Final chapter

:::::::

Brendan spent his last few days in Belfast tying up loose ends with the clubs and his contacts, letting them know that he was going away, collecting what he was owed and paying his debts. He didn't want any trouble to follow him to England, or for anyone here in Ireland to have a reason to look to Eileen for reparation once he'd gone.

He saw his sons a couple of times, taking them to the park and for a pizza. Padraig accepted that it was work that was keeping their father away from home, but Declan didn't buy it and Brendan had to tell him a version of the truth: that he and their mother were separating for a while. The disappointment in his child's face made Brendan shrivel inside.

He left it until the day of his departure to tell Eileen that he was going. He went to pick up his belongings, almost hoping that his family would be out and he wouldn't have to face them, but they were home. He took his suits, and whatever other clothes he could fit in a suitcase, and a couple of photographs, and loaded them into the car. Then he went back inside. Eileen and the boys were together in the kitchen, and he was glad to be able to do this with the children there because he knew his wife wouldn't make a scene in front of them.

"I'm going to stay with Cheryl for a bit. Getting the ferry tonight."

"How long for?" Eileen asked.

"Not sure. Here," he said, handing her an envelope stuffed with cash. "This is to keep you going for now. I'll send more when I get it."

"Thanks, Brendan," Eileen said quietly. "I know you will."

He turned to his sons.

"I'll be back to visit, okay? And you can phone me any time. It'll be just like when I was in Liverpool, remember?"

He bent to hug them. Declan resisted at first, but when his dad told him he would always love him, he could tell it was true and hugged him back.

"Good lads."

Brendan hurriedly made for the front door. His wife followed him, and they looked at each other for a moment.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry."

Eileen hesitated, then put her arms around him, and they clung to each other.

"I'm sorry for you, Bren," she said.

:::::::

The ferry wasn't due to sail until ten thirty at night. Brendan went back to the B&B and spent the rest of the day dozing on his bed; he had no energy for anything else.

:::::::

In the evening, there was something he'd had to do at the last minute, so he was late picking up Mal and Mercedes. They were in the middle of an argument when they got into the car, but Brendan was feeling calm and let it wash over him, even enjoying the sounds of someone else's unhappy marriage imploding. At the ferry port, he dropped them off so they could board with the foot passengers, while he joined the line of cars waiting to drive on.

He slept for most of the eight hour trip, waking in time to shave and put on some clean clothes. He didn't look for Mercedes and Mal when they docked in Liverpool; they could make their own way home, and Brendan had things to do in the city.

First of all, he went to a cafe to buy some breakfast, and took his time eating it and reading the local paper. It was still early – possibly too early, but he was too impatient to wait any longer – when he phoned Debbie to tell her he was in town. She was delighted to hear from him, and told him she would be at the club at ten to oversee a delivery, so he could meet her there to catch up.

It was odd to be back at the club he used to manage for Danny Houston. Brendan helped Debbie check in the crates and boxes ready for the weekend. He'd forgotten what it was like to have a hand in a legit business; he remembered now how he used to enjoy the logistics of it, managing the staff, bargaining with suppliers, pulling the punters in.

When the delivery was dealt with, Debbie and Brendan sat in a booth with a coffee. He wouldn't have chosen to sit in that particular booth, because it was the one where he and Vinnie used to fuck after closing; they'd even slept there once, Brendan on his back on the red leather seat, Vinnie face up on top of him wrapped in Brendan's arms. Despite the discomfort, they'd only woken when the cleaner had let herself in at six in the morning, and they'd grabbed their clothes and hidden and made a run for it when her back was turned. Vinnie had expected to get the blame somehow, but Brendan took him home with him and cooked them some breakfast, then they'd stayed in bed until it was time to go to work in the afternoon. They'd had to arrive at the club separately, of course, and Brendan went first, which meant Vinnie was late for his shift. My office, now, Brendan had ordered, and when Vinnie had followed him in there, Brendan had pushed him against the door and kissed him as if he could never get enough him.

He tried to put the memories out of his mind.

Debbie was older than Brendan, about forty, motherly and warm. The two of them had got on well when they'd worked together; she'd felt safe when he was around, and he'd found her lack of any agenda a relief, when everyone else seemed to make demands on him.

She filled him in on how things had been in the year and a bit since he'd left. And she talked about Vinnie.

The boy's funeral had been well attended: all his workmates had been there, and his friends from university, and afterwards everyone had come back to the club. That had been Houston's idea, and he had paid for it all. This news made Brendan uneasy, and he recalled something Vinnie had said to him on the phone, about Houston seeming to like him.

"Mind you," Debbie said, "I had to have Vinnie's brothers thrown out. Two of them, big lads; they were taking the piss, you know? Necking the free beer, getting mouthy with the girls on the bar. Their mum was lovely though, I had a chat with her. She said the older two used to bully Vinnie when they were kids. They were chalk and cheese, you see, them being a right pair of thugs and him being... well, you know what he was like. Artistic. Delicate."

"Poor kid. He never said." Brendan felt as if his heart was being ripped open.

"His mum said he changed when he left home to go to uni, and came to work here. She said he was happy for the first time. It's funny, I thought he seemed so sad sometimes; but I hope his mum was right."

Brendan told Debbie where he was heading, down near Chester, and she gave him directions; and she told him where Vinnie was buried, and touched his arm as she said, "In case you want to say goodbye."

"Someone sent me a Liverpool Echo," Brendan said as he got up to go. "The one that had the story about Vincent's accident. Any idea who sent it?"

"No, darling, no idea," Debbie said truthfully. "Who'd have your Belfast address? There's only me, or Danny I suppose. A bit weird though, if they didn't send a note with it."

She walked him to the door, and they hugged, then Brendan took her face in his hands and gently kissed her lips.

"You're getting sentimental, Brendan," Debbie smiled.

"See ya, Deborah."

:::::::

Brendan drove in through the cemetery gates and followed the narrow roadways according to Debbie's directions. He pulled over and got out of the car. There were two or three people about, tending to graves, but it was quiet and still on this August morning.

He quickly found Vinnie's grave. It was too soon for a headstone to be erected, and so it was marked with a simple light wooden cross with an inscription in black lettering.

Vincent Anthony Ryan

"Vinnie"

1989-2010

RIP

Brendan crouched and touched the settling soil. He struggled to believe that his beautiful blond haired boyfriend, every scrawny inch of whose body he had possessed, now lay cold in the earth a few feet beneath his hand.

The last time they'd seen each other, Brendan had left Vinnie battered and distressed. History had been set to repeat itself with Macca, when Brendan had fucked him, hurt him and left him a few days ago; but in the end, Brendan had made things different.

:::::::

It was last night, when Brendan was on his way to pick up Mercedes and Mal to catch the ferry. His mind flashed back to the last time he'd crossed the Irish sea, when he'd left Vinnie behind in Liverpool. The way things had ended between them had been playing on his mind ever since Vinnie's death, but he had a chance to do better with Macca: at least to say a kinder goodbye.

He did a U-turn and drove to Macca's street.

The flat was silent when he let himself in, and he thought Macca must be out, until he found him asleep in bed. Light seeped in through the cracks in the closed blind from the streetlamp outside, and the room was in murky shadow.

Macca had been drinking: he must have had a lot, to be sleeping so deeply. There was an almost empty whiskey bottle on the floor, and as Brendan approached the bed he could smell it on the boy.

He pulled back the cover. Macca was naked, curled up with his arms around his knees.

"Macca."

Brendan touched him lightly on his back and he shifted in his sleep. He knelt on the bed and lifted Macca up so that he was on his knees too, facing him, and pulled him tightly against his body. The boy was barely awake, his limbs floppy. Brendan buried his face in Macca's neck and inhaled deeply. The heady tang of whiskey mingled with the muskiness of bed.

Brendan ran his lips along the slope of Macca's shoulder, and then bit into it, clamping the smooth skin between his teeth and slowly sucking on it. Macca didn't struggle – he'd learnt not to – but whimpered softly against Brendan's chest as the dull pain registered. Brendan kissed the lovebite he'd made, and then, still holding him close with an arm around his waist, supported the lad's head with his hand and kissed his mouth. Brendan tasted the whiskey on Macca's tongue as he sleepily responded.

He laid him back down and covered him up.

"Brendan?"

"Shh, it's okay, son. Go back to sleep." He stroked Macca's face with his fingertips, and gave him one last kiss. "Good lad."

Brendan would never have used the language of therapy, but as he sped away in his car to collect Mal and Mercedes, he understood the meaning of closure.

By the time Macca woke again, dawn was breaking. He thought Brendan had come to him in a dream, until he felt his shoulder and found that his lover had once more left his mark. He pressed on the bruise to recreate the hurt, and shut his eyes to recollect the kiss.

Brendan hadn't given Macca closure. He had given him hope.

:::::::

Brendan traced with a finger the letters of the name Vincent on the wooden cross; then he returned to his car and left the cemetery. He would never go there again.

He drove down through the Mersey tunnel then took the road for Chester, wondering what lay ahead for him.

He knew he would find a new boy for himself: it was a need he had, like eating or sleeping, no point denying it. But he wouldn't choose one as fragile as Vinnie had been, nor anyone like Macca, so out and proud that he'd imagined they could have a future together. No, he would try to find a lad who, like Brendan, wasn't queer: someone who wouldn't get emotional like the last two had.

Keep things simple, that would be the rule.

Brendan wasn't certain which turning he had to take, but he was okay with that. As he got closer to where he was heading, he would just follow the signs.