Page 38 of Hard Tail
Chapter Twelve
My legs were a bit stiff as I hobbled downstairs Friday morning, and I nearly tripped over the cat. “Kill me and you don’t get fed,” I warned him. Wolverine gave a solemnmiaowto show he understood. Or maybe it was just feline for “Hah! Your corpse will keep me going forweeks.”
I felt good, though. I’d been out like a light the minute I’d got into bed last night, and if I’d dreamed, my subconscious was keeping the details strictly to itself. I felt refreshed, energised and ready to face whatever the day might throw at me.
Which, of course, it promptly did, just as soon as I’d got in the shop and opened up for the day.
“Er, Tim?” Matt’s voice was diffident, almost nervous. “Do you mind if I take tomorrow off? I’ll make sure I’ve done all the repairs that are supposed to be getting picked up. It’s just, I never used to work Saturdays, before, and Steve’s getting a bit pissed off about it. He wants to go down to Brighton tonight, and we won’t get back until really late.”
“Oh—yes, of course,” I said, trying not to let my disappointment show. It hadn’t occurred to me that Matt might have increased his hours since Jay’s accident—but of course, Jay would have done some of the repairs too, as well as all the behind-the-counter stuff. “Wouldn’t want to be the cause of any domestics.” Matt gave me a startled look. Great. I’d put my foot in it again. “Not that you’d—anyway, that’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
Far from being reassured, Matt looked like he wished he’d never asked. “Are you sure? ’Cause I could always—”
“No! No, I’ll be fine. You go and have fun.”
“Right.” Matt looked more like I’d said “You go and lie down on that rack there, and I’ll fetch the thumbscrews.” “Thanks,” he added unconvincingly and scuttled off out back.
I felt flatter than a deflated inner tube. Okay, so a lot of my time in the shop was spent with Matt in a different room, but he was stillthere. Tomorrow I’d be all alone. No one to talk to; no one to bring me lunch…
Damn. Quite apart from missing Matt personally, I’d got rather used to having at least one decent meal a day.
My depression lifted, however, as it suddenly occurred to me what a golden opportunity this was. With Matt being whisked away for a dirty weekend in Brighton there was absolutely zero chance of bumping into him if I decided to, let’s say, investigate the gay scene this evening.
Just as an observer, obviously. I certainly wasn’t planning on trying to pull. I just wanted to dip a toe into the water; that was all. Definitely not any other part of my anatomy—no matter how much it might perk up at the very idea. As a couple of customers mooched in, I was glad to be firmly behind the counter at this point.
Anyway, it was a perfect opportunity to test the waters without risking it getting back to my family—and one that might not come my way again for a while, I realised. Thank God for Russell opening my eyes to the possibilities.
***
Back home that evening, I switched on the computer to Google the places Matt had mentioned. I wasn’t sure I could cope with cruisey, so I was about to type in El Niño—then I remembered that was apparently Luke’s favourite haunt. Luke was one person I didnotwant to run into when I took my first bumbling steps towards a pinker lifestyle. Cruisey it would have to be. My heart gave a little flutter of excitement at the thought of being cruised—and yes, all right, so did my prick.
There weren’t any pictures of the interior of the Cock online, just one of the outside, from which I could tell absolutely nothing. It definitely said it was a gay pub on the website, though—and even promised a drag act on Saturdays. Fortunately, today was Friday. I didn’t think I was anything like ready for that level of camp just yet.
I spent the best part of an hour worrying about what to wear. Anything too tight, too sparkly, or designed to show off the nipple piercings I didn’t, in fact, have was definitely out, but then neither my wardrobe nor Jay’s contained anything remotely like that in any case. It still left the question of whether to dress up or down. On the whole, I decided,downwas probably safer. I might end up looking like a straight guy who’d wandered in by mistake, but that’d be way better than having obviously made an effort andstillgot it embarrassingly wrong. So I kept the jeans and changed the shirt I’d been wearing all day for an only slightly smarter but, more to the point, fresher one.
Then I had a moment of crippling doubt—maybe the place would have a no-jeans policy? I ditched the jeans and put on some chinos. Great. Now I looked like my mother had dressed me. I sighed and changed back into the jeans. Everyone wore jeans everywhere these days, didn’t they? In fact, thinking about it, I couldn’t believe I’d managed so long without a pair. Wolverine padded noiselessly into the room and wound his way between my legs, the combination of weight and sheer feline bulk nearly making me do a Matt and land on my arse on the carpet. If I’d kept the chinos on, they’d have been a mess, what with all the ginger fur Wolverine was shedding, but luckily it didn’t really show on denim. I decided to take this as the gods’ approval of my sartorial choices.
“You’ll be on your own this evening,” I told Wolverine. “The can opener operator is off for a night out.” He stretched and yawned, as if my presence or absence was a matter of supreme indifference to him, which it probably was. So long as I fed him before I left, at any rate.
I thought about taking the BMW, but would the parking by these places be safe? Cars were just as likely to be gay-bashed by homophobic thugs as their owners were, ifQueer as Folkwas to be believed. I squirmed at the memory of the infamous show, which Kate had been given a box set of by a friend and become inexplicably hooked on. I’d suffered agonies on the sofa beside her, trying not to show I was turned on by the naughty bits and dreading she’d notice similarities between me and the characters and guess my secret.
In any case, I was fairly certain I wouldn’t make it through the door of a gay bar without a bit of good old-fashioned Dutch courage, or at least the prospect thereof. So I did a bit more Googling and found the name of a taxi firm. When the cab arrived, I cautiously gave the driver the name of a pub Google had helpfully informed me was over the road from my actual destination. “The Ship Inn, Jeffrey Street, please.”
He pursed his lips in a manner I swear they must teach them in taxi driver school. “Jeffrey Street? You want to watch out around there, mate. There’s one of them pansy bars—well, it’s everywhere now, innit? Queers. Run the bloody country, they do. If you ask me”—not that I had, or ever would—“they’ll end up making it compulsory one of these days. The only straight people left’ll be the bloody rag heads, and gawd help us all when that happens.”
It was refreshing to discover he was, at least, an equal opportunities bigot. Unaccountably, though, I quite forgot to tip him when we got to the Ship. He drove off, muttering, “Bloody queers” under his breath, and I looked over the road to the appropriately named Cock Inn.
It didn’t look like a queer pub. It looked like a perfectly ordinary English drinking establishment. There were even fewer hanging baskets of flowers out than you’d expect.
Actually, in my admittedly limited experience, the more flowers there are, the rougher the venue tends to be. Perhaps the patrons feel the need to compensate—as if their masculinity has been impugned by all the girly stuff hanging off the place.
Maybe here, the drinkers were pretty enough the pub didn’t need flowers. I smiled at the thought, still standing on the kerb like I was waiting for a bus, and a passing bruiser in motorbike leathers gave me the eye. I blushed like a girl and looked away hurriedly. Maybe I should pop into the Ship after all—just for my first drink of the night. Pushing open the heavy door, I stepped inside the pub.
The Ship Inn, which had seemed like such a safe option compared to the Cock, revealed itself to be one of those aggressively macho pubs I normally give a wide berth to. It was a dingy place with a low ceiling and a sort of spit-and-sawdust floor, only without the sawdust. It was deathly quiet, although I could have sworn I’d heard the buzz of conversation as I opened the door. It smelled of stale beer and the sour disinfectant odour you get in public toilets. As I walked in, every eye turned in my direction, and it wasn’t so they could smile and bid me welcome. The clientele was exclusively male, the bar staff consisting of a bald-headed man-mountain and a hard-faced woman in a push-up bra wearing clothes that were too tight and too young for her. Also, too leopard-spotted.
There was even a grim, unshaven man propping up the bar with a pit bull at his feet, for all the world a modern-day Bill Sykes. I really hoped I was wrong as to who might be cast in the role of Nancy.
I swallowed. No way could I order a glass of wine in a place like this. It was probably a lynching offence for a bloke.
