Danny pouts and I laugh. Then, as I usher him back to his original position at the window, he says softly: ‘I thought you didn’t want to draw me. Because of Michael.’
My pencil falters on the page. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘Because...’ I hear him a breath. ‘You loved him, didn’t you?’
My mind flies back to that summer house in early autumn, the touch of cool fingertips, Michael’s lips, warm on mine. ‘I loved him, yes,’ I nod. ‘He was kind and sensitive and talented, and very much like you. But that isn’t why I didn’t want to draw you.’
‘Then why?’
I look down at the page balanced on my knee. Even if I had days to sketch him, the most perfect light, the best materials, I might not capture him any better than this. Because in these few lines, in this bold shading, I think I’ve caught something of the power of his beauty. ‘Because you’re perfect,’ I say simply. ‘And perfection can be intimidating.’
A long silence follows. At last, I look up at him. He’s at the window but his face is turned away from me. ‘Have you always been comfortable with what we are?’ he asks.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say after a moment’s thought. ‘I suppose I knew I was different for a long time before I could put a name to it. My father’s full of biblical judgement and hellfire. He was the one who insisted I enlist after he caught Michael and me... Well, because I was brought up in that household, by the time I was ten, I could recite all the verses that damned me without ever understanding what they meant. But really knowing what I am came gradually. Looking back, I can’t say there was a morning when I woke up and realised I wasn’t like most of my classmates. Oh, I’d seen a few boys getting up to stuff, the usual public school antics. But for me it felt deeper. Like it went to the core of me. But honestly, I don’t think I ever felt much shame about it. Instead...’ I put down the pencil and paper and reach for my tunic, discarded in the jumble of our clothes by the bed. From the corner of my eye, I see Danny glance over his shoulder and watch me take the print ofThe Fighting Temerairefrom my pocket. ‘It was this that saved me all the shame. Art. The truth I found in it. Nothing judgemental, nothing damning. Only a commandment to be honest with yourself. What I am – what we are – that’s the truth, Danny, and whatever the world might say, I won’t be ordered to deny that truth and despise myself.’
His face crumples with pain. A pain I’ve glimpsed before, an agony that seems to go to the heart of him. Putting aside the print, I drag the covers off my legs and go to him. He flinches at my touch, tries to pull away, but I take him by the shoulders and turn him to face me.
‘You told me once that I don’t have to hide from you,’ I say. ‘You don’t have to hide from me either. Let me tell you something: from almost the first moment I saw you, I knew that I wanted to save you in some way.’
‘Save me?’ he frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
I laugh. ‘I wasn’t really sure. Only that I had a feeling that I needed to rescue you from the horror of all this. Save who you are, I mean. My experiences out here had warped me, made me harsh and bitter. If I could keep you from turning into what I had become, then I might have achieved something worthwhile; made amends for the past. And the more I got to know you, the more I felt sure I was right. Every act of kindness and compassion, every time you were outraged by the injustice you saw around you, it confirmed what I already knew: here is a good man worth saving.’
‘But I’m not worth saving,’ he states hollowly. ‘I never have been.’
‘But why would you ever think that?’ I ask.
He pushes my hands from his shoulders and walks back to the bed where he picks up my incomplete sketch. ‘I lied to you, Stephen,’ he says. ‘Back in the trenches when they thought the Germans were tunnelling beneath us and I panicked. I told you afterwards how my mum died, but I didn’t... I couldn’t tell you all of it.’
He replaces the drawing and returns to the window.
‘I painted a picture for you of my mum. Only I left out a feature or two. Soft as a sparrow, I said. So gentle and kind. Not a monster. Well, not until the third glass of gin had got into her, anyway. After that you’d best keep out of her way.’ He turns his face so that I see him in profile, a tear tracking down his jaw. ‘Do you know the story ofDrJekyll and Mr Hyde? I saw an actor play the part once. He used special make-up and lighting effects in the transformation scene so that it really did look like one person becoming another. Well, my mum’s beautiful face never changed. That was what was so frightening about her. She still looked like the loving mother who tucked me up in bed and told me stories and taught me how to sing. You couldn’t see the monster. Not until it lashed out and gave you a black eye or knocked you down the stairs. And the next day she’d beg me to forgive her, buy me treats, promise it would never happen again. And I’d believe her, every time. The picture I painted for you was what I always wanted my mother to be.’
I lift my hand, desperate to comfort him, but Danny waves me back to the bed.
‘Let me tell it, and then we’ll see if you still want to save me.’ He takes a long breath. ‘Mum had rescued me as a baby from the family that wanted her to give me up. That bit’s true. But although she’d sacrificed her old life, she resented me for it. That’s why she drank. She blamed me for her misery. Only, that wasn’t all of it. It wasinher, Stephen. The anger, the rage, the monster. The drink was like Dr Jekyll’s potion, allowing it to come roaring out.
‘My grandfather was the same. My uncles, too. Always ready with an open hand and quick fist. I can see them now, knocking her around the kitchen of that little farmhouse back in Ireland, all for having a filthy bastard baby. It wasn’t long after we came to London that I saw she’d brought those family demons with us. The rage, the violence.’
‘Danny, I’m so—’
‘Don’t be sorry for me,’ he says, his voice cracking. ‘Can’t you understand what I’m telling you? I’m thesame. It’s in me too. The monster.’
‘Danny, no.’
He shakes his head. ‘I feel it. In here.’ He places his hand against his chest. ‘And the truth is, Stephen, I... I gave into it once, and what happened that night scared mesomuch. It scares me still. Remember I told you about Aunt Tilly coming to rescue me after Mum died? How she swooped in like a guardian angel, making me part of her community at the fair? I couldn’t have been more grateful. She might even have saved my life.
‘So when some toff and his mates came to the fair one night and started causing trouble for her, I was more than ready to step in. They were all roaring drunk, half a dozen of them in top hats and tails. I was working the hall of mirrors, close by to Tilly’s hook-a-duck stall. As soon as I saw them, my blood was up. The way they spoke to her, that good-hearted old woman. To them she was nothing. They started stealing prizes from her stall, shouting filthy words. Then this tall black-haired bastard took the bonnet right off her head and started prancing about in it. I couldn’t just stand there and watch. I marched over and told him to give her back the hat or he’d regret it.
‘ “Do you know who I am, you disgusting little pikey?” he sneered.
‘ “I don’t give a monkey’s who you are,” I told him. “You give her back her bonnet and apologise or I’ll knock your teeth right down your throat.”
‘His mates left the stall and swarmed in behind him. They said he should teach this uppity oik a lesson. I made a grab for the hat but the bastard was tall, like I said, and he pivoted onto his tiptoes and slapped my hands away. They all laughed when I lost my balance.
‘ “Oh, but the precious little dove fancies himself a fighter,” the toff giggled. Then he drew himself up and threw the bonnet into the mud. Suddenly it was like the joke was over and this mad contempt had taken hold of him. He started stamping on it until Tilly’s bonnet came apart under his boot. All I could do was stand there with my mouth open. It felt worse than if he’d beaten me black and blue.
‘ “You and that old bitch back there are nothing more to me than this hat,” he said. “Both of you under my foot where you belong. And you know why? Because that’s the way the world is made. Us on top and the stupid and disgusting and degenerate grovelling for whatever scraps we choose to throw your way.”
