What is the matter little boy? Troubled and restless. What is the matter little girl? Angry and frustrated. There is tension between you both. What is your problem? He doesn’t want to talk and ignores her. He leans on a barrier and stares into the distance. He knows he is being watched but pretends not to notice. You are ruining my night. He’s not in the mood. In years to come, he realises that his petulant behaviour was unreasonable, but by then he will have become the person he wanted to be.
Harry Oldham is writing a novel based on his criminal and sordid past. To do so, he has returned to live at Park Hill, where he grew up, and the place that he once left behind. That was then and this is now, in which the old world collides with the new.(Parts 1 to 14 are available to read in the menu)
Part 15
July 1982
My date with Louise was a disaster.
An Officer and a Gentleman had sold out, and we watched Porky’s instead. She wasn’t impressed, complaining about the hoots and whistles from the audience that greeted each unruly scene.
Louise had a cold, and sniffed her way through the film, and I was in a lousy mood. We didn’t say much to each other, and I tried to make up for the silence by holding her hand.
My heart wasn’t in it, and I didn’t know what I would rather have been doing, but it wasn’t being with the girl that everyone on Park Hill fancied.
I kept thinking about the conversation I’d had with Paolo in the Brown Bear. Nobody had spoken to me like that before, and certainly hadn’t made me question myself.
As I sat in that dark cinema, I thought about Paolo a lot. If I could have chosen where I wanted to be, it might have been with him, and that concerned me.
I tried to kiss Louise, but she pulled away, and when I tried to put my arm over her shoulder, she elbowed me in the ribs. There was a ripple of laughter from behind; somebody was taking the piss. I turned around and there was a nerdy kid smirking at me. I reached over, grabbed him by the shirt until the buttons popped off, and headbutted him on the nose. That was when Louise got up to leave.
When we got back to her flat, Jack was laid on the settee watching the World Cup on TV.
Louise went to her bedroom without saying anything, and that meant that I was unpopular. Jack shunted along the settee and made room for me to sit down. “I take it that your big date didn’t go well.”
Jack was wearing only a pair of black football shorts, and I saw how athletic his body was. He sat with his knees bent, his smooth legs covered in cuts and bruises that he’d got on the football pitch, and for the first time, I noticed how tiny his feet were. These little feet could tickle a football better than anyone.
He pressed his toes into my thigh, and massaged the top of my leg, and I kind of liked it.
“You’re acting like a bum-bandit.” Jack ignored me and didn’t stop.
He looked serious. “The coppers have been around to check that I hadn’t done a runner. They went to see Andy too, but he was out, and that made them freak out a bit. They found him at the shops.”
“What did they say?”
He flashed his famous cheeky smile. “They said that if the Falklands War hadn’t already ended, they’d have sent me to fight the Argentines. That’s what should happen to all bad lads.”
I thought that Jack would make a good soldier one day. He was brave, quick witted, and always eager to please, and joining the army might get him away from here.
“Something’s up Harry, because you’ve been acting strange.”
“Yeah, I guess there is.”
“You can talk to me if you want.”
I desperately wanted to tell Jack everything, about Frank Smith, Paolo and the bad guys who took advantage of me. I looked helplessly at him and could see that he cared and wanted to help. I couldn’t fight back that feeling of love – brotherly love – for someone I’d known most of my life, but there was something else too.
“I’m in trouble Jack and I don’t know what to do about it. And I can’t tell you anything, because if I did, I’m afraid that I’d lose you, and that’s something I couldn’t cope with.”
Jack rubbed his toes harder against my leg. “You’d never lose me. No matter how bad it is. We’re mates, and mates stick together… like we’ve always done.”
Back home, there was an envelope with my name on it that had been pushed through the letterbox. There was a note inside telling me to ring a telephone number.
My parents were in bed, and I had to talk quietly while I made the call in the hallway.
“It’s Harry. What do you want?”
“Harry. Good of you to call. Your next job awaits you.”
I’ve had time to reflect on the time that Thomas spent with us. The blonde French boy had gone back to Paris, and I missed him. I’d forgotten how emotional I could be and fought back tears when he’d said goodbye. The question I asked myself, was why I’d become so attached to him.
Thomas was flirtatious and for the two weeks I thought that it would only be a matter of time before I got to sleep with him. But the two brothers turned out to be alike, teasing, and seductive, without ever doing anything. Charlie had made me believe that Thomas was straight. Either he was lying or couldn’t see that his brother had a different agenda.
Thomas’s unexpected advances went unnoticed by Charlie. Before he left, Thomas had made me promise to visit him in August and was keen that Charlie shouldn’t come with me.
I thought about their parents, and how proud they must be to have two fine looking boys, even if there was doubt over Thomas’s parentage. Did they realise that both sons were philanderers? And would they smile, or be horrified, to discover that a man they didn’t know, had fallen in love with both?
Thomas’s departure made the apartment seem empty, and each time I walked into the living area, I expected to see him with his pale long legs sprawled across the coffee table.
“I am glad he has gone,” Charlie said. “I told you that he would cause trouble, and I was right.”
“What trouble did he cause?”
“You are moping around the apartment because he has gone, and that means that my brother has played with your mind, and you did not resist.”
I could feel myself colouring up and made a pretence of tidying cushions on the sofa. “I’ve no idea what you are talking about.”
Charlie sat cross-legged on the floor and spread his latest paintings in front of him. “Did you think that I could not see what was happening?”
“Nothing happened,” I replied. “I tried to be hospitable towards your brother, that’s all.”
“And yet, you still managed to fall in love with him. You are no different to all the other people that he has tricked.”
“Charlie, you said that your brother was straight, and that turned out to be a lie.”
“My brother will sleep with anybody if he thinks that he can benefit from it. He will sleep with men and women. There is no distinction between them.”
I thought about the private conversation I’d had with Thomas and the stories that he’d told me about Charlie. “It seems to me that you are both alike, and besides, I didn’t sleep with your brother.”
“Then you are fortunate because he does not love you. He loves only himself.”
I slumped on the sofa and watched him make a show of rearranging the canvases. “Charlie, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that you’re jealous.” He tutted but didn’t reply.
I spent the rest of the day writing and tried to keep away from him. We were annoyed with each other, and the limited contact we had, turned out to be frosty. I realised that this was the first time that we’d fallen out.
I went to bed around midnight and expected Charlie to sleep in his own room, the one that Thomas had slept in for a fortnight. I couldn’t sleep, and about one in the morning I heard the patter of feet in the hallway. The door opened quietly, and Charlie came into the bedroom to undress. He slipped into bed beside me, and I felt the warmth from his body.
“I do not like it when we fall out,” he said gently. I didn’t reply. “And I was hoping that I could sleep here all the time, if that is okay with you?”
Harry Oldham is writing a novel based on his criminal and sordid past. To do so, he has returned to live at Park Hill, where he grew up, and the place that he once left behind. That was then and this is now, in which the old world collides with the new.(Parts 1 to 13 are available to read in the menu)
Part 14
July 2023
It was Thursday night, and my mobile rang. I didn’t recognise the number and considered ignoring it. But curiosity got the better of me and I answered.
“ It’s Tom,” said the voice. I’d given him my number, but I never expected to hear from him. “Can I come around?”
I’d met Tom, eighteen and anxious, outside Sheffield Station, and had been flattered that he knew about my writing, even though he hadn’t liked my books.
When the doorbell rang, I buzzed him upstairs, and when he didn’t appear, I presumed that he’d changed his mind and left. Fifteen minutes later, he apologised for losing his way. Tom didn’t seem the kind of person to apologise.
He was dressed once more in matching grey hoodie and sweatpants, smartly finished with flashy white Nike trainers. His blonde hair had been cut short and for the first time, I noticed the faint trace of a scar that ran down his right cheek. .
“Hello faggot,” he said.
“In view of the fact that you’ve not brought your girlfriend, I presume that I can call you a faggot too.” He blushed and sat on the sofa. His eyes wandered around the apartment, taking in the books and magazines, and the laptop that was open on the table.
“There are no pictures,” he observed. I couldn’t be bothered to explain that they weren’t allowed in the apartment. He looked through the large window that framed the city below. “You’ve got a nice view and must be loaded to live in an apartment like this.”
“I don’t know many writers who are rich,” I replied, “and the apartment’s not mine, it’s rented, and that’s about all I can afford.”
“Do you mind if I smoke?” He moved a copy of A Rabbit’s Foot on the coffee table and put his feet on the glass top. If I did mind, it was too late, because he’d already lit a cigarette and offered it to me. He lit another one and blew smoke into the air. He was the first visitor since I’d moved in, and he’d made himself comfortable. “Have you been writing?”
“Would you like to see it?”
“I’m not really bothered,” he replied, but I saw a flicker of interest.
“Why are you here?”
“I thought I might be able to find something to steal.”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” I said, “but I might have to throw you off the balcony if you did. Where have you been tonight?”
“Out with my mates, but I got bored and remembered that you’d given me your number, and I thought that seeing as I was in the area, I’d look you up.”
My thoughts turned to Andy and Jack, and all the time, years ago, when I’d made similar comments. That was another lifetime.
“Would you like a glass of red wine?”
“I don’t drink wine,” he said.
“Then go without, because that’s all I have.”
He turned his nose up when I gave it to him, and then nursed it, not quite sure what to expect.
“What are you writing?”
“I’m writing that book I told you about.”
“The one with the Italian guy in it? The one you fell in love with. What did you call him?
“Paolo,” I replied. “But he’s only a part of it. Lots of things happened.”
“Care to tell me about them?”
I passed him the laptop and invited him to read it. I watched his facial expressions to determine whether he approved, or not, but he didn’t give anything away. He occasionally drank his wine, and each time he did so, he winced.
I made myself busy and left him reading, always keeping an eye out, because I didn’t trust him, and then I asked myself why I’d even let him read it in the first place. He was too young to understand the importance of it; the people, the places, and the stories, all from a different time. It wasn’t likely to interest somebody his age. Yet, I realised, I was still seeking his approval.
Tom kept reading, stopping only once to ask for more wine, until it was after midnight, and he shut the laptop. “It’s time for me to go.”
He was unaware that his lips and mouth were stained red, and I thought that only a short time ago, these would have been the lips of a small boy who had been drinking his Ribena.
“Well? What do you think about it?”
“I don’t know what to make of it. It’s about you and your mates, and how you were a complete nightmare, and should have been locked up, and then you start to get all faggoty with an Italian, who seems like a snowflake, and there are parts that I don’t understand at all.”
“Such as?”
“Like what you were doing in those people’s houses that seemed so bad.”
“It’s late,” I agreed. “You can sleep on the sofa if you want.”
He kicked off his Nike’s and I noticed that there was a hole in his white sock.
“I must be honest with you,” said Thomas. “There was a reason for my visit.” He sat opposite me outside the bar and puffed on a vape. “I came here because my mother asked me to.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She asked me to check up on Charlie because she was concerned about him.”
“Charlie is fine,” I said. “He seems quite happy here.”
“I know that, mon ami, but he is very secretive and tells us nothing. I am sure that he has said little about his life in Paris.”
Thomas was right about that. Ever since he moved in, Charlie had given little away.
He drank from a glass of wine and continued. “Charlie had a difficult childhood. After he was born, my mother became ill, and found it difficult to raise two children. For the most part, Charlie was raised by my mother’s sister, Aunt Celine, and that meant that we were apart for many years.”
Thomas had requested that we have a drink together and had made it clear that he didn’t want his brother around. When Charlie had said that he was going out to sketch, it was the opportunity for us to get together. But I had misinterpreted the situation.
“Aunt Celine allowed Charlie too much freedom and he grew up believing that he was entitled to everything. He was a wild child. He came back to us but found it difficult to settle at home and in school. My grandparents said that Charlie took after his father who was also a wild child.”
“Not like you.”
Thomas laughed. “You might have noticed that I am very unlike my brother. I suspect that I am not my father’s child, and so I did not inherit my father’s genes.”
It was a lot to take in.
“Charlie is clever, very artistic, but he was expelled from school when he was a teenage boy.”
“Why was he expelled?” I asked, feeling increasingly uncomfortable about Charlie’s troubled past.
“Charlie is a seducer, he always has been, and he thought that he could have anybody he wanted. Let me say that he chose wrong and ruined a man’s life. When he was old enough, he moved out of the family apartment and started living his bohemian existence.”
“Where did he go at Christmas?”
“I do not know,” he said.
“He told me that he was seeing his family, but now I know that he lied.”
“He was in Paris, that I do know, but with whom he stayed is something he will keep to himself.”
“I suspect that he was with a guy called Matis.”
“Matis?” Thomas laughed again. “What do you know about Matis?”
“That he is a photographer from Lille and took erotic images of Charlie.”
“I don’t doubt it. Matis is an excellent photographer. I introduced him to Charlie at Christmas because he came into my bar. But I am sure that Charlie will not have mentioned that Matis is married with two young children and is as straight as a ruler. ”
“He didn’t,” I said, “but I suppose that makes me feel better.”
“Charlie wants to be famous, as an artist, a model or by any other means. He may be my little brother but he is also a dreamer.”
It was an afternoon of revelations. “What about you? Where do you fit into all this? I’m finding it difficult to know which brother to love.”
Thomas poured two more glasses of wine, and looked me in the eye. “I shall be gone soon, and I will tell my mother that Charlie is living with someone who loves and cares for him. That he is very fortunate. That she must not worry.” He hadn’t answered my question. “And I hope that you will visit me in Paris, and I can show you exactly the type of person that I am.”
Harry Oldham is writing a novel based on his criminal and sordid past. To do so, he has returned to live at Park Hill, where he grew up, and the place that he once left behind. That was then and this is now, in which the old world collides with the new.(Parts 1 to 12 are available to read in the menu)
Part 13
July 1982 The following day I met Paolo by the fishtank in the Hole-in-the-Road. He was dressed in jeans and white tee-shirt with a pair of dark sunglasses that made him look typically Italian. He smiled, and I thought he was going to give me a peck on the cheek. I was ready to punch him, but he refrained, and my blushes spared.
“Thank you for coming,” he said quietly.
I grabbed him by the arm and led him away from the area.
“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” I told him. I was mindful that Billy Mason might be loitering in these underground walkways and needed to get out in the open, away from the crowds.
I took him to the Mulberry Tavern but the barmaid refused to serve Paolo because he looked underage. I didn’t know how old he was, but suspected that the barmaid was probably right.
Instead, we chanced in the Brown Bear that was quieter and not the kind of place to find the Billy Mason’s of this world. I bought two pints of John Smiths and we sat in a quiet corner looking at black and white photographs of snooker players on the wall.
“What’s bugging you?”
“I’ve been thinking about everything that’s happened and needed to know something.”
“It’s a shit business we’re caught up in. It’s blackmail, that’s what it is.”
“It’s not just that,” he said. “I can cope with everything as long as I know that you’ll be around to protect me.”
“I already said that I’d be there for you, didn’t I?”
Paolo bit his lip and shuffled in his seat. A group of middle aged men walked in and clocked us in the corner. One of them pointed and said something that made them all laugh.
“If they’re taking the piss out of us, I’m going to smash their faces in,” I told Paolo.
“No, don’t!” he said. “Please don’t spoil things.”
“Spoil what?”
“I’m enjoying it here, and don’t want anything to go wrong.”
I took a sip from my pint. I looked at him bathed in the sunlight that flooded through the window.
“We’re talking that’s all. What can go wrong?”
Paolo looked nervous.
“I know that you’ll look after me. But I wanted to ask you something.”
“What’s that?”
“The night that Frank made us kiss felt right to me, and even though you hit me, you didn’t actually say that you didn’t like it.”
“What are you saying?”
“I hated those guys the other night. But I felt something good when I was with you, despite all those staring eyes.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“And I think that you’re kidding yourself, because I wouldn’t be saying this if I didn’t think that you felt the same way.”
This kid was annoying me. I might have punched him, but I’d done that once before and regretted it. I looked at the guys at the bar and couldn’t help thinking that they thought I was queer.
“Do you like me?”
“I have a girlfriend,” I said, “and I’m going to the cinema tonight. Does that answer your question?”
“What do they call her?”
“Louise,” I told him. “She’s called Louise! And I shag her every night!”
Paolo looked hurt. “I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Don’t go around saying things like that. I’m not your boyfriend, and never will be. Get that in your head.”
I hadn’t meant to say it as loud as I did, and people were looking at us. “I need to go,”
“No Harry, please don’t go.” He held onto my arm begging me not to leave. “I’ve not known you long, but you’re my only friend.”
I felt sorry for him. There he sat, angelic looking, with his thick curly black hair and Mediterranean skin, looking helpless. I didn’t know it then, but he had a hold over me.
“Look Paolo. I DO have a girlfriend, and I AM taking her to the pictures tonight.” I’d telephoned Louise first thing that morning and agreed to take her to the cinema. I didn’t tell him that it was a first date, and neither did I say that I wasn’t looking forward to it either.
“She’s a lucky girl.”
“I might be made to act like a faggot, but I’m nothing like one. Why are you interested in me?”
“You’re different Harry. You’re a rough boy, exciting, violent, and handsome. And yet, there is something mysterious about you, almost tender, that tells me that you’re hiding the truth about yourself. That ticks all the boxes for me.”
Not for the first time, and not the last, I was lost for words.
“Do you want to spend the rest of your life being the bad boy?”
“This is my life,” I explained, “I don’t know anything different.”
“You are much better than all this. Better than your friends. Better than the dead end life that you’ve created. I hope you realise it before it’s too late.”
“How do you expect me to change?”
“That’s down to you.”
Paolo had hit a nerve. For the first time in my life somebody was scratching at the surface, trying to reach down to the real me. I hadn’t realised it, but I did want something different to what had been dished up so far.
“For a young kid, you talk like someone much older.”
“I’m from an Italian family, and we speak too much,” he smiled. “But promise me something.”
“What’s that?” I asked, draining the rest of my pint.
“If you’re ever looking for a boyfriend, then please consider me.”
Charlie appears to have moved into my bedroom. It was supposed to be for two weeks while Thomas slept in his room, but there are signs that he’s here to stay. I hadn’t understood why Charlie had boxed his possessions up. It was only his brother who was using his bedroom, and not a stranger. In the days that followed, Charlie started unpacking the boxes and claiming residency.
I walked into the bedroom and there was a pile of books stacked neatly beside the bed. Pasolini’s Requiem, Arditti’s the Celibate, Dancer from the Dance, and Eric Jourdan’s Les mauvais anges. I hadn’t realised that Charlie could read as well as speak both languages. I didn’t realise how pernickety he was either. I looked at his books and didn’t put them back in the right order, and he quickly rearranged them until he was satisfied.
There is also the amount of time he spends half naked on my bed, his head resting on ‘his’ pillows, while scrolling through his phone. I realised that he was updating his Instagram and felt a bit guilty. I’d manoeuvred my way around him blocking me by using a fake account and I could now see everything he posted. I had been shocked at first, photos of Charlie in erotic poses, but something became apparent, and it was that Charlie seemed enamoured with older males, guys around my age, and that gave me hope.
But I couldn’t help feeling that my privacy was evaporating, and that Charlie was hi-jacking a part of my life. Did I mind? Probably not. There was something beautiful about him wanting to spend time sleeping in the same bed. Thomas had said that Charlie wanted to feel safe and that made me feel good. It was also obvious that this was all that Charlie wanted.
I always went to bed first and Charlie would slip into it in the early hours of the morning. We might have a brief conversation, but when he stopped talking, I knew that he’d put in EarPods and was listening to music, and that he couldn’t hear me. He never read his books and that made me realise that the books were for show only. I was happy with the arrangement, that sense of cosiness, but deep down I hoped for something more.
And then there was Thomas, that lanky brother of his, who’d settled into the British way of life, albeit for a brief time, remarkably well. Charlie had warned me about him, but he hadn’t turned out to be like any of the things he’d said. Thomas was good looking and flirtatious, and I had to keep reminding myself that he was straight, but the longer he stayed, the more I realised that I was falling in love with him too. I hadn’t done anything to encourage him, but there were the delicate touches he made, the affectionate kisses, and the occasional tweak of my leg under the table. Charlie was oblivious to it all but to an outsider it might have seemed like something was going on. As two dreamy weeks rolled along, I asked myself which of the two brothers I preferred most, and I found it difficult to answer.
One night, Charlie fell asleep while we sat drinking wine and watching Ripley on Netflix. I decided to call it a night and wandered through to the bedroom. I had barely stepped through the door when two hands grab me from behind. Thomas spun me around, hugged me and planted a kiss on the cheek. It was an enthralling experience and I found myself reaching down the back of his shorts and squeezing his arse cheeks. I expected him to pull away, but he took it in his stride. They were soft and smooth and not what I expected. It was the point that I wished Charlie were anywhere but in the flat.
That was all that happened, but it was enough to send me to bed in a rapturous mood. I’d made up my mind and decided that Thomas was the one I wanted. I recalled something somebody once said to me. Make sure that it is love, not lust. I didn’t care either way.
Charlie crept into bed an hour later and did something completely unexpected. He leant over and gave me a kiss on the lips. I wished he hadn’t because that confused matters even more.
Harry Oldham is writing a novel based on his criminal and sordid past. To do so, he has returned to live at Park Hill, where he grew up, and the place that he once left behind. That was then and this is now, in which the old world collides with the new.(Parts 1 to 11 are available to read in the menu)
Part 12
July 1982
Two days after we robbed the newsagent, the police arrested Andy and Jack. I saw them arrive while I was standing on the balcony. They came in numbers, and I waited for them to come to our door, but they didn’t. They found the stolen cigarettes under Andy’s bed and then they were bundling Andy and Jack into the back of police cars.
“With reputation comes recognition,” said Frank Smith. “No sooner had you done the place over, there were people queuing up to tell us who’d done it.”
Frank had collared me outside the flats a couple of hours after the lads had been carted off to West Bar nick.
“That poor woman,” he said. “She had ten stitches in the back of her head. I hope you’re all proud of that. But I can see that she fucked your pretty face up.” He pointed to the scar on my face.
“That wasn’t meant to happen, but she wouldn’t do as she was told.”
“And now, your mates have been locked up.”
Frank lit a cigarette and leaned against the lamppost. He was in a shirt and tie, and for once he looked like a copper. I stood with my hands in my pockets and felt like shit.
“The question you must ask yourself,” he continued, “is why you’ve not been locked up as well?”
“Fuck you! Is that why you’re here? Have you come to arrest me too?”
“No Harry. I’m here to tell you that you owe me one.”
I didn’t grasp what he was saying.
“How come?”
“You’re not going to be any use to me behind bars, are you? Let’s say that I had a word in someone’s ear and you’re off the hook.”
“And how will I explain that to Andy and Jack?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something, but more importantly I want you to tell me what happened afterwards.” He looked serious. “I want every detail. I want names. I want to know what those perverts did to you.”
He flipped open a notebook and stood poised with his pen. I couldn’t tell him because I was too embarrassed to say.
“When you’re ready,” he said impatiently. “I’ve already seen your Italian friend and after putting on the waterworks he blabbed. Now unless you’re going to cry like a baby as well, I suggest you tell me. Oh, by the way, our little eyetie has a thing about you.”
I told Frank every terrible detail, each name that I remembered, every minute that had passed in that posh house, and I noticed that he didn’t flinch once.
“Keep up the good work,” he said after I’d spilled my guts. He winked. “Not nice, and it will get a lot worse.”
He got in his car and wound the window down. “Watch your back. I hear that Billy Mason’s pissed off that you hurt his girl. He’s not a nice man. He’ll chop your balls off, and let’s face it if anyone needs their balls, it’s you.”
“I hate you. Why are you making me do this?”
“I nearly forgot,” he said, and fumbled amongst the shit that was on the passenger seat. “Paolo wants you to ring him.” He passed me a slip of paper that had a telephone number scrawled on it.
Andy and Jack were released on bail that night. Pending further enquiries, the police had said, but they knew they had them bang to rights.
I nicked a bottle of White Horse from the off-licence and shared it with them in the precinct. I wasn’t afraid of being caught because for the time being I might escape anything.
“How the fuck have you got away with it?” Andy asked.
“I’ve no idea,” I said. “You didn’t grass me up, did you?”
“No mate,” confirmed Jack. “But we’re in big trouble.”
“They’ll know I was involved,” I lied.
“It looks like someone’s looking out for you, Harry. They said that they weren’t looking for anyone else. The woman said there were only two of us involved. You’re a lucky bastard.”
“I feel bad lads. What will happen to you both?”
“Fuck knows. They didn’t say.”
I thought about telling Frank that I wouldn’t play his little game unless he got the charges dropped against them. I knew this was futile because Frank would have to answer to somebody above him.
“My sister reckons that you promised to take her to the pictures,” said Jack. “Is that right? I can’t believe that you want to go out with her.”
Andy looked at me with suspicion. “Fuck Harry! What did I say? Never mess with a mate’s sister.”
I saw that look in his eyes and realised that he was jealous.
“I’ll ring her tomorrow,” I replied, happy that I’d got one over him, but also annoyed that I was stepping into something I wasn’t entirely comfortable with.
Then I remembered that screwed up piece of paper in my pocket.
“I have to make a phone call.”
“Who are you ringing? Jack demanded. “You’d better not be two-timing Louise.”
“As if I would. I need to speak to a man about a dog.”
“We’re losing you Harry. You’re acting fucking weird.”
I went to the phone box on the corner and found that it had been trashed, so I walked down the hill to the next one. I dialled the number and dropped coins into it when it was answered at the other end.
“Can I speak to Paolo?”
“It is me.”
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to talk to you. I would like to see you… before…”
“He’s turned out to be completely different to the person you described.” Charlie had painted a bleak picture about his brother, and so far he hadn’t matched that description. Thomas had turned out to be a thoroughly decent person, and easy on the eye.
“Do not be fooled by appearances. I meant what I said about him.”
“I don’t know whether to believe anything you say anymore.” I was referring to the revelation that he’d lied about visiting his parents at Christmas. He didn’t reply.
Thomas had been here a couple of days, and it was the second night that Charlie had shared my bed. It was strange because apart from one night stands, I was used to sleeping alone.
The first night had been awkward. I’d gone to read while Charlie stayed up late talking to Thomas. I pretended to be asleep when he came to bed. He was wearing only his underwear when he slipped between the sheets, but that wasn’t unusual because he spent most days like this.
In a perfect world, in my colourful imagination, Charlie would have cuddled up to me and we would have spent a memorable night entwined with each other. But Charlie wasn’t like that. He put in ear buds and started watching something on YouTube.
I wanted to touch him, I wanted to say that despite his shady lifestyle, that I loved him. Instead, I was motionless, willing something good to happen, and waited until I fell asleep.
In the morning, Charlie laid with his hands behind his head. “I had a strange dream last night, and I was furious with you. I dreamt that we were in Paris one night, and we had argued, and so I had gone to a bar on my own. In the meantime, you had gone for a walk and met Madonna in a dark alley. There was nobody else around. You fooled together and made silly videos on your phone. You showed them when we met up later and would not share them with me, and I was furious because you do not like Madonna like I do.”
I told this tale to Thomas later that day.
“Charlie has always had strange dreams,” he said, “ever since he was a child. Sometimes he is frustrated because the dreams are not real. Once he dreamt that I had been abducted by a monster that lived in the Paris sewers and was annoyed when he found me drinking hot chocolate the following morning. Be satisfied that it was not a violent dream because he is likely to hit you in his sleep.” He paused. “But he would not deliberately hit someone that he loves.”
“I don’t think for one moment that Charlie loves me.”
“Then he is a fool because he should know that you are perfect for him.”
It had been decent of Thomas to say so, but I couldn’t help thinking that he was trying to flatter me, or at best, flirt with me. I looked at him, dressed in shorts and t-shirt, his pale long legs stretched out before him, and saw how different he was from his brother.
“Charlie can be selfish, and stubborn, and he can be deceitful when he wants his own way. My brother must settle down with a man he can trust and who will care for him.”
“I don’t believe that I’m that person,” I replied. “We’re quite different in our ways, and Charlie won’t be around forever.”
“If you believe that, then you are fooling yourself. Charlie will stay where he is wanted. He is sleeping in your bed and that will make him feel safe. I am envious because that is something I would also like.”
I remembered a night many months before, shortly after Charlie had arrived to stay with me, and we’d gone to a busy bar. Just as we were about to leave, Charlie had gone to the toilet, and I waited outside. I stood on the other side of the street and watched as he came looking for me. I saw the panic on his face when he couldn’t find me, and the relief when he did.
Thomas stood up and I saw how slender he was. He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me towards him and despite his lean frame, I realised that he was strong and broad chested.
“If Charlie is not interested, I might break my promise and sleep with a handsome man.” He gave me a friendly kiss and I could feel his soft bristles against my cheek.
I felt young again, recalling those carefree days when every guy was going to be better than the last one.
Harry Oldham is writing a novel based on his criminal and sordid past. To do so, he has returned to live at Park Hill, where he grew up, and the place that he once left behind. That was then and this is now, in which the old world collides with the new. (Parts 1-10 are available to read in the menu)
Part 11
July 1982 It should have been the perfect summer evening. Large Victorian houses lined both sides of the street that stretched to the top of the hill where a spectacular sunset could be seen. The sun reflected from the leaves of large trees that cast shadows on the pavements, while birds chorused their final songs of the day. Yes, I told myself, it should be an idyllic end to the day. But I was miserable.
The streets of Nether Edge did not belong to me, nor were they willing to welcome me. For a boy from Park Hill, where life consisted of concrete and hardship, these streets were borrowed from another world. I was out of my depth here. I was also tired because robbing a newsagent had been stressful.
A few hours earlier we’d hidden our stolen cigarettes underneath Andy’s bed, not quite knowing how we were going to sell them without arousing suspicion. There was also the woman who’d been knocked unconscious by Andy, and we’d felt bad about that. We were used to dishing out violence to scrap-heap kids like ourselves, but hurting a grown woman was something that we weren’t used to.
I clutched the piece of paper and decided that number 68 was on the right hand side. I walked nervously towards it and felt the cuts on my left cheek where the woman had ripped at it with her fingernails. The bleeding had stopped but it was still tender to touch.
“My god, we’ve got scarface tonight,” said the smartly dressed man who opened the door of number 68. “Come inside, we all enjoy a rough boy.”
The door was shut behind me and I was ushered into a smartly decorated lounge where a video was playing on an expensive looking TV set. I could hear male voices in a room next door, and laughter, and I sat on a sofa that was twice as big as the one at home. I didn’t recognise the film, and it wasn’t long before I realised that it was an American porn movie.
“Would you like anything to drink?”
“I’ll have a beer if you’ve got one.”
“Not here. It’s cheap and nasty. Let me give you a large Pernod because it will help you to relax.”
It tasted like aniseed balls, and when the glass was half empty, the man topped it up again.
“Where do you live?”
“Park Hill.”
“That says it all.” Raucous laughter erupted from the other room as though they’d been listening to the conversation.
There was a weak knock at the front door, and the man flounced away to answer it. I could hear muffled conversation, and Paolo appeared looking anxious. He relaxed when he saw me sitting on the sofa.
“I didn’t know that you’d be here,” Paolo whispered as he sat beside me. The man handed him a large Pernod and poured more into my glass. He looked at us, assessing what he had before him, and flashed a wicked smile. “Not long now boys.”
It was a traumatic experience, one that we’d never forget. Men did indescribable things to us, and a few hours later, we left the house in silence, feeling used and dirty, Paolo stayed close to me, and I saw a tear run down his cheek. We walked for ages, not knowing where we were going, until we found a bus that would take us back into the city.
“Are you okay?” I asked Paolo,
“Promise me something,” he said. “Tell me that you will never leave me on my own with them.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
Later that night, Andy phoned, and I told my parents to say that I wasn’t in. It was the same when Jack phoned afterwards, and when Louise rang at midnight, and my dad shouted to me through the bedroom door, I pretended to be asleep.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 