Identity Check

Chapter 1

He walked into the living room, to find his mother sitting there with a man he didn't recognise. But he recognised the collar. Another damn priest. She'd had the parish priest over here to talk to him already - with no effect. Looks like she'd started outsourcing. He stopped at the door, but she heard him. Too late to back out now.

"Oh, there you are," Marion said, smiling at Patrick. False smile. The one saved for when there's company. "Patrick, this is Father Powell."

"Patrick," Powell said, rising. "I'm very pleased to meet you. Your mother has told me a lot about you."

He'd just bet she had. Reluctant and wary, but too well trained in kowtowing to these guys, Patrick came into the room and shook Powell's offered hand.

"What's this about?" Patrick asked. Powell watched him carefully, making him uncomfortable. Body might be a little flabby, but something told him the mind was in much better training.

"Please come and sit down, Patrick," Marion said. She gestured at the seats arranged around the coffee table with the bone china cups on it. Best tea service of course for their oh-so-distinguished visitor. The lowliest parish priest got the same treatment the pope could expect in this house. He glanced at Powell. Nothing lowly about this one.

Patrick took a seat and a biscuit, earning him a frown from his mother when he didn't use a plate for it. But crumbs on the carpet were the least of her worries about him right now. Everything changed when she found those text messages on his phone a week ago. Since then, since the huge screaming row and the useless threats against Simon, he could do anything, any sin, and nothing could be as bad. However late he stayed out, however drunk he got, however loud he played his music, it all paled in comparison.

"Patrick, your mother has called me here to help you with the difficulties you're having with your sexuality." Powell cut right to the chase. Their parish priest had hedged and blushed and suggested the confessional as a better venue to talk about this. Screw that. It's already confessed.

"I'm not the one having the difficulties - she is." Not true really, but he felt defiant in the face of this black-clad busybody.

"I understand the man you've been involved with is somewhat older than you."

"He's thirty-two. So what? And he didn't even touch me until I was eighteen!"

"So, fourteen years older than you and considerably more experienced in the ways of the world."

"The ways of the world?" Patrick snorted. "I'm Catholic, not Amish. Just how sheltered a life do you think I've led?" This man knew nothing about him. He saw the village out there and thought Patrick belonged there. But he was so wrong.

"Patrick," Powell said, "you're eighteen and I know that right now you think nobody can teach you anything. I know that the arguments you've had with your mother and step-father have left you feeling resentful and defiant. You don't want to be told what to do. You're a man now."

"Yes I am."

"But you're also still at school, still living at home, still dependent on your parents."

"That doesn't make me a child. I can vote. I can join the bloody Army."

"Patrick!" His mother's voice barely registered with him, his eyes locked with Powell's. Powell didn't flicker at the swear word.

"You put on a brave face," Powell said. "But is it real? You claim that you're absolutely fine with this, but I don't think that's true. You're confused and afraid right now. I can help you."

"Oh really? How's that?" Curiosity only, he told himself, refusing to believe the priest had struck home. Confused and afraid? Oh, bloody hell, yes. But still not ready to trust this one. Priest. Has an agenda.

"I run a retreat in the countryside, where young men like yourself can stay and work through this problem. Learn to deal with those desires and thoughts."

"I've heard about places like that. You think you can 'cure' me." Patrick sneered the word 'cure'.

"You've probably heard about the ones in America. I personally don't like their methods very much. I promise you, we're rather more laid back, more... English."

It tempted him, Patrick couldn't deny it, despite his dismissive words. A few weeks of praying and this whole thing could go away. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe Simon had taken advantage of him. Patrick didn't want to come home to screaming rows every day. He didn't want to watch this tearing his mother apart. He didn't want to be an outcast in the village - which would happen if this actually got out. He wanted to finish school and go to university, and have a welcoming home to come back to for the holidays. He wanted that normality. What he'd done with Simon had felt like skiing down the steepest run, with no way to stop until the bottom of the mountain. So good. So terrifying.

"Father Powell can help you," Marion said, leaning close, and laying her hand over Patrick's. Her nails weren't as perfect as usual. She must have missed her weekly appointment, too busy with the whole disastrous 'my precious son is a pervert' situation. "He's a doctor," she added.

Patrick looked up sharply. "What kind of doctor?"

"A psychiatrist," Marion said, "so you see he's well qualified."

"I see," Patrick said. He looked at Powell, held that assessing gaze for a moment. Then he stood, his sudden movement prompting Marion and Powell to stand too as if he dragged them up with him.

"I'd better go and pack."

*

They left him alone while they talked downstairs. About money, he would bet. Eighteen year old boys couldn't live on prayer alone.

He stuffed clothes into a case. He'd take his suit - he had only one. The rest casual gear. Not his school uniform. He'd never wear that again. Shaving gear, hairbrush, toothbrush, his expensive conditioner. Shoes! Hell, nearly forgot. So damn many. Well that's a sign right there. He picked out three pairs to put in the case and changed into sturdier ones for his journey.

Savings account book, passport and driving licence he put into a backpack along with the important books. A few silly bits and pieces went in there too. Most of them things given to him by, or reminding him of his dad.

Speaking of Dad... He took down the framed picture of himself and his father, Kevin Kavanagh - KK to his friends. The grey eyes he'd inherited from KK looked back at Patrick and he touched the picture leaving fingermarks on the glass. He'd inherited more than the grey eyes; Patrick and Kevin had the same straight black hair that Patrick wore long in conscious imitation of his father's style. The same jawline added more masculinity to Patrick's otherwise refined features that had come from his mother's side.

He had to blame Simon for teaching him to take so much notice of his own face. An artist, he'd picked the boy out within days of his arrival in the village. He'd made a proposal to Marion, wanting to make a project of it, drawing and painting Patrick as he grew from a boy to a man. Marion agreed, flattered by this professional interest in her son – her handsome boy. Patrick had been just as intrigued and had watched his own face change in pencil, ink, charcoal and paint, in ways he couldn't quite spot in the mirror.

But his face hadn't been the only thing that matured under Simon's eye. Oh God, Simon! Why now? Why did you have to go away now? He took a deep breath. Stay strong. Get through this.

He put the photograph of his father into his backpack.

Last of all, he packed his laptop into its case, making sure he had the charger. A few days ago he'd paced this room fuming while his mother and his step-father, Alistair combed the laptop, probably thinking they'd find it bulging with gay porn. They'd been wasting their time. Patrick hadn't dared look up websites like that. Then they'd demanded his email password and he'd told Alistair to go fuck himself, which led to accusations of being an ungrateful brat towards the man who'd been supporting him for four years.

Never damn well asked him to. Patrick hadn't asked to be taken away from the house in Chelsea he'd lived in all his life and dragged to this damn hole-in-the-wall village in Yorkshire. He didn't care if Alistair did have a damn mansion. Patrick didn't belong here. The looks he'd received from Alistair this last week suggested he was of the same opinion and probably always had been.

Everything packed? Nearly time then. He took out his mobile phone and made a call. As he talked, he checked through his coats and jackets. September now, but winter would soon come around, so he'd need his winter coat, a black overcoat, with long, sweeping tails. At nearly six feet Patrick had the height to pull off the dramatic coat, just like KK, who'd loved long coats too.

He finished his phone call. Ten minutes. He folded the winter coat carefully and put it into his case, zipped that closed. For the journey ahead he picked out a denim jacket and put that on. Ready.

The case, laptop bag and backpack sat on the bed, waiting. Compared to all the stuff in his bedroom, it didn't seem like much. But the rest of it – the TV, DVD player, games console, the rest of his clothes – really didn't mean anything. He stood by the window and watched the drive. Ten minutes later a car came through the gates and drove towards the house. Here goes.

Patrick settled the backpack on his shoulders, hefted the suitcase, groaning at the weight and glad it had wheels too, and picked up his laptop bag. He left the bedroom without a backwards glance.

Downstairs, his mother and Powell were still talking in the living room, but came out when they saw Patrick appear at the foot of the stairs. Marion beamed at the sight of him all ready to go and he felt a pang, sorry that he had to dim that beam.

"Patrick," Powell said. "There's no rush. It will take several hours to get there, so we should at least eat before we leave."

"Oh, I'm not going with you, Father. I'm just going."

The toot of the taxi driver's horn broke the silence that followed Patrick's words. Powell didn't say "what?", or look more than momentarily taken aback. He just looked sad.

"This is a mistake, Patrick. I understand if you don't want to come with me. But running away won't help."

"I'm not running away. I'm leaving home. Lots of people my age do it. And I think I've worn out my welcome here."

"Patrick, what are you saying?" Marion finally regained her voice. "You can't go!"

"I can go anywhere I like. I'm sorry, Mother. But you think I'm wrong in the head and I don't think I am. I can't live here with you thinking I'm crazy." He nodded at Powell. "Would you get the door for me, please, Father?"

Powell opened the door but Marion flew at it to slam it closed again.

"No!" Her face was flushed and her eyes growing red. The always perfect hair started to come down. Until this week, he'd never seen her like this, not even when his father died. "You can't go! What about school?" Her question sounded desperate.

"It'll have to get along without me." As if school mattered now.

"If you go to that man..."

"I'm not going to him." So strange; the more she raged, the calmer he became. It always felt like this after he'd made a decision. He might agonise over it for ages, but once he'd made it, the universe became that shape. Nothing could change it. Not even her. "Please, Mother, let me out. My taxi's waiting."

"No!" she yelled and Powell stepped forward, putting his arm around her.

"His mind is made up, Marion." He led her away from the door. "Please, come away and we'll talk about it."

Patrick opened the door himself. He waved to the taxi driver, then turned back to Marion, who was weeping now, leaving trails in her make-up.

"I'm sorry, Mother, but I think... I can't be here right now. I think we all need time to calm down." When did he get so sensible? That isn't right. She's the adult, he's the... No, he was an adult now too.

"Patrick," Powell said, "be careful. And stay in touch with your family. Here." He took a card from his pocket and handed it to Patrick. "My mobile number. If you ever need to talk."

Not willing to further the row, Patrick took the card and slipped it into his pocket. He picked up his case.

"Goodbye, Mother. I'll call you."

He walked out of the house he didn't belong in, with her sobs ringing in his ears.

As the taxi headed to the railway station that sobbing haunted him. What if he never saw her again? Please, God, don't let today be like that terrible day when he was twelve and his Uncle John came to his school and told him about the car crash and then held him while they both cried for KK. That day he found out he'd never see his father again.

Tears prickled his eyes but he sniffed and blinked them away. Time to be strong now. He reached in his pocket to check his wallet, just now wondering if he had the cash for this taxi ride and then the train. Taking out the wallet he brought Powell's card with it.

Fr Jack Powell, MD, and a mobile phone number. The corner of the card had a small symbol, which Patrick recognised. Oh great, a damn Jesuit. No wonder he seemed so sure he knew everything. He wound the window down a crack and held the card there.

He didn't want to talk to a priest who'd tell him he would going to hell. He didn't want to talk to a doctor who'd tell him he was mental. And he really didn't want to talk to a doctor-priest combined who'd tell him his crazy arse was going straight to hell if he didn't shape up. He opened his fingers and the wind whipped the card from his hand. It swirled away in the car's slipstream.