Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,95

and soothing. “Maybe we should get you out of here, eh?”

“Mind your own fucking business, you fucking fairy,” Stan said.

“Ken’s my friend. It is my business,” Malcolm said. “And if you tried to burn Ken, that’s the police’s business.”

Stan laughed, but this time he seemed uneasy, taking a hasty drag on his cigarette. “Who the hell do you think you are? Policeman Plod? More like Sergeant Fairy. Look at you—you’re a fucking embarrassment.” He reached over and tugged on one of the flouncy sleeves of Malcolm’s shirt. “Who the hell bought this? Your mummy? Maybe next time she can send you out in a nice frilly little dress.” At this, the other boys sniggered. “But for fuck’s sake don’t take any fashion advice from this ugly slag,” Stan continued, nodding toward Dizzy. “Put a paper bag on her head and even Greg here still wouldn’t shag her. Right, Greg?” He slapped Greg across the shoulder.

“Of course I wouldn’t shag her,” Greg huffed.

“You’re both fucking weirdos,” Stan said.

“Nobody asked for your opinion,” Malcolm responded.

“Nobody asked for your opinion,” Stan imitated, making his voice high and flapping his wrist. He began mincing about the room. “Because I’m a little poof,” he continued in the high, ridiculous voice. “And I’m just here to spoil everybody else’s fun.” He stopped and leaned his face into Malcolm’s. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” he said, resuming his normal snarl.

“I’m taking Ken here into the other room,” Malcolm replied. “And I think it’d be wise to let me. Otherwise, we might have to talk to the police. With your reputation, Stan Heaphy, I doubt they’d show much sympathy for you.”

Stan seemed jarred. As Malcolm edged past him, Stan didn’t even try to stop him. The boys gathered around were nervous again, cowed by the mention of the police.

I was amazed at Malcolm’s daring. A reedy wisp next to Stan’s leather-clad bulk, he was defiant, propelled by something that seemed to make him impervious to fear. When he reached Ken, he put an arm around his shoulder and began to guide him toward the door.

“Aw, isn’t that sweet, they’re giving each other a girlie hug,” Greg sneered. Tracey giggled.

“God, what is wrong with you?” Malcolm said. His eyes swept the room. “Is this funny to you? Scaring people? Hurting them? Making them cry? Calling them names just because they’re different, because they’re not like you? It’s pathetic!” I looked away, my fear almost completely replaced by shame.

“No,” Stan said, stepping in front of Malcolm again. “You’re pathetic, you scrawny little poof. You and blubber-faced fatty here. And you’ll be even more pathetic once I’ve beat the fucking shit out of you.” He took a final drag on his cigarette and tossed it over his shoulder so that one of the boys behind him had to duck to avoid getting hit in the face by the still burning butt. Then he rolled his right hand into a fist and pressed his left palm over his folded fingers so that his knuckles sounded an aching crack.

I could see now the fear in Malcolm’s features—in the clench of his jaw, the taut skin around his mouth, the bloom of sweat across his forehead. I was amazed that he didn’t flinch or try to get away. Instead, he kept looking steadily into Stan’s face and pulled himself broader, taller, announcing his bright and satiny presence without shame.

“Get him, Greg,” Tracey urged, gesturing toward Malcolm with the whiskey bottle.

Greg puffed up his chest and curled his lip. “You’re in for it now, you little poof.”

Tracey beamed proudly at Greg, and then, as if toasting his bravado, she lifted the bottle to her lips to take a swig. Unfortunately, she tipped back the bottle with a little too much force, taking in a larger mouthful of whiskey than she’d anticipated, so that almost as soon as she tried to swallow she choked, coughed, and sputtered out most of the liquid in Greg and Stan’s direction.

“Fucking hell!” Stan shouted, jumping back as a shower of Tracey’s whiskey spittle hit him. “Christ almighty, don’t drink that fucking stuff if you can’t take it.”

A smile tugged at the edge of my lips as I watched Stan brush at the spatters on his jacket and Greg frantically wipe the whiskey that had hit him in the eyes. For a second, I looked across at Malcolm. Our eyes met only briefly, but in that moment I felt as if he saw into me—my hatred of Stan and