Date: Tue, 06 Feb 2001 19:54:03 -0000 From: Jamie <virus@dial.pipex.com> Subject: Chris-and-Jamie Chapter 24 Same stuff - don't read this is u r underage or u don't like reading stories of love between two boys. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Congrats Rob; comming out and winning a trip to Nevada - no fair! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The sitting room of Simon's house was warm -- the fire had been blazing red and orange for over an hour. There were six of us spread over the large room. Simon's Mom was sitting with his sister on the white speckled sofa, with his Dad in a plain armchair. Ciaran had been sinking down into the other armchair for the past 40 minutes. However nobody spoke. Chris and I were holding hands, sat on the rug in front of the fire. The day was cold and I needed as much warmth as I could get. `Was he gay?' Simon's Dad suddenly blurted out. A note had been found, lying on Simon's bed, when his Mom went to clean it that afternoon. It explained what had happened to him -- with Lee and his tormentors, and how he felt that he couldn't carry on with this any longer. `...It has been very hard for me to come to this decision. But to leave like this is the only sensible thing to do. Please remember that I will always love you, and all my friends. Goodbye, Mum. Simon.' When I finally got to read this, I couldn't. Chris had to read it aloud, and even he almost broke down halfway through it. The inevitable had happened -- a Life had been lost. The hatred that I felt was beyond all feelings I had ever had. If I ever saw that little bastard who made him do this -- I would ring the life from his neck. I looked at Chris, who motioned for me to answer. However, Ciaran got there before me. Since he knew Simon better than any of us, I let him talk to his Dad. `No, he wasn't.' That was it put bluntly. `He was raped because got Lee suspended and wanted revenge.' Ciaran just came out with the facts as they were, his face twisted as he mentioned the name thought. There was no glamorising or glorifying -- none of us needed or wanted there to be. His Dad seemed to accept this and nodded his head. I have no idea if he suspected that Simon was gay a week ago, but now the subject had been brought up. Why did everyone think that just because we hung around together we were automatically all gay? It didn't make sense -- not to my mind then, anyway. I shifted slightly and clasped Chris's hand much tighter. Simon's Sister had begun to cry, the tears rolled down her cheeks. They were not fast, but definitely there. Ciaran got to his feet and sat down on the sofa next to her. His hand swept around her shoulders and she began to openly cry into his chest. Comforting her, until she slowed to light sobs, Ciaran remained there until the doorbell rang, signalling that the cars were waiting for us outside. Black as the night were the cars that we rode in. The first took the coffin, and the second took Simon, his Mum and his Dad. In the last car sat Ciaran, Chris and I with Simon's Aunt. The cars began to roll after one another and a more sombre feeling fell over the three cars. ------------------------------------------------------- The Cathedral was full to the brim. Most of the congregation was made up of boys from our school -- all wearing sleek black suits as a sign of respect. The pews seemed cold and unfriendly, the High Altar even more so. From the ceiling huge shields bore down on us, making us feel inadequate and unwanted. Every head in the church turned in succession as the coffin swam through the air, carried by the four bearers. Simon's Mother and Father followed behind it, their hands holding tightly those of Simon's sister. Next came Chris and I, and Ciaran, with his grandparents and aunt. As we took our places in the front row, the Bishop began to speak. To be honest I wasn't really listening to a word he said -- I was just staring at the wooden box resting at the foot of the High Altar. It looked so empty and bare. The flowers had been removed and only a golden panel reflected any light at all. "Simon Redgrave, 1984 -- 1999, Rest in Peace." He was too young for this to happen. It may sound sentimental, but to me it was the statement that was repeating over and over in my head. The service lasted for half and hour and by the time the Bishop had bowed his head in the final prayer, I was sobbing uncontrollably into Chris's shoulder. As the coffin was carried out, I took my place at the small piano and began to ring out the chords of "I know him so well" -- a favourite of Simon's. As my introduction ended, Chris and Ciaran sang the duet -- although it was slightly clouded by tears. "Nothing is so good it lasts eternally. Perfect situations must go wrong. But this has never yet prevented me, Wanting far too much for far too long. Looking back I couldn't have played it differently; Won a few more moments -- who can tell? But it took time to understand the man. Now at least I know I know him well! Wasn't it good? Oh so good. Wasn't he fine? Oh so fine. Isn't it madness, he can't be mine. But in the end he needs a little more than me; More security! He needs his fantasy and freedom. I know him so well" The ending was calm and had brought the Cathedral and its occupants to dutiful silence. The coffin had gone, but everyone was still staring straight down the nave at us. I could feel 300 pairs of eyes gazing right through me, and I lost it. I stood and ran down the aisle, and out of the building. The coffin was being loaded into the hearse, but I kept on running past it. Before me -- on the opposite hill -- I could see the school and the playing fields, where the tragedy happened. Sinking to my knees, like I had the previous week when holding him in my arms, I wept. Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I turned to see a very tear-stained Chris. Not saying anything we just hung onto each other, trying to block out what had happened -- trying to make everything go back to normal; it didn't work. I could still remember Simon, sitting with his guitar on his lap picking out the tab to a song he had never heard before. He was so good that he showed all three of us up. The guitar was Simon's life, and after I had polished it to an immaculate shine, it was placed in the coffin with him. I never played the guitar again. ------------------------------------------------------- As the coffin was lowered into the ground, I saw Simon's Mom grasp her daughter's hand. Both of them were going white, because the blood had been forced out of them -- they were squeezing so hard. Looking over the other side of the grave, Mark, Oliver, Gareth and James were standing shivering. None of them had been as close to Simon as Chris, Ciaran or I, but they were still shaken by his death. Before this, I had never realised how callous someone can be -- to rape a person, because of ignorance. They didn't understand homosexuality, although they pretended to. It isn't something that we choose; it is something that happens naturally. To be gay isn't a crime, or to show your feelings for someone isn't a crime. There is too much hatred in the world. Will there ever be a time when everyone will just accept? The coffin hit the bottom of the grave with a thud and the ropes were removed from under it. Now it was finally laid bare for all to see; all to see the misery and the pain that people can cause. The first handful of soil came from the hand of Simon's Mom. The rest of his family followed, and then departed in the car. As everyone eventually went away, soon it was just me, Chris and Ciaran standing by the graveside. Only ten handfuls had been thrown in, and the gold writing was still visible. Out of my pocket, I took a CD. Ciaran did the same, and so did Chris. We laid them on the coffin and slowly walked away, huddled together for warmth. The day was cold, and there was even a hint of rain in the air. But the place where we had buried Simon was almost always sunny. From his vantage point he can see over the whole city -- the city he had lived in all his life. The school tower was visible and could be heard peeling its bells from the graveside. Chris and I go back there every week, to talk to Simon. Ciaran only went the once; I can't blame him. Deep down it had affected him more than any of us. ---------------------------------------- If anyone had gone back to the grave before it was filled in, they would see the three Radiohead albums -- OK Computer, Pablo Honey and The Bends -- Simon's favourite band. ---------------------------------------- `Okay, let's play it again, shall we?' Mrs Lees, the school's Head of Music, raised her hands for the 40th time that afternoon. `God, will she ever give it a break?' I whispered to Chris, who was sitting next to me. We had been in orchestra practise for the last two hours. There was a concert the next morning and our music director wanted everything perfect as usual. I sat at the piano and surveyed my surroundings in the small five-minute break that she had recently given us. The orchestra had spanned out into the four main groups: strings, woodwind, brass, and percussion. For most of the time, the sections kept to themselves -- the only exception being that I insisted that the piano be placed next to the woodwind section. This meant that I could talk to Chris during all the boring bits -- and those were many. We were attempting to recreate Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. At the moment we were on the Fourth Movement -- the Ode to Joy. This was going badly, and not at all as planned. The trumpets were flat, the violins weren't tuned and the cellos had notes missing. Sitting in the empty hall was cold and unnerving, as the roof climbed so high above the floor. At one end of the hall there was a rock-climbing wall and at the other a huge basketball court. We used this for our practises because other teachers usually booked the auditorium well in advance and our music teacher couldn't organise something if her life depended on it. She had begun again, and was waving the baton in a graceful four-stroke; this alone amused me, because the piece was in three-four time. I looked at the music and began to play. `Sandringham! You are playing too slowly!' She rapped on the lectern with her baton. `I'm playing at the speed you're conducting, Miss!' She didn't argue, but gave me an evil glare. I was seriously getting pissed with her. After the fourth time she had pointed out a mistake in my playing I was absolutely fuming. Chris could see it and glanced over at me. `Jay, calm down. You know what's gonna happen...' He left it at that. I wasn't listening. `Right! I need a baritone to sing the solo. Come on?' She looked around at the orchestra's expectant faces. `No one? Okay, Sandringham. You just volunteered yourself.' I was disgusted and I asked the reason for this. She just looked at me and told the room that besides the fact that I was the best baritone she had, I was making a mess of the piano part. She was really cutting a fine line with me. I can take any criticism, but not about my music -- not from anyone (except maybe from those American boyfriends that just can't resist). The strings started, and I opened my mouth, rolling off the German syllables with a flick of my tongue, whilst at the same time trying to keep the note pinned down. I was sight-reading from sheet music, so it was pretty difficult, but I thought I was doing quite well. `Freude, schuner Gutterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium, wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!' She rapped on the lectern again. `Sandringham! You're off by a semitone.' At this point, I really couldn't care less. Because she was annoying me so much, when she begun again, I sang it in a completely different key. This got right to her, and then she did something that I thought was too low, even for her. She suddenly swung over to the percussion section and called out to Dominic, the new rhythm guitarist. `Oh Dominic, that is perfect. You play much better than Simon ever did.' That was it! I brought my hands down hard onto the surface of the keyboard and crashed out a huge B flat minor 11th chord. That shut her up; in fact it shut up the whole orchestra. Pushing myself up sharply from the piano, I knocked my knees against the stool and it came crashing out behind me, and skidded across the polished floor. I gave her one look and stormed from the room, still burning with rage. As soon as I had catapulted myself through the swing doors, Chris was on his feet. `What the hell did you say that for?' He almost screamed at her, and then ran out after me. She began, slowly, to realise what she had just said. Tears started to form in the corner of her eyes, and continued to roll down her face, mixing with her mascara. `Oh god, I'm sorry, Jamie.' She called after me, but I was already halfway down the corridor. `His name's James!' Chris's voice echoed out of the doors as he ran through them. `Only his friends call him Jamie!' --------------------------------------- Just thought you'd like to know - I have heard from people in: USA (32 States) UK France Germany Italy Canada Australia New Zealand South Africa Brazil and Austria If u like what u read, mail me - virus@dial.pipex.com AOL IM: jam0015 C Ya round