Equivocator by Stevie Davies Read Free Book Online Page B

bundles of notes to write up and in a sunny mood – and he started play-punching you. Being nice. Of course he was volatile, he could turn. Just like that. In Iran, he told you, every neighbourhood has a laat . A boss-cat who beats the crap out of any other cat. We’ll get you a laat .’
    â€˜And what did I say?’
    â€˜You said you didn’t want a nasty horrible laat , you just wanted a pussy cat. To cuddle. Jack started to mimic your manner. As if your gentleness was soft and prissy. As if you were not the offspring he’d envisaged. He was doing these limp-wristed gestures and calling you Pansy. He hurt you; he fully intended to hurt you. I was disgusted. I objected. He said, “Oh but pansies are such tewwibly charming flowers!” I thought: it’s something in himself Jack’s parodying. You were cut to the quick. But I thought – and this has just come back to me: one day Seb will be taller and stronger than Jack. He’s already gaining on him. You see? So,’ she asks abruptly, ‘when are you going back to Manchester?’
    â€˜No, Elise, I’m not at Manchester any more.’
    â€˜Oh, I think you are.’
    â€˜No, darling. Really. I live in London now.’
    â€˜You’re sure about that? Think about it.’
    *
    It was the Manchester of my first love, Justin Knight. And also of James Anderton, Chief Constable and evangelical Christian, who harried gays, accusing AIDS victims of ‘swirling in a human cesspool of their own making’. For Anderton queers threatened the straight population. They were rats that harboured fleas that spread the plague. Officers on motorboats cruised the locks and bridges of the Ship Canal with spotlights.
    So this is who I am, I thought. Of course I’d always known the nature of my sexuality in a way – but the knowledge had been without substance. I understood not to make undue claims on Justin: they’d scare him off. Amongst Justin’s hangers-on, I’d be low in the pecking order. Still and all, I felt … I was going to say, ‘happy’ – but ‘exalted’ is nearer to it. Nothing had changed in my world; love had not come, only carnal knowledge. By coincidence, I’d also found a vocation: to become a star scholar like the visiting academic, Rhys Salvatore, scattering light.
    Next day police were everywhere and our usual wing of the library was cordoned off. We migrated to Engineering and I sat where I could see Justin, schooling myself to wave and smile only if he did. Which he did. He sauntered past; paused, pushing back a wing of dark blond hair.
    â€˜I was wondering, Sebastian – fancy a night out?’
    God, yes, I thought, mentally punching the air. I wondered vaguely about the Geek, who had become an accidental arsonist. Weird little sod, I thought. Oddball. Which I somehow, suddenly, wasn’t.
    Saturday night though started disappointingly, for Justin’s invitation wasn’t exclusive. The whole world crowded into Justin’s room. Candlelight flickered on punkish lads and made-up girls. Although they might not all be girls. Justin had become Justine for the night. I’d expected him to look stunning. What I couldn’t have foreseen was that he wouldn’t remotely resemble an impersonator.
    My lover was – surely, I thought – the real thing, with subtle lipstick and mascara. His fair wig was understated; the blue dress implied rather than advertised the possibility of breasts. We drank, laughed, and everyone kissed Justin and Justin kissed everyone and we all kissed one another. His Tower room, with cartons of stale milk on the windowsill, became a magic, whirling chamber. Later that night we hit a wall of sound and heat and smoke at the Haçienda. Music throbbed through us, noise annihilated thought.
    On the street when we spilled out in the early hours I was aware of guys clustering round the beautiful Justin-Justine.
    Why