Page 102 of Pansies

He hadn’t meant to dump Fen off his lap quite so unceremoniously, but…that was sort of what happened. And he didn’tmean to leave him lying in a heap on the sofa like a half-squashed daddy longlegs, but…that was sort of what happened as well, as Alfie ran to the window to see what was happening.

Sure enough, squinting through a gap in the curtains, he could just about make out shadowy splodges on the street. There were definitely people down there. He banged on the glass, but either they didn’t hear or they didn’t care.

Fen struggled into a sitting position, one leg curled over the other for modesty’s sake, his nakedness a little ridiculous now. “It’s not worth it. It’s never worth it.”

“No way,” Alfie growled, even the pleading note in Fen’s voice not enough to hold him back. “This crap stops tonight.”

With that, Alfie charged out of the room, down the stairs, and through the side door. He tore round the corner, bellowing the traditional North Eastern battle cry of “Oi!” Found a tangle of kids and bikes and cans of spray paint,FAGGOin big cheerful letters emblazoned across the newly scrubbed grille. He was so angry, he could feel it bubbling in his skin. And it was so much easier to be angry.

His appearance generated a gratifying amount of alarm and the vandals scattered, snatching their bikes and careening away in a clatter of pedals and a swoosh of wheels. Alfie surged after them, yelling bloody murder and grabbing wildly. He managed to get a handful of hoodie. Brought its owner pinwheeling backwards off his BMX.

The bike spun into the kerb, and the kid gave a terrible screech, arms and legs thrashing in all directions. But Alfie had spent most of his adolescence getting into fights, and the instincts were still there. He was slightly hampered at first by not wanting to brutalise a child, but as soon as the child began yelling obscenities at him, he lost all such scruples. He wrestled the kid againstthe bonnet of the nearest car—not his own, of course, there was no way he was doing that to his Sagaris—and pinned him there with his arms twisted up behind his back.

“Alfie, what the fuck are you doing?” Fen, barefoot and wearing what appeared to be a purple silk kimono, came running into the street.

It was actually a good question. He couldn’t just let the kid go—he’d only come back. Maybe do worse. But, now he had him, what was he supposed to do with him? If Alfie had ever pulled a stunt like this, his dad would have belted the living shit out of him. But you couldn’t go around doing that to other people’s kids. Honestly, Alfie wasn’t even sure he’d be able to do it to his own. It hadn’t done him any harm, but the thought of it just…didn’t sit well with him, like the time Kev had dared him to drink a pint of off milk. He didn’t resent his dad, but, he realised with a sudden and eerie clarity, he didn’tlikehim much. Was probably more than a little bit scared of him. And he would never want his son to feel that way about him.

He would want his son to feel protected and looked after and loved. Or, y’know, daughter. If he had a daughter. That’d be cool too. And, oh God, they were all right about him. His dad, this bloody kid, everyone. He was soft. A sissy faggot nancy.

He shoved the lad a little harder into the car and prepared to impart a (verbal) life lesson about respect. “Now listen here—”

“Gerroff me, you fucking dirty queer. And fuck you. Cocksucking freak.”6

“Shut up.” Alfie tried not to sound horrified. All he was doing was teaching this kid that adults were powerless. Thathewas powerless. “Just…shut up and…stop being a git.”

His anger was leaking away. Which gave him space to feel a lot of other awful shit: confusion and loneliness and hurt, andwhere the fuck had that come from? They were just kids. They shouldn’t be able to hurt him.

“Please let him go.” That was Fen, all gentleness, with his southern-softened vowels, the night air stirring his too-long, pink-tipped hair, and the edges of whatever the fuck he was wearing, making the pattern of flowers ripple.

Out of nowhere, Alfie was furious again. And it felt sweet and strong and safe. It was like Fen was fuckingaskingfor it. Why couldn’t he even pretend to be normal?

He gritted his teeth, adjusting his hold to free a hand—not entirely sure what he was going to do, but wanting, more than anything, to dosomething. So he could stop feeling like this. “Someone has to teach the little bastard a lesson.”7

The kid went crazy, screaming in earnest now between the insults, and pounding his feet against the pavement. Lights began to glow in the windows of the houses opposite.

“Oh my God, stop it. Stop it right now.” Fen’s hands closed around Alfie’s elbow, as he tried to physically drag him away.

But Alfie was having none of it. He shook him off easily—and had just enough self-control to be careful about it. He didn’t want to hurt Fen. Or have him get hurt. Just wanted him out of the way.

The kid, of course, used this momentary distraction to make another escape attempt. “Lemme go. Fucking faggot, fucking cocksucker, lemme go.”

“You really need to widen your vocabulary,” Fen told him wearily. “In the eighteenth century they called usmolliesandmandrakes. In Hebrew, there’s noshech kariot, which means ‘pillow biter,’ and in Spanish there’s maricón, which I can’t really translate, because it has something to do with the Virgin Mary, but apparently it’s very insulting.”

“This isn’t the time to be fucking clever,” Alfie growled.

“But didn’t you say we ought to teach him a lesson? If he wants to spend his life insulting a group of people, he should get better at it.” Fen folded his arms, his attention on the kid again. “If you were from the Caribbean, you could call me a batty man, which refers to a specific sexual preference. And in Mandarin, there’s duànxiù, meaning ‘cut sleeve.’ It refers to Emperor Ai of the Han dynasty, who chose to cut the sleeve from his garment rather than disturb his male concubine, who had fallen asleep on it. Although now I think about it, that’s rather romantic and probably wouldn’t suit your purpose. But, even so, there’s always the old standbys:poofandfairyand—”

“Shurrup.” The kid turned his head and spat at Fen, spattering his dressing gown thing with strings of phlegmy saliva.

Fen didn’t react at all—same as all those years ago. “Let him go.”

“But he spat on you. He’s calling you…us…names.”

“So? You can’t beat up homophobia. Or children.”

Alfie swayed, slightly sick with the aftermath of adrenaline. “What do we do?”

“We hope he grows up and stops being afraid. Just like you did.”

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