“You weren’t well, Tom. You weren’t responsible.”
“Maybe not.” He sat on the bed. Then he was more like his own wiry, creaky self. “Come here, baby,” he said.
Elsie hesitated. “Has...has the Lord helped you back to your proper self?” she asked. Somehow if he went on about God she felt safe. He believed in goodness then and wouldn’t do any harm. He opened his arms to her.
“The Lord had nothing to do with it,” said Tom. “I found my own way back.”
She went to him then and figured that she’d have to trust whatever he’d made of himself. She locked herself in his embrace and felt him rustle with pleasure inside his dark’ clothes. She even felt a pang of desire.
“My old vampire,” she smiled. “My Dracula. Can we still get up to our old games?”
Tom smiled.
EIGHTEEN
I miss Penny. I miss the things she used to tell me.
The things she’d been up to! We’d sit up in her mam’s front room and divulge, all night. When I first met Penny, when I met her through Vince, I thought she was just a nice girl. But she’d been up to all sorts.
It was because of Penny I came up with my theory that everything teenage girls do, gay men in cities try to do ten years later.
Two weeks into my life in Edinburgh, this is my great discovery. I live in a flat in the New Town. Over restaurants, pubs and cybercafes I have found myself a tiny flat in a warehouse and from here I plan my new life. Everything that is going to happen to me.
And what will happen to me?
Another reason I need Penny here: to plan things, to talk things through.
I fling open the tall, dirty windows to see the city roofs. You can hear, but not quite see, the midnight fireworks in Princes Street Gardens. It’s summer and the place is awake all night.
Tonight it’s me — adolescent at twenty-four — leaving the house at midnight. Penny said she crept out to meet her boyfriend at night when she was still at the age of choosing O-levels. Snogging off, she called it, in gravel car parks, in playgrounds, in shady woods. From here I don’t have to sneak out. I’ve this whole flat to myself. In a way I do wish there was someone for me to creep past. Someone to put the lights on, shout out and stop me. And tell me I’m doing wrong, that I’m cheapening myself.
I leave the light on so you can see it from outside. In the early hours the flat will look occupied and be safe. My meagre possessions will be all right. I clang down the red fire escape, six flights. Surely my steps must disturb the people in the three flats below. They must know I’m up and down all night. They all work, keep regular hours. They must wonder what I get up to.
They let me in and it makes me feel special. It’s so easy, as if this is a place meant for me. All the bouncers are women, which is nice to see. All of them in black, in bomber jackets, each one nodding at me as I slip past into the bar. One’s wearing tight tartan trousers, blue and yellow; I’ve seen quite a few trendy Wendys wearing those and I think I must get some. But will I still be trim enough to fit inside little trousers like that?
I don’t know what I’m doing out on a Monday night, but it’s madness staying in, within those four walls. This is a city. I have to be out. As soon as I came here there was a voice I’d never heard before, telling me to make the best of it. Use it up. Waste it all. As if I had a limit on my time. And I reckon I do have a limit on my time, but I’m not certain what kind.
At one of the tables by the door I sit down with my drink. The walls are sickly orange and yellow, stuck with fliers: they put a stripper on in the basement every Sunday after lunch, and Tuesday nights are Step Back in Time nights. Tonight the music is the blandest of techno, stretching some normal song well beyond its limit. Its verses and choruses have burst apart with the strain. The few punters here are a mixed bunch. I try not to stare. After a week I still can’t get used to how ordinary they all seem to find coming to a gay pub. To me it’s a novelty. They’re popping in after work for a quick pint, or after midnight for last orders, or slinking in determinedly, looking for an easy lay.
And what do I look like? I haven’t made much of an effort dressing up. I came as I was. I’m sitting with my pint by the door and getting the draught from Leith Walk. Cooler tonight, which is a relief. Like the bloke at the new table, I’ve picked up copies of the Pink Paper and Boyz off the twin piles by the bar and I’m having a flick through. One’s full of rape stories and legislation, the other has pictures of soap stars and underwear. The man just by me seems to be a teacher type. I can see him look up and look around every time he turns his page, as if he’s invigilating.
The bar is long and not very crowded. Three members of staff swish up and down in tight T-shirts, waiting for the crush. One drinks coffee and talks to a smart Jewish man who has perched himself on a stool. He’s in a check suit and he looks like he’s got eyeliner on. He flashes an appraising look around the bar. I wish I’d come later, or not at all. I’ve pulled my shirt cuffs down almost to my knuckles and I’ve surprised myself doing it. I’ve
