Page 5 of Pansies

Maybe he’d drive for a bit. Find a pub where he could be just like everyone else. Have a beer. Smile at the lasses. Be one of the lads.

And then come back, better and stronger and feeling less like two people, both of them unfit for purpose. Probably no one would even notice he was gone.

He pushed the key into the ignition, turned it, and the car roared into life as only a TVR could. He slipped out of the parking space and turned onto River Drive, accelerating as it widened out into Sea Road. There was very little traffic, and he let himself flirt at the edges of the speed limit. The sense of power was effortless. Free.

He opened all the windows so the air went tearing past, ruffling his hair. The sea was a distant shadow, the beach a flat gleam, the old funfair a skeleton of metal. He used to hang out in the amusement arcades with Kev, trying to hook cuddly toysthey didn’t want and squandering twenty-pence pieces on those machines where you bet on mechanical horses and never won.

In summer, they rode the rickety old roller coaster and chased each other in circles on the Dodgems. He’d even had a Saturday job working the Waltzers. He’d felt free then too, riding the boards through the whirling carts as if he stood on the deck of a ship.

As he drove by the Rattler, he impulsively veered off the road and into the car park.11 It was a pub in the station house of the abandoned railway line that used to connect South Shields to the colliery at Whitburn. Part of the building was actually a carriage from one of the old steam trains, the ramshackleRattleritself. It apparently called itself “a bar and restaurant” these days, rather than a boozer, so it wasn’t exactly Alfie’s sort of place. At least, it wouldn’t have been. Except in London, he went, without even a trace of shame, to cocktail bars and wine lodges all the time.

Cold as it was, he took off his jacket and tie and left them draped over the passenger seat. And so nobody paid him much attention as he stepped inside. It was kind of dark in there, with lots of wood panelling and little booths tucked into the carriage bits. A winter-afternoon-with-the-family type pub, but not very crowded now. Which was fine. Probably just what he was looking for.

There was a man propping up the bar. He had his back to the room, but his weight was resting on one leg, which outlined the curve of his spine and, well, everything that came after.

Alfie tried to ignore the flicker of discomfort that he noticed these things. That he was a man who found bits of other men provocative. Whether or not they were trying to provoke him.

His thoughts felt as loud as a siren.

It didn’t help that he kept trying to imagine how it might feel. If he knew that man. If he could go up behind him and press their bodies together. Gather him up. The tight fragile bowstring of his too-thin back. The succulent invitation of his arse.

Yes. Succulent.

Provocative and succulent. Alfie Bell was fucking doomed.

He went to the bar and ordered a pint of John Smith’s, stealing what he hoped was a discreet look at the other guy. He had a pale, sharp face, all angles and edges and taut little frown lines. His hair was silver-blond, as fine as dandelion fluff, dyed bright pink at the tips, and long enough to brush his shoulders.

Alfie stared at his beer.

The bloke next to him: gay, right?

Another glance: he was drinking rosé.12

He had to be.

Alfie wondered if he could say something. He knew how to chat up girls. It was easy. You smiled and you said, “Get you a drink, pet?” And they smiled back and said yes. In theory, it should have been no different with men, except Alfie got all nervous about it. His ex-boyfriend, Greg, said everyone did and you just learned to deal with it. But Alfie had never been nervous before. And that made him even more nervous.

“Can—” he tried. “Can I get you a drink?”

The man started and turned. Behind the heavy frames of a pair of vintage glasses, his eyes widened.13 Then his face went blank, shuttered up like shop windows, but not before Alfie had caught the flash of pure, bright hate. It was the kind of look he had lately learned to fear. He’d seen something like it on his father’s face. An instinct of revulsion.

So maybe the bloke wasn’t gay after all. Maybe he was a quirkily dressed homophobe. An idea that didn’t seem too faroff the mark when he snapped, “Why the fuck would I let you do that?”

He spoke like Alfie, though: as if somebody had sanded down the rough places of his accent. It should have been nice. Comforting. Something else they had in common. Except for the things they didn’t.

Alfie stared at him. Straight into those fury-glinting eyes. “Well, I don’t know.” He kept his voice calm. Confidently unbothered. Even if inside he was a mess of bewildered hurt and anger that someone would just despise him on sight. Based on nothing. “Maybe because you’ve nearly finished and want another?”

The man glared. “I don’t.”

“That’s fine, then.” He turned away as indifferently as he could manage.

Over the years, Alfie had got pretty good at dealing with shit like this. Well, notquitelike this. But certain sorts of people would take one look at him, even if he was doing something perfectly normal like walking to work or buying a coffee, see only height and strength and the edge of a tattoo, and try to start something.14 To show off. Or make themselves feel big. When he’d been younger, he’d encouraged it. Even liked it. The attention. And the power of knowing he made others uncomfortable. Now he didn’t care about that stuff. He had enough on his plate without also letting strangers convince him he had something to prove.

But there was still no way he was backing down. Just because of some overreacting little prick in arty specs.Can I buy you a drink?was hardlyCan I stick my dick in you?

He took a long swallow of his pint. He wasn’t going to rush, but he was going to finish it and then get the hell out of here. And try not to think about what had just happened. Or the man whowas still standing beside him. He could almost feel him somehow, body heat and a sort of trembling ferocity. Weirdo.

Suddenly the stranger spoke again, his voice tight and high, still pissed off. “What the fuck was that about?”

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