Page 15 of Now Comes the Dark

“Why do you put up with him?” Roman asked.

“Look… I know you don’t like him—”

“That’s an understatement. He treats you like shit and thinks I’m even worse than that. I can’t stand the man.”

“But I love him. I can’t explain why, but I do. You must accept that.”

Roman squeezed him caringly. “I accept you have the worst taste and judgement in men of anyone I know, but I put up with him, don’t I? For your sake.”

Ashley laughed and leaned into him. “You say that like you didn’t hook up with a married businessman last night, the oldest cliché in the book.”

“Let’s agree to disagree about men, eh? At least for tonight.”

At Julie’s, Roman queued at the bar to get the next round of drinks. As he waited to make payment, the manager Phil spotted him and came out from behind the counter.

“Are you all right? I heard what happened.”

Roman raised his shirt to display the bruises, which had spread and turned a dark shade of purple. “They look worse than they are.”

“Oh my God. What were you thinking?” Phil gathered him to his chest and hugged him gently. “Did it really happen after you left here?”

Roman nodded. “Just up the road. I was looking for a taxi when they jumped me.”

“Why didn’t you say something? I could have called you a cab. You didn’t have you go out there by yourself.”

“It’s fine, really. I didn’t think I needed one. They took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“They could have killed you—or given you a lot more to worry about than a couple of bruises.” Phil told him to put his debit card away. “Your drinks are on the house tonight. It’s the least we can do for you. What about the police? Please tell me you reported this.”

“It’s okay, I did. I spoke to them this afternoon.”

“And? What did they say? Did they take photos of your injuries?”

“They haven’t even seen them. I gave my statement over the phone. They’ve given me an incident number, and I suspect that’s as far as it will go.”

Phil’s jaw dropped. “You’re fucking kidding. Another major assault in the village, and they do fuck all about it. This isoutrageous. How many more people need to be attacked? How many have to die before they give a shit?”

Roman nodded. He shared the older man’s anger and exasperation, but if the police wouldn’t do anything, he didn’t see how they could change that. “This guy came along and helped me.” He told him about Mallon. “You should have seen him. He was like someone from a Marvel movie. He took down all three of them.”

“Then you’re bloody lucky. You might not be the next time.”

A group of overexcited young women pushed to the bar, giggling and screaming. Roman and Phil stepped aside to give them room. Phil pulled a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his apron and indicated they should go outside. The beer garden was busy but quieter and cooler than the interior.

“We need to do something about this,” Phil said. “The police are useless, the press doesn’t even report these attacks anymore, and we need to take matters into our own hands.”

“What are you suggesting? A vigilante group?”

Phil shook his head. “That’s not my way of working. That will only make matters worse. The homophobes will see it as a challenge to come down here and fight the gays. But if no one will listen to us, we need to make more noise. Rallies, petitions, we need to march on the town and make sure the news cameras are there to see it.”

Roman said nothing. He didn’t share the militant spirit of a lot of the older people in the community. They loved a loud protest. He preferred to keep his head down and avoid confrontation, not that it had worked too well for him last night. “I wondered whether you knew the guy who stepped in to help me?” he said, changing the direction of their conversation.

“Who was he?”

“A French guy called Mallon. He said he’s here on business, but it’s not the first time. I got the impression he’s here quite often.”

Phil shook his head, drawing on his cigarette. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He’d be in his mid-thirties, dark hair, really startling grey eyes—square jawed, handsome.”

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