CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

I was lying in a burned-out basement with the full moon in my eyes,

I was hoping for replacement when the sun burst through the skies.

There was a band playing in my head, and I felt like getting high,

I was thinking about what a friend had said, I was hoping it was a lie.

-          After The Gold Rush – Neil Young

BRIAN

“But if Momma’s sick, why can’t the doctors give her pills to make her better?” 

“They will, Sweetie,” Mel replies soothingly.  “It just might take a while, that’s all.”

“Why can’t she come home?  Will she make us sick, too?”

“No, Gus,” I tell him.  “It’s not that kind of sickness.”

He looks at me with scared eyes and my stomach knots.  “Is my Momma gonna die?”  He gulps, and then the tears come.

“No, Baby, no.”  Mel hugs him against her and he buries his face in her lap.  “Momma’s not in any danger, it’s nothing like that.”  She rocks him gently.

“Then what’s wrong?” he wails.  “Why can’t I see her?”

I get up and cross over to them, crouching down so that I’m on his level.  “Gus, look at me.”  I tug his hands away from his face.  “Look at me, son.”

Eventually he does, and I see his mother’s eyes peering back at me.

“You know your old man never breaks a promise, right?  Well, I promise you your Momma’s not going to die.  And you will see her.  I’m not gonna say tomorrow or even the next day, but it’ll be soon.”

“And then she can come home?” he asks hopefully.

“No, Gus.  I’m not gonna lie to you; it’ll be a long time before that happens.”

“Why?”  He’s beginning to sob again.

I settle myself more comfortably.  This is the hardest part.  “Because your Momma did something wrong.  Something to Justin.  She tried to hurt him.”

“Juss?”  He looks bewildered now as well as terrified.  “Why would Momma want to hurt Juss?”

“Because she thought he wasn’t good for you ... or for me.”  I stroke back his hair.  “She ... she wanted to get rid of him, to get him out of our lives.”

“But I love Juss ... I thought Momma did, too.”

“It’s hard to explain, Sonny Boy.  You see, the sickness your Momma has, it’s not something you can see, it’s not something you can put a bandage on.  It’s inside her head, and it gives her bad thoughts and makes her do wrong things.  She thought Justin was taking you and me away from her, so she tried to stop him.”

He screws his face up.  “But how could Juss take me away?  He loves me.  Didn’t Momma understand that?”

I nod.  “I think she did ... and that was what worried her.  She was afraid that you loved Justin more than you did her.”

“But that’s silly!” he cries.  “I don’t love anyone more than Momma, not even Mommie or you!”

“I know you don’t.  But that’s what I’m trying to tell you ... it was the sickness making her think that.  That was why she felt she had to do something.”

 “Is Juss okay?” he whispers.

“Yes, he’s fine.  Boot and I got there and stopped your Momma.  That’s how my hand got hurt.  But Justin’s studio burned down, and so did the stables.”

“My stables?” he starts crying again.  “Where I was going to have my pony?”

“I’m afraid so,” I tell him gently.  “But we’ll build it again, so don’t worry.  You’ll still have your pony, I promise.”  I take his arms and lift him off Mel’s lap.  “Now I want you to dry your eyes and listen to me for a moment, because this is important.  Can you do that for me?”

He nods, and Mel digs out a tissue and wipes his eyes and nose, and he sits looking at me sorrowfully.

“I know this isn’t going to be easy for you, Gus.  I know you’re going to miss your Momma: sometimes you’ll be sad, and sometimes you’ll be angry.  That’s okay.  Everyone will understand.  But it’s going to be hard for us, too ... especially for your Mommie.  She’s got JR to look after, and you too, because you’ll be living here with her from now on.  So I want you to be as brave as you can, and help her as much as you can, because she’s going to be relying on you a lot.  Do you think you’re up to it, Sonny Boy?”

Gus glances up at Mel, and then he straightens his little shoulders.  “Yes, Dadda.  I’ll take care of Mommie and JR until Momma comes back.”

Fuck, he’s a little trooper.  Christ knows where he gets it from.  “Good man.  Now you get your coat on, and we’ll go and get all your stuff.  Then we’ll pick up JR from Uncle Mikey, and then you can get settled in your room.”

“Okay, Dadda.”  He manages a teary smile.  “She’ll get better, won’t she?”

I want to tell him yes more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.  Instead, I opt for the truth.  “I hope so, son.”

He stands up, and I hug him close.  “Don’t forget, Gus,” I tell him.  “You’ve got a big family, and they all love you.  You’re not going to be alone; we’ll all get through this together.” 

He sniffles a little, but he nods.  I watch his little figure as he walks slowly away, then I turn to Mel.

“Good job, Dadda.”  She smiles sadly.  “Thank you for being here, Brian.”

“I told you I would be.”  I put my hand on her shoulder.  “We will get through this, Mel.  Don’t doubt it.”

“Do we have a choice?”  She gets up as Gus comes back carrying his coat, and starts helping him on with it.  I go to grab my jacket, and as I pick it up my cell starts to ring.  I fumble it out of my pocket with my left hand and glance at the ID – it’s Boot.

My heart speeds up as I answer.  “Yeah?”

“I’m down at the stables,” Boot says quietly.  “He’s here.”

Thank God.  Thank fucking God.  I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment.  “Is he alright?”

“Haven’t spoken to him yet, but he looks fine.”

I move over to the window out of earshot.  “I can’t leave yet ... Gus is pretty upset.  I have to help Mel get his things over, then I’ll grab a cab.  I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“You stay put, guv,” Boot replies.  “I’ll bring him back to the Loft when I’ve had a word with him.  You do what you have to  ... don’t worry about us.”

He hangs up and I let out a long, slow breath, relieved that I can now fully concentrate on the task ahead of me.  Boot will bring Justin back.  He said so.

I don’t doubt it for a second.  I daren’t.

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

JUSTIN

“Make yourself at home, Sunshine.  I’ll just grab a shower and throw on some clean clothes, then I’ll run you over to the Loft.”  He disappears out of the door and I stand looking around me. 

I don’t think I’ve ever been in a straight man’s apartment, and I’m intrigued. 

Boot’s place is in an old brownstone not far from Liberty Avenue, and I suppose by Brian’s standards it’s pretty basic.  There’s a nod to modernity in the small TV and sound system standing on a coffee table in the corner, but the rest of the furniture is old and shabby.  Actually, that’s wrong ... most of this stuff I guess would be classed as antique, but it’s all been too well-used to be valuable.  Still the room is scrupulously clean and polished, and everything looks solid and comfortable; there’s a vast leather armchair, battered and cracked but still welcoming; a small oak dining table with two chairs; and a piece I recognize from my grandmother’s house, a Davenport – a small drop-fronted writing desk.  An old-fashioned brass carriage clock sits on top of it, ticking steadily.

A pair of tall mahogany bookcases stand against the far wall, stuffed not only with books but what look like magazines, DVD’s and videos.  I wander over to the nearest and start checking the titles; a volume of Shakespeare rubs against a well-thumbed Steven King paperback, while a leather-bound A Tale of Two Cities is sandwiched by Dracula and Huckleberry Finn.  Rudyard Kipling props up T.S. Elliott.  Boot’s tastes are nothing if not eclectic.  There are reference books too: a huge Atlas; a copy of The Native Birds of North America; folios of the Impressionists and the Pre-Rapaelites; a dog-eared Who’s Who of Rock’nRoll.   

I smile.  Brian has that, too.

On the bottom shelf are a stack of old vinyl records, so I kneel down and pull out a few.  I’ve heard of The Rolling Stones and Black Sabbath and Pink Floyd, but who the fuck are Yes?  I stare at the cover of the album and my mouth falls open.  The artwork is amazing ... Tales of Topographic Oceans, what kind of a stupid title is that? ... I turn it over, looking for the artist’s name, and the design on the back is even better than the front, a shoal of tuna-like fish drifting over a dry sea-bed beneath a dark, star-filled sky.  Roger Dean.  Why the fuck haven’t I heard of this guy?  I make a mental note to check out the rest of his work as I put the album reluctantly away and stand up.

On top of the bookcases are several framed photographs.  Some of them are black-and-white, and I guess are of Boot’s family; a man and a woman, who might be his parents, standing arm-in-arm and smiling; a dark-haired girl in an old-fashioned school uniform; a photograph of what seems to be a party in a street – all the kids are wearing paper hats, sitting at what look like wooden trestle tables set up in the road, while smiling adults serve them plates of food.  A lot of them seem to have Union Jack flags in their hands.  I guess it must be at the end of the war or something.  I wonder if any of the kids are Boot, but I don’t think he’s that old.

My gaze is drawn to the one colour photograph in the collection ... a stunning boy with black curls hanging almost to his shoulders and brown, long-lashed eyes.  A beautiful, sensitive smile.  If he’s a relative of Boot’s, I’d sure like to meet him ... although I’d perhaps on second thoughts I’d better keep him out of Brian’s way.  He might have been in his early teens when the photo was taken, but that would have been a while ago ... the kid’s clothes are of the style Brian and Michael were wearing in that cheesy school photo, which would make him more Brian’s age now.

I move over to the next bookcase to check out the photos there.  These are obviously from Boot’s career as a boxer, and I grin with delight as I see a publicity shot of him in a pair of what seem to me very revealing boxing shorts, his hands gloved, posed as though he were sparring; his hair, black and thick then, flopping over one eye.  He’s scowling menacingly, his nose already broken; but fuck, he had a fit body when he was young!

There’s another photograph of him, obviously taken in the ring at the end of a fight; he’s covered with sweat and there’s swelling around his eyes and blood on mouth, but he’s grinning victoriously as he holds a huge, ornate belt of some kind above his head while men wearing suits stand around applauding.

And there’s one of him dressed in a suit ... a fucking suit ... I didn’t know they even made them that large ... and he’s among a lot of other well-dressed people in what seems to be a garden, and he’s sort of bending over the gloved hand of this lady wearing a Jaquie Onassis outfit with one of those little pill box hats on her head, and it looks funny because he’s so tall and she’s so tiny, and I wonder who she is because she seems really familiar ...  

And oh... my ... God.    It can’t be.  It is.  It’s her.  Looking impossibly young and pretty, her hair dark instead of silver; but it’s her.  It’s the Queen of fucking England and she’s looking up at Boot, and she’s smiling and saying something ... oh, my fucking God ...

“That was taken at a garden party at Buckingham Palace in 1974, just after I won this,” Boot says behind me, making me jump out of my skin and spin round.  He picks up the photo of him in the ring.  “I don’t expect you know what this is, Sunshine, so I’ll tell you; it’s a Lonsdale Belt.”

“Oh.”  It still means nothing to me, although I can tell from the pride in Boot’s voice that it’s a big deal to him.  However, he could have told me it was part of the Crown Jewels and it wouldn’t have registered.  I’m still too busy picking my jaw off the carpet.  “You’ve met the Queen, Boot?  I mean, obviously you have.  It’s just ... wow.”

“And a proper lady she is, my son, and don’t ever let anyone tell you any different,” he says seriously.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He grins, a little shyly. “Believe it or not, it’s not the kind of topic that crops up in conversation.  Besides, there were a lot of other people there ... the Queen holds garden parties every year, and all sorts of people get invited.  Sportsmen, artists, writers, politicians, pop stars ... but a lot of ordinary folk too, like people who work for charities, or who have been recognised for serving the public.  Most of them deserved to be there more than I did.  I just won a few fights.”

I can’t take my eyes off the photo.  “Oh my God, Emmett will just die!”

“Emmett won’t, because you aren’t going to tell him.”

I swivel to look up at him.  “Why wouldn’t you want people to know?  I would have thought you’d be proud!”

“I am ... and it’s not that I don’t want people to know ... it’s just none of their business.  Besides, it was a long time ago.  I don’t live in that world anymore.”  His heavy brows draw down.  “People think it takes bottle to stand up in a ring, but it doesn’t.  You just don’t have to mind getting hurt.  I tell you, walking away from it was a bloody sight harder than fighting in the first place.   Real courage ... that’s a different thing, Sunshine.”  He moves over to the other bookcase and picks up the photo of the boy I’d been admiring.  “Courage is what he had.  That’s me nephew, Andy.  Never told you about him, did I?”

I shake my head.  “Had?” I ask, picking up the past tense.

“He was what ... fourteen when this was taken?  He was killed ... murdered, in fact ... when he was sixteen.  He’s been dead twenty-five years, more or less.” 

“Murdered?” I repeat stupidly. 

Boot gives the glass a careful wipe and sets the frame back in position.  “He was a dancer.  While all the other lads wanted to be Paul Gascoigne or Gary Linneker, he wanted to be Nureyev.  He went through all sorts of grief at school because the other boys thought he was a nancy ... you know, tripping him up, spilling drinks over his books, calling him names.  Same sort of thing you went through, I expect.”  He gives me a quick glance.  “He never let it get to him though; he was going to be a great dancer, he reckoned, and who knows?  Maybe he would have made it.  He had determination and dedication and talent enough, even for the ballet world.  But he never got the chance to find out because he got beaten to death one night by some skinheads who took exception to the way he looked.”

I gaze at the boy’s ... Andy’s ... beautiful face and feel my eyes tearing up.  I had no idea.  “God, Boot ...” I step close to him and give him a hug.  “I’m so sorry ...”

He hugs me back.  “You reminded me of him the first time I saw you, standing up for that tramp when that arsehole was pissing on him.  That’s exactly what Andy would have done ... and you reminded me of him in other ways, too; the way you smiled, the way you moved.  You both had the same love for anything that was beautiful in life.  And you nearly died too; the difference was, you had the guvnor there and Andy didn’t.”  He smiles at me.  “He would have liked you.  I suppose I wanted things to work out for you because they hadn’t for him ... and I was prepared to go out of me way to make sure they did.  Because people like you and Andy are important, my son ... you give hope to this miserable fucking world, because you never give up, no matter how bad it gets.  You’re always true to yourself, never mind what the rest of us think or do.  And that’s real bottle.”

Well, at least I know the answer to why Boot has always been so protective of me.  I’d always wondered.  “That’s why you got me out of the studio, wasn’t it?  Not because Brian told you to, but because of Andy.  Otherwise you’d never have left him in that fire on his own.”

He screws up his face.  “Behave!  You’re always too quick to put yourself down, Sunshine.  Just because I took to you at first because you reminded me, doesn’t make you a substitute.  Andy was the last thing on my mind that night, believe you me!”

I do.  Boot has never given me the slightest reason not to.  I think of the countless occasions he’s lent his unstinted support from the first night I met him; of all the times he’s uncomplainingly given of his generosity, his patience, his huge strength.  The way he dispenses his simple, irrefutable wisdom with kindness and humour; of his unwavering sense of morality.  I think he’s the wisest man I’ve ever met. And I am so proud that he classes me as a friend.

“Boot ... I called you a coward.  I can’t believe I did that, and I am so ashamed of myself.”  I hold my hand out.  “Will you please accept my apology?”

He throws his head back and laughs, and then grips my hand and shakes it.  “Spoken like a man, my son, and accepted in the same way.  And I’m sorry too, for manhandling you the way I did.  I just didn’t have time to argue the point with you.”  He pats me on the back.  “Now let’s get you back to the guvnor before he throws another wobbly.  And Justin?  Do me a favour.  You two start communicating like sensible people, because I might not always be around to bang your heads together.”

TBC