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Identity Check Chapter 28 |
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Visitors? It had to be his mother and Alistair, Patrick supposed. Nobody else even knew where this place was. He'd written to Nick to tell him not to worry, that he was fine, but hadn't included the address, so it couldn't be him. It wasn't Nick. "Pat!" Nick called, catching sight of him. The others all turned to stare up at him too, as Nick ran up the stairs and grabbed Patrick into a hug, laughing and slapping him on the back. "Oh, man, you're okay!" Patrick fended him off after a second. "Nick, what the hell are you doing here?" "We... um..." Nick gave a sheepish smile and blushed as he moved down a couple of steps. "We came to rescue you." "Rescue me?" Patrick said, astonished. Then he laughed. Partly from the sheer joy of seeing Nick again – of seeing all of them - and partly at the absurdity. "I think you got the wrong end of the stick. The Catholics aren't some dangerous cult I've been sucked into, you know. There's at least a billion of us." "I'll concede the 'cult' part," Nick said. Behind Patrick, Terry chuckled at that. "Are you two going to stand up there all day?" Colin called. "I'm getting a crick in the neck." They came down the rest of the stairs into the hall and his friends surrounded Patrick, making Powell frown, probably watching who was putting their hands where, Patrick thought as he embraced Colin and shook hands with the others. "Tom, how on earth did you end up on this little adventure?" Patrick asked, shaking hands with the man he'd only met a few times and only knew through Ray. Why would he even care enough to come along? "I'm the wheel man," Tom said. "I have a van, so I got roped in to drive. But, hell, wouldn't miss it. All contributes to the weirdness of life." Phil. He shook Phil's hand, searching his face. Did he still wear that wounded expression he had the last time Patrick saw him? Perhaps Patrick's absence had helped him come to his senses. "Phil. How's your mother?" That had to be the first question of course. And he didn't dare ask the other. How are you? Patrick had prayed very hard for Phil, wishing he'd had the nerve to see him again before running away, to try to make things right between them. "She's not too bad right now," Phil said. "In remission. Even able to use crutches instead of the chair quite often." "That's great. And... and you?" Make it sound harmless. Like a question about his health. "I'm about the same, Patrick," Phil said, looking him in the eyes, no tremor in his voice to betray his emotions. "Don't see that changing." Something stirred in Patrick, like a blossom opening in the warmth of the sun. Clear message there. Phil feels the same way as before. That isn't changing. That should upset him. But to be loved, really loved, not a brief infatuation - no, a serious, unwavering love... How could anyone not welcome that? He shook himself when he heard Powell clear his throat. Damn, how long had Patrick been gazing at Phil? Powell knew about Phil, and his confession and Patrick's rejection. The rejection that broke Phil's heart and Patrick's spirit with only the words 'I'm sorry'. "Well, since you're here..." From Powell's tone he wasn't happy about it, but here they were. "Let's sit down. Terry, can you bring us all some tea?" Terry, who'd been standing at the foot of the stairs, watching the mob scene, counted heads and hurried off in the direction of the kitchen. Powell led Patrick and the rescue party through to the small lounge at the front of the house, empty right now. "Can I ask how you found us?" Powell asked as everyone found places to sit, stand or lean on. "Pat sent me a letter," Nick said. "Mentioned your name and the postcode gave us a general area." "That letter was six weeks ago," Patrick said. "It took you this long to figure it out?" "It took us this long before we happened to mention it to Ray and he suggested we use the Catholic Directory to look Father Powell up." "It's online now," Ray said, from where he stood by the piano that Tom had naturally gravitated towards and sat in front of. "Ah." Powell sighed. "It's hard to stay hidden in the Internet age." "I usually find that only people with something to fear or be ashamed of want to stay hidden," Ray said. "Or those who simply seek peace and isolation away from society's distractions," Powell countered, giving Ray a searching look. He's nervous of Ray, Patrick realised. Not of his physical stature, he doesn't think Ray's going to beat him up, but he knows Ray's Catholic, that he's heard all of this before. "Okay, Patrick," Nick said. He'd stayed standing, looked too wired to relax. Phil stood beside him. They glanced at each other and Phil nodded to Nick. Nick knows. Patrick saw it in that glance. Nick knows about Phil's feelings. What the hell's been going on back in Newcastle? Nick nodded back and turned to Patrick. "I'm asking you to come home with us now." All eyes turned to Patrick and the very air seemed to grow still in his throat as the moment stretched, as they waited for his answer. "No. I can't come back yet. I'm not done here." Some relief came from Powell's direction, but the others weren't happy. Nick folded his arms, scowling. Phil drifted away from Nick's side to the window and sat on the sill, looking down. Ray and Tom looked at each other, but kept quiet. Tom wouldn't interfere much, Patrick guessed. He'd come as the driver and as moral support, but he'd stay out of it otherwise. Russ seemed to be keeping a closer eye on Powell than on Patrick, as if watching for an attack. Before they could go on, Terry came back, dragging the wooden trolley from the kitchen with the tea things on it and a plate of biscuits. He started pouring and then handing out the tea and offering the biscuits. "Look, can you talk freely in front of him?" Nick asked, casting a glance at the priest as he took a custard cream from the offered plate. "Thanks, ah, Terry." "Of course I can!" Patrick protested. "Come on, guys, this is nuts. I don't need rescued. I came here because I want to change. I know that there's no way I can convince any of you that that's possible. But I believe I can." They all gave him dubious looks. "You really expect us to believe that this is working for you?" Russ said. "That you're going to leave here as a straight guy?" "I'm going to leave here as someone who no longer leads a homosexual lifestyle, or looks for sex with men," Patrick replied. He hoped not to sound insulting. Love the sinner, hate the sin. "I hope I'll even be strong enough to help you too, Russ, to change -" "You even try that and you can be sure you'll never see me again," Russ said, voice harsh, standing up from his chair. "I don't need your preaching, I'm not even your faith." "I'm fairly sure the Jewish faith doesn't approve either," Powell said, quietly. Russ glared at him. "You can't deny that's true, Russ," Patrick said. "You told me you don't get on with your parents because of it. Maybe you should approach your rabbi for advice and -" "And maybe you should stop talking about stuff you know nothing about, before you really piss me off." "Russ!" Ray snapped. "Sit down." Russ looked startled at the reprimand, but subsided into his seat without a protest, reacting on instinct to the tone of command in Ray's voice. "Ray," Patrick said. "You know that it's possible to have these feelings and never act on them. You told me you never acted on them while you were in the Army." "Yes, that's true," Ray said. "But..." His expression froze, then a flash of pain, gone almost before Patrick saw it, flickered in his eyes and he spoke again, quietly. "What I haven't told you is that more than once I held a weapon to my head and almost pulled the trigger, because I didn't think I could take being a prisoner in my own mind any longer." The room hushed and the tension rose again as the others stared in shock at hearing such a revelation from the strong man who showed no weakness. Only Tom barely reacted. His face became tense and he briefly touched his lover's hand, but nothing else. "What stopped you?" Patrick asked, needing to know that. If he should ever reach such a point himself, then he needed to know how to escape. Prayer? Knowledge of God's love? That if he could hold out and be strong God would reward him? "Fear," Ray said, his voice and face bleak. "Fear of hell." He looked at Powell. "Is that what you're teaching this boy, Father? To repress who he is, because if he doesn't the devil will take him?" "Are you telling me that you no longer fear hell yourself, Mr Bennett?" Ray didn't answer that. He turned to Patrick. "Patrick. I've seen your spirit. I've heard your voice. Don't let him crush one and silence the other." "Look," Nick said, frowning, looking impatient with all this spiritual and religious stuff. "What we're talking about here is repression. Stifling your natural feelings. Your genetically determined nature." He glared at Powell as if waiting for a challenge. When one didn't come, he went on. "If you do that you'll make yourself ill. Feelings don't just go away, they'll be expressed in... in distorted, dysfunctional ways. He should know that, if he really is a psychiatrist." He stabbed a finger in Powell's direction. "He's trying to make you neurotic and that's so unethical, I can't even begin to say how disgusted it makes me." "Nick, Father Powell was studying Freud when you were still trying to eat your 'My First Alphabet' books," Patrick said, smiling, amused at Nick thinking a med school module in Human Behaviour would allow him to debate an actual psychiatrist. A chuckle from the doorway made him realise Terry was still there, leaning on doorframe, watching the whole show like it was a play. Nick didn't find it so funny, his face dark, arms folded. Damn, I insulted him, didn't I? Patrick thought. Me and my great big mouth. He shouldn't be mocking Nick for taking on Powell, he should be impressed with him for even trying. How angry and afraid he must be for Patrick. That made him wish he could think of something to say to stop Nick feeling that way. But that was Nick's point, wasn't it? And Powell's, even if they were on opposite sides. That one can't magic feelings away. He glanced over to the window. Phil was standing with his back to the room, looking out of the window. If Patrick could magic Phil's feelings away, would he? Give him peace, instead of the ache of unrequited love? But would Phil want that? And did Patrick really want that? To destroy love? He sighed and shook his head, looking back at the others. "Okay, I'm not going to preach anymore, or argue about it. I just want you all to understand that right now, I'm where I need to be. I belong here." "You belong here?" Phil turned away from the window as he spoke. Slowly at first, but with a quickening pace he strode across the room to Patrick and stopped in front of him, arms length away. Such a strange look in his eyes. Anger, desperation, other unidentifiable things. "Patrick, I'll believe you belong here, if you can look me in the eye and tell me that you're happy you'll never do this again." One more step, closing the distance between them. Before anyone could stop him, Phil pulled Patrick into his arms and kissed him. Patrick expected Powell to drag them apart at any second, but he didn't. Hard to talk about "any second" as time vanished. Space too. All the people in the room, in the world, gone. Darkness when he closed his eyes and then whiteness, snow-blind and lost in joy. He barely remembered their other kiss. Too quick. Too confused. This kiss he'd never stop remembering. "Phil..." he whispered, opening his eyes, as Phil moved away, only a step away, Patrick's hands on his arms preventing him from going any further. But the room came back when he opened his eyes. The others in the room, stares and smile and a glare from Powell. Movement caught his eye, made him turn to see Terry running off. Phil stepped away, out of Patrick's grip, as Patrick faced him. Patrick knew what he wanted to say, but knew what he should say, knew what Powell wanted to hear him say. "I... I forgive you for that, Phil." Phil snorted and stepped away. He strode back to the window, looking outside again. "I understand what you're trying to do, Phil," Patrick called after him. "All of you. And I know why. I know it's because you care about me and you think I'm... well, in some kind of danger here. But I'm not. I can walk out of here any time I want. But I'm choosing to stay. Please accept my choice." Nick came over and put a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "I want you to come back. I just want you to know that that's what I want. I want you to know that you're welcome back." "I know, Nick, I know. And when I'm ready to leave, I will come and see you." "Oh you have to," Nick said, with a weak smile. "Because I happen to have your laptop in... let's call it protective custody." "I left my laptop at my mother's. How did you get it?" "I may have gone racing down there like a nutter to try to find you that day you left." "And took my laptop hostage?" "We've got your phone too," Colin said. "I threw my phone in the bin," Patrick said. "You found it?" "Well, when I tried to call you and the bin started ringing it was kind of a giveaway," Nick said. "It had fallen into a cereal box so was still working. And amazingly enough, Colin still hasn't sold it on eBay." "He might as well," Patrick said. "David has the number, so it's useless now." "Actually, he's stopped calling," Nick said. "I told him you'd left and he kept calling for a couple more days and then just stopped. I guess he got the message at last." "That's good. Well, I'll definitely come to claim my laptop." He gave Colin a glare. "You sell that on eBay and you're -" "Hey!" Colin raised his hands. "Actual larceny is beneath me. But we did figure out your Facebook password and went in and changed your profile to 'straight'." He laughed and the sound turned nervous as the joke hit too close to home. "Um, yes..." Patrick said. "Well, that will save me a job later." The second joke fell more flat than the first, leaving them all tense, until a whooshing sound from the window made everyone look at Phil, and the window blind that had suddenly unfurled, dimming the room. He must have been fiddling with the cord. "Sorry," Phil said, voice sheepish, trying to raise the blind again. It came up a few inches, on a slant and stuck. "Leave it," Powell said, "I'll fix it." He rose from his chair, signalling it was time for the failed rescue party to leave. One by one they shook hands and exchanged goodbyes with Patrick. Ray shook Powell's hand, the only man who did. Nick gave the priest an especially dirty look. They think he's my jailer, Patrick thought. That's how they all see him. Even Tom gave Powell an unfriendly glare as they all left the sitting room and trooped outside to where Tom's camper van waited. After final goodbyes its big engine spluttered as it moved off with a crunch of gravel under the tyres. "Wait!" Patrick jumped at the shout, wondering for a second if it came from himself, his unconscious yelling out for them to stop and take him with them after all. But it came from Terry, who shot out of the door, pushed between Patrick and Father Powell and hurtled after the van. The brakes squealed and it halted, Terry skidding on the gravel and almost slamming into the back of it. The back window opened and Russ, Phil and Colin hung out of that, while Ray and Nick climbed down out of the door. "Please, take me with you," Terry said. He hefted the big holdall he carried. "Patrick might not want to leave, but I do." "Terry! No!" Patrick yelled running to catch him. Powell followed more slowly, but neither of them reached Terry, because Ray stood between him and them. "Terry," Powell called, scowling at Ray. "Don't do this. We should talk." "Sorry, Father, I'm done talking already. Patrick!" He waved. "It was great to meet you, but I have to go. Your friends seem cool, so I think I'll hitch a ride." "Your parents..." Powell started. "I'll call them," Terry said. "Don't worry." He turned to look at Nick. "Can I come?" "Are you eighteen?" Ray said over his shoulder, still standing between Powell and Terry. Understandable he'd ask, Patrick thought, since the freckles and the cheeky grin gave Terry a boyish quality. "Of course I am," Terry said. "You want my ID?" "He's an ex-bouncer," Colin called. "Asking for proof of age is in his blood." "Then nobody can call it kidnapping," Ray said, giving Powell a look as if daring him to challenge that. No challenge came. "Okay," Ray said. "Get aboard, kid." Terry whooped with delight, heaved his bag inside, then climbed in after it. Ray and Nick looked at each other as if they were already wondering if this was a mistake, but then Ray gestured to Nick to get back into the van and with a last wave to Patrick, he did. The van pulled away, and vanished down the track to the gate. The 'rescue party' with the wrong rescuee. Though Powell asked him to come inside, Patrick stood there for a long time, looking at the tracks left in the gravel. * Patrick stood by the window in Powell's sitting room, still looking at those tyre tracks, showing up clearly in the slanting light of the late afternoon. How tempting that had been, the idea of going back to his house, his room, and all those familiar, friendly faces. But he'd committed himself to Powell's program. To have gone with them would have been to admit he didn't know his own mind. Would have made them quite sure Powell was brainwashing and indoctrinating him. They'd have thought him weak and easily led. And he wasn't. Not any more. He'd spent nearly a year out in the world trying to figure out who he was. What clothes to wear, music to listen to, websites to visit, and clubs to attend. What coffee or beer to drink. Who to see. Who to be friends with. At the end he'd still been confused. If he couldn't deal with the gay lifestyle then was he really gay at all? Was he trying to fit himself in somewhere he didn't belong? That had to be a message, didn't it? When he came here he stopped listening to all those other voices. Not because he started listening to Powell, but because he started listening to his own. The voice of his soul. Powell taught him to examine his conscience every day and listen to his own voice. 'I've heard your voice,' Ray said. But had he really? Was that just his own wishful thinking? Ray had as much of an agenda as Powell had. So did all of the others, however much they loved him. Even Nick, an atheist, convinced the program was some kind of oppression and brainwashing, even he had his own reasons for asking Patrick to leave. "How do you feel about Terry leaving?" Powell said. He hadn't spoken for a while, perhaps waiting for Patrick to finish his contemplation of the driveway. "To be honest... I'm surprised it took this long. What was it, a week?" "Six days." Powell chuckled softly. "No, his heart wasn't really in it. I think he wanted to please his family, no more." That was exactly right, Patrick knew, though didn't confirm Powell's suspicion. "Terry clearly isn't ready to change yet," Powell said, more seriously. "I hope one day he will be and I hope he doesn't have to go through too much pain and misery before that." Would he though? Terry was thick-skinned as a rhino and even less sensitive than Patrick. He's probably sail through life and never feel pain or misery unless absolute catastrophe hit him. How would he have coped with a situation like the one with David? Would he have ended up crying on the kitchen floor? No, he'd have gone to the police at the start. He'd have walked into a police station and told them he wanted to report harassment by an ex-boyfriend and would have been baffled to think there was any reason to feel embarrassed. "In a way, I'm glad he left," Powell said, making Patrick turn to look at him at last, surprised to hear him say such a thing. Powell grimaced. "It's an uncharitable thing to say, but I fear he'd have been a bad influence the longer he stayed. He was already having an effect on you." "Me?" Patrick tried to look innocent, though inside he flinched at Powell's perception. "You were getting close, and it was worrying me. I feared something could happen between you two." Patrick looked down at his hands, the fingers entwined. Was Powell right to worry? Nothing had happened, but they'd been... close. Only Patrick's own resolve had prevented it. Terry would have had no qualms if Patrick had weakened. "It could have," Patrick admitted. "I was tempted." "Did he make advances?" "Not as such. Just, you know, signals. And from me too, not just him." He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I wanted to, Father. I wanted to." "But you didn't. Remember that, Patrick. You didn't." Patrick got up and looked out of the window again, arms wrapped around himself, his eyes not really on the drive any more, but on the sky, over the tops of the tall trees. Powell gave him a few minutes again, then spoke. "Are you ready to talk about the kiss?" "Phil... He's still in love with me." "And you think that's why he kissed you? Because he loves you?" It was one of those questions. The ones Powell thought he already knew the answer to and he just wanted to see if Patrick knew it too. "No. I don't think so. I mean he didn't do it to say he loves me. He wanted to... remind me of what I'm giving up. Not with him specifically, but with any man. To try to make me change my mind. So that I'd go back and, even if it wasn't to be with him, that I'd be doing what he thinks I should be doing. What he thinks is natural for me and that it will damage me to deny." He trailed off and turned back to Powell. "Ah, I started that answer with 'no'. Can I please change it to 'yes'?" Powell smiled. "You can. I agree. Phil loves you and even if he can't be with you himself, he wants you to be happy." "Damn." Patrick sat down on a chair by the window. "I was so blind. That's what he wanted all along. For me to be happy." "But you understand that he's wrong about what will make you happy in the end?" "What?" Patrick said. "Oh, yes of course." God, he wished he had as much heart as Phil, as much love to give. Love he gave so selflessly, to his mother, to his friends, to Patrick, with no expectation of reward. What kind of man could do that? A better man than Patrick. And yet a man with no faith. A man who, if Powell was right, would burn in hell for his sins. All his personal sacrifice, everything he gave to others, would stand for nothing, because he liked to go to bed with men. "Did you like the kiss?" Patrick glared at Powell. How dare he condemn a man with more love in his heart than those oh-so-great Catholics like Patrick's hate-filled grandparents? "Did I like it?" he asked with some mockery in his tone. "Of course I liked it. So what now? Do you throw me out?" "No, of course not." Powell was taken aback at the sudden hostility, he hurried on, with something he'd told Patrick a hundred times already, taking refuge in a platitude. "Honesty with yourself about your feelings in the only way you'll learn to master those feelings." Honesty? Then he should say the kiss left him breathless, stunned. Not simply that it was a good kiss, but the audacity of the gesture. His body had thrilled to the touch of those lips on his and to the excitement of the dramatic moment. "I liked the kiss," he said, his voice quieter now, losing the confrontational tone. "I liked it a great deal." "Are you in love with Phil?" Two months ago he'd have instantly answered 'no'. That had been part of his problem. He wasn't and that meant he'd hurt Phil and hated himself for that. And now suddenly the answer was different. He didn't know that the answer was 'yes'. Not yet. Not from one kiss. Life wasn't a fairytale. Just one kiss couldn't bring him back to life. "Patrick," Powell said, repeating himself, demanding an answer. "Are you in love with Phil?" "I don't know."
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© E Charles 2009