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Identity Check Chapter 19 |
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A strong hand grabbed Patrick's arm and heaved him to his feet. "Come on, bonny lad," said someone with a strong, local
accent. "Maybe time you went..." The voice trailed off and Patrick looked into the face of a
wide-shouldered, buzzcut-sporting man. He wore a
smart, dark suit and tie. A doorman. Patrick had fallen to his knees in front
of a bar. "Been in the wars a bit, eh?" Patrick could only nod, the doorman's voice like a distant echo, his
face blurring. "Come on, let's sit you down. Give us a hand, mate," he
said to someone else and another dark-suited man loomed close. A strong hand
took Patrick's other arm. He thought they'd just prop him up against the wall, no reason to do
more than that, but noise burst out as they passed through the doors into the
bar. How bad did he look that a couple
of doormen - usually not the softest touches around - felt the need to get
him inside? Helpless to resist, just glad they seemed friendly, Patrick let
them lead him through the bar, the music and voices blurred and unbearably
loud, the lights stabbing at his eyes. He closed his eyes and wished he could
put his hands over his ears too. A door closed behind them and the noise dropped to a dull roar. The
light here was steady, if dim - unless that was Patrick's eyes. He closed
them again until he felt the doormen help him onto a couch, where he flopped
back as they let him go. His head still spinning, Patrick heard them talking. "Think we should get an ambulance? And the police?" Patrick opened his eyes, scared now. Police. Oh, god, no! He couldn't
face that humiliation. "No, please," he said, "Not the police.
I'm okay." The two doormen looked unconvinced, but glanced at each other and
shrugged. "Okay," said the one who'd helped Patrick stand up. He
spoke to his colleague. "Get back outside. I'll get him sorted." He
turned to Patrick as the other one left. "Cup of tea. That'll make you
feel better. Calm you down." "Thanks... um..." "Lee." "Lee. Thanks. I'm Patrick." Lee turned to a kettle on a
workbench. The place looked like a staff break room, similar to the ones at
the Circle. Patrick was sitting on a saggy old sofa. While Lee made mugs of tea Patrick tried to order his whirling
thoughts. What the hell did he do now? Where did he go? If he went home Nick
and Colin would go berserk and do something stupid. Maybe he should call
Phil. Or Russ, or someone... who? Thoughts of calling someone made him realise he still held his phone
in a tight grip. He slid it open and its screen stayed dark. The screen was
cracked right across and he realised suddenly that the battery was gone. Fuck.
He saw it again in a flash, David hurling the phone across the room. Dead.
It's dead. Patrick could have ended up dead too, if he hadn't got out.
Christ, this was a nightmare! He dropped the phone onto the sofa. Lee came over with the mug of tea then, and Patrick had to hold the
handle with one hand and steady the mug with his other hand like a child, to
keep from spilling it, his hands shook so badly. Lee picked up the smashed
phone, clicking his tongue. "That's knackered then. I can call someone if you like." "I... I can't remember the numbers. I can't remember any of the
numbers." Even the ones he knew by heart floated just out of reach. "All right, all right," Lee said, patting him on the shoulder.
"I have to look up me own mother's number.
You're just in shock lad." "Ray," Patrick said, suddenly. "The Circle. I want to
go to the Circle." "The 7th Circle? Ray Bennett's place." "Yes.... yes... I w...work
there." The tremors were extending to more than his hands now, his whole
body shaking. Patrick stared at Lee. "You know the Circle?" "Done cover for the door there a couple of times." He
shrugged. "Easy gig, like. The poofs is never
much trouble." He looked at Patrick dubiously. "Well, most of the
time. Look like you found some. Who was it? A gang? Happy slappers?" "No... no, nothing like that. My... don't want to...
s...say." "Domestic?" Lee said. "Bastard. Right, you want me to
call Ray Bennett for you?" "Yes... yes... please." Why Ray? They weren't actually close friends, not really. But
something told him to go to Ray for help tonight. He was level-headed. He
wouldn't go rushing off to beat David up in return. And he'd understand why
Patrick didn't want to go to the police, wouldn't he? Lee left Patrick alone to sip his mug of tea, still held between both
hands as he tried to control his trembling. He couldn't. Adrenaline, he
thought, and shock. Bad cocktail. After a few minutes, Lee came back, putting
his mobile phone away into his inside pocket. "Ray's on his way over, won't be long. You stay there and I'll
bring him through. I'd better get back to the door, you just relax." He
left. Patrick finished the tea and put his empty mug on the floor. He
wanted to let the shock and exhaustion take him away into its darkness. His
mind drifted on the edges of that until someone sat down beside him and spoke
his name softly. Ray. Patrick's fragile grip on control vanished and he gripped Ray's
shirt, the way a drowning man would grab for a rock. Ray looked startled, but
he hesitated only for a second before he wrapped his arms around Patrick. He
spoke again in a voice so much softer than Patrick had heard him use before. "Take it easy. You're safe now." He rubbed one hand over
Patrick's back in a soothing motion. Safe, yes, he felt it. Ray would protect him. Ray always took care of
his boys. They stayed that way for a few minutes, then Patrick sat up again,
wiping away the tears he'd given into, despising himself for them. Ray must
think him a pathetic sissy. "I'm sorry." "It's okay." Ray put a hand on Patrick's shoulder.
"Who did this, Patrick? Was it gay-bashers?" "It was David." He whispered it, ashamed what an utter fool
he'd been and ashamed most of all of what he'd done to provoke the attack. Ray's eyes widened, but he stayed in control. "I see." He
looked around as a couple of girls came in, bar staff on their break.
"Okay, I'm going to get you out of here now. Can you stand?" He could and Ray led him from the room, holding on to his arm.
Fearing where Ray would take him, Patrick said quickly, "I don't need to
go to the hospital." Ray looked at him, searchingly. "Have you coughed up or vomited
any blood?" "No." "Were you knocked out? Or have you blacked out since?" "No. Look, I'm okay." Ray continued the searching look and then nodded. "Okay, I'll
check you over properly when I get you home. Then I'll decide if you
go to Casualty or not." "Okay. Thanks." Whose home did he mean? Patrick didn't
care, he just wanted a bed now, sleep away the memory. They left the bar,
saying their goodbyes to Lee on the door and Ray helped Patrick into his car,
that stood out front. "I know your address, but you'll have to direct me when we get
closer," Ray said, getting into the driver's seat and starting the car.
As Ray drove, Patrick sat in silence, gazing out of the side window into the
darkness and trying to keep his tears at bay. They found the house dark and silent and Patrick remembered Nick and
Colin were out that night too. Ray took Patrick's jacket off, and led him
straight upstairs to the bathroom, closed the toilet lid and sat Patrick down
on it. "I'll clean you up first and we'll see how things look
then." They looked pretty bad now. Patrick caught a glimpse of his face in
some mirror tiles and winced at the blood, the tracks of tears and his hair!
He looked as if he's been electrocuted as well as beaten up.
Self-consciously, he tried to at least smooth it down, but stopped when
pulling on it made the pain of his bruised scalp flare up. "Here," Ray said. "Let me get that off your
face." He smoothed the hair back, careful not to pull on it. "Get yer hair cut," Patrick said,
weakly, trying to smile. Ray smiled too. "That's what I'd have been saying to you a few years ago. Now,
I'm going to help you get your shirt off. Can you raise your arms?"
Patrick found he could, with minimal pain. "Your ribs probably aren't
broken then," Ray said as he peeled off Patrick's long sleeved shirt.
"Let me just check though. Put your hands on my shoulders." Patrick did as ordered, keeping his arms out of the way as Ray felt
his way around Patrick's rib cage. His eyes fixed in the middle distance,
trying to focus on touch, Patrick supposed. The bruising made Patrick wince a couple of times under Ray's hands.
But for a big man he had a gentle touch. When he finished, he nodded and
said, "I think you're okay. No pain when you breath?" "No." "Good." He held up his hand, three fingers showing. "How many fingers?" "What?" Patrick said, then understood. "Three." "What day is it?" "Monday. Unless it's after midnight already. It can't be, can
it?" "No, it's only about ten-thirty. Okay, any dizziness, nausea,
severe headache?" "No. My scalp hurts more than my head." "He pulled your hair?" "He took a handful out, I swear. I'm scared to look." Ray
looked for him and couldn't find any huge bald patch, but said the scalp
looked bruised already. He also called David a word Patrick had never even
heard before, though he decided to try and remember it. "Okay," Ray said, "let's get you cleaned up and into
bed." He ran some warm water into the sink and sponged away the blood from
Patrick's torso, most of it that had fallen from his split lip and bloody
nose. When he'd finished that and gently towelled off the water, he grabbed
the nearest bathrobe hanging up and helped Patrick into it. It was Nick's and
smelled of his aftershave. Patrick snuggled into for the warmth and for that
scent, both making him feel safer. "Got to keep you warm," Ray said, putting another towel
around Patrick's shoulders. He emptied the now pink water from the sink and
rinsed the sponge until it was clean, then poured in some clean water.
"Just relax," he said softly, and gently dabbed at Patrick's face
with the sponge. The warm water softened and then eased away the dried blood
that pulled Patrick's skin so tightly. In the silence broken only by the splashing as Ray rinsed the sponge,
Patrick wondered how often Ray had done this before in his Army days. How
often had he taken care of an injured or even dying man, offering comfort and
reassurance? As Ray worked, Patrick watched him with half-closed eyes,
exhaustion taking its toll now, adrenaline ebbing away, leaving him drowsy.
Even the pain had become distant, as if he was drugged. When he'd cleaned off the last of the blood, Ray said, "Where do
you boys keep your first aid kit? I'm assuming with the other two being
medical students you do have one." "Kitchen. Drawer on the left of the sink." Ray came back quickly, with the green box. He dabbed cuts and
scratches with disinfectant, making Patrick hiss at the sting, applied
plasters and small dressings and finally took out a couple of packets of
painkillers. "Hmm, nothing very strong. I should have taken you to mine;
Tom's got some stuff for his back that'd knock out a rhino. Okay, they'll
have to do." He handed Patrick a couple of painkillers and poured water into a
glass he'd brought up with him. Patrick swallowed the pills. "Right, come on, back on your feet, soldier. Which is your
room?" "First one on the right." Ray helped him up and led him to the room, letting go of his arm to
switch on the light. "You get yourself into bed, Pat. I'll be back up in a few
minutes." He left and Patrick heard him going downstairs again. Moving slowly and groaning, Patrick got into pyjama trousers and a
sweat shirt, shivering despite the mild spring night. Turning on his bedside
lamp and turning off the main light, he climbed into bed and lay down with a
sigh of relief. In a few minutes a knock at the door woke him from a doze. "You decent?" Ray called. "Come in." Ray came in, carrying two steaming mugs. He put one on the desk and the
other on the bedside table and propped up Patrick's pillows to help him sit
up, then handed him the mug. Hot milk, just the kind of thing Patrick's
mother would bring him when he was a little boy and didn't feel good. He
sipped it and tasted a lot of sugar. Seeing Patrick had a grip on the milk, Ray sat on the cheap swivel
chair beside the desk and picked up his own mug. Patrick sipped the milk and
looked at Ray, perched on the chair making it seem too small, making the
whole room too small to hold him. Did he have comforting, heavily-sugared
milk too, or tea or coffee? "Do you want to tell me exactly what happened," Ray said. A
twist of anger flashed across his face. "Has he hit you before?" "No," Patrick said, feeling tears well again. Three hours ago
he'd have said David wouldn't do that. But the David he knew three hours ago
was dead. The David he loved was dead and replaced by a jealousy-crazed
demon. "No," he said, voice shaking with grief for his dead love.
"It was only tonight. He... he found out I was unfaithful to him. We'd
been trying to be exclusive you see. Like you and Tom." Ray looked amazed. "Really? At your age?" "Yes, well, it didn't work out. I was... weak. David found
out." "How?" Patrick froze with his mug poised. He hadn't even thought about that
yet. How did he find out? Could Simon have contacted him? But why
would he? That made no sense. Of course, one other person knew. Phil. But
Phil had no reason to tell him and he wouldn't do that, would he? No. Phil
was a great guy. He'd never do something like that. Realising he hadn't answered Ray, he said, "I don't know, he
didn't tell me. It doesn't matter." If Phil did tell him then it fucking
did matter. But it couldn't have been him. Patrick grimaced. "He had a
right to be angry. Serves me fucking well right. Screwing around after I
promised -" "Stop that." Ray cut him off. Not with a snap, his voice
still soft, but insistent. "Yes, you broke your promise. You deserve to
be yelled at, called names, and have him break up with you. You do not
deserve to be beaten up. He had no right to do that, however wronged he
felt." "I... I suppose." "Don't suppose - know. Have you thought about going to the
police?" "God, Ray, I can't! I just... I just want to put this behind me.
Never see him again. I can't go to the police, or court! I'd be so
humiliated." Ray looked at him with an intense stare for a long time, then spoke
quietly. "Did he rape you?" "No!" Patrick winced and held his bruised ribs, spoke more
carefully. "No. He... I think he might have tried to, if I hadn't
escaped. He was..." He blushed and turned away to look at the wall for a while, silent
and thinking about the horrors he'd escaped. David was always quite dominant
in bed, sometimes they even rough-housed for fun, David play-acting at
overpowering Patrick. The idea of that turned to real violence, real
coercion... nausea struck him. "Ray," he said quietly, still looking away. "Is
this... normal? Between men? Violence like this?" "No, it's not. I certainly don't beat up Tom." Patrick
turned to look at him, and Ray smiled gently. "If I did he'd garrotte me
with a guitar string while I slept and serve me right." "I never even thought of it. I was scared I might get beaten up
by gay-bashers sometime, but not by my own lover!" "It can happen to anyone." He hesitated, then went on.
"Tom's been in abusive relationships in the past. And he got a
conviction against one of those men. So it can be done. You have every right
to go to the police." "No. I just want it to be over. Not turn it into a long,
drawn-out nightmare." "I understand. But think about it and if you change your mind,
I'm a witness for you." "Of course. Thanks, Ray. And thanks for helping me
tonight." "I'm flattered you thought of me. Are you done with your
milk?" Patrick nodded and handed over the empty mug and started to settle
down, pulling the duvet around himself. "You can go now, if you like. I
suppose you need to get back to work." Ray didn't move from the chair. "I'll just hang on a few minutes until you go to sleep." |
© E Charles 2009