Chapter 42

Chapter 42

Those of you familiar with story structure might be thinking that was the "All Is Lost" moment – where our hero (me, Jamie Hampton) experiences his "dark night of the soul" and everything seems hopeless, before he somehow works out what is needed to succeed, pushing us neatly into Act Three, and our finale, where our hero (me, Jamie Hampton) proves he has learned the story's theme and devises a plan, leading to the happy ending.

Well, no.

I'm sorry.

It gets worse. Because real life does, quite often, doesn't it? I'm convinced one reason why folk are so unhappy these days is because we've all been raised on a diet of perfect story structure in novels, TV shows and films. Things become terrible, and then they're resolved, maybe with an unexpected twist or two in that final act, but ultimately they win through.

Reality: things become terrible, then they become horrendous, then some other random shit you weren't expecting gets hurled at you. Life is often one bad thing after another, with no let up.

So buckle up for that.*

I spun Mum a web of lies. Yes, I'd been beaten up, I didn't know why. I knew I wouldn't be able to keep my sexuality from her for ever, and nor did I want to, but I also didn't want the moment I told her to be when her son had been beaten black and blue. I didn't want to come out and it all be about trauma and sadness and hurt. In my head, in my beautiful fantasy world, it was a happy thing, it was positive, and it was about Rob, and love, and sharing something special, like when a boy tells his mum he'd like to bring a girl round for tea, and it's sweet, and a rite of passage and nobody has a black eye or is crying.

Mum wasn't having it. She wanted to call the school, make complaints. That's when Keith stepped in, and said he'd do it. Claimed they'd sit up and listen if a man made the call.? Said Prenton didn't intimidate him, and he'd give her what for. That placated Mum, and Keith said he'd phone the next day. I don't think he ever did, although he told Mum he had. But there was no point anyway. Nobody at school was going to do a thing about it, and they had all the justification they needed for that.

Beth visited every day and kept me up to speed with schoolwork – and the fact that Rob was off school as well. That made me relax until I became paranoid that maybe the reason wasn't that he was staying at home and was safe, but had actually already been shipped off to the religious bigots' school in Scotland.

I had no way of knowing, so I spent my days in my room, reading A Boy's Own Story, doing a bit of schoolwork, listening to music and always, always keeping the watch on my wrist, keeping him close, always.

Mum was out with Keith on Friday night, so I roped Beth in, and told Mum I was going round to hers, it'd be a late night, and not to worry. I think she was pleased I was getting out of the house and having a bit of fun. My ribs were horribly bruised, and my ear still looked a bit of a mess, with some further bruising on my right cheek, but I showered, and I changed into what was now my favourite red-checked shirt, with a white T-shirt underneath, unbuttoned and untucked, with blue jeans and my Kickers, and I felt a little more human and a tiny bit happier. I still had no idea if Rob would show up, but just after eight, a taxi tooted its horn from the top of the drive, and I sprinted out and jumped in.

Fuck, it was so good to see him.

Seeing him in the back seat, black jeans, white T-shirt and black leather jacket, I almost threw myself at him and was ready to dry hump him there and then, before he must have detected my instant horniness and coughed to remind me about the taxi driver.

"All right, mate?" he said, doing an excellent impression of a straight boy.

"All right?" I mumbled back.

He had a cracking black eye, and his lip still looked a bit swollen, but honestly, he somehow managed to pull the look off. "How's the eye?" I said.

He shrugged. "Sore. Nice shirt." He winked at me.

"Thanks," I said. "Girlfriend got it for me."

"You still seeing her?"

"'Til someone better comes along."

Rob laughed. "Not much choice around here, huh?"

"Not many fish in the sea!" I replied.

The taxi driver chuckled. "You lads off for a night on the town, then?"

"Something like that," Rob replied.

"Whereabouts in Lincoln shall I drop you? Are you going to Route 66?"

For a moment I tensed. Route 66 was a straight club, and we weren't going there. But, of course, Rob had it all in hand. "Can you drop us round by the train station? We're meeting some other mates there."

"No bother."

We didn't talk much on the journey – I sensed we both desperately wanted to, but we couldn't give anything away to the driver, and pretty much any real conversation would have done that. The driver had Atlantic 252 on the radio, so that was fine, and we listened to such classics as "Sowing the Seeds of Love" by Tears for Fears, while I worked myself up about being obviously underage and not getting past the bouncers of this club Rob knew about.

Cut to: Rob leading me down this grubby back alley and pointing up ahead to something that just looks like a scruffy door in a wall. "I think that's it."

"Really?" I said. It looked like the sort of place people went to get murdered.

Rob shrugged. "Let's just do a walk past."

So, we did. We did a "walk past", which revealed it wasn't just a door in a wall, but there were some windows too, albeit blacked out, and the definite thud of bass came from inside. What there wasn't, was any obvious way in – unless we were expected to knock on the door.

However, as we were making our return journey from the other end of the alley, the door opened, and a glamorous drag queen stepped out with a clipboard. Dressed head-to-toe in a rainbow-sequinned dress, with beehive hair, massive heels, and elaborate make-up, she was entirely out of place in that grimy backstreet. She looked up, caught sight of us staring at her like the pair of wide-eyed kids we were, and rolled her eyes.

"It's over eighteens only, chicks," she said. "No exceptions."

"We are eighteen!" Rob said, way too enthusiastically, and way too high-pitched to be convincing. He pulled out his wallet. "I have ID."

He got a card out and handed it to the drag queen, while I panicked that I didn't have such a thing, and was I expected to? Had Rob told me to get fake ID? Had we discussed this? Or was this just one of the things I should have known?

The drag queen lazily glanced at the card, an unimpressed look on her face. "Bless your cottons, you've gone to the effort of making some forged documentation – I'm honoured!"

"Please," Rob said.

The drag queen studied him. "What happened to your face?"

"Got beat up," Rob said. He looked down at the ground. "You know how it is."

She turned to me. "Is he your boyfriend, dearie?"

I nodded, too terrified to speak.

"You got a name?"

"Jamie Hampton," I replied.

"And you're eighteen too, are ya?"

"Practic—"

The drag queen put her hand up to silence me. "Let's try that again. Are you eighteen too?"

I nodded. "Yep."

She looked me up and down. I couldn't tell what she was thinking, and half expected a quick clip round the ear, but she glanced down the narrow backstreet then swiftly pulled us both inside, shouting, "Watch out, lads, the jailbait's here!" before turning back to us and adding, "Have a good night, boys. Derek can get a bit frisky with you younger ones. Any trouble, let me know."

Inside was probably quite small, but it was dark, and there were moving disco lights, the music was pumped up, the place was hot and sticky – rammed with guys of all ages – so it actually felt vast. The moment we were inside, Rob took my hand, kissed me on the lips and led me over to the bar area where we both got vodka and Cokes in flimsy plastic cups. The night was called "Fromage", which meant the music was cheesy classics from the 70s, 80s and from now – great to dance to, basically.

Two drinks later, we were in the thick of the hot bodies, jumping about to Yazz, Cyndi Lauper, Katrina and the Waves, Roxette, Culture Club and joining in with everyone else as we hilariously tried to sing the high note in "Take on Me".

When Wham! started singing "I'm Your Man", Rob pointed to himself on the "I", to me on the "your", and then he kissed me on "man", but before we could get too sentimental, Kim Wilde starting singing about "Kids in America", and that was such a tune, we just went with it, lost in the smoky haze that filled the air and the kaleidoscopic lights that glinted across our ecstatic faces – happy, not from alcohol, and not from drugs, but from the joy of somewhere where we finally felt free. I didn't have to look over my shoulder here. I didn't have to worry. Nobody cared that I was a boy who liked other boys, because this place was full of people who felt exactly the same. I could touch Rob, and kiss Rob, and he could touch me and kiss me (and my god, we did!), and nobody even cared – they just let us be.

That place, that grim, sticky-floored, backstreet place, which watered down the vodka and turned a blind eye to what was going on in the toilets, was a sanctuary.

I wished I'd found it a little sooner.

I had no idea what time it was. Tune after tune, hit after hit, and just when you thought you might sit one out, it was "Come on Eileen" so you had to dance to it. Every so often, they'd play one of those songs that somehow just felt like a moment in time, and during the whole of "Always on My Mind" by the Pet Shop Boys, Rob and I were standing in the middle of the dance floor, locked together, kissing and kissing and kissing like our lives depended on it, and when the DJ followed it up with "Together in Electric Dreams", we worked our way over to a spot by one of the walls, my back up against it, him pressing into me, mouthing along to the chorus, before kissing me again, stroking my cheek with his fingers and whispering in my ear.

I met his eyes and smiled.

And I whispered my reply.

We stumbled into the cool night air around one in the morning – dripping in sweat, our hair wet with it, ears ringing, brains buzzing. Drunk, loved-up, completely filled with joy.

Rob had arranged for the taxi to pick us up around the corner, just to be on the safe side.

I never heard the clicks of the camera.

And I never saw the photographer.

*Oh, but I do like story structure; I'd recommend Save the Cat, if you're interested. It may not mimic real life, but it makes for a satisfying narrative.

?The one and only time I let his misogyny go unchecked. Sorry.