Identity Check Chapter 25

Identity Check

Chapter 25

At ten the next morning, after travelling since dawn, Patrick stepped out of the taxi in front of his mother's house. The driver unloaded his gear from the boot and Patrick paid him off for the ride from the railway station. As the taxi drove away, Patrick picked up his backpack, case and laptop bag and looked up at the house.

Was this a mistake? Should he turn and walk away now? Go back to Newcastle, send Gwen another email taking back his resignation, tell Nick and Colin he'd gone mad for a few hours, but that he was fine now. Except, he wasn't fine. And he wouldn't be if he went back there. He'd sink deeper into sin and depravity, ending God knows where.

So he took a breath, walked up to the house and rang the bell.

When she answered the door he thought his mother might faint, she went so pale. Fearing that she'd fall, he stepped forward to catch her and she clutched at him as if unsure he was real.

"Patrick?" she whispered. "You're here?"

"I'm here. I'm sorry I stayed away for so long."

She did fall then. Not in a faint, but into his arms, crying. He had no shame about letting his own tears fall this time and just held her.

"Patrick?" Alistair's voice interrupted them. Marion stood away from Patrick, but still holding his arm. Alistair came over, staring and Patrick at once held out his hand.

"Alistair, I'm sorry for the things I've said to you. You didn't deserve them." Dazed looking, Alistair took Patrick's hand and shook it. "May I come in?"

"This is your home!" his mother exclaimed. "Of course you can come in. I'll bet you need something to eat, you must have started early." She tugged on his arm to pull him inside, but he didn't move, still looking at Alistair, waiting for him to speak. After a moment Alistair smiled and nodded.

"Yes, Patrick, this is your home."

Marion brought Patrick toast, biscuits and tea and sat with him, watching him eat. Alistair looking in once, to say he'd taken Patrick's things to his room, then left them alone.

"Mother," Patrick said, after he finished the food. "I don't know how to even start apologising for what I've put you through."

"Oh, darling," she said coming to sit beside him and taking his hand. "You don't have to. I know how confused and frightened you must have been. But you're proud too, like your father was. I understand now why you had to go."

"I thought I could handle it. I did for a while, but in the end it all fell apart." He shook his head as she stroked his loose hair back off his face. "I don't know what to do now though. I can't just go to school and pretend everything is the way it was before. It's not. I'm not. Also... well, Simon lives here."

"Oh, that horrible man." She scowled. "He should be in jail!"

"Mother, I've told you, he never touched me when I was under age."

She snorted. "Perhaps not, but I'm sure he was... what's that word they use? Grooming you?"

"That's paedophiles." Patrick shifted uncomfortably. "It's not the same thing."

"Ugh, I don't want to talk about that filth. But I understand what you're saying, Patrick. You're still confused."

"I suppose I am." He sighed. "I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. Should I hate the people I've become friends with? I can't do that. They're good people. But if I'm around them again I won't be able to resist doing... what I've been doing."

"You don't have to hate them. You should pity them. And pray for them, that they'll find the right path, like you have now."

He flopped back on the sofa, a near sleepless night and an early start catching up on him, bringing bone-deep weariness. "I just don't know if I can stay on that path. Coming back here... I'm already wondering if it's the right choice. Oh, I'm so glad to be with you again, of course. But even here there's temptation. Simon... or just that I'll want to go back. I don't know if I'm strong enough to resist. In fact I know that I'm not."

She held his hand and stroked his hair again. "Do you remember the priest I introduced you to? Father Powell?"

Barely three hours after Patrick arrived, Powell showed up. Had Mother said it was an emergency, fearing Patrick would change his mind and bolt again, before talking to the priest?

"Oh, Father," she said, clasping his hands. "Thank you for coming so quickly. You remember Patrick?"

"Of course. Hello, Patrick." They shook hands, Patrick less reluctant this time, but still wary.

"Have you eaten, Father?" Marion asked. "We just had lunch, but I can make something for you."

"Oh, just a sandwich would be fine, if it's no trouble."

"Well, I'll sort that out while you two talk." She ushered them into the living room.

Powell sat on the sofa, but Patrick walked to the window, not ready to sit yet. Could this be the answer? Go to Powell's 'retreat', get himself some therapy and he'd be 'cured'? He turned to look at Powell.

"My aunt and uncle are doctors and they said if you're really a psychiatrist then you should know better than to think you can cure homosexuality."

"I suspect they probably have different ideas about what homosexuality is than I do."

"Oh, I suppose you think it comes from the devil?" Patrick didn't try too hard to keep the sneer out of his voice.

"In the end, yes."

"So what are you going to do? Exorcise me?"

"No, we have specialists for those jobs," he said with an amused smile. "An exorcism isn't indicated here."

"I know what 'indicated' means, Doctor," Patrick said, folding his arms. "So please don't patronise me."

"Of course not. I apologise."

"So you think I'm sick in the head, do you? Didn't they stop classifying homosexuality as a mental illness years ago?"

"What the medical authorities choose to classify as a disease or not because of social pressures doesn't change the condition. If they decided schizophrenia was no longer classified as a disease would people organise schizophrenia pride parades? Open schizophrenics only bars?"

"It's not the same thing."

"No, it isn't. Though probably not for the reasons you would claim."

Patrick brooded for a moment, when his mother came back in with sandwiches for Powell, and tea and cake for both of them. Shit, I have to leave, Patrick thought, or I'll end up as big as a house. When she left again, Patrick took his tea cup and a piece of cake back over to the window. He ate a few bites, affecting a casual air.

"So, tell me about this retreat."

"It's in an isolated rural area. Ideal for peaceful contemplation and prayer. Up to twenty young men can stay there at a time, but we only have nine at the moment. They're all aged seventeen to twenty-one. I don't take anyone older than that."

"How long do guys generally stay?"

"It depends. Some only a month, others several months."

"What about visitors? Or phone calls?"

"Your family can visit. You can use the phone at certain times and under supervision. Mobile phones aren't allowed."

Patrick snorted, remembering what he'd done with his phone. Not a problem. "It's starting to sound a bit like prison. I suppose there's no internet, radio or TV allowed either?"

"No internet certainly. We have radio and TV." Powell smiled. "I would personally find it difficult to get through a day without Radio 4. We even have a satellite dish and all the Sky Sports channels."

"Oh, well, where do I sign up?" Patrick ate more cake, glaring at the priest.

"The aim is to spend time away from the temptations and distractions of the outside world. So you have time and peace to order your thoughts and examine your soul. To learn to know yourself in a way you can't out here. Only once you truly understand yourself, can you understand why you do the things you do. That's when you can start to change your behaviour."

"That's where the therapy side comes in?"

"Yes. I employ a combination of psychoanalysis and cognitive therapy. I can explain more about those terms if you want me to."

"No shock treatment or aversion therapy, eh?"

Powell looked at him for a moment. Assessing. Or perhaps reassessing. "I think you're well aware aversion therapy for homosexuality was abandoned long ago. And ECT is used in a hospital setting for the treatment of severe depression."

"Are you really a psychiatrist? An actual doctor?"

"Yes. My degree is in a frame on the wall of my office." He smiled. "Would you like to come and see it?"

"Is that your equivalent of asking someone to come and see your etchings?" He winced after he said it, wishing he could take it back. Yeah, flirt with the priest, idiot.

Powell just chuckled though. He put down his tea cup and walked over to join Patrick by the window. They stood side by side and contemplated the gardens, the village and beyond that the moorlands, purple with their blanket of heather.

"It's very beautiful here," Powell said. "And perhaps for some people, isolated and peaceful enough to allow them to find themselves. But not for you. Not now. There's still too much of the world there, in arm's reach."

Patrick thought of Simon's house only a couple of miles away. Simon's bed. And he thought of the village and knew there must be other men like him there, men he now knew how to recognise. He'd run from the city, with its many temptations, but he hadn't run far enough.

"I don't know if you should let me come, Father. With those other boys there, I mean. I can't be trusted. Once... one of my friends, a straight man, a normal man. I kissed him, I tempted him. I'm already trying to... convert other men."

Powell shook his head, smiling. "You're still young. That's what makes it so hard for you to deal with these feelings. But it means you're still open to change too. You're not evil, Patrick. You can change and I can help you." He put a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "Trust me and in a few months, this will all be behind you."

Did he go? Did he leave behind his friends, his lovers, his life? For a better life. And in the end, for heaven, not hell. Some of his friends would sneer at that, but he still believed it.

"Yes. I'll go."

His mother was delighted, though sad to see him leaving again so soon.

"All his things are still packed," she said. "Alistair is bringing them down now."

Patrick frowned, wondering why she wanted to chivvy him out of the house so fast. He'd made his choice, so why the rush? Was she afraid he'd change his mind? Alistair arrived with his bags and Patrick started to gather them up.

"You can't take your laptop, I'm afraid," Powell said.

"If we can't get on-line, what's the harm?"

"Those are the rules."

Patrick shrugged and set it down on a chair in the hallway. "Put it somewhere safe," he said to Alistair.

"All right," Powell said, putting on his jacket and picking up Patrick's suitcase. "You say your goodbyes and I'll see you outside."

Patrick felt rather dazed. He'd barely been home five hours and he was leaving again. His mother hugged him and wept, but with happiness this time and promised to come and visit soon. Alistair shook his hand and told him he'd made a mature decision. They stood at the door waving him off as he walked out with his backpack to find Powell waiting by his small, old car.

"Do you want to put that in the boot?" Powell asked, of Patrick's backpack.

"No, thanks. I suppose you've searched my case already."

"Certainly not," Powell said, opening the door to the passenger seat. Patrick got in and tossed his pack onto the back seat while Powell got into the driver's seat. "I'll search it when we arrive. Put your seatbelt on please."

He started the car, backed up and headed down the drive. Patrick waved to his mother and Alistair until they were out of sight, then turned back to the front.

"Were you joking about searching the case?" he asked Powell.

"Do I strike you as a man who cracks a lot of jokes?"

"Actually, yes."

"Interesting." He chuckled. "You're a perceptive one, Patrick."

"No, I'm bloody well not!" Patrick couldn't help but say, thinking of Phil. God, not even twenty-four hours had passed since that. Was Phil okay? Patrick shouldn't have just left without calling to check on him. "Sorry for swearing, Father. But I'd advise you now, anything you need me to understand, don't be remotely subtle about it. Say it loud and clear and in words of one syllable."

Powell looked amused. "Okay, I'll keep that in mind."

"Good. Then there's at least a chance I might get the hint."

Index