Tom Houghton (10 page)

I put the book down and felt a sudden need to urinate, my bladder bubbling at the brim. I reached for the cordial bottle, double-checked that the money room's door was bolted, pulled down my pants and took my penis in my hand to force it inside the bottle's mouth. The Hepburn book was open to a page of photographs where images of the young woman stared out at me. I closed my eyes, pulled back slightly on my foreskin. I felt such relief, a dissolving of tension when I let my stomach relax. Nothing would come so I jiggled my stubborn doodle to prompt it into action. I opened my eyes again and saw Hepburn in a silver dress that hugged tightly to her body, her eyebrow arched. The image next to that was of the young Tom. My face burned hotly, my bowel relaxed deep within, I felt dizzy and hot – such heat – my stomach was about to explode with – what? Not pain, but the burning sensation was so acute, the threat of release built and now, finally it came from inside. It came in three short, sharp bursts, dribbling down the inside neck of the bottle like shame itself.

I knew what this was, though there'd been no awkward conversations with my mother to prepare me. But even with everything I knew of this, it was nothing at all as I'd anticipated, this pure, uninhibited pleasure. I wanted that feeling to last forever, the heat, the unrivalled relief and how I had completely lost myself, could have been anyone – especially a man.

•  •  •

I woke to realise the pub was now quiet. I'd fallen asleep with the open book across my chest. Embarrassed by the contents of the cordial bottle, I stood up and forced myself to wee. My mother was the only one with a key to the money room and with the bolt firmly locked from the inside, I was confident no one else would catch me shaking up the new, mixed contents.

‘He still asleep?' I heard Kit say at the bar.

‘Yeah, out like a light.' My mum's familiar voice.

‘Little darlin'. So spill your guts about Steve then!'

‘Oh fuck off, Kit. Nothin' to tell.'

‘What was he like?'

‘Honestly? Hot! Just unbelievable.'

‘Why haven't you seen him again? He hasn't even been in for his beers.'

‘Yeah, I know. Not sure why he hasn't come back, I thought he would . . . you know?'

‘Fucking typical man.'

‘Kit? He . . . well, he said Tommy was a bit too much for him to think about taking on and then with my dad dying, he said he wasn't looking for anything that serious.'

‘Wanker. You just wanted a nice fuck, not a husband or anything!'

‘Yeah, tell me about it. Still, I suppose I get where he's coming from . . .'

‘Men are all bastards, they just use us for our slits. And you know it.'

‘Kit! Keep your voice down!'

‘You said he was asleep.'

‘He is, but you know, he's just a kid. Bloody Steve but, can't believe he's got me all school girl.'

With the bar blacked out, and everyone else gone, Mum finally unlocked the money room door to rescue me. I pretended to be asleep and spoke to her groggily because I knew she found it cute.

‘Is it morning?' I joked.

‘Well, early, yes. Come on, I'm taking you home, gorgeous boy.'

I pretended to slowly perk up in the car and we eventually struck up a conversation.

‘So I've been thinking,' she said rather ominously. ‘About how I can keep my job, and keep you sane at the same time.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Were you awake for most of the night in the money room?'

‘No.' It was only a half lie.

‘There were two fights, three smashed glasses, two car chases, an idiot jumped over the bar and tried to kiss me, I smell like a chimney, my hair's thick with stale alcohol . . . This isn't right.'

I wanted to protest but I was incapable of seriously arguing against her. I found the money room oppressive and after what had happened with the cordial bottle, felt somehow affected by the goings-on of the pub. All the adultness, the male voices on the other side of the bolted door, had conspired to trick my body into something that now made me feel alien, disgusted with myself. I felt guilty, soiled. I knew I could never explain what had happened to my mother because I blamed her in part: not just the way she acted at the bar, for dragging me there and forcing me to overhear, but also how she behaved at home and the images she'd exposed me to. I waited patiently for what she had to say.

‘You're only twelve,' she began slowly, drawing an audible breath, ‘and I personally think that is still very young.'

I looked at her and rolled my eyes.

‘However . . .' she continued, raising her brows to silence me, ‘I can see that you're more mature than most kids your age, and you're a good boy. I can trust you with just about anything. I'm going to duck over and see Mrs B tomorrow, have a little chat to her about keeping a distant eye on you. I came up with a scheme.'

‘Uh huh?'

‘We'll leave the pantry window light on, she can see that plainly from her house. If you're scared, or worried, or hurt yourself or anything, all you need to do is turn that light off. Now I know what you're thinking,' she raised her finger in front of my face to silence me once again, ‘that's a long way from your bed, right? Well, Doug at work is good with electricity, so he's coming over tomorrow . . . today . . . and he's going to set you up a little button next to your bed. So if you need help, all you need to do is hit a switch, like in a hospital, and it'll turn off the pantry light and Mrs B will know you're in trouble.'

‘But I –'

‘And,' she continued, ‘Doug's also putting a phone into your room. We'll program in my work number, the police, ambulance and Mrs B. I'm sure you'll never have to use any of them but they're there, in case you need them. And besides, I think this is also about making me feel better, not just you!'

‘Thanks Mum, really.'

‘It's a trial, Tommy . . . A trial. Any problems, we'll scrap that and think of something else, okay?'

‘I'll be totally fine, just you wait and see.'

I was so excited to have her treat me like more of a grown-up. The incident with the bottle meant I was no longer a child and now I would be free to invest as much time as possible with my cards and hunting down more information. I knew I'd never need the silly panic button or to pick up the phone.

I desperately wanted to tell my mother about Hepburn and me that night, that I was on the cusp of a discovery that would lead me to incredible heights. But even Mum, who loved movies as much as me, would never understand what it all meant. Mum worked behind a grubby bar in Seven Hills – she couldn't possibly grasp the gravity of it all. I needed to hatch a plan, find a way of sending into the stratosphere the secret to my being a different Tom Houghton. I would ride the rocket as high as it would take me.

•  •  •

That night in bed, as Mum reached around to spoon me, rubbing my back as she slowly drifted off to sleep, I felt changed. When I detected my mother's sleep-breaths, and sensed her grip around my ribs had lessened, I painstakingly crawled my way out of the bed, replaced the bedclothes and tiptoed across the room like a jewel thief, stealthy in the night. Then, in the coolness of my own bed, so rarely slept in, I drifted off to a trouble-free sleep, only to wake the following morning with my mother curled in tightly behind me.

T
he two glasses and multiple shots of white wine were just enough to prevent me from becoming a bumbling mess during my performance, but not quite enough to force me to lose my place or stuff up any of my lines. The vibe from the audience was electric, one of the best I had encountered, and it came to light afterwards that we'd been blessed by an audience largely made up of a rural amateur troupe who loved everything Victor did. It wasn't uncommon for me to well up at various points of the performance and, while Damon had failed to show up for work, I still found myself searching for him in the wings. Certain lines in the play hit harder.

When I'm on stage, I'm not always the character I'm meant to be. Sometimes I'm an old lady reaching out to the audience to tell my story, others I'm me as a child, putting on a show for my mum. Try though I might to avoid it, other nights I am Thomas Houghton Hepburn. He reaches out through me, a stuttering sixteen-year-old boy trying to overcome his nerves and tics, living a life that was meant for him, albeit ninety years late but somehow more agreeable to him than any day he had while he was alive.

During the third curtain call, a ridiculous depression engulfed me and I sobbed like a diva, stupid helpless fool that I am.

As I was smearing the make-up from my face, now run through with tears, there was a polite knock at the door from the stagehand, who told me that Turner, our lighting guru, wanted to have a word with me, something about mood, something something, shouldn't take long. I left my dressing room (so blissful to finally have one to myself) and took the dimly lit halls towards the wings of the stage. All the other dressing rooms were empty – arrays of costumes, make-up and personal belongings strewn as though the inhabitants were forced to exit in a hurry. I passed the rehearsal studio where usually whoever was newly hooked up would be making out but tonight there was no one. It didn't even occur to me that all of this was suspicious. Not only were the hallways deserted, everything was deathly quiet. I should have known, I should have at least suspected, and taken my cue to duck out the back door, grab a bottle of gin and head to my bedsit to see out my fortieth, as any saner person would have.

When I made it to the wings I could hear the quiet murmurs and then all was not-so-surprisingly revealed. The whole company was there, technicians included. Victor was not in Europe after all, neither was Damon missing in action: they stood in front of an over-sized croquembouche with a fizzing sparkler bent out the top. The inevitable singing began and I shed a few more puerile tears, received my kiss on the lips from Victor and peck on the ear from Damon then surrendered to the mood and did as all insane people do on their fortieth – lost control.

•  •  •

I awoke the next morning unable to breathe through my nose and with a headache that went beyond mere hangover. I tried to pick my nose but it shot a jolt of incredible pain through my head, so I shuffled to the bathroom and looked at my reflection. Black eye, caked blood, eyes pools of darkness, jittering hands. I took four prescription painkillers I'd stolen from Lana, placed a Berocca on my tongue and gingerly made my way back to bed, reaching for my phone on the way. Bending delivered such agony.

Thirteen placed calls to Damon. Five sent text messages. A thirty-minute conversation with a blocked number.

Champagne had been consumed in the theatre. I'd drunk quickly to get over my dislike of being the forced centre of attention and my trepidation at speaking with Damon. Accessories to the fact had begun to fall off after an hour or two, then someone suggested a move to the pub on the corner, but by then I was already tipsy. Damon did not come to the pub, so I made my decision to drown my proverbial sorrows. Is there a term more absolute than drown? Tequila shots, the old lick, sip, suck trick.

Conversations were had about Victor's Europe trip – very promising, he said. In walked the theatre group who'd seen the play and adoration and superlatives flowed even more freely than the booze. A silly nineteen-year-old said all he could think about was what it would be like to fuck ‘Martha', and a trip to the toilet full of the promise of fondles followed but alas it delivered only a few snorts of his cheap and bitter speed.

Move into second gear. I put my credit card behind the bar, started my constant avowals of them all being the best friends in the whole world, then made the switch to beer then rosé then back to champagne (French) then a creamy cocktail . . .

Damon rejoined the group. He was now living with Alyce, our hair and make-up girl. My paranoia that they were closer than friends set in and led to an outside chat with Victor, plus requisite tears. All of these appeared in my mind like vignettes in a really bad play. I stupidly smoked a few cigarettes and this led to even further dizziness. Petulant face-pulling. Rejection. Dry-humping the nineteen-year-old – some laughs, some horror. Crowd now dwindling.

Third gear – flavoured-vodka shots and a line of someone's cocaine. Scraping residue together from the cistern lid to form another crude line. More blurriness. Fourth gear. Rejection (again). Storming out. New bar, alone, make friends. Next bar. Refused entry, smart-arse abuse. Single direct punch to the nose. Blood, too much of it. Deep voices calling out, ‘Faggot.' Another punch to the face. Crying, shouts of legal action. Sit with street people and drink from their beer bottle. Awake.

I sent a text to Victor.
Did I murder anyone?

Three agonising minutes before he responded.
Your own dignity.