Date: Tue, 28 Jul 2009 07:40:23 +0000 (GMT)
From: Alex Douglas <alex_d0uglas@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: the price pt 5

Copyright Alex Douglas 2009


Author's note: This is a revised version of a previous unfinished
story. It's taken me 6 years to finish it, so finally here it is. All
feedback greatly appreciated. Email me at alex_d0uglas@yahoo.co.uk and I'll
do my best to reply.

- - - - -


Sean spent the next few days visiting Megan and buying baby clothes. She
hadn't bought a single thing while she was pregnant, superstitious to the
last. Lifting the new buggy into the boot of his car, pain bolted through
his leg so hard he sat down hard on the cement floor of the car park,
gasping.

The appointment with the consultant was looming. Two more weeks then
another round of x-rays, poking and prodding. He was scared. Visiting Megan
and helping her was taking his mind off it, but sometimes his leg reminded
him that something had gone wrong: what it would mean, he didn't know.

As he eased himself into the seat, his mobile rang. It was Cal. For a
second, he looked at the flashing name and contemplated ignoring it. But he
couldn't.

"Hey Cal," he said. "What's up?"

The voice was soft and low. "This isn't Cal. Can you come over to ours? I'd
like to see you."

Sean swallowed. "Jeff?"

"No, it's the fucking Muffin Man. Who else?" There was a sigh and the
harshness left the voice. "Look, I'm sorry. Can you come or not." It was a
statement, rather than a question.

"Well, sure." Sean checked his watch. "I'm in town at the moment, I can be
there in about twenty minutes?"

 "Good," Jeff said. There was a pause. Then he said, "Cal isn't here, in
case you're wondering. He went out without his phone again. I thought he'd
be with you."

"No, I'm alone, just buying..." But Jeff had hung up.

"Great." Sean fingered the keys in the ignition, willing himself to drive
off. He'd thought that the appointment with the consultant would be the
most difficult and uncomfortable situation on the horizon. But this... it
was sure to be worse.

All the way to the house, he tried to think trivial thoughts, watching the
rain spatter against the windscreen. Another gloomy day, so much for
spring.  It was all getting far too heavy. By the time he pulled into the
sweeping gravel driveway, he felt like screaming and running away. Cal's
Audi wasn't there. But he forced himself to walk to the front door and
knock. Someone had sprayed "DIE FAGOTS" in pink ink across the bottom. Sean
shook his head. He wondered if Jeff knew about the amount of time Cal and
Jude spent cleaning that shit off.

Jude answered the door. Her face lit up when she saw him. "Sean!" she
sounded surprised. "Cal's out. I don't know..."

"It's Jeff I'm here to see. He called, wanted me to come round." His voice
sounded nervous even to his own ears.

Jude hustled him into the hallway. "Just so you know," she said, "Jeff's
got tumors in his head. If he says anything rude or whatever...just forgive
him, will you?" Her face was white and tired looking, the same look Cal
had. "It won't be long. He's stopped working. They do that in the end, lose
interest in living. I guess it's a blessing." She ran her hands through her
hair. "He's upstairs, in bed."

How many others had she nursed to the bitter end? He paused on his way up
the stairs. "Sorry Jude," he said. "There's more...writing...on the door."

She groaned. "Oh god. Better get it cleaned off before Cal gets back."

The bedroom smelt like a hospital. Maybe it was just the effect of the
machines that made him think that. Jeff was asleep. There were no chairs in
the room so he sat on the bed beside the dog. Her tail thumped weakly as
she pushed her nose into Jeff's hand and closed her eyes again. Jeff's skin
was grey, his breathing shallow. There was a drip feeding into his arm, an
oxygen tube under his nose. He remembered Jude's words. It won't be long.

The bed moved as he shifted, trying to get his leg into a comfortable
position and feeling stupid for all his self-pity. It was nothing compared
to what Jeff was experiencing.

"Cal?" Jeff's eyes fluttered open. "Oh, it's you."

"Yes," Sean said. What was there to say? How are you? It wasn't the time
for pleasantries. Jeff had asked him to come for a reason. He just hoped he
remembered what it was.

Fully awake now, Jeff hauled himself up a couple of inches, then stopped,
gasping. "Jesus," he muttered. His knuckles were white, gripping the duvet
as his eyes squeezed shut.

Sean felt desperate. "Aren't you getting any, like, morphine or something?"

Jeff relaxed his death grip on the bedding and opened his eyes again. Sean
was surprised to see him smile. "Oh yes," he said. "I'm getting it just
fine. Look, I don't want you hanging around, so I'll be brief. There's
something for you, in the drawer over there."

Sean looked behind him to the pine dresser and got up. "For me? This one?"
he pointed at the top drawer.

Jeff looked impatient. "Yes, yes."

There was a brown envelope inside with his name written across it. He took
it out and sat back down on the bed, turning it over in his hands.

"Well, Superman, can you see through it or are you going to do it the old
fashioned way?"

Embarrassed, Sean tore it open. Inside was a black and white photograph,
the one Jeff had taken at the hospital. Sean sitting at the table with Cal,
drinking coffee. His body was turned away from the camera, his face only
visible in profile.

Was this what Jeff had seen all along? The look on Cal's face. A slight
smile, just a hint of dimples. The eyes, glinting out of the stark shadows,
fixed on Sean's face with a mixture of sadness and longing. The tips of
their toes, centimeters apart under the table, their hands so close. They
looked like lovers, so wrapped up in each other the background was almost
insignificant. Jeff had looked through the mundane setting of the hospital
foyer and seen the truth through his camera lens. The fluorescent lights
were unrelenting above them. Nowhere to hide.

Sean realised his hands were shaking. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"He loves you," Jeff said. It wasn't so much as a challenge, more a
statement of fact. His expression was neutral.

"Jesus, Jeff. Nothing's been going on, I swear to god."

"I know."

Sean watched the dying man struggle to get a breath. "Look," Jeff
continued. "I don't doubt him, that he loves me. This has been no fucking
picnic for him, for sure." His eyes were starting to close, and when he
started speaking again, he sounded almost drunk. "I hate the thought of him
with anyone else, I hate it more than anything, but in the end, I want him
to be happy. It's like..." As if the topic was slipping away from him, he
started to murmur indistinct words, then seemed to shake himself. "Take
care of him for me, that's all. He'll need a friend...soon."

There was a lump in Sean's throat. He nodded, realising that Jeff's hand
was in his suddenly, gripping him tightly. "I will," he said. "I promise."

Jeff let go. A tear had escaped and was running towards the pillow. Sean
brushed it away, watching as Jeff's eyes closed again.

When Jeff was asleep, he leant forward and paused at his ear, compelled
like a Catholic at a confessional.  "Don't be afraid," he whispered. " I
was dead in the accident, my heart stopped." The memories were choppy, like
an intermittent slide show. The screech of tires, the explosion of pain,
the metal smell of blood and rain. "There's nothing to be afraid of. It
doesn't hurt." He swallowed. "It's like getting a general anesthetic,
except...you just don't wake up again."  The rain was starting to beat
against the window, and he sighed. It was easy to be articulate when the
other person wasn't listening.

He got up, rubbing the stiffness out of his leg and tried to tiptoe out of
the room. Just as he was pulling the door shut, he heard Jeff murmur,
"Thank you, Sean."

It was the last time he ever heard him speak.

= = = = =

A few days later, Sean went to the hospital to pick Megan up, to take the
baby home. To celebrate the occasion, a few of her friends came over and
the baby's head was not so much wetted as drowned in champagne. Sean didn't
remember going home and Megan called the next day to tell him what an arse
he had made of himself in front of her friends, singing tunelessly on the
karaoke machine in the garage and falling asleep on the grass with his
trousers down. "They still love you, of course." Megan chuckled. "You'll
have to see the video Greta took. I never knew you were a fan of S Club 7."

No doubt it was already on YouTube. Sean groaned and chugged a couple of
Nurofen down with Coke. His head was still spinning, with that hum of pain
threatening to strike. He glanced at his watch. 14:35. It didn't seem as if
he'd been asleep for almost 12 hours. He didn't know whether to eat some
breakfast or throw up the last of the drink. His eyes were bloodshot and
heavy-lidded. It was the worst hangover he'd had in years.

Just as he was debating whether to go back to bed, the doorbell
rang. Unsteady on his feet, he staggered out to the door, blinking in the
bright light as he opened up to find Cal standing there, hugging his coat
around him.

The shadows around Cal's eyes looked almost like bruises. "You look awful,"
he said, smiling.

Sean nodded. "Bit of a hangover," he said. "That sun's bright. Come in
before my eyes disappear into my skull to get away."

Cal followed him into the kitchen. Sean opened the fridge door and stood
gazing at the empty shelves, the line up of beers. His stomach hitched and
growled at the same time. "Well," he said. "There's beer...or beer. It's
like old Mother Hubbard around here."

Cal shrugged. "Beer's fine," he said.

"Aren't you driving?"

"I walked."

Sean popped open a couple of beers, hoping the hair of the dog would make
his stomach settle. "Walked? That's miles."

Cal took a gulp of his drink and looked at the floor.  "Jeff died last
night." He pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down, staring
into the bottle, smoothing the condensation with his index finger. His face
was white but calm, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Sean sat down hard, ignoring the stab of pain in his leg. "Jesus..." he
said. He ran a hand through his hair. There was still some grass in it from
the night before. He watched it float onto the table. It seemed to fall in
slow motion. So it had finally happened. "I don't know what to say."

Cal shrugged. "What is there to say? It's not like it was a surprise." He
chugged back some more beer. Sean noticed his hands were shaking. "Still,
it doesn't feel real. Am I really here?" He looked around the kitchen as if
it was a mirage.

His hangover forgotten, Sean reached forward and took Cal's hands in
his. They were freezing. "You're here," he said. "Stay as long as you
want."

"I don't want to go home," Cal said, his voice almost a whisper. "All those
people will be there."

"What people?"

Cal took a breath. "He planned it all, who was going to come and...take him
away. And the funeral, the exhibition and everything, people will be
there...doing stuff.  He planned everything months ago. He wouldn't let me
do anything for him." He forced another ghoulish smile. " I feel
useless. The story of my life." There was a gurgling noise and he rubbed
his stomach. "Have you got anything to eat? I can't remember the last time
I had any food."

Sean let go of Cal's hands and sat back in his chair, suddenly filled with
anxiety. "I need to get some stuff," he said. " Look...make yourself at
home and I'll make you something to eat when I get back. I won't be long."

"OK" Cal murmured, his eyes unfocussed. "Thanks, Sean."

He felt guilty about leaving Cal alone, but it seemed his feet couldn't
carry him out of the house fast enough. His head was a whirl. Sadness for
Jeff, for Cal, guilt at his own inadequacy at a time of crisis. "You're not
the only one who feels useless, mate," he muttered through gritted teeth as
he drove off, winding the window down and letting the cold wind clear his
head. It was Saturday afternoon and Sainsbury's car park was jammed full of
people going about their daily lives, kids crying and throwing tantrums,
harassed mothers and fathers, the stuff of life. He parked in the disabled
spot and went inside, throwing stuff into a trolley, wondering what the
hell to do with Cal when he got back.

His whole life had been one of action: extreme sports, extreme drinking,
extreme fun. All his boyfriends, and Dee, hadn't been much for deep and
meaningful conversations, which was just as well. Emotional dyslexia, Dee
had often joked. All the right things were there in his head, waiting to be
said, but they always seemed to get lost on the way to his mouth, or worse
still, come out completely wrong. What could he possibly say to help Cal?

Shopping done, he stood in the windy car park, staring at the keys in his
hand. I'm not the one Cal needs right now, he thought. But I know who is.

He pulled out his mobile phone and called Cal's mother before he could
change his mind.

= = = = =

When he got home, he noticed Owen's van parked outside his house and
groaned. "Great," he said under his breath as he switched off the car and
rushed inside, his imagination working overtime, painting all sorts of
terrible scenarios in his head. Owen making a scene, Cal walking out. But
Owen was sitting alone at the kitchen table, arms folded. When he saw Sean,
he nodded. "Bit early to start all that," he said, gesturing at the half
empty tequila bottle, the broken glass on the floor. A bloody handprint on
the door.

Sean's heart almost stopped. "Shit!" he exclaimed."Is he ok?" What had Cal
done?

"You mean that drunken heap on the sofa? He's in there, comatose. Looks
like he cut his hand. What's going on?"

"I was at the shop," Sean said, pushing the living room door open. Cal was
asleep, drooling over the cushion. There was a gash across his palm, oozing
blood onto the carpet. "Get me something to bandage him up."

He knelt down beside Cal, lifting his lifeless hand and picking a bit of
glass out of it. The pain stirred him for a second and he shifted. "Jay,"
he murmured, smiling, not opening his eyes. Sean stroked his hair for a
second, a lump in his throat. Wherever Cal was in his drunken stupor, he
could stay there for a while.

= = = = =

Megan's living room smelt of disinfectant and nappies. His eyes drifted
around the unusual mess, empty bottles, soft toys, changing mat still on
the floor. The baby gurgled in his arms, then squeezed his eyes shut. His
face went an alarming shade of red. "Jesus, what's he doing?" Sean said,
handing him back to Megan as if he was a hot potato.

There was a sound of a loud fart and Megan laughed. "That's what he's
doing," she said. "It must be the high lentil content of my breast
milk. Greta keeps making me that soup of hers."

Sean smiled. "He takes after his mum then," he said.

Megan shook her head and lifted one cheek, trumpeting into the sofa. "No,"
she said, smirking as a stench rose around them. "He's got a long way to go
before he's as good as me."

Sean stumbled up, holding his nose, laughing. "That's child abuse, woman"
he said. "Look, he's going green."

"Go and get me a cup of tea while you're on your feet," she said,
chuckling.

"What did your last slave die of?"  he said, but went into the kitchen,
still laughing.

It was nice to be with Megan, he thought, watching the kettle boil. With
Cal at his house, things were depressing and tense. Cal had been hungover
and monosyllabic all morning, staring off into space. Jeff's funeral was
due to take place the following day. His obituary was in the morning
papers. It had been the only thing that had roused Cal to utter more than a
few words.

"Look at this crap," he had muttered, throwing the paper onto the
floor. "It's all so tragic, local genius dies young, blah blah blah. Jeff
Sullivan is survived by his sister June Sullivan-Leigh (also a promising
photographer) and his parents Maureen and Joseph and his long term
"companion" Callum Rodgers." He made the quotation marks in the air with
his fingertips. "Can you believe that bullshit?. At least they haven't done
that in the nationals."

Sean poured the water over the tea bag, watching it turn amber. There had
been a picture of Jeff beside the headline, looking young and healthy,
hands covered in paint. He had been stuck by something that he hadn't
noticed before, the resemblance between them. He and Jeff could have been
brothers.

"So," Megan said as he handed over the tea and a plate of biscuits, "you've
got Cal there now?"

Sean slumped into the chair. "Well he came round, got wasted on tequila
while I was out at the shop, then spent the whole day and night
sleeping. So I guess he's staying, yes."

"You should have brought him."

Sean shrugged. "I asked, but he didn't move or say anything. So I figured
he wanted to be alone." He sighed and ran his hand through his
hair. "This...it's a nightmare, Meg. I don't know what to say, or do. I
feel bad about leaving him but then when I was there, it's like I might as
well not have been."

"There's no "right thing" to do," she said. "You called his mother, right?"

"Yeah," he said. "But she must have been with his dad. She didn't say much
on the phone."

"That's just fucked up," she said. "What on earth happened to that family?"

"Too much religion," he said, and they sat together in a comfortable
silence, sipping their tea. When he had finished, Sean checked his
watch. "Five thirty," he said. "I'd better be getting back."

Megan kissed him on the cheek. "Good luck," she said. "I'll come with you
tomorrow, if you need some moral support. Greta's going to take Jack for
the morning."

"Well, we're leaving at ten, so come round before that and we'll go
together."

It was raining when he went outside. It was like mist against his face and
he took a deep breath. He wasn't looking forward to going home, not one
bit. He contemplated calling into the off license on the way back to
replace the tequila, but decided against it. The funeral wasn't shaping up
to be a lot of fun. Going hungover would make it ten times worse. He parked
outside his house, watching his breath mist up the window, the raindrops
racing crookedly down the glass.

He remembered watching Cal's house in the same way as a child, when his
father was sober enough to drive him over. Then, when they fought he'd
bring it up. I wish I lived with Cal. I hate you. The inevitable punch
around the head. Ungrateful little gobshite!! His ears ringing with his
father's rage. Be careful what you wish for. One of these days I'm going to
dump you out there on the street and then see how smart you are.

He pushed the memory aside and got out of the car. Again, the stab of pain
in his leg. Gritting his teeth, he limped round to the back door and let
himself in.

The kitchen was spotless, the dinner table set for two. There was a
delicious smell of roast chicken coming from the oven, a bubbling pot of
baby potatoes on the cooker. And there was Cal, wearing the apron Megan had
bought as a birthday joke, stirring a sauce. He turned round and smiled.

Sean's jaw hung open. "What's all this?" he said.

"Call it a thank you," Cal said. "I'm sorry for drinking all your drink,
and imposing myself on you. Thanks...for giving me some space."

Sean sat down. There was a glass of red wine sitting on the table, and he
gulped at it. "Yeah, no problem," he said. "You look different."

"Well, I'm wearing your clothes for a start," Cal said, grinning. "This
t-shirt is pretty big, you must be getting fat."

"Cheeky bastard!" Sean couldn't help smiling back.

"And no more grey," he continued, pointing at his hair which was
immaculately sculpted into the style that Sean remembered best. "I'm too
young to look so old, don't you think?"

"You've been at the Grecian 2000? Oh my god!"

"Yeah, and when we go to the school reunion, some girl will be like "your
husband's so young looking!"

Sean stared at him, shocked. "What?"

Cal seemed to realise what he had said. "I was talking about that stupid
advert that used to be on TV", he muttered, turning around and going back
to stirring the sauce.

Sean poured himself another glass of wine, staring at Cal's back. He could
cope with the silence, the depression. He had expected to come back to more
of the same, maybe even tears or rage. But this? It felt more like the set
up for a date. And it didn't help that Cal looked so good. Covering the
grey in his hair had taken years off him. He was clean shaven and after so
much sleep, the dark circles had gone from under his eyes. What was he
playing at? Sean remembered Jeff's outburst at the hospital, something
about replacements being lined up. He shifted in his seat, desperately
uncomfortable.

Cal turned around suddenly. "I know what you're thinking," he said, his
voice trembling. "I should be tearing my hair out, crying, moping
around. Maybe I should be." He held up his hands. "I just don't know what
to do. I'm just so fucking tired of being miserable, that's all. And
tomorrow's going to be..." he swallowed. "A nightmare. This..." he gestured
at the table, "I just thought we could have a meal and chat. I didn't mean
anything, like, inappropriate."

Sean raised an eyebrow, relieved. "Well then, finish the fucking dinner and
dish it out," he said, patting his stomach. "I'm starving."

Cal's eyes widened, then he laughed. "You know," he said, shaking his head,
and turning back to the sauce, "that's what I like about you. You're
so...uncomplicated. Damn! This has gone a bit lumpy."

"I'm sure it's a step up from anything I've ever made in this kitchen, "
Sean said. The nervous knot in his stomach started to ease as the alcohol
lightened his mood. Sure, he could play it casual, chat, go to bed early
before too much wine was consumed. He noticed two more bottles of red
sitting over near the cooker, one empty already. No wonder Cal's cheeks
were starting to flush. He'd been busy.

The sauce was indeed lumpy but the dinner was excellent. "Sorry," Sean
said, hacking the chicken to pieces and shoveling mashed potato into his
mouth. "Not much for conversation when there's food around."

Cal smiled. "I know." He was pushing the small amount of food he'd served
himself around his plate, his lips stained red from the wine.

"Never knew you were such a good cook," Sean remarked, burping and pushing
the plate away when he had finished. "I seem to remember you burning toast
quite a lot."

"Jeff taught me," Cal said. "He's good at everything."

"So how did you guys meet?"

Cal poured himself another glass of wine. "He took some photos of me one
day when I was in the park, reading the paper. Then he asked if I wanted go
back to his to see his dark room, with this big, lechy wink." He sighed. "I
thought it was...well. Romantic. Funny. He was so smart." He stood up
suddenly. "I have to go home," he said. "I can't...It's not fair on Jude to
be looking after the dog and..." His eyes were glistening. "I'm sorry."

Sean stood up. "Don't be sorry," he said, following Cal out to the
door. "Thanks for dinner. I'm sorry if I upset you."

Cal forced a smile. "You didn't," He pulled on his coat and opened the
door, wrinkling up his nose at the smell of rain. "It's not like I'm never
going to talk about him for the rest of my life. I hope that goes off for
tomorrow," he said, nodding at the clouds. "You'll come, won't you?"

"Of course. I said I would, didn't I?"

"By the way, don't wear black, just your normal clothes. Jeff didn't want
people moping around. It's going to be some sort of celebration." He
sighed. "I'm dreading it."

Cal looked so lost and alone for a second that Sean hugged him without
thinking. Cal buried his head in Sean's shoulder. His body was trembling,
and Sean closed his eyes, trying not to breathe in that familiar smell, the
scent of Cal's body that still made his head spin after all these
years. "It's OK," he whispered, knowing the words didn't mean anything. He
felt Cal's hands sliding under his t-shirt. They were cold against his
skin, and he shivered, wanting to break the hug, but his muscles had turned
to water.

"You're so warm." Cal's voice was muffled against his shoulder.

Sean felt the beginnings of an erection and pushed Cal away gently,
avoiding his face, because he knew if he got too close to those
wine-reddened lips, something disastrous might happen.  "See you tomorrow,"
he said, shutting the door fast, breathing hard. Jesus Christ, he thought,
rubbing his face. What sort of a scumbag am I?

He sat on the stairs and pulled out his mobile out of his pocket, bringing
"Owen" up on the display. His thumb hovered over the call button. I am
using you, he thought. But he called anyway. Anything that pushed Cal from
his mind for a while was a blessing.