew up to Inverness last night."
"Wise. We drove up from Edinburgh and the number of roads closed was unbelievable. I'm just glad that the A9 stayed open."
"Aye, that's a blessing." He paused, then asked, "What line of work are you in?"
"Publishing, actually. I'm a senior editor with the Edinburgh University Press."
"That would be interesting."
"Well, it has its moments. Most of my job is trying to make up for the abysmal level of English education in our junior academics." He shook his head. "You would think an MA or a PhD would be able to cope with simple grammatical forms, but what I see every day is enough to make a grown man weep."
"Just think of how bad it will be in another ten years, when the leet-speakers and texters make it to post-graduate jobs."
Jonathan shuddered. "I hope and pray that I will be safely retired by then."
"No such luck for me. The way the pension age is rising, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to retire."
"Indeed. One of my colleagues is an economist and his views on the future of the country are dire."
"Aren't they always, though? I thought economists were like farmers -- you know, no matter how good things are, ruin is just around the corner."
"Pretty much, yes, I have to admit." Jonathon smiled. He was really very attractive when he smiled, and Rory began to understand what his uncle might see in him.
"So," Jonathon continued, "what do you do in Manchester?"
"I run a cleaning business -- offices, mainly." He began the usual carefully-edited account of his work, and they continued to chat desultorily until the return of Gordon and Alasdair. To Rory's amusement, once it became clear that he wasn't moving from Jonathon's side, several of his relatives came up to say hello, and although a couple of them ignored Jonathon completely, most were at least tolerant if not openly accepting. Still, it was a sense of relief that he saw his uncles walk through the door. Gordon was waylaid by Catriona, while Alasdair made his way towards them.
Rory could sense Jonathon's slight relaxation as his partner walked through the room. There was no blatant display of affection, but he recognised the subtle scrutiny they gave each other as Alasdair approached. It was the same thing that happened between him and Charlie when they had been separated for any reason -- Are you all right? I'm fine, nothing bad happened -- question and answer in a the blink of an eye.
He stayed a few minutes more, but now that Alasdair was looking after Jonathon he found himself without a focus and was overcome with the urge to get out of there and find Charlie and check that nothing bad had happened to his own partner.
He made his farewells to Alasdair and Jonathon and the few of his Nana's friends that he remembered before approaching Gordon and Catriona.
"Rory," Catriona greeted him. "Are you away now?"
"Aye, I thought I'd head off back to Inverness before the next lot of rain."
"Good idea," Gordon nodded..
"What are you doing this evening?" asked Catriona.
"I didn't have any plans," he began, cautiously.
"Would you like to come and have dinner with us? It's been so long since we've seen you, we ought to catch up properly."
And be catechised on his work and personal life? It wasn't an appealing prospect, especially now that he had something to hide from them -- and there was no way he was going to expose Charlie to her prejudice.
He shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm very tired and it's an early flight. Maybe some other time."
Catriona looked disappointed, but accepted his refusal with grace. He gave her the briefest of hugs, shook hands with his uncle and stepped out of the bungalow. It was time to go home.
He'd almost reached the car when he realised that home was no longer Scotland. Home was wherever Charlie was.
It was odd, but he didn't seem to mind that in the slightest.
Friday 20 August- club in Leeds
The club was crowded, the air a little hazy from the cigarette smoke that crept through the room in spite of the best efforts of the air conditioners. Rory sat on a stool in the shadows at the far end of the bar, where he could see, unseen, all that happened on stage.
Charlie was nearing the end of his set, and his voice was getting a little husky. It suited the slightly melancholy mood of the crowd, though, and increased the vicarious intimacy of the performance. The audience was appreciative, listening without heckling, and several of them had bought Charlie's five-song CD during the break. He'd be a happy boy when they finally got home.
Rory sipped his beer and looked at his watch. Only another ten minutes to go -- a little more if the crowd insisted on encores -- and then they could pack up and be on their way. At this time of night it wouldn't take long to get home, and they could sleep in until lunchtime the next day if they wanted. It was worth the hassle of leaving work early to be here with Charlie.
As if he could sense Rory's thoughts, Charlie glanced over at him at the start of the next song -- "Deus ex Machina" and Rory lifted his glass in salute. This was his song, the one Charlie had written for him on Valentine's Day, and it still thrilled him to hear Charlie sing it, whether it was for him alone or in front of several hundred people.
"Excuse me," said a voice at his elbow.
He turned away from the stage, reluctantly, and saw a petite woman, dressed in a fashionable top and skimpy trousers.
"Hi," he answered, neutrally.
"My friend and I," she turned and indicated a nondescript girl sipping a drink at the far end of the bar, "were wondering if you might be able to introduce us to Charlie Pace. We saw you talking to him in the break and I guessed you're a friend, or his manager, or something."
Rory sighed. It certainly wasn't the first time it had happened, and as long as Charlie kept performing it was unlikely to be the last, but it didn't make it any easier to deal with. And it was totally illogical for him to feel absurdly jealous when people wanted to reach Charlie through him.
"I'll see what I can do," he muttered, "but he'll be tired after the set. He won't want to chat for long."
"Oh, that would be great! I'm such a fan. I was devastated when DriveShaft broke up. Do you think they'll ever re-form?"
"I don't think so." Over my dead body, he added, silently.
"Oh, that's such a shame. There's a rumour going around that they might be getting back together, and I was so excited when I heard about it. Especially when I thought that Liam might come back from Australia. He was always my favourite. Those gorgeous eyes!" She realised, belatedly, that what she'd said was hardly flattering to present company, and added, hurriedly, "Not that Charlie isn't good-looking as well, of course, but there's just something about Liam."
There certainly is, the wanker, thought Rory. Paradoxically, the girl's fixation on Liam made him feel a lot better -- she wasn't likely to do more than ask Charlie for his autograph and then maybe (if they were lucky) buy a CD. The ones he feared were the die-hard Charlie fans, the ones who were determined to get into his pants and his bed. Rory was apt to deal with them rather abruptly.
"I'll see what I can do," he repeated, and watched her as she returned to giggle with her friend over the prospect of meeting Charlie Pace.
Rory smiled. At least some fans were better than no fans. The nights he dreaded were the ones where no one appreciated Charlie's songs or Charlie's style, when there was only desultory applause and no sales. Those were the nights when Charlie was apt to question his talents, his skills and his very existence, and it took all of Rory's efforts to stop him becoming almost suicidally depressed. Those were the nights when Rory threw caution to the winds, plied him with whisky and fucked him into oblivion.
Sometimes he wondered if Charlie realised how hard it was for Rory to support him all the time -- to cater to his moods and whims, to be supportive and placatory and firm in turns. Sometimes Rory longed for Charlie to be a little more logical and pragmatic, less volatile, easier to reason with. But then, of course, he wouldn't be Charlie at all, and that would be worse.
Charlie's song came to an end, there was a gratifying amount of applause, and then the usual wait as Charlie sorted whatever he had to with the manager before he came out to the bar.
"So how'd we do today?" he asked.
"Was good from this side," Rory replied. "There are a couple of girls keen to chat, if you've the time -- sounds like they're DriveShaft fans with a Liam fixation, but they seem harmless enough."
Charlie made a face. "You get me a beer and I'll chat to them. Did they want CDs?"
Rory handed him the beer he'd already ordered, saying, "Don't know. There are still some in the bag, if they do."
"Ta." Charlie chugged half the beer and Rory felt a stirring in his groin as he watched Charlie's throat move. He wandered if he could get away with marking him tonight -- he had no more gigs for a fortnight, so the only people who'd see them would be his therapist and the pharmacist who handled his methadone, and they already knew about Rory.
He passed several minutes with half his mind envisaging some very pleasant bedroom scenarios and the other half keeping a watch for anyone who might be a threat. Eventually, though, Charlie excused himself from the group of fans, pleading exhaustion, and they finished packing up.
It wasn't until they were nearly home that Charlie spoke again. "Those girls said they were really keen to see the band re-form."
"Aye."
"They can't be the only ones. If there's a lot of support for the idea it might help to get Liam to agree."
"Not likely."
"Sinjin told Pat he'll do it if Liam will. All we need to do is talk to him."
"You've tried talking to him."
Charlie was silent for a few minutes, then said, "Maybe I should go there and see him in person."
"To Australia?"
"I can talk him around."
"I doubt it."
"Are you questioning my powers of persuasion?"
"No, lad, I'm just pointing out that Liam is without doubt the most selfish person I've ever met and there isn't enough money in this deal to make it worth his while. I don't see him abandoning his job and his pregnant wife to go on tour again."
"He loved being on tour."
"He loved the attention, he loved the women, and he loved the booze and drugs. For him, the concerts were just a way to get there."
Charlie sighed. "He loved the music too, be fair."
"Well, maybe he did, but he didn't work at it like you did. The number of times I watched your gigs ... it was easy to see the difference between you. You had your head down or your eyes closed, completely in the music. He was scanning the crowd for girls."
Charlie had to concede that. "Yeah, he always scanned for girls, didn't matter how well it was going."
"So now he has a wife and a family and a father-in-law he doesn't want to piss off. If he can't use the band as a means of getting sex, there's nothing in it for him anymore."
Charlie was silent for the rest of the journey. Rory couldn't believe he hadn't worked it out for himself, but apparently he hadn't. He told himself it was a good thing, that Charlie would take this new knowledge and think it over and see how bad an idea it was to try to get Liam back.
Yeah, right. But he could always hope.
Chapter 12.4
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