Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction

 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


 


JUSTIN


 


“Your leg okay?”  Brian asks for like the thirtieth time.


 


“Yep, just like it was the last time,” I reply.  It is.  If Boot’s big black Mac truck has enough legroom for him, it certainly does for my cast.  My ribs however are another story.  No matter how smoothly Boot drives, every jolt makes me wince.  But Brian’s got my Demerol in case I need it, and the trip to Britin isn’t that far, after all.


 


I’m sitting between them, and listening to the conversation is about as good a distraction as is possible under the circumstances.  I’m constantly amazed at how well they manage to communicate, considering the differences in age and culture.  If Boot were gay, I’d definitely be worried.


 


At the moment, they’re discussing boxing; a topic I can say with complete truthfulness I’d never have associated with Brian in any way, shape or form.


 


“Is that why you only drink orange juice?”


 


Boot shrugs.  “Old habits die hard.  No booze, no fags.”  He cocks an amused eye.  “That’s cigarettes, of course.  Nothing to do with you poofs.”


 


“You don’t drink at all?”


 


“I wouldn’t say that.  I’ll have a glass or two at weddings and birthdays, and I toast Her Majesty Christmas morning.  It’s not because I disapprove at all … I just like to stay in control.  I wouldn’t like to hurt someone just because I was pissed and forgot me own strength.  I used to train at the Thomas A’Beckett on the Old Kent Road in the seventies.  Lots of the top boxers went there.  Henry Cooper was our bloody hero.”


 


“Henry Cooper?  Didn’t Ali fight him?”


 


Boot nods.  “He was still Cassius Clay then, mind.  Yeah, he fought Henry a couple of times.”  He sighs nostalgically.  “Now, Henry was a proper fighter, an elegant boxer.  He should have won that first fight, should have been World Champion.”


 


Brian shakes his head.  “Come on.  Ali beat the crap out of him.”


 


Boot snorts.  “Behave!  He’d have done Clay if that cheating sod Angelo Dundee hadn’t ripped his boy’s glove and bought him enough time to pull himself together.  They didn’t call that left hook Henry’s Hammer for nothing!   No, he caught Clay cold.  Not that Henry would have lasted long, mind – his eyes used to split like ripe tomatoes.  And I can’t deny it; the second time they fought, Clay took him apart.  He didn’t get taken by surprise twice.  And, all credit to the bloke, he was the greatest fighter the world’s ever seen.  Pity your government banged him up for the best part of his career over Vietnam.”  He gives Brian a quick glance.  “But I’m surprised you know about the fight, guv.  It was well before you were born.”


 


Brian grins cynically.  “Well, my old man was a bit of a boxing fan.  Jack Dempsey and Rocky Marciano and those guys.  But he hated Ali – called him a loud-mouthed chicken-shit nigger, and he went fucking crazy when Ali became World Champion.”


 


Boot grunts.  “Bet he wouldn’t have said that to his face.”


 


Brian laughs, but his eyes don’t.  “I’d have given a lot if to see it ... it would have been no more than the bigoted old fart deserved.  Anyway, all he did was make me a fan of Ali’s, and I never lost the opportunity to rag him up about what a great fighter Ali was.”


 


Boot chuckles.  “I take it you didn’t have a good relationship with your dad?”


 


“Think North and South Korea.”


 


“What about your mum?”


 


“Israel and Syria?”


 


Boot says nothing.


 


“So why’d you quit, if you were good?”


 


“Detached retina,” Boot grunts.  “Could’ve gone blind.”


 


“Which is why boxing is a dangerous sport and should be banned,” I say.


 


They both stare at me.  “Well, it is,” I insist.  “Look how many people have suffered brain damage like Ali, and even died, just so a bunch of morons can watch two men beat the crap out of each other.  It’s barbaric.”


 


“There’s a little more to it than that, Sunshine,” Brian protests.


 


“Most sports are dangerous,” Boot says.  “Blokes break their necks playing rugby and football, or even skiing.  And what about motor racing?  Hurtling round a track at two hundred miles an hour?  Now that’s what I call fuckin dangerous.”


 


“That’s different,” I argue.  “Those are just accidents that could happen to anyone.  But boxing’s about deliberately trying to hurt your opponent, and I don’t think that’s right.  Sorry, Boot, you know I have the greatest respect for you; but I can’t pretend to like what you used to do.”


 


“Fair enough.  I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.  And yeah, in the past they did let fights go on longer than was safe.  But boxing’s not just a slugging match … it’s an art form too, in its way.  More like fencing, really.  Or even dancing.  Most fights are won with this,” he taps his head, “not these,” indicating his huge fists; “and they’re settled before you even step in the ring.  Sure, you can take an unlucky punch that blows something in your brain and kills you, but that can happen anytime.  And boxing’s been the making of lots of kids who never had the money or the education to have made it out of the gutter otherwise.  Taught them discipline and self-respect, not to mention self-control.  All virtues, I’ve always thought.”


 


“Maybe, but I still don’t believe violence solves anything.”


 


“Depends on the situation.  I’ve met blokes who called themselves pacifists, so I always ask them; ‘what if some nutter broke into your home, what if he was going to rape your missis and kill your kiddies?  Wouldn’t you do anything you could to stop them?’  Some of them say no, they wouldn’t resort to violence whatever the circumstance.  Personally, I can’t understand that kind of thinking; it’s not moral courage, but it’s not cowardice either.  Don’t know what the fuck it is.”


 


“I seem to remember a time when you weren’t quite so averse to physical conflict, Sunshine,” Brian says, giving me a sly smile.


 


I feel my face getting hot.  “Don’t throw that at me, Brian!  You know how I feel about all that shit.”


 


“What’s this?” Boot asks.


 


“There were a few episodes of queer-bashing on Liberty Avenue a couple of years ago,” Brian explains.  “So Justin here and a few friends formed a sort of civil defence group to patrol the streets.”


 


“Yeah?” Boot grins.  “Good for you, my son.”


 


“That might have been the intention, but it didn’t work out like that.”   I’m not going to let Boot think we’d been some kind of heroes.  “What really happened was that we caused more trouble than we ever prevented, and it ended up more as a kind of private vendetta for me.  I’m not proud of it.”


 


Boot shoots me a look.  “Things have a way of getting out of hand,” he says.   “Who was running this little gang?”


 


“Some psycho kid called Cody Bell, with a chip on both shoulders and a death wish,” Brian snorts.


 


Boot shrugs dismissively.  “There you go, then.  Same thing happened with those atrocities in Vietnam … a lot of scared, hot-headed kids running round with no-one keep them in line.  They’ll follow a strong leader, even if he’s a bad one.  Then people get killed.”


 


I have a vivid image of Chris Hobbs on his knees with a pistol barrel in his mouth, begging for his life.  I remember how much I’d wanted to pull that fucking trigger.


 


“That’s my whole point,” I say.  “I hate the idea of people getting hurt, yet I did things that make me feel sick to think of now.  But at the time, I felt so powerful; like I’d finally turned the tables on all those assholes who’d been hurting and humiliating me for years.  I loved it and I was terrified of it, all at the same time.”  Brian’s hand rests on my left thigh and I can feel him watching me, even though I’m looking at Boot.   This is another of those incidents we’ve never really discussed, and I wonder if he’s regretting bringing the subject up.


 


“Perfectly natural,” Boot grunts.  “Anyone can lose their head if they’re provoked enough, and Christ knows you’d been through more than most.  To me, it’s all about lines that you draw … for other people as well as yourself.  How far do you let someone go before you step in and do something?  That old saying about the only thing needed for evil to prosper is for good men to stand by and do nothing?  Ain’t that the truth.  But it’s about drawing your own line too, and understanding that if you cross it you’re just as bad as the bloke you’re trying to stop.  That’s moral courage.”  He grins at me.  “Sounds to me like you had sense and decency enough to pull out before you crossed that line … so like I said, good for you, Sunshine.  You don’t have any reason to beat yourself up over it.”


 


Brian gives my leg a little squeeze and when I look at him he gives me a reassuring smile.  “Couldn’t have put it better myself,” he murmurs.


 


I could mention that the old Brian would never have said such a thing, which was one of the reasons we split up so many times.  But this is the new Brian; so I don’t.


 


*********************************************************


 


 


When we pull into the drive at Britin, Boot parks behind Lindsay’s rental.  He and Brian climb down, and I shuffle sideways so that Boot can lift me out, which he does with no trouble at all.  Brian hands me my crutches and we stand looking up at the house.  I can’t help but remember the first and only time Brian brought me here; it had been dead winter then, but now the trees are beginning to break into leaf with the first promise of the summer to come.  And suddenly the full realisation hits me: this is my land, these are my trees; mine to watch and care for through all their seasons down long years ahead.  This is my house … our house … the one which Brian not only bought for me, but which he had held onto.  Despite everything, even his own nature; still taking a chance on love.


 


I reach out and take his hand, and he glances down at me and smiles.


 


Boot snorts behind me.  “Tudor?  My old mum lives in a Tudor cottage; a real one.  This place is out by about four hundred years, guv.”


 


Brian glares, but his retort is cut short by Lindsay appearing at the front door, with a startled expression on her face.  She stares at the three of us and the truck we’ve arrived in, and her mouth falls open.  “Bri?  Justin?  What are you doing here … and what are you doing in that?”


 


“It belongs to Boot here,” Brian answers.  “Justin can’t fit in the ‘Vette.”


 


Gus appears and races down the drive towards his father.  “Dadda!  Is this yours?”  His eyes are bugging out of his head.  “It’s really loud!”


 


Brian picks him up and laughs.  “No, it’s Boot’s.”


 


Gus stares at Boot doubtfully.  “Is he a giant?” he whispers.


 


Brian nods.  “Yeah, but he’s a friendly one.”  He sets Gus down, but he sticks close to Brian’s side, holding on to his pants’ leg like he always does when he’s nervous.


 


“Like B.F.G?”


 


“Yeah,” I say.  “Boot’s the original Big Friendly Giant.  Say ‘hello’, Gus.”


 


“Hi,” Gus says shyly.


 


“Hello yourself, mate,” Boot replies, smiling.


 


“What’s mate?”


 


“It means friend.”


 


“Are you my friend?”


 


“If you want me to be.”


 


“Are you my Dadda’s friend?”


 


I can see Boot struggling for an answer, and grin.  “Boot’s my friend, Gus.”


 


“Then he’s my friend too, Juss.  But why does he talk funny?”


 


“Because he’s from London, in England.”


 


Gus suddenly becomes animated.  “Wow!  Cool!  That’s where Arsenal come from!”


 


I stare at him.  “What?”


 


“Arsenal!  My friend Ryan supports them!  They’re the best!  Do you support them, Boot?”


 


“I’ve been to Highbury a few times, although I haven’t seen the new ground, the Emirates, yet,” Boot replies, smiling.


 


“Oh, wow!  Wait till I tell Ryan!”  Gus is grinning like a maniac.


 


“So you’re a Gooner?”  Boot asks.


 


“Huh?”


 


“What’s the Arsenal’s nickname?”


 


Gus stands on one leg and wriggles.  “The Gunners, of course!  Everybody knows that!”


 


“And why do they get called that?”


 


“Cos of the cannon!” Gus makes a duh face.


 


“That’s right.  Because they’ve got a big cannon for their club badge.  Well, do you know what club the Arsenal supporters hate most?”


 


Gus frowns.  “Manchester United?” he hazards.


 


Boot chuckles.  “Everybody hates United.  No, the Arsenal’s biggest enemy is Tottenham Hotspurs, because their ground is just down the road, so they’re rivals.  And one day the Spurs supporters thought it would be funny to start calling them Gooners, like a kind of insult.  You know, trying to make them look stupid.  But the Arsenal supporters turned it around, made it a thing to be proud of instead.  So if you support the Arsenal, Gus, then you’re a Gooner.  And remember, it’s always the Arsenal.  Because there’s only one.”


 


Gus is listening raptly with his mouth open, and I realise Boot has a devoted disciple.  “I have no idea what either of you are talking about,” I tell them.


 


“It’s about soccer, Sunshine,” Brian supplies.  “Gus is a big fan, apparently.”


 


“I’ve got some videos of matches you can borrow, if you like,” Boot offers.  “I brought a few back with me.”


 


“Yeah!  That’d be great!  We can watch them together!”


 


“Gus …” Lindsay says, and there’s a warning note in her voice.  She’s standing hugging her elbows defensively.  “Why don’t we all go inside?  It’s too cold to stand talking here.”


 


“Actually, I thought it would be a nice idea for Justin and Boot to take Gus down to the village,” Brian says; “go and grab a Big Mac or something.  What do you say, Sonny Boy?  Would you like to go for a ride?”


 


“In the truck?” Gus asks, bouncing with excitement.


 


“Brian … no,” Lindsay protests, frowning.


 


“Are you saying that you don’t trust Justin with our son?” Brian asks quietly, but there’s an edge to his voice.


 


“No … no, of course not.  But Justin’s not very mobile, is he?  And I’m sorry, but um … I don’t really know …um, Boot … and anyway, Gus is far too young to be riding in something like that.”


 


“We’ll strap him in safe enough, Missis,” Boot tells her.  “And if you’ve got a football, Gus, and we can find a park, you and I can have a kick about.”


 


Yes!” Gus squeals.  “Please, Momma, can I?  I’ll be good, I promise!”


 


“Off you go and get your coat,” Brian says decisively.  “And while you’re gone, your Momma and I can have a nice long chat.”


 


I look at Lindsay, and I see the flicker of fear and apprehension in her eyes.  Then she turns and hurries into the house after Gus.


 


Brian gives me a grim smile and follows.


 


 


TBC


 


 


 


 


 


 


 

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