It was a topic they didn’t usually dwell on, knowing it was hard enough for her to find a love interest living in a small city, and it was a darned sight harder for Tony, who had only been open about his sexuality in the last couple of years.
‘It’s taken me a while to figure it all out,’he’d explained.
‘It’s nobody’s business but yours.’She’d held him tightly before they’d jumped up to dance.
‘Would I like to meet someone? Hmm.’ He stroked his chin in an exaggerated fashion. ‘No, I want to remain single for my entire life, die a virgin and end up living in a leaky cottage full of cats.’ He tutted.
‘You know what I mean!’ She pulled his arm towards her. ‘I guess I’m asking if you’re ready to meet someone, because it’s different isn’t it, at our age?’
‘God, what are we, fifty? We are young with our whole lives ahead of us!’ He threw his head back and called out to the starry sky above. They got this way when they were dressed up and headingout, excited at all the possibilities of what the night might hold. She felt a bubble of pure happiness rise in her stomach.
‘Yes, but as Ruthie is fond of telling us, we shall blink and be forty, then sixty ...’
‘Well, aren’t you a little bowl of sunshine this evening!’ He pursed his lips.
‘I don’t want to put us on a downer, but itisdifferent though, isn’t it? It’s much more than snogging at discos. We’re at that point in our lives when it can get very serious, very quickly.’
Not entirely averse to the idea, she was curious about her next chapter, about sex, love and all that came with it. Maybe university was the portal to take her to that world. Again she pulled Tony’s arm into her, knowing these moments were even more precious because they might be on a timer.
‘Well, someone’s been readingCosmo! And, actually, right now, I’d settle for snogging at discos.’
‘I can see I’m not going to be getting any sense out of you tonight.’ She gave up.
‘I kind of feel that serious conversations are for Monday through Friday, but in the words of Elton, Saturday night’s the night for dancing!’
‘I don’t think they’re the words.’
‘Let’s make out they are!’ He laughed, and they sped up, giggling, keen to get to the pub.
‘Oi!’
The shout was loud, determined, spoken with an intent that suggested it was a forerunner to more words. If she had to guess, it had been hollered with particular consideration given to the volume, as the single word ricocheted around them and landed uncomfortably in their ears.
Remy wondered who was shouting and who they might be shouting at.
Tony too stopped walking and they both looked back over their shoulders, quickly understanding that it was one of a group of lads who was yelling; clearly they travelled as a pack. Fear sloshed in her stomach, as she countedone, two, three, four, fiveof them. Their very presence intimidating, as they stood resplendent in their oxblood Doc Martens laced high on their shins, tight jeans rolled and cuffed at the top of the boots, white T-shirts tucked into their waistbands with braces under green puffy bomber jackets. Their heads were shaved, and they gave off a collective energy that sent a white-hot rod of fear through her very core. She had never been in a situation like this, never experienced this horrible sense of foreboding. Yes, there had been one or two calls of ‘Poofter!’ shouted by cowards from moving vehicles, but they’d ignored it. Tony said it was par for the course where he was a rarity and was always adamant he wasn’t going to let some dickhead homophobes spoil a night out. The second thing that became clear was that they were shouting at her and Tony.
‘We’re just going to the pub!’ she replied in a sing-song voice that she hoped might let them know they were friendly, in case it was a matter of mistaken identity, smiling broadly to indicate they were not persons of interest, no one to be bothered with. Just two friends going to the Anchor for a pint, although she wished they weren’t. She wished in that moment with a growing sense of fear that she had taken her mum’s advice and that they were on the sofa, in her house, with a nice cup of tea.
‘Who’s your friend?’ One of them, possibly the one who had yelled out, with eyes that were chips of flint, gestured with his cigarette towards Tony. She felt him tremble next to her.
‘My friend?’ She played for time, wondering where to run, looking behind the gang of five to see if there was anyone else around. There wasn’t. The shops to the right of them were closed and there was no one else in the car park. Trapped.
‘Yeah, your friend, what’s her name?’
Tony spoke then, holding up his free hand, the other still linking him to Remy.
‘Look, we don’t want any trouble.’
The men shared nasal bursts of laughter, and the spokesman dropped his cigarette on to the floor and trod it under the sole of his DM.
‘Is that right, Shirley? And who says it’s you who gets to decide whether you’re in trouble or not?’ They took a step closer.
Remy felt her mouth run dry and her legs turned to jelly.
‘You wearing red lipstick?’ a different man asked, and the other four snickered. She could see the hatred in their faces. Hatred for her and Tony, strangers. It was as petrifying as it was unfathomable.
‘Run, run, now, Remy!’ Tony’s voice was a quiet warble of fear spoken from the side of his mouth.
