Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

Still thinking about his partner, he said, ‘So when did you know you were gay?’

‘That old chestnut.’

Jon wondered if the question had caused offence. But Rick didn’t seem bothered. ‘I’ve always known. It wasn’t like a bolt from the blue at eighteen.’

Jon thought about this. ‘How do you mean always? You fancied men even as a little kid?’

Rick toyed with his drink. ‘Did you fancy women even as a little kid?’

‘I don’t know. I remember watching Top of the Pops and getting pretty excited by Pan’s People’s dance routines.’

Rick laughed. ‘Well, Brian Jackson doing press-ups on

Superstars made more of an impression on me. But I didn’t

consciously fancy him — it was just that he was more interesting, somehow.’

‘But how did you find it at school? Playgrounds can be pretty brutal places.’

‘Never a problem,’ Rick stated. ‘I’m not a screaming queen. In fact, if it wasn’t for this one girl, most people would never have guessed.’

‘A girl you turned down?’

‘Basically, yes. I confided in her, thinking we were mates. She went off and told her friends, so pretty soon I was rumbled.’

‘And?’

‘One particular bloke tried to turn things on me. I walked straight up to him and burst his nose. It’s the only punch I’ve ever had to throw. Luckily it was a beauty.’

Jon smiled. ‘Sounds it. So no problems after that?’

‘None.’ Rick finished off his drink ‘Again?’

Jon found himself reassessing another preconception about gay men. ‘When you started on the gin and Cokes I thought, here we go.’

‘Here we go?’

‘You know,’ Jon faltered. ‘Well, I thought, that’s a bit of a ladies’ drink. Then I thought, two of those and he’ll be all over the place. But fair play, you look more sober than me.’

Rick grinned. ‘Think about it. Which thing more than any other drains people’s money, time and energy, ensuring they have to get up early every single day of the week?’

Jon frowned. ‘I don’t know. Kids?’

Rick clinked his glass against Jon’s. ‘Precisely. And what would a segment of the population do if they had no parental responsibility, plenty of cash and lie-ins every weekend? They’d go out and have a good time. Restaurants, bars, clubs, nice holidays. Here’s to the power of the pink pound.’

Jon was left to stare into the dregs of his pint, mind wandering to the early-morning feeds now only weeks away.

The manager of the women’s refuge wrapped her arms round Fiona, engulfing her in a fiercely protective hug. ‘You take care of yourself,’ she whispered, tilting her head back to look Fiona in the eyes. ‘And let me know how you’re doing.’

Fiona smiled, thinking about the six precious nights she’d spent in the refuge. ‘Thank you so much, Hazel. You’ve been a life-saver. You are a life-saver.’ Waving once more to the women on the doorstep, Fiona turned to her car. Her bags were packed safely in the boot and she climbed in.

The drive to her bedsit took less than a quarter of an hour. She had chosen a place with good transport connections to Melvyn’s salon. After all, in the absence of anything else, it was now the main part of her life.

She could accept how the majority of her friends had been slowly driven away by her husband’s cold and suspicious welcomes every time they tried to visit. Her resolute denials that anything was wrong had hardly helped.

But the rift she’d opened up with her parents was a deep and aching wound. She’d enjoyed a happy childhood, supported and encouraged by a mum and dad she rarely heard argue. That made it all the more painful when she began to realise her marriage to Jeff wasn’t destined for the same level of success.

She’d married him in her late teens. At first everything seemed great as he got a graduate job at a firm of surveyors and she completed her final health and beauty qualifications. Then she got pregnant and gave up work. With the birth of their daughter Jeff became more preoccupied with work. He’d been given new responsibilities and they made more demands on his time. Time he seemed only too happy to give.

He started coming home later and later, often smelling of whisky. It was a way of relaxing, he assured her. The management encouraged a bit of bonding outside work hours.

But his promotion never came and he became more irritable, forever screening the household bills. She was no longer earning and he made her feel guilty about spending money he said wasn’t her own. The balance of their relationship had shifted and her role edged more and more to the subservient. It resembled, she realised one day with a mixture of surprise and disappointment, that of her own parents. Dad the breadwinner, mum the housewife. Only her mum had never seemed unhappy with her role. Perhaps she was being selfish in wanting more. So she kept quiet about her doubts, playing the part of happy mum, hoping things would improve.

Then one day he punched her. A simple movement of his arm, but an action that set in motion a chain of events that led to the death of their daughter. After that he retreated into himself, drinking more and more, questioning every penny she spent. Getting his permission to start working again was a huge struggle. He feared the loss of control it would entail and paranoid fear began to consume him: ‘You’re going to leave me…You’ll meet someone else. . Isn’t what I earn good enough?’

He didn’t lay another finger on her for many years. But gradually the bullying moved from mental to physical. Pushes and slaps at first, then heavier cuffs. Finally, punches.

She thought about her parents. She’d shut them out after their granddaughter’s funeral, too ashamed to admit how the accident had happened. But they’d known something was wrong. She couldn’t stand her mother’s entreaties, her father’s furious stares. Both of them powerless to help her while she refused to admit there was a problem. Now she wanted to make amends but pride prevented her from calling them. Not until she was properly back on her feet.

The bedsit occupied the corner of the ground floor in a large Victorian house in Fallowfield. It was a student area, the bus shelters permanently full of people in faded jeans, baggy tops and battered trainers. How they chose to carry their books vaguely amused her. Some went for simple sports bags, others opted for ethnic-looking canvas pouches. All avoided briefcases, but that was just a matter of time. She smiled wistfully, wondering what

Emily would have chosen if she was still alive.

After reversing into the yard at the back of the building so her car was facing towards the road, she removed the spare car key from her purse. Once out of the vehicle, she checked that no one was watching, then slipped it into a crack between two bricks at the base of the wall. That was a quick means of escape, if it was ever needed. After all, if he did somehow track her down and turn up with a few drinks inside him, she knew what he was capable of.

The hallway of the house was littered with unwanted junk mail and a couple of old copies of the Yellow Pages, still wrapped in plastic. A door opened and a man appeared, a box of old cooking utensils in his arms. He looked to be in his late twenties, but he still wore student clothes.

‘Morning. You just moving in?’ he asked cheerfully.

‘Yes,’ Fiona nodded, holding her handbag tight against her stomach.

‘Me too.’

She smiled, glancing at the box.

‘Cooking things. If you ever need any, just help yourself. People have dumped loads of stuff down in the cellar.’

Fiona looked at the door he’d just emerged from. ‘Thanks.’

‘Are you a mature student?’