Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction

 


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


 


JUSTIN


 


“Keep your head over the ball when you kick it,” Boot calls as Gus takes about his fiftieth penalty shot.  "If you lean back you’ll just sky it.”


 


He’s made a goal with their coats, laid on the grass about ten feet apart, and he’s keeping goal between them.  He’s making Gus practice taking penalty kicks with both his right and left foot, and demonstrating the difference between hitting the ball with his instep or the outside of his foot.  Boot catches most of Gus’ efforts easily, but he makes sure that enough go past him to keep Gus’ enthusiasm alight. 


 


“Right, now I’m going to take a breather while you practice your dribbling skills … you’ll never be a footballer if you can’t run with the ball, unless you want to be a goalie.  You don’t have to go fast, just concentrate on keeping the ball close to your feet and as much under control as you can.”


 


“’kay, Boot!” Gus cries and he’s off like a rocket, desperately trying not to let the ball get away from him. 


 


Boot watches him for a moment, chuckles, and comes over to flop on the bench beside me.  “He’s a lively lad.”  He reaches over and grabs some of my fries.  I bat his hand away and he rumbles amusement.


 


“He really likes you,” I say happily.  “And believe me, that’s quite a compliment.  He doesn’t take to everyone.”


 


Boot shrugs, munching my fries.  “We’ve got an interest in common,” he says.  “Always makes things easier.”


 


“It’s not just that.”  I wad up the now empty fry carton and dump it in the trashcan beside the bench.  “You’re good with him.  You don’t talk down to him.”


 


“No reason I should.  He’s bright enough.”


 


I dig out my Demerol and pop two capsules, washing them down with coke, and Boot frowns.  “You alright, Sunshine?  Do you want to go back to the house?”


 


“No, I’m fine.  This is just my regular dose.”


 


He nods acceptance and we both watch Gus’ little figure diligently practicing.


 


“I hope Brian can sort all this mess out,” I sigh.  “I hate to think of Gus suffering because of what Lindsay’s done."


 


“Kids are tough,” Boot grunts.  “They can put up with a lot … as long as they’ve got people around who love them.  And Gus seems to have a lot of those.”


 


“Did you never want a kid, Boot?”


 


“I’m not the settling kind, Sunshine.  I got nothing against the ladies, God bless ‘em … but they do tend to complicate things, and I like to keep things simple.  I like to be me own boss, with nobody to question me.  I come and go of me own free will, and I don’t have to justify myself to anybody, nor be responsible for them neither.”  He laughs suddenly.  “Besides, what self-respecting woman would want someone like me?”


 


I gaze at him.  “Did you and Brian get given the same script?”


 


“You what?”


 


I shake my head.  “Never mind.  It’s just he always used to say more or less the same thing.”


 


“Yeah, well.  Strikes me that what the guvnor says and what the guvnor means are not always the same thing,” Boot smiles down at me, “at least where you’re concerned.  The difference is, when I say I’m happy being on me jacksy, I am.”


 


I stare at him.  “What, on your ass?”


 


He gives me a look.  “No.  It means being on me own.  And as for nippers, I’ve got a big family with plenty of nephews and nieces.  When they were little I could spoil them rotten and get to hand them back at the end of the day.”  He stretches out his long legs and puts his hands behind his head, the picture of contentment.  “Best of all possible worlds, my son.”


 


For a few minutes we continue to watch Gus in comfortable silence.  Then Boot suddenly sits up.  “You know, you got to play to your strengths, Sunshine.  Back in the Nineties … well, longer than that, to be honest … the Arsenal got the reputation of being the most boring club to watch because so many of their games ended up one-nil.  Not enough goals, see?  Not flash enough.  But the Gooners didn’t give a toss, because they knew their defence was so solid, one goal was all it took to win the game.  So they came up with a song, and they used to sing it all the time … a sort of club-anthem, if you like.  Still sing it now, whenever the score’s right.”


 


He stands up and shouts, “Hang on Gus!  We’ll practice some tackling.  You can be Thierry Henry, I’ll be Tony Adams.”


 


He jogs over and I watch laughing as they tussle together, Boot taking the ball off Gus and then letting Gus win it back, until eventually the little boy gets past him and heads for their makeshift goal.  He pokes the ball into the space between the coats and screams “Yes!”, bouncing victoriously with his arms in the air.


 


To my utter delight Boot raises his fists too and starts dancing around, bellowing,


 


“One-nil to the Ars-en-al,


One-nil to the Ars-en-al,


One-nil to the Ars-en-al,


One-nil to the Ars-en-al!”


 


It’s set to the chorus from Village People’s Go West, and when Gus starts dancing too, adding his shrill treble rendition, I nearly fall off the bench laughing.


 


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


 


 


When we get back to Britin, there’s another car parked behind Lindsay’s and I realise Mel must have arrived as planned.  I don’t know whether I feel gleeful or apprehensive.


 


Boot opens his door and hops out, then reaches in to unbuckle Gus’ seat belt and lift him down to the ground.  As he does so the front door opens and Mel hurries out.  “Gus!” she screams.


 


“Mommie!”  His cry is pure joy, and as he races up the drive towards her any lingering doubt I may have had disappears; he hurls himself into her arms and she sweeps him up, holding him in a breathless hug.  Brian appears behind her; he leans over to give Gus a swift kiss, says a few quiet words to Mel, and then walks slowly towards us.  His face is sombre.


 


“Come on,” he says as he reaches the truck.  “Let’s get out of here.”


 


I shuffle over to the centre seat and buckle myself in.  Brian climbs in beside me and kisses my cheek.  “You okay?  Did you take your meds?”


 


“Of course.”  I try to judge his mood.  “What happened?”


 


“Lindsay’s moving back to her parents until she decides what she wants to do.  I’ve told her I won’t contest custody as long as she gets her shit together and understands that Gus and JR are the important ones here, not her.”


 


“And do you think she will?”  I ask nervously, as Boot starts up the truck’s engine and begins to back down the drive.


 


“She’d better, because if she thinks I’m bluffing about getting joint custody with Mel, she doesn’t know me half as well as she thinks she does.  I’m not the drunken, drugged-up club-boy I was … I own not only an extremely profitable company, but considerable property too.  If I have to appear a solid, respectable citizen then that’s what I’ll be, if it persuades a judge that I’m a responsible father.”


 


“You really think a judge would find against Lindsay?”


 


“If we can prove that she’s an unsuitable mother, which I don’t think will be too difficult.  We’ve got her infidelity with Auerbach – while Mel was expecting JR, remember – not to mention the guy in Toronto.  She slandered Mel, and had no concern at all for what she was putting Gus through; and unless she gets her thumb out of her ass she has no job and no home of her own.  Admittedly she’ll get half the proceeds from the house once Mel sells it, but Lindsay’s never been much good at the practical side of things.  Whereas once Mel comes back, she’ll have a decent income, her own place, and a strong family support base to help her look after the kids.  Plus Mel is as much Gus’ legal parent as Lindsay is, and there’s JR to consider.  Courts always like to keep kids together.”


 


“Still, Linds is Gus’ birth mother, and the law’s bound to favour her.”


 


Brian gives me a tight smile.  “I’m sure it won’t come to that, Sunshine.  Lindsay won’t risk it … despite everything, she does love Gus and I’m sure she won’t take a chance on losing him.  I know her, she’s not stupid … now she knows she’s busted, and I’m not playing her little game, she’ll give it up.”


 


I don’t say anything.  I’m not as convinced of Lindsay’s rationality as Brian is, but I want to be as positive and supportive as I can, so I keep my thoughts to myself.


 


Boot, however, speaks up.  “That’s the problem with birds, guv.  They can be a devious, conniving lot.  Stands to reason; they’re physically weaker, so they learn very early to get their own way by using their brains instead of their muscles.”  He glances at Brian.  “Look at this lass of yours.  You’ve known her for years, you think she’s your mate, you think you can trust her.  But she’s got her own agenda, and she doesn’t hesitate to use your little boy as a lever if it suits her.  She’s got your weakness pegged, guv.  And she doesn’t care how much she hurts you or Justin as long as she gets her own way in the end.  Like I said, devious.  And more ruthless than most blokes could ever be.”


 


“She didn’t used to be like that,” Brian says softly.


 


Boot shrugs.  “How can you tell?  Maybe she wears a mask too, but you could never see through it until now.” 


 


Obviously his comment has some meaning to Brian, who purses his lips thoughtfully but says nothing.


 


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


 


 


“So how come you support the Arsenal, Boot?” Brian asks casually.


 


Boot flicks him a look.  “Why wouldn’t I?”


 


“I got to college on a soccer scholarship, and we used to watch a lot of English football.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Highbury North London?”


 


Boot looks guilty.  “Er … yes.”


 


Brian raises his eyebrows.  “Well, weren’t you the one spouting all that north is north and south is south and never the twain shall meet shit?  Why don’t you support a South London team … what, Chelsea?”


 


“Fuck off,” Boot snaps, looking outraged.  “Gang of posers.  It’d be Fulham, if anyone.”  He’s silent for a while, then says, “Dunno, really.  Maybe because everyone knocked them … they didn’t have the reputation for having flash players, like Chelsea or the Spurs or the Hammers.  And besides, the south London clubs were the ones with the big hooligan element … Millwall was the worst, the Old Bill used to bring out the Riot Squad when they were playing … but Chelsea came pretty close.  Chelsea Boot-Boys they used to call themselves.  Fuckin’ skinheads.”


 


There’s something in Boot’s tone that makes me look up at him.  He’s staring straight ahead, his knuckles white on the steering wheel and his jaw clenched, the way he does sometimes when he’s really angry and is struggling hard to contain it.  But when he speaks again his voice is normal.


 


“Being part of a club’s like family … you share the same hopes, the same fears.  You laugh at the same things … and a lot of those things only make sense if you’re in the know.  If you belong.  Take the chants, for instance … over here, you have cheerleaders, but that’s not the same thing.  Chants at football matches … they’re not just a way of cheering your team on, they’re insults to the opposition, too.  And bloody humorous, some of them.”


 


“I thought One-Nil to the Arsenal was pretty funny,” I say. 


 


Boot grins at me.  “David Beckham … you’ve probably heard of him, right?”


 


“Of course.  He’s married to Victoria from the Spice Girls.”


 


“Yeah.  Well, when he was still with Manchester United and they came to play at Highbury, all the Gooners started singing:


 


David Beckham, David Beckham,


Do you take her up the Ars-enal? 


Do you take her up the Ars-enal?”


 


He sings it to the chorus from Bread of Heaven.  Brian and I look at each other, and then snort helpless laughter.


 


“Oh my God!” I splutter.  “I have so got to get that on a T shirt!” 


 


Well, any team whose fans sing Village People tunes and make double-entendres about taking it up the ass has got to get a gay man’s vote, right?


 


I laugh until my ribs hurt so much, it’s not funny anymore.


 


 


 


 


TBC

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