Chapter 3
TAKE ME IN YOUR ARMS
MICK
“Alright, I’ve got you. You’re okay.” I caught Michael around the waist as he fell out of the night club door. Slinging his arm around my shoulder, I put mine around his waist and took his weight.
“Is that Michael Prentiss?” the doorman asked, as we passed him. His eyes were wide.
“Um, yeah. Had a few too many, so I’m helping him home.” I shifted my weight to hold him up as Michael mumbled something about being fine.
“That’s not like him.” He shook his head and tutted.
“Tell me about it. I’ve no idea what got into him.”
“Gin!” Michael announced with a giggle.
“Yeah, yeah.” I laughed back. “I’m taking him home so he can sleep it off.”
“You know where he lives?”
“Yeah, Damian told me. He’ll be in bed and dreaming dirty dreams in no time. Don’t worry.”
“Good lad.” He slapped me on the back with his great big meat hooks. “I can’t wait to see him next week and remind him what a state he was in.” He chuckled as he waved us off.
I got us moving again, though it was bloody slow going. Michael’s eyes weren’t even open, as far as I could tell. We managed about three hundred yards before Michael hiccoughed and tripped, taking me down with him.
“I’m so sorry, Mick,” he said as I hauled us both up and positioned his arm back over my shoulders. “I don’t know what I was–hic–thinking.”
“Don’t worry about it. We all have nights like this.” I pulled him in for a reassuring hug. “Mind you, I’ve never seen you drink like this before. Did something happen?”
“Uh-uh,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Nothing, nothing, nothing. I just drank too much because I’m an old fool.”
“The fool part might be true, but you’re not over the hill yet. At least all the young men you go home with don’t seem to think so.”
He didn’t say anything but just kept walking, probably needing all his concentration just for that.
We carried on at a snail’s pace, not saying anything.
I had hoped the walk would sober him up, but he was just as wobbly as he had been when we left the club–I checked my watch–twenty minutes ago.
Bloody hell, we weren’t even out of Soho yet.
It was going to take fucking hours to get him home at this rate.
It had been a nice day for the time of year, but it was midnight now and there was a chill in the air.
“You’re shivering,” Michael mumbled on my shoulder.
“I’m alright. Come on, keep moving, and we’ll stay warm.”
“Where are we?”
Looking around for a street sign, I told him.
“We’re still miles away,” he slurred. “Let’s get a taxi.”
“Don’t be daft. At this time of night? It’ll cost an arm and a leg.”
“I’ll pay.” He shoved off me, walked to the edge of the pavement, and stuck his arm up in the air. As if it had sprouted out of nowhere, a black cab pulled up by the side of the road. The driver leaned over, winding his window down.
“Where to?” he said in a strong Glaswegian accent.
“Oh. Um, Hallfield Estate, please.”
He gave a gruff nod, and we shambled into the back seat. As soon as I shut the door, he tore off into the night. Michael slumped against the window, and in less than a minute, he was snoring quietly.
“Your pal’s not going to puke, is he?”
“Nah, he’s fine. Just tired. I’m from South of the river, so I’m kipping on his couch tonight.” The lie slipped out automatically to explain what two blokes were doing in the same cab at this time of night. Funny, it was innocent in this case, but it didn’t hurt to be cautious.
Being out late at night (or early in the morning, depending on how you looked at it) was a strange experience.
I settled into the supple leather seat and let my mind wander.
My eyes caught on the patterns of streetlights and the occasional neon sign as we whizzed by, and after about twenty minutes, the driver pulled over.
“This is as close as I can get you. It’s all pedestrianised in between the blocks.”
“This is great, ta.” I glanced up at the meter and choked back a gasp at the fare. Handing over a note, I hoped Michael would remember his offer and at least give me half back. I couldn’t afford to waste so much money on a taxi ride.
Manhandling Michael out of the back seat was easier than I’d thought it would be. He was sleepy and disorientated, but he was light enough to lift out.
“Where are we?” Michael mumbled as I helped him stand up. He was still a bit unstable, but he could hold his own weight, which was a good sign.
“Home.”
“Home? My home?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you here?”
I couldn’t help laughing. “That’s gratitude for you. I’m here because you couldn’t walk without me holding you up.”
“Oh, God!” Realisation dawned on him. “I’m so sorry, Mick.”
“It’s alright, but maybe we could carry on this conversation inside your flat? It’s bloody cold out here.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course. Come on, then.”
We walked across a large open space and into one of the looming grey buildings.
Michael took his time but walked in a straight line–the forty winks he had in the taxi must have sobered him up a bit.
After climbing three sets of concrete stairs, we stopped outside a green door, which Michael opened on the third attempt after dropping his keys twice. Not completely sober, then.
Michael’s flat was very… normal. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t tasteful cream wallpaper with a subtle pink floral pattern and blue shag carpet.
I followed him through the little hallway and into the lounge.
Again, I was surprised by how unexceptional it was.
It looked like a young married couple lived here–simple and straightforward.
I’d expected something more sophisticated or stylish.
The wallpaper in this room was a bit bolder but still quite old-fashioned. A green three-piece suite took up most of the space. The compact sofa and two armchairs were arranged around a small television cabinet. Against one wall was a sideboard with a record player on it.
“Do you want a drink?” Michael asked from the doorway. I wasn’t tired, so staying up for a bit suited me.
“Yeah, go on then. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Make yourself comfy.”
Shrugging my jacket off, I draped it over the back of one of the armchairs. Looking around the small space, what struck me most was the lack of decoration or detail.
No pictures on the walls; no ornaments on the window-sill, nic-nacs lying around; no photo frames on the sideboard. There was nothing that made it a home. It didn’t look like anyone lived here, let alone someone as vibrant and extravagant as Michael.
As Michael walked back into the living room with two glasses of clear liquid, I took the opportunity to look at him in his own space. Where Tommy, Eric, and I went for a simpler look based on the Italian style with only a few colours, Michael was like a mod peacock.
His shirt was a light blue, with a darker blue and red paisley pattern, and he had a silk cravat in the same navy colour tucked into the collar.
His tight trousers were blue with a white pin-stripe, and they hugged his thighs so well they must have been tailored.
Shiny white pointed boots had finished the look, but he’d taken them off when we came in.
In the plain, drab looking living room, he looked so out of place. It was like his light didn’t shine as bright when he wasn’t in the club. He handed me one of the glasses and sat down on the sofa, so I joined him there. Taking a swig, I coughed violently, choking on the alcohol.
“I thought this was water!”
“No, dear. It’s a gin and tonic.” He smiled at me and took a sip. “Since I cut your night short, forced you to get me home, and denied you a shag, I thought the least I could do was give you a drink. I’m afraid I don’t keep beer in the house, so this will have to do.”
“This is fine, thank you. Although I’m not sure you should be drinking more booze.”
“Who are you? My mother?”
“No, just the fella who had to look after you for the last hour.”
“That was very kind of you, but I’m fine now. Stop complaining and enjoy your drink.”
“Yes, sir.” I gave a mock salute.
“Good boy,” he said with a wink, and a shiver ran through me. That was a strange to reaction being spoken down to.
“I am sorry about ruining your evening. Did you have your eye on anyone before you had to babysit me?”
“No, I spent most of the night chatting to Damian.”
He had a funny look on his face, like he was sucking a lemon. “And you didn’t fancy going home with him?”
“Damian? No!” I howled with laughter.
“Is it that funny?”
“Yes, actually,” I said, getting my breath back. “It’s very fucking funny.”
“Why? He’s good looking.” He looked at me, and I nodded in agreement. “Is it because he’s old?”
“No! And he’s not old. He–”
“What’s wrong with him, then?”
“Nothing.” I looked away and fidgeted with the cuff of my shirt. “It’s just… We’ve already slept together.” I felt a little embarrassed admitting that for some reason.
“You what? When? Why didn’t I know about that?” His voice was so high he was going to attract dogs.
“About a year ago. The night I first came to Le Duce, I met him, Sebastian, and you. Don’t you remember? We all went to his flat to carry on the party?”
“Yes. I remember.” His voice was hesitant, and he didn’t meet my eye. “I just didn’t realise you and he had…” He made a vague sort of gesture.
“Yeah. It wasn’t the best. For either of us. We were both rat-arsed. I think we only fell into bed together because of a lack of options. The next morning could have been awkward, but it wasn’t. We had a bit of a laugh about it, had breakfast, and said goodbye as friends.”
Michael wasn’t looking at me but staring down at his drink. I’d upset him, but I wasn’t sure how. Did he have feelings for Damian? I’d never noticed anything but friendship between them–and a very bitchy friendship at that–but I could have been wrong.
“Sorry,” I said.
“What on Earth for?”
“I don’t know. But you seem upset. Do you… Erm, do you… like Damian?”