The Beard (12 page)

Ash shot him a withering glance in exchange. “What do you care?” he said. Each word was delivered with bitterness unbecoming to his personality.

“Sit. Down,” said Tom. “Don’t you dare question me. I was the one who got you to hospital. I was the one who took you in. I was the one who protected you, fed you, clothed you and bought you shitty little magazines as you marinated in your own self-pity. So don’t even dare say one word against me. Now, sit down.”

Ash did a
s he was told. Tom was rarely ever this commanding, so seeing him like this created as much awe as it did outright curiosity.

“Why don’t you tell the police who did it? And I want the truth this time.”

Ash looked up at Tom, his eyes red and his senses dulled. “Because I know him, OK? I see him out and about a lot. We’ve always flirted and I got a chance. But it turns out he’s a massive homophobe.”

Tom looked back, incredulous. “What do you mean, ‘Out and about’? You mean in gay bars or just in town?”

Ash looked to the floor. “No… well, yes. I have seen him in town. But, erm…” He stopped speaking. He looked around the room, his mind full of contradictions and concerns. “I can’t tell you. I just can’t. Please don’t make me. Please?”

Tom was a little unnerved about Ash’s reaction. He’d been sure that there was a reason. He wondered if Ash loved the man, but was sure that even Ash would’ve dumped someone like that. Tom was unsure whether to continue.

“Tell me,” he whispered gently.

Ash looked back up at him, his eyes streaming with silent tears. Each one raced down his cheek in apparent competition with the others. They fell from his face with an elegant frequency. “You know him,” Ash finally croaked and looked to the floor.

A list of everyone he and Ash both knew formed in Tom’s head, in order of their likelihood. “Your father?” Tom said immediately.

Ash looked up at him in shock. “Yes, I was getting off with my father!”

Tom remembered the circumstances of the assault and apologised. “Who, then?” he demanded, his list having evaporated. “Tell me!” he said, raising his voice.

“It was Paul.”

Tom fed the name Paul into his mind’s processor. Not being able to find a match that made sense, he stared back at Ash. “Paul who?” he asked.

It was Ash’s turn to be irritated, as it was strikingly obvious to him. “
Paul
Paul!” he said by means of explanation.

Tom again searched his thoughts and said, “There’s no Paul we know. There’s Paul the landlord of the pub, but I don’t think you know him. There’s gay Paul from the charity and I think the postman is…” Ash looked up. “Gay Paul? From the charity? Him?”

Ash nodded. Paul was a relative newcomer to the group. He and Ash had been getting on well for some time and everyone had expected something to happen. Paul worked in his family firm and was very definitely not out to anyone. The group had tried to be supportive and understanding but, ultimately, it’s hard to reach someone that far back in the closet.

“Gay Paul?” Tom repeated in shock.

Ash looked disconsolate. “It was his brothers and some of the guys from his family’s factory. He saw them and freaked – I mean really freaked. They saw him and he just shouted, ‘This bummer just attacked me! Help!’ And, well, you know the rest.”

Both of them sat in silence. Tom had skipped one week of the charity condom stuffing – the week Ash arrived home – but had kept going since then. Paul had been there every week. He’d asked about Ash and his recovery, but then so had everyone else. His enquiries seemed measured, though, giving no rise to any suspicions. That said, Tom soon realised that it was mostly Paul who’d been keen to know details about any police involvement. Tom was sure that when he told Paul the police had been contacted but that Ash couldn’t remember anything, his mood changed. Tom hadn’t read anything into it at the time, but it was striking now.

“And he kept coming,” said Tom, baffled and bewildered. “What if you had come with me? What then? I mean, who does that and then still turns up, as brazen as you like? He’s got a nerve.”

Ash looked away guiltily. Tom spotted that immediately. “What?” he demanded with a soaring sense of displeasure. “WHAT?” he said again with decided strength.

Reaching into his pocket, Ash rummaged around until he produced his phone and opened it. After pausing momentarily, as if unsure, he handed it over to Tom. “Messages,” he said.

Tom went to Ash’s inbox and saw page after page of apologies from Paul:
Thyll kill me if u tell, I'm so so soz, but I paniced dont tell or me bros will slit me throat.

The list of imploring messages went on. Apology after apology, excuse as a reason, one after the other.

“You can’t tell anyone,” said Ash mournfully. “Promise me?” There was a desperate pause before he repeated his demand.

Tom looked at the phone with a jumble of emotions. To report him, to present this stunning amount of evidence in the
‘whodunnit?’, could see Paul put behind bars. Equally, with his violently homophobic siblings against him, it would be a race to see who got to him first – his family or the inmates. Tom looked up at Ash blankly. He was sure that he should know what to do, but he didn’t.

“Only a coward hides behind that, Ash,” he said finally. “Wife beaters say they’ll top themselves if the woman leaves them. It’s a controlling technique. Forgive and forget now and he’ll do it again. You owe him nothing.” Tom was sure of what he was saying, only not quite so sure about whether it needed to be said. His point was made without any real conviction. Yes, Paul deserved what was coming to him – what he did was cowardly. But… Tom knew many like him who lived in fear, lived in an ongoing state of terror. Could he really do that to someone who, despite what he’d done, would suffer real and profound consequences if anyone found out?

“He’s a coward,” Tom continued, his determination dwindling. “Just a coward.”

“Listen to the voicemails,” said Ash, as Tom was about to close the flip phone.

Tom found the relevant screen, dialled into the system and listened to a dazzling array of recorded calls. Message after message from a man in blind panic.

“He says he’ll kill himself if I tell anyone,” said Ash, pausing to digest what was happening. “I’m not having that on my conscience.”

Tom nodded and closed the phone. It was obvious from the handful of calls he’d listened to that Paul was as close to a nervous breakdown as you could get. “I understand now,” Tom offered quietly and handed Ash his phone back. “You should’ve told me sooner,” he added for good measure, his attention shifting. A hint of pathos coloured each word.

Ash smiled. “And if I had, you’d have gone straight round there and hit him. We had to wait for time to go by. You can’t tell the police and don’t mention it to Paul or anyone else at the charity, OK? No one.” Ash thought for a minute to see if any other names needed to be added to the list. “You promise me?” he asked, the list done.

Tom knew when to play a hand and when to stick. This was one of the latter occasions. He looked up at Ash with a reassuring smile. “I promise,” he said and tapped his hand softly.

“That’s why he wants to see me. He says he wants to apologise in person. To explain.”

Tom nodded without any compassion. “He’s certainly been on edge every time the door’s opened.” He paused, unsure of whether to ask, before adding, “Will you forgive him?”

Ash threw his head back and looked at the ceiling. Turning to look at Tom, he quipped, “Well, we all make mistakes!” It was only when Tom scowled that Ash took the question with the seriousness it warranted. “I don’t know. I might do. I mean, he’s in a shit place right now. I know all about that, don’t I? So maybe.” They both fell silent for a few seconds, until Ash added, “Or I might just
kill him.”

They both chuckled half-heartedly at the prospect. Tom looked down and smiled to himself. He doubted Ash could hit a note, let alone another man.

Tom wondered what the atmosphere would be like in the workshop, with both men knowing but sitting in silent denial. “So, are you coming back tomorrow night?” he asked. 

Ash’s reply was immediate. “Not sure.” His words implied indecision, but his tone was definite. He wouldn’t be going.

Tom nodded yet again. He felt like one of those small toys you get on car dashboards. Seemingly, all he’d done for weeks was sit and nod endlessly at whatever Ash had said. It was, he assumed, an attempt at reassurance, but he was getting neck ache.

Tom looked down and pointlessly studied the detail on his trainers. He’d had them for years and felt reassured by them. Yes, they were tatty but they were irreplaceable. They were comfortable and seemingly always ready for whatever Tom threw at them. Then, with a sigh that seemed to start from his toes, Tom exhaled and turned to Ash. “So…,” he began with a mischievous smile. “Shall we talk about rent, then?”

And with that, the first real smile in months crossed Ash’s face.

Tom immediately regretted mentioning it. It had been an act of desperation. Standing in a circle, everyone had longed for someone else to speak first. The silence and awkward smiles had become so embarrassing, Tom had racked his brains for something to say. “I’m taking in a lodger,” he’d blurted out as everyone looked at him. It was all he could think of.

Someone asked if he’d advertised or if it was a friend. Without thinking, he replied, “A friend. Someone I know from the charity work I do.”

As soon as the words left his lips, he realised what he’d said. Amy looked at him abruptly. He
knew then that he had a fraction of a second to plan where the conversation was going to lead.

Derek started to guffaw at him. “Charity work?” he said, each word laced with derision. “What charity work do you do, eh? You’ve kept that pretty bloody quiet, Mother-bloody-Theresa!”

Tom looked around at the circle of expectant faces, all waiting for his reply.

He sighed. That hadn’t been the intended effect. Everyone was gathered together against their will for a leaving party – attendance at which, everyone had been informed, was mandatory. Thus, everyone was in a state of forced revelry, signs of which were evident across every face present. While loud music could be heard in the pub, along with lots of laughter, joviality and singing, Tom’s team stood in the near-deserted marquee. A few tables were scattered around, upon which empty wine and pint glasses rested, awaiting collection. The marquee was attached to the pub but, with uncut grass underfoot, it lent itself to a carnival feeling. Currently, that felt like the carnival of the damned. A few waiters and waitresses walked past between the pub and the garden beyond the canvas structure. They were the two hubs of activity and the two centres of fun that Tom’s group were excluded from, thanks to Derek. As a result, they all stood in a circle, desperate for something to take their minds off what was happening. Given the collective anguish around, and desperate for something other than Derek to talk about, they all ached to hear about Tom’s charity work. It was a beacon of hope in an otherwise miserable place.

“Oh, it’s a kind of youth thing,” he said, non-committal. “You know, just helping disadvantaged kids.” He hoped this would be sufficiently wishy-washy to not attract any further query. His hopes were ill-founded.

Although muted, the response was immediate. The lion’s share of wives and girlfriends looked at him with adoration. His stock rose appreciably as they offered “aahs” at this announcement. Derek’s response was considerably less respectful. To him, this wasn’t a good thing a citizen could do, just more fuel for the fire. As the women looked on reverentially at this tall, handsome man who worked hard, had a lovely girlfriend and helped those less fortunate than himself, Tom’s work colleagues looked irritated. This revelation made them look bad. They knew that as soon as they got home, they’d get it in the neck: “Why don’t you do any charity work?” Each one, to a man, started formulating their reply there and then, while scowling at Tom.

For Derek, it was open season. “So, you have a kiddie staying at yours? What are you, a kiddie-fiddler?” This comment drew immediate reaction from the group, with partners in particular tutting and sighing to register their distaste. Derek was either unaware of, or unbothered by, this reaction and added, “So, what is it, a young arse to tap, on tap?”

Tom realised that the value of his comments, in the wrong hands, could be toxically twisted. He moved swiftly to rectify the situation. “No, Derek, don’t be sick,” he said commandingly. “He’s another helper at the centre. An adult, not a child –
 what’s wrong with you?”

The simplicity of Tom’s reply served to underline how ridiculous Derek’s comments had been. Tom looked back at him angrily, sensing that it was a golden opportunity to change the subject.

“What charity is it you work for?” asked one of the wives, thoughtfully attempting to break the tension.

It was a perfectly innocent question and one that showed a genuine interest in Tom’s work. It wasn’t, however, the question Tom wanted to be asked. It was a question for which he knew he couldn’t give an honest answer. A Gay Men’s Outreach Project would, perhaps, have raised the odd eyebrow. He imagined Derek’s face at the news. He’d probably spray a mouthful of his beer over everyone in abject shock.