Chapter 21
fichead ’s a h-aon / twenty-one
Innes got out of bed. He carried a sea of sadness inside him. It had started as a faint trickle the day before, and now it filled him from heel to throat and threatened to choke him if he lay any longer.
He sat in the chair and watched over the young man as he slept. Cal was lying on his back, with his mouth open and his hands above his head, one leg was bent at the knee as though he was caught mid-reel, a Welsh methodist crying out hallelujah.
Cal groaned as he flung his arm across his face.
The old shirt rode up. His cock was swelling.
It bounced once and fell back against his thigh.
Then, all of a sudden and without opening his eyes, he rose and stumbled towards the bathroom.
Innes watched from the corner as he bumped into furniture and felt his way towards the door.
He listened to him piss. The jet hit the toilet, then hit the floor, before he cursed, and his stream found the bowl again.
He stumbled into the room and, tugging the shirt off over his head, he balled it in his arms and hugged it to his chest. Naked, he flopped face down onto the bed.
Innes replayed the conversation they had had in the small hours, when Cal had confessed that he used to give him the creeps: how when he was a boy, whenever he looked up, he would always find Innes watching him. Not watching you, he had wanted to say, but watching for the John within you.
He sat for an hour, maybe more, watching morning pass over the body, the light making a sundial of his muscles.
At first the day came in on a slant and the riverbed of his spine and the soft mounds of his buttocks were all etched in hard shadow.
As the sun rose higher and the morning brightened, the shadows vanished and he looked so soft, so unblemished in the beginnings of the day.
Innes asked God to protect him. He prayed for the world to be kind.
He thought of Cal in the town square, waiting in the rain for hours, smiling at the first sight of him.
Then he thought of Cal’s father. He pictured John’s face when he saw the concrete foundation for the weaving shed, and how, even under the threat of homelessness, a life together with him seemed no consolation at all.
Innes thought of all the times he had prayed for opposing things and wondered if he had confused God. All the nights he had begged God to bring John to him, then in the sober light of morning, how he had begged God to save him from his sin, spare him from damnation.
As he watched Cal itch the sole of one foot with the toe of the other, he wondered if God had not forsaken him after all.
Perhaps for his years of devotion He had granted him, not absolution for his wickedness, not peace from his tormentor, but the thing he needed most in the world, an angel of salvation.
Innes got up from the chair. He crossed the room and stood over the sleeping boy. He watched his ribs expand and contract with every breath.
Cal would suit wings. He had beautiful shoulders.
He had almost died when Cal had shed his clothes the night before, he could have fallen to his knees and cried out for mercy.
He had stolen many glances, preferring to study him when he could not be studied in return.
The boy was certain of his own beauty – not overconfident or vain – but he knew he had the upper hand of showing his youth, his vigour, to the most appreciative audience of all: a man who was losing his.
Watching Cal dry himself was like being in the room with the ghost of his father.
In all his mannerisms he seemed so much like John, like John from another time.
Whenever he had turned to face Innes, there was a directness to his gaze, an insolence that caused the illusion to flicker, but from the back he could believe that they were almost the same man.
He let his hand hover and imagined touching him. He was so close he could feel the heat rise. He floated his fingers over the body, up over the lean thighs, across the golden hair of his buttocks, along the riverine curve of his spine, to the ducktail at his nape.
He hadn’t been aware he was crying. The tear that dripped off the end of his nose fell before he could catch it. It hit Cal in the small of his back and Innes held his breath as it trickled into the soft downy hair at the base of his spine.
He prayed to the better version of himself, asked this man to step forward as though he were made up of a jostling crowd and his good self had somehow been pushed to the back.
Without waking, Cal reached back and scratched at the wet spot. He flapped his hand as though a fly were bothering him.
There was the suck of doors opening and closing out in the hall. Then somewhere on the floor below, a hoover started with a whine.
Innes looked up and saw himself in the mirror. The old fool grasping at ghosts.
He picked up his coat and boots. Then he collected his watch and, laying a few notes on the dresser, he moved quietly towards the door.
He thought he could wait until he arrived home, but as he queued for the ferry he was overcome with a need to hear John’s voice.
He checked his watch; there would be some time before boarding, so he got out of the van and crossed to the phone box.
John answered on the fourth ring. “It’s me, Johnnie,” he said. “Can you talk?”
“Not really.” John replied in Gaelic, which let Innes know that Ella was nearby. “How was van shopping?”
“Aidh—you were right. They’re out to gouge me. I might wait, see what the sales bring.”
“Seems wise. When are you back?”
“The next boat.” He smiled even though there was no one to see it. “I miss you, John.”
“Very good.”
“A walk later?”
“Maybe. I seem to have misplaced that son of mine.”
Innes turned towards the ferry. They were preparing to load the articulated trucks.
He considered waiting until he was home to ask John about Tolsta.
But if what Cal said was true: if John had looked his best, as though he was courting someone, then he wanted John to lie to him.
John lied best on the phone. “I met someone on the boat that said they knew you.”
“Who?”
“Just some man. We got talking at the snack bar. I told him I was from Falabay and he asked if I knew a John Macleod. I couldn’t help but laugh.
I didn’t let on that I knew you because I know you don’t like people to talk.
But then he started telling me all your private business.
Telling me all about your troubles with Grace. ”
“He did what?”
The first of the trucks released its air brakes and the deck manager guided it onboard. “He seemed to know you very well, so I felt like I was supposed to know him. But I couldn’t recall his name for the life of me.”
“Must be someone from the church. What did he look like?”
“Just another islander.”
“Where’s he from?”
“I forget . . .” He picked a faded sticker from the window. “Does Tolsta ring a bell?”
“. . . Tolsta?”
“So, you do know him?”
“. . . I might.”
“And what was his name again?”
“. . . Anndra.”
“Anndra.”
Innes committed it to memory. He saw a vague outline of an Anndra he had met once. He had been a large, burly farmer with a reddish beard. He had an appalling vision of this Anndra kneeling before John. He tried to push it away. “Oh, then I’m sure I don’t know him.”
“No,” said John. “I don’t think you do.”
The deck manager moved on to the line of vehicles that Innes was parked in. When he saw the abandoned van, he gestured in frustration. Innes waved for five minutes more and the man swore under his breath and motioned for the cars behind to overtake and board the ferry.
He didn’t want to know that John had been unfaithful. He didn’t want to prove it.
“This Anndra was asking after you. Said you paid him a visit recently. Said you had an enjoyable afternoon together. Said he was very much looking forward to seeing you again.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“Aidh—I thought it was a little familiar. ‘An enjoyable afternoon . . .’ I was sure he had the wrong John Macleod.” There was no relief in catching John in his lie.
He swallowed the hurt, tried his best to keep his tone light and casual.
“He didn’t know me at all and yet he talked about you as though you were very close. ”
“I hardly know the man. What business has he to raise my name with you?”
“This is why I tell you. You should be more mindful of your friends.”
His van was the last on the slipway. If he waited much longer the boat would leave without him. “By the way . . . you’ll get a laugh at this. But there was a young man at the dealership . . . and I would swear to God, but he was flirting with me.”
“Flirting . . .” said John in disbelief. “With . . . you?”
“Aidh—in fact, more than flirting. He was very direct, in that mainland sort of way.”
John didn’t reply. Innes listened to him breathe.
“He was so beautiful, John. I cannot tell you how beautiful he was.”
If he left now. If he got in the van and drove as fast as he could, then maybe Cal would still be asleep. Maybe he could lie down beside him and pretend he had never left.
“But he was only a boy,” he said, as the pips sounded for more money. “All the same. It was nice to be noticed.”