One of the voices was his father's.
His father's voice.
Craig hadn't heard him speak in seven years. Part of him had hoped he'd never hear him speak again. But now here his father was in the middle of London, on a rainy night, talking to a woman Craig didn't know. He found he was trembling and had to remind himself to breathe. He pressed closer to the door. It was half-open. He needed to
see
his father. Properly. In the light. Whoever it was in there with him would realize soon how cold it was and then shut the door so his chance would be gone. Fists clenched, he eased the door open a little wider.
“...so how much then?” This from his father, his gruff Devon accent wrenching Craig back to his childhood as if he'd never left it. “Don't try to haggle with your price. You're a sinner, worthless in the eyes of the Lord. Damned to hell. I show you mercy when I pay you anything at all.”
As he spoke, he stepped backward where Craig could see him clearly. For a moment, he was seventeen again, desperate to leave but with nowhere to go. Until Michael and whatever had happened to him changed it all. Now Craig could see how much his father had aged—the Devon sun and the life he led had wrinkled his skin as if someone had scored line marks across his face. He looked dirty, unshaven. He probably smelled too.
As Craig took in his father's appearance, the woman he'd been talking with moved into his sightline. A bottle blonde, mid-forties, with a short leather skirt and a red satin top that barely covered her breasts. She stretched out her hand as Craig's father reached for his wallet.
“Hey, bloody cold in here, ain't it?” she said.
Before he escaped into the darkness and toward home, Craig wondered how long his father had been paying for it like this and whether that had added to the reasons for his mother's departure.
Chapter Fifteen
“These things happen, Craig. Even to the best of us. At least he's alive. And you can't know for sure whether he'd have been doing the same when your mother was living with you.” Paul flashed Craig a smile that was at most uncertain as he poured the beer the waiter at Pizza Hut had just handed him. Hey, never say they weren't the last of the big spenders here in downtown north London. Craig ran one hand through his hair. Thinking like that, of course, meant he needn't think about what was going through Paul's mind at the moment. His boyfriend had earlier implied that what Craig had remembered didn't necessarily mean he'd killed someone, but was he just saying this now about his father only in order to make him feel better? Craig couldn't be sure.
“No,” he admitted, “but it felt like a scene I'd been part of before. Well, not the actual scene, just the sense of it. Don't ask me how. I don't know. It's just that sometimes I get....”
It was hard to describe what it was that he “got.” All his life, jumbled pictures had filled his brain, most often when he was tired or under pressure. He'd long since given up trying to interpret them. In fact he'd managed most of the time to ignore them. He didn't know whether they were real or simply dreams. Things he'd picked up from other people or from the atmosphere in the house he grew up in. Something edgy, strange, that didn't quite fit. Though of course most of that could simply be the religious obsession his father had had, and the way Craig had never felt comfortable with it.
“You get a feeling of déjà vu?” Paul finished the sentence as he leaned back in his chair and gazed at Craig. He was beginning to learn that was a habit with Paul.
Craig shook his head. “Not quite, but near that. Sometimes I think I remember things but they don't make sense. When I'm waking up or dozing off, I'll get some kind of flashback in my head, but it's so jumbled that I can't work out whether whatever it is happened once, in the past, or if it's a mixture of memories. Or even if they're memories at all. It might be things other people have said. My own imagination even. I don't know. Of course that might be nothing at all to do with my father's double life. Who can tell? But it pisses me off, you know. All that bloody religion forced down my throat ever since I can remember, and all the time he's ... well, he's doing God knows what.”
Finding the need to swallow, he stopped. He'd never told anyone that much before, not even Maddy. He hadn't thought he'd been going to say it at all but he had. For a moment, the whitewashed walls around him with their modern prints vanished away and he was alone, in a world of his own making.
A subtle pressure on his hand brought him back. Paul's fingers on his. Craig blinked at him. He thought it might be the first time his boyfriend had touched him since his “confession.” It felt good.
“It's okay,” Paul said, leaning forward so the scent of his aftershave drifted over Craig. “We can't change our parents, though God knows at times we all wish we could. It's not your fault. And as for the memory blanks, sometimes things happen. When we're young. Difficult stuff. And we remember it in different ways. It's normal. Part of life.”
Taking courage, Craig turned over Paul's hand where it lay under his, felt the warmth of Paul's flesh on his palm. He wanted to kiss him, but was afraid to, here, in the restaurant. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass his boyfriend, especially with things being tricky right now, or get them chucked out. Lord only knew what the sexual equality opinions of Pizza Hut were, and now wasn't the time to ask.
Stop it, Craig. Be serious about stuff, for God's sake.
“Thank you,” he said. And then, suddenly, something like revelation swept over him. “Do you have that too, Paul? Bad memories of things from when you were young?”
After Craig had spoken, he thought Paul might withdraw his hand but in the end he didn't.
“Sometimes,” he said at last, glancing up before staring down at Craig's arm again. “Sometimes. You see, I....”
When he trailed off, Craig waited for a moment before saying, “Yes? What is it?”
He saw Paul swallow before speaking. “When I was young, I lost my sister. I still miss her even now. She was snatched by someone. I was six and she was nine. She was never found. The family was never the same afterwards. Well, you can imagine. Sometimes I get flashbacks, things which might have happened then but I can't be sure about. I saw a counselor for a while, though I've stopped seeing him now. He helped me work out that the things I think I know might not be fact, but just stuff I hoped for and wanted to happen. It's hard to tell truth from what our minds make up, that's all.”
Breaking Craig's hold on him, Paul looked away and Craig saw his jaw working as he tried not to cry. The waiter chose that moment to bring them their order—salad for Craig as he'd eaten too much lately and needed to be careful, and a four cheese pizza for Paul. They waited in silence for the man to deliver the food and leave. It seemed to take forever but at last they were alone again.
“What was your sister's name?” Craig asked him. He couldn't think of what else to say.
“Teresa,” Paul replied, with a quick smile that vanished almost before it was there.
“Tell me about her.”
Over the next hour or so, while they toyed with their main courses, ordered desserts and didn't eat those either, he did. As he was talking, the pieces of the jigsaw that appeared whenever Craig thought about him—the way he looked, whoever it was Paul reminded him of, the story he was now telling in fact—came together and he realized what he should have realized a long time ago.
Paul was the son of Jonathan Maloney, the judge everyone had heard of—even
Craig
had heard of him, for goodness sake—and the man the media seemed to call on whenever any kind of legal issue needed a sound bite and someone to say it. Bloody hell, Craig had even caught a glimpse of him on TV recently and
still
hadn't made the connection. He was the darling of the BBC and had hosted a series early last year on the law and the people. It had been a hit. As he looked at his boyfriend now, Craig could see how like his father he was: same hooded eyes, same thin wolfish face. Really, it was obvious. He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid as to miss it.
And the story Paul was telling him—slowly, and with several stops and starts—was one that most people knew of, though Judge Maloney never talked about it. The missing daughter, the estranged son. A family privacy guarded. Fiercely. And he, Paul, the man Craig was beginning to love, was part of it all. And still feeling the aftermath.
Paul finished his story. Pushing their plates to one side, Craig took hold of both his hands. He didn't care what the restaurant might think.
“I'm sorry about your sister,” he said. “It's a stupid, pointless thing to say, but I am. I'm also sorry about ... telling you what I'm afraid might have happened seven years ago. God, that can't be making your life any easier either.”
Paul smiled, took a long breath in, as if gathering his strength again. “Thank you. That means something. But I'm glad you told me, Craig, about Michael and ... everything. You're right: it makes things difficult. And to be honest I'm not sure what to think, but I want to help you find out, if we can, and whatever the result might be. Now we can locate your father and see what he knows, the truth will be a whole lot easier to get to.
If
the truth is something you think you can deal with, that is.”
A long silence followed.
This is real,
Craig thought, real in a way he hadn't had to consider before. His head was full of haziness. Finally he nodded.
“All right,” Paul said. “Let's leave it there for now. Though, speaking of fathers, I also see it's suddenly dawned on you who my father is. You've got
that
look.”
“Which is...?” Craig asked, relieved for the lighter turn in a conversation that had suddenly grown in intensity.
“A strange combination of confusion, followed by disbelief, followed by a sudden readjustment. Don't worry. I'm not blaming you, but I get it all the time and—”
“And you're amazed at how long it's taken this airhead model to get to that point of realization?”
Paul laughed, squeezed Craig's hands before letting go. “You're not an airhead. Don't put yourself down. And anyway, it's been refreshing. You like me for me, never mind whose son I am. That's nice.”
Craig shrugged, understanding the subject of Paul's sister was now closed. “Glad to be of service, in some way.”
“Always. But, God, what an evening for revelation it's being. What the hell are we going to do for an encore?”
“Easy. Let's go clubbing.”
They ended up not going to the club where they'd first met, but another one a couple of streets along. The music was just as cheesy though and the beer nearly as bad. This time, Craig bought. Heck, the money his agent owed him had come through only last week. It was about time he spent the ruddy stuff. On a weekday night, the crowd wasn't large, not so early in the evening, and it was easy to grab a table. Even better, one more secluded than the others—but whether that was because of a style decision or because they'd forgotten to change the light bulb it was hard to say. The moment they'd downed most of the first bottle, he grabbed Paul's arm and gestured to the dance floor. It wasn't empty and there was no point talking. Neither of them wanted to and, in any case, the music made it impossible.
A couple of seconds later and Paul was under the flashing lights and in his arms. Craig could smell that aftershave he always wore, wondered if he wore it for him now. He'd told Paul often enough how much he liked it. The heat of him made Craig's skin tingle and he rested his head on Paul's shoulder, kissed his neck. Through the jeans, Craig felt him grow hard. His own prick was already rubbing against his zip. He didn't want to rush anything though, not now. He wanted to treasure each second, just as long as he knew that he'd get to be with Paul at the end of the night.
They moved together to the beat of the music and Paul ran his fingers through Craig's hair before lifting his face up and opening his lips with his tongue. His boyfriend tasted of beer and warmth. Craig pulled him closer and they continued to dance, still kissing.
When—or if—the music changed, Craig didn't hear it. The dance floor got more crowded, the bar became more slippery each time they renewed their drinks, but he kept Paul's body as close to his own as possible, feeling as much of him as he could get to without actually having him here and now. In full view of whichever bugger might choose to look and not caring who knew it. Just how it was before, just how they'd first had sex. Honestly, sometimes Paul made him feel as if nothing else mattered.
It was past midnight when Craig reached breaking point. Early days to leave a nightclub but this time he knew he didn't want to have Paul somewhere public. It mattered too much. So, extricating himself from his grip as much as he could bear, Craig danced him through the bodies surrounding them and eased him toward where he remembered the exit to be.
Paul came with him willingly, dropping their two bottles onto a nearby table as they passed it and laughing at the three blokes sitting there. One of them wearing a scarlet shirt slashed to the waist raised his fist and gave them a thumbs-up sign. Craig hoped he didn't need it.
At the door, near the bouncer, Paul whispered in his ear, “What do you want then, Craig? Do you want to talk to me?”
“No,” he said, taking Paul's head and turning to face him, looking into his eyes. “No. I want to fuck you. Hard enough for you to remember and slow enough for you to not want it to end. I don't know if I can do that for you, Paul, but I want to try.”
He'd spoken slowly and clearly and hadn't whispered. Even though the music was still buzzing in his ears and in his head, Craig knew the bouncer would have heard. And not only him but the blokes trailing through into the club from the outdoors; he could see no one going in the other direction but themselves. They would have heard too. Craig didn't care and he wanted his boyfriend to know it.
Paul released him. He could hear someone snort, say something mocking that Craig imagined the bouncer quelled, but all that was irrelevant. He simply kept on looking at Paul and watched the teasing leave his eyes. To be replaced with something he couldn't interpret. Confusion? Uncertainty? Maybe even respect somewhere in that. If he was lucky.