Page 4 of Pansies

“Or we get divorced.” He gazed proudly across the room at his bride. “What do ye think, though? Didn’t I do well, eh?”

Lisa—he was pretty sure she was called Lisa—seemed nice enough: pretty, friendly, a bit of a glint in her eyes. What Alfie really wanted to say was,As long as she makes you happy. But he knew it wasn’t what Kev wanted to hear. That he’d probably think it sounded gay.7

Which left Alfie trying to remember who he used to be. “What is she,” he managed, “a mental case?”

“Oi.”

“Well, she’s out of your league, mate, so there’s got to be something wrong with her.”

Kevin beamed like this was high praise. “I’d better get ower there or I’ll never hear the end of it. She’s feisty when she’s roused.” He gave Alfie’s shoulder a final, rough squeeze and headed back to his new bride.

Alfie watched him go, smiling a bit, happy and sad and confused all at once. Since he’d picked up the sausage roll, he tried to eat it in the least dodgy way possible, and it settled lumpenly in his stomach.

Now Uncle DJ was playing “The Power of Love,” swaying ecstatically behind the mixing desk, and Great Aunt Sheila’s voice was somehow managing to drown out even Céline Dion. “An’ ye knaa what else?” she was telling her rapt little audience. “I think wor Maureen’s a lesbeen.”

Nobody was looking at Alfie. Except they were not lookingat him so very pointedly that he knew the moment he turned his back they’d all start staring at him. Like everyone was playing some kind of weird visual game of Grandmother’s Footsteps.

It was at times like this that he really wished he smoked. Or did coke. Or whatever gave you an excuse to slip out of the room when you needed to. So he did the next best thing. He pulled out his phone, reacted to the blank screen as though he’d received some kind of important message, and hurried outside. The air was blissfully cool for a few seconds, and then just cold. He shivered. His coat was still in his room.

God, he reallywasa soft southern ponce.8

He used to go clubbing in the middle of winter wearing only jeans and a T-shirt. Kev the same. Just two lads out on the toon. The girls had flocked to them. Stroking the tattoo on his arm with soft hands.

But that was a long time ago.

The Little Haven Hotel was one of those places that seemed to exist only in the backwaters of the North East. It had a timeless, custom-built blandness, but the visitor information made a big deal of its unique location: an expanse of yellowing scrub grass overlooking the grey-brown mouth of the Tyne.

He wandered down to the beach. Most of the light had faded, leaving the scene as still and silent as a black-and-white photograph. The sand was silver-stained by the tide. The red groyne lighthouse that guarded the jetty like a stubborn old man was nothing but a hunch of shadow in the distance. And across the bay, the answering light from the North Shields dock gleamed like a pale star.

It was even colder here. But he had forgotten how clean the air could be. Fresh air, literally fresh, breathed from the edges of the sea.

He’d sat on this beach so often with Kev. They’d shared their first bottle of White Lightning here. Alfie had never touched cider again. Even apparently good cider, proper cider, organic, artisanal blah blah blah cider, tasted of nothing but vomit and sand.

The memories felt so clear and so distant at the same time.

He took out his phone again—barely one bar of reception—and turned on Grindr. It took ages to load.

Maybe he really was the only gay in the village.

Finally, he was rewarded with about fifty profiles, none of them inspiring. He wasn’t really in the mood to cruise, but he desperately wanted to be with someone.

Someone who wouldn’t ask any questions. Someone who might find something to recognise about him. Even if it was just that they both liked men.

He was updating his profile to say he was only in town for a night and looking for—when he suddenly couldn’t be bothered anymore. Couldn’t be bothered in this really massive way. And in a moment of overwhelming dissatisfaction, he deleted the app. He put his phone away and stuck his hands in his pockets. Listened to the swooshing of the tide. The distant, mournful gulls. It was too overcast for stars, so the world was a strip of artificial light, squashed between two shifting darks.

Eventually, he climbed back up to the hotel. He could hear music seeping faintly from inside. Thankfully, he couldn’t quite work out what it was.

He hesitated in the car park. He really, really didn’t want to go back to the party.

His TVR Sagaris was tucked into one of the bays.10 He could get in it and drive away and never ever come here again.

Leave his best friend and his new wife to live their lives without him.

Which couldn’t make all that much difference to them, since he lived in London and they lived here, and he wasn’t who Kevin thought he was anyway.

He unlocked his car and climbed in. He wasn’t actually going to leave. That would be shitty and cowardly. But he felt more like himself with his hands on the wheel, surrounded by the familiar smells of oil and leather.

He’d been telling himself for nearly a year that he’d come out to Kevin eventually. But he’d been lying. He would have liked to come back here on special occasions, just like he had this weekend, and acted like everything was exactly the same as always. And that he was the same too. Alfie Bell, a little bit wild, a little bit wicked, but with his heart in the right place. A good, honest lad. The sort you’d be proud to raise. To call your friend, your brother, your son.

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