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Identity Check

Chapter 27

New boy.

A few men had come and others gone in the weeks Patrick had been here, and he'd learnt to understand the excitement the group felt when someone new joined them. It wasn't about 'fresh meat', the way he'd thought when he arrived himself. It was just a fresh face.

This fresh face belonged to young man with wavy, reddish-blonde hair, freckles and a cocky smile.

Strange to see the smile, Patrick thought, when the boy came in with Powell. Most new arrivals looked strained or upset, some with eyes still red from crying. But this guy surveyed the hallway as if he'd come to buy the house and grinned when he saw Patrick sweeping the floor.

"Hi," he said, walking up to Patrick, hand out. "Terry Evans, glad to meet you." He had a west-country accent.

"Patrick Kavanagh." As he shook Terry's hand, Patrick realised that was the first time he'd used his surname in two months.

"Terry," Powell said, coming over and taking his arm. "You can meet everyone later. Let's go and chat now."

"Okay. See you later, Patrick."

Powell kept Terry on a short leash the rest of that day, showing him around, supervising him unpacking, and taking him back to the office. But, like Patrick had been, Terry was introduced to the others at dinner, and chatted amiably to anyone who spoke to him.

After dinner, Powell took him to the confessional and they were still in there when Patrick went to bed a couple of hours later. Terry must have quite a litany of sins to go through. Before he lay down to sleep, Patrick wrote in his journal. All the boys had journals, given to them by Powell with the instructions to write their thoughts and feelings in there every day.

'New boy arrived today, name of Terry. Seems a lively kind of guy. I get the feeling he's going to stir things up around here.' He paused for a moment, pen poised, but went on, recalling Powell's advice to be entirely honest with himself. 'He is pretty attractive. Not really gorgeous looking or anything, but smiles a lot and has a nice body, quite athletic. Outside of here, yeah, I could see me approaching him. He's going to be a test, I think.'

*

The testing started the very next morning. Waking early, and remembering he was on kitchen duties, Patrick decided to go and make an early start. He took his clothes to the bathroom and showered and dressed in there, so as not to disturb his dorm-mates.

Sister Catherine-Peter was already in the kitchen, starting the breakfast preparations.

"Morning, Cat," Patrick said, "Iggy not around?"

"She has a cold," Catherine-Peter said. "So she's sleeping in this morning."

For Sister Ignatius that probably meant to the slothful hour of 7am. "I hope she feels better soon. And I hope we don't all get it!"

Patrick was buttering bread, when Terry came into the kitchen wearing a runners vest, shorts and trainers.

"Oh, hey," Terry said. "Working already? " He filled the water bottle he carried, put it on the table and started doing some stretches.

"What are you doing?" Patrick asked.

"Warming up," Terry said. "If I don't warm up my calves properly I get in big trouble."

"I know you're warming up. What for?"

"Running. Five miles every morning, without fail."

"Er, you know you can't go off the grounds, right?" Patrick said, as Catherine-Peter frowned at Terry.

"Yeah, I know." Terry held a hamstring stretch for a while, then switched to the other leg. "I'll just have to go up and down the path to the gate a few times."

"Does Father Powell know you're doing this?" Catherine-Peter asked.

Terry shrugged. "I dunno." He took a slug of water. "Okay, dudes, I'll be back for breakfast." He left, and they heard the sound of his footsteps fading away on the gravel.

"I think Father Powell will want to have a word with our new boy," Catherine-Peter said.

Patrick thought she was right.

*

"So, you're a runner?" Patrick said to Terry, who was standing by an open French window in the sun room on the back of the house. The French windows gave a fine view of the gently sloping meadow, which led down to a stream marking the south border of the property.

"Yeah," Terry said smiling at him. "Four hundred metres is my distance. I was county under-eighteen's champion last year." He grimaced. "My running club's going to be really pissed off if I miss too many meetings in my first adult season." Then he sighed and looked gloomy, the first really miserable look Patrick had seen from him. "Not sure my mum and dad are going to be happy to pay my membership there any more though. That's where I met my boyfriend."

"Oh." Patrick understood. A few months ago he'd have told Terry to tell his mum and dad to take a running jump, and to leave home if he had to. But that was a few months ago.

Terry stepped outside onto the terrace and looked back at Patrick, giving him a slight nod to follow him. Warily, Patrick did, but they only strolled as far as the low balustrade wall that surrounded the terrace and sat down.

"Okay," Terry said. "Give me the inside scoop. Is this some kind of Clockwork Orange thing? Is the priest planning on putting my brain through a few wash and spin cycles to make me the best Catholic boy I can be?"

Patrick laughed. "No, of course not. It's just counselling, group therapy, that kind of thing. Lots of praying."

"Praying for what?"

"Strength. Will power. "

"How long have you been here?"

"Ten weeks."

"And are you straight yet?"

Patrick didn't answer straight away. Eventually he said, "I'm not certain that's actually the aim. It's more about changing behaviour than changing feelings."

"What if you like the behaviour?" Terry said, with a wicked grin. Patrick blushed and looked away. Were they sitting too close together? Was anyone watching them?

"Terry," Patrick said, looking back at him. "You seem kind of, well casual about this. You're acting more like you're at a resort than a retreat."

"If I was at a resort I'd be demanding to know where the pool was." He laughed, then shook his head and bent closer to Patrick, spoke a low voice. "To be honest, I came here to keep my mum and dad happy. I'm not going to change. I know what I am and I'm fine with it."

"But... you're Catholic."

"They're Catholic. I never really believed all that stuff. Sometimes when I'm running, especially early in the morning, and the sun is coming up, sometimes then, I can believe in a higher power. But all that Virgin Birth stuff and the rest..." He shook his head again. "It's just superstition."

"I think I'd love to be a fly on the wall at your individual counselling sessions with Father Powell."

"You think I'm going to say this to him? Are you kidding me? I'll tell him what he wants to hear. I've already given him a nice story. Seduced by an older guy. Thought I was gay because of that, but I've seen the light."

"Is that what happened?"

"Well he was twenty-two. But I pretty much seduced him. I think he had less experience than me. At least I'd kissed a couple of guys before."

"So he was your first?"

"And only so far."

"Oh. Well, maybe it is only a phase for you. You can't be sure."

"Nah, I'm sure. Known it since I was twelve."

"But if there's only been him..."

"Patrick, you said it yourself." His voice sounded more serious than before. "Feelings are the bits that can't change. Right now I'm sitting here thinking it would be kind of nice to kiss you. That's not going to change."

Shit, they should stop the conversation now. Patrick should walk away. But he didn't. He stayed. Not that he'd fallen for Terry or anything, hadn't been thinking about kissing him. But that honesty refreshed Patrick the way rain refreshed parched grass.

"You can't kiss me," he said, in case Terry actually tried to put his thoughts into action.

"Okay," Terry said, with a shrug.

"What about your, erm, boyfriend." The word had become harder to say. Powell didn't like it; thought it too 'cute'. "Don't you miss him?"

"Not very much. He was getting to be kind of a pain in the arse. Too clingy. I just hadn't figured out how to break up with him yet. That's one reason I figured a few weeks here away from him would be good for both of us."

"Heck of a way to break up."

"Running's what I'm good at."

*

Patrick found group therapy the hardest part of the program and he'd even refused to go a couple of times, after an especially fraught session, but Powell never let him stay away for long. The first one that Terry attended turned out to be the worst so far.

People called you on your shit, that was the thing. Powell did in the private sessions too - and Patrick wondered how well Terry would do with his plan to bull the priest - but at least that was in private. Here you got called on it in front of everyone and it led to a couple of difficult scenes.

It was only natural that some of the residents didn't get on with each other. Mostly people kept away from anyone they didn't like, but in group, that wasn't an option.

The one Patrick didn't get on with was named Chris.

"He's doing it again," Chris said, interrupting Patrick, who'd been talking about his relationship with Simon.

Patrick scowled at him. Tall and well-built, with a strong, handsome face, Patrick might well have tried to pick Chris up in a club back in the old days. Until he found out how obnoxious he was. Or maybe that was unfair. Maybe he just reminded Patrick a bit too much of David.

"What am I doing?" Patrick demanded.

"Talking about 'making love'," Chris said, doing air quotes as he said 'making love', which made Patrick want to punch him in the face.

"That's true," Powell said. "You still have a tendency to romanticize the relationships you're describing."

"That one was romantic!" Patrick insisted.

"Yeah, but you say it all the time," Chris said. "You talk about any random shag like you're Romeo and Juliet."

"Chris," Powell said, in a warning tone, making the other man sit back, arms folded, legs stretched out. Powell turned to Patrick. "How many men have you had sex with?"

"I'm not answering that!"

"Lost count already?" Chris said, quietly. Patrick started out of his chair until Terry's hand on his arm restrained him while Powell gave Chris another sharp warning, then turned back to Patrick.

"I don't expect you to answer. But my next question is: how many of those men did you love? If the answer is not the same number, then the rest of those times you can't call it 'making love'."

"Good grief, semantics much?" Terry muttered.

"Terry?" Powell said, "did you want to add something?" Terry opened his mouth to reply, but then subsided, shaking his head.

"It's a common strategy of self deception," Powell said, addressing the whole group now. "To claim romantic justifications for sin. It's an act of love we tell ourselves. It's somehow above mere sexual intercourse. If we're romantic enough..." He glanced at Patrick, who knew that included him for sure. "We can convince ourselves that if we find a man we truly love it can't be a sin at all."

"Mr Right," Patrick muttered, recalling how he used to think he'd found him.

"Yeah," Chris said. "In your case as long as he's got a mirror surgically implanted in his stomach, you'd never get off your knees."

Patrick shot off his chair too fast for Terry to catch him this time, but another man stepped up and blocked him from getting to Chris as he rose too.

"You want to take this outside, funny man?" Ridiculous, of course. Chris was way bigger than him and would pound him in a fight, exactly as David had.

"That's enough!" Powell snapped. "This session is over. Patrick, Chris, I'll see each of you in my office. Chris, you first. Patrick, wait in the dorm."

Pulling away from the man holding him, Patrick wheeled around and strode out. He stamped up the stairs to the dorm and threw himself down on his bed. His fist slammed into the pillow several times, trying to channel that fury. Shit! What the hell was the matter with him? He'd never been so short tempered. Shouldn't this place be bringing peace to his soul?

"Patrick?"

The west-country voice made him look up to see Terry there, holding a steaming mug.

"Iggy made this for you. Some kind of herbal tea. It smells horrible."

"You're really selling it, Terry." Still, he couldn't help but smile at Terry's terrible sales patter. He already knew all about Sister Ignatius's strange herbal brews. They did smell and taste horrible, but the heat was soothing, so he held out his hand to take the mug from Terry. Terry handed it over and sat on the next bed.

"You know, we're not supposed to be alone together in the dorms," Patrick pointed out.

"I promise not to seduce you." Terry lay back on the bed, arms up behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles. "So does group therapy always resemble an ice hockey game then?"

"Not usually quite that bad. But it can get pretty intense."

"That Chris is a right prick."

"Please don't say prick." It wasn't that he objected to the profanity, just the images it conjured.

"Sorry," Terry said, looking across at him, smirking.

"No, I'm sorry. I'm just... kind of tense."

Terry snorted. "Well, duh! You've been here for weeks and I assume you haven't had sex in all that time."

"Of course not."

"And getting any privacy is hard, so you probably can't even wank much."

"Terry!"

"And you're in a house with a dozen other sexually frustrated blokes. Of course you're tense!"

Patrick sighed. Well there was that of course.

"They could make a reality show out of this place," Terry said. "Gay Big Brother – the Jesuit edition." He chuckled and Patrick smiled wanly. "I bet you're having some filthy dreams."

"Oh, god, don't even talk about it!" Patrick protested. "Orgies involving every man in the house."

"As long as they don't involve the nuns, I'm up for it."

Patrick nearly snorted the herbal tea out of his nose. "No they certainly don't!" He looked at the grinning Terry and shook his head. "You remind me of a friend of mine."

"He's fantastically sexy as well is he?"

"No." If only he had been. Maybe Patrick wouldn't have screwed up so bad. And if he'd spotted there was more behind Phil's jokey flirting... "But he talks a lot. And a lot of it is putting on a show." Pretending he's not so easily bruised.

Terry leaned up on his elbow. "I put on a show?"

"You told me yourself you've only had the one boyfriend, and that he was inexperienced too. But you talk like you've been on the scene for years and know all about sex."

"I thought the group therapy session was over?" Terry lay down again, looking disgruntled. He sighed. "You're right though. I've got a big mouth, but I don't know shit. I haven't even..." He stopped and looked at Patrick. "Um, should we be talking about this?"

"Probably not."

"Want me to stop?"

"I'll tell you when I want you to stop."

"Okay." He slithered off the bed suddenly and came to sit on the floor beside Patrick's bed. His voice dropped conspiratorially. "I was going to say, I've never actually been fucked. You know, actual penetration. Or fucked someone else. I wanted to, but my boyfriend wasn't keen. He should be the Catholic, he's way more sexually repressed than me."

"Terry, I've met drag-queens who are way more sexually repressed than you."

"Hah. Well, anyway, that's my big confession. I'm practically a virgin!" He gave a long-suffering sigh. "And if I stay here too long and Powell works his voodoo on me, I'll never get it! How is that fair?"

"Terry, it's a sin."

"And according to everything I've read it's the most fun one of all." He glanced over at the door, to make sure nobody was coming in. "You're quite experienced then? I mean from what Chris was implying..."

"Yeah, I'm a real slut," Patrick said, bitterly.

"No, sorry," Terry said, looking confused. "Um, I'm sure he was exaggerating. But, you are experienced."

"Yes." He knew what the follow up question was going to be, and maybe he should end this now, but he couldn't. Memories were flooding him. Memories he'd tried to repress for months and now Terry's questions were stirring them back up.

"So is that as good as people say then? The penetration?"

Terry was close. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to pull him onto the bed, rip his clothes off and show him exactly how good fucking was. He wasn't the best-looking man here, but that lean, runner's body, God, those strong legs...

"Terry," he said, hoarsely. "We need to stop talking about this."

"Fuck that," Terry said. "I need a cold shower. Unless you want to share a hot one."

"I think someone would notice."

"Well, we'd give them a hell of a show before they threw us out, bag and baggage."

"Oh, Christ, Terry," Patrick groaned. "I think you're a fiend come here from Hell to tempt me."

"Nope, I'm from Exeter, not Hell. I'll admit, at times the differences are hard to spot."

A door slamming somewhere on this floor made them jump and Terry scrambled away, back onto the other bed, lying there, relaxed as you please. Oh, this boy had to get out of here, Patrick thought. Because the thought of Powell's 'voodoo' repressing that spirit worried him more than the idea of Terry going to hell.

Another of the residents, Grant, came in and looked at them narrowly. Patrick sat up, assuming he was being summoned to Powell's office for his reprimand for the near-fight earlier.

"I'm telling you," Terry said, making a show of not noticing anyone had come in. "He should have been sent off, bloody diving French bastard..." He 'spotted' Grant. "Oh, hi."

"Patrick," Grant said, ignoring Terry's greeting. "You need to come downstairs. You've got visitors."

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© E Charles 2009