Steven Dunne - Deity

‘What was that little pooftah doing outside?’

Jake turned at the foot of the stairs to face his father sprawled out on the living-room sofa, beer can perched on his belly. Jake wondered whether to pretend he hadn’t heard and just bound up the stairs.

‘I asked you a question,’ growled his dad.

‘His name is Kyle.’

‘Yeah, that gay boy. Poor Steve Kennedy’s lad,’ retorted his father, unable to turn his face away from the TV. ‘What did he want?’

‘Leave him alone,’ his mother said. ‘They’re friends. Kyle’s a nice lad.’

‘That right, Jake?’ hollered his father, a mocking edge in his tone. ‘Are you and that shirt-lifter friends?’

‘Malcolm. I don’t want to hear that sort of talk in my house.’

Jake turned away and shouted back from the bottom stair, ‘He’s in my Media Studies group. We sometimes swap essays.’

‘Essays, my arse,’ his father shouted back. ‘Just mind you don’t catch nothing.’

Jake started up the stairs. ‘Why don’t you have another beer, Dad? You still sound half-sober.’

‘You cheeky little bastard,’ bellowed his father, stirring himself.

‘I wish,’ Jake hollered back from his bedroom door.

‘What the fuck does that mean?’

‘That’s enough, Malcolm. Sit back down. I’m trying to watch this.’

Malcolm McKenzie sank blearily back to the warmth of the sofa. ‘Cheeky little fucker’s cruising for a bruising,’ he muttered under his beer breath.

Jake fed the CD into his music centre and pressed 9 on the remote. A grubby scrap of paper fell out of the blank case, which he stooped to pick up and unfold. It was a handwritten track list. Track 9 was called ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’. He turned the paper over. There were childlike drawings of unknown yellow flowers around the margins and a small poem in the middle which Jake read aloud.

Morrissey,

you should have died when you was younger,

For you then, we would have hungered,

We would have seen some flowers then

And never seen your like again!!!!!

It was signed KK aged 13 .

Jake listened carefully to the song until he heard the reference to a ten-ton truck. He skipped the song back to listen again.

Jake ejected the disc and sat in silence. The song was a love letter and Kyle Kennedy had given it to him. A moment later he carefully picked up the unfolded track list and tore it into tiny pieces. Then he picked up the CD and case and headed downstairs.

‘Going out, Jake?’ shouted his mother from the armchair. She was a small nervous woman with a birdlike way of moving her head. Jake’s drink-befuddled father was on the sofa snoring and the TV was turned up to drown out the noise.

Jake smiled reassuringly at her as he zipped his tracksuit. ‘I’m going for a run, Mum.’

‘At this time? I was just going up.’ On my own was left unsaid.

‘I’ve got a lot of pent-up energy,’ he explained. His mum nodded then looked at her husband without expression. Jake followed her gaze. He managed a watery smile. ‘Anything good on?’

His mother looked at him for longer than felt comfortable. ‘I’ve no idea.’

Jake turned away and opened the front door. ‘I won’t be long.’ He jogged out into the warm night.

Jake turned left on to Western Road and continued to jog powerfully towards the new houses before turning on to Brisbane Road. He kept his eyes peeled for Kyle. He knew roughly where he lived with his mother. Kyle’s father had left them a few years ago because of the shame of having a gay son. Although Kyle’s sexuality had only become blatant over the last couple of years in college, likely his parents would have known sooner. And Kyle’s dad hadn’t hung around to listen to behind-the-hand whispers.

After her husband’s departure, Jake knew Kyle’s mum had been forced to cope as a single parent, on a mixture of benefits and the bits of maintenance she could squeeze out of Kyle’s dad, as well as the odd bit of cash-in-hand work serving at a stall in the Eagle Centre. The years of scrimping and saving had not been kind to Mrs Kennedy and she seemed old and worn out for her age, like his own mum. At least things were looking up for them moneywise. Leonard Poole, a pensioner with a big car, had been taking an interest in her for a year or so. There was a twenty-year age gap — Poole was about sixty — but he seemed to have plenty of money. ‘Daddy Warbucks.’ Jake laughed in spite of his mood. ‘Good one.’

Ten minutes later, Jake slowed to a walk and put his hands on his hips, feeling the pleasant rush of adrenalin in his system. ‘Maybe he’s gone to a gay bar,’ he panted, his eyes narrowing. Was there even such a thing in Derby? He’d heard rumours but he’d never seen any obvious faggots in the city. Just Kyle. Still, there had to be other faggots, didn’t there? Because the secret existence of gayness dominated his and every other young male’s life on the estate. Anything not quite right was gay. Anything morally dubious was gay. Bad situations were gay. If it rained in summer it was gay. Boring lessons were gay. Even a slow computer was gay. Gay was a byword for everything that was wrong in the world.

Jake prepared to jog again as he turned down a sharp dip in the road. He stopped when he heard a noise, a shout from somewhere. He walked towards it. There was a gap in the houses and a path next to a stream cut through towards open ground where residents walked their dogs on nearby fields.

Another shout now, only louder, followed by a laugh. He reached the path and headed down through the trees into the darkness. In a patch of moonlit ground stood Kyle, his back against a large tree, held at the throat by the podgy hand of Wilson Woodrow. Three of Wilson’s mates stood around laughing, smoking and filming on their camera phones.

Kyle saw Jake before the others did, his frightened eyes blinking in relief. He couldn’t speak because Wilson’s hand was squeezing his throat. A little blood seeped from his mouth. Wilson grinned at Kyle’s terror then followed his tearful gaze of relief. He stopped grinning and let his hand fall when he saw Jake. The others turned too and mobile cameras were lowered.

‘Hi, Jake,’ said Wilson, holding up a placatory hand. ‘We were just having a little fun with your girlfriend.’ Jake stiffened. His eyes dwelled on the blood in Kyle’s mouth. ‘Oh, it’s not what you think, Jake. That was an accident.’ Wilson laughed and looked around at his amused crew. ‘I was just looking at the cut, when you arrived. To see if I could fix it.’

Kyle, now freed, pushed past Wilson and stood before Jake, tears streaming down his face. ‘Jake! I knew you’d come.’

Wilson and his friends stood ready to run despite their superior numbers.

Jake reached into his pocket and fished out The Smiths CD given to him by Kyle. He tossed it on the ground. ‘There’s your CD, Faggot. Pick it up and get out of here while you still can.’ He waited for Kyle to escape but instead of running, Kyle stood frozen. He glanced down at the CD case then up into Jake’s eyes. The sobbing had stopped but the look of desolation on his face was far, far worse, as though someone had reached deep into his being and ripped out his heart and soul.

For what seemed an eternity, Kyle held Jake’s gaze, then ignoring the CD on the ground, he turned to face Wilson, took a deep breath and walked back towards him.

Wilson grinned but confusion quickly flooded his face. What was the faggot doing? Kyle walked to within six inches of Wilson, smiled a bloody smile and touched his arm with a delicate hand. ‘Hello, handsome.’

Wilson landed a haymaker on the left side of Kyle’s head and he collapsed like a house of cards. ‘Fucking queer.’ His friends made to close in around the prostrate form but Wilson held up a hand to halt them. ‘No. That’s what he wants — the fucking perv likes it. I’m gettin’ away from this freak.’ Wilson stomped off, assuming the mantle of the injured party, his mute entourage trailing in his wake. ‘All yours, McKenzie,’ he hissed, making sure he gave Jake a wide berth. ‘I’m going to get me some mature poontang,’ he said, hitching at his crotch to make his meaning clear. ‘Get the taste of gayness out of my mouth.’ His friends sniggered their approval.