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DISCLAIMER: If they were mine, Paul would be alive and well and
holding blue light discos on Debbie Friggin' McAllister's
tombstone.
TITLE: They Also Serve
AUTHOR: kel
PAIRING: Paul Riley/Joe Riley, Dave Quinnan
RATING: NC17, and a big red flag for consensual incest. Go 'way if
that squicks you. I trust we all dig that exploration of a
subject ain't endorsement of it. Messages accusing me of
"promoting" or "celebrating" relationships of this nature will
be met with incredulity and (if pain persists) a variety of
middle finger aerobics.
SPOILERS: Not really. We've all seen Dave divorce and Paulie fry. For
purists, however, I'm riffing on "Criminal Practice", "Upon
Information Received", "Out of the Frying Pan" and "Still Crazy"
(aka The Ones Wiv Stewpot). Oh, and a pinch of "Britanniamania".
Heh.
CHRONOLOGY: Contemporary aspects set after Episode 012;
rest of it jumps around a bit.
SUMMARY: Paul's dead, his mourners few but genuine. Some know more than
others.
COMMENTS: Lookit the official character outline for DC Paul Riley. He's
interesting. Complex. Individual. Brimful of possibilities. But
did any of that actually make it onto our screens? Did it bollocks.
He had enormous potential as a character. But he was *never used*.
In two years, he puts Dave up, protects his brother, throws up at
a wake, and dies. He's so non-existent the death eps show people
explaining who he was - *to his colleagues*!
Oo I'm cross. This Paul is my attempt to make sense of the whole
shitty real-world mess in a fictional context. Joe's part of that
because frankly, his eps are the only time we see Paul as a
person instead of as DC Feedline.
FEEDBACK: Of any and all stripes welcome - to bessie@goldweb.com.au.
THANKS TO: Rie for beta and invaluable whupping upside the head when I
needed it. If this works for you, it's down to her. If it
doesn't, it's down to me. Also Claire for encouragement; Casey &
Mike for tapes; and of course the delicious Mark Burdis for
making Joe so memorable.
================
They Also Serve
by kel
================
2002
Grief's a funny thing; chokes you when you need most to scream. Bridget
and Bill Riley, dry-eyed and grey with the loss of their youngest
child, gather the family shoulder to shoulder at the grave. Sons and
their sons, aunts without number, the clan remembers Paul, their Paul,
and bids him away. Safe with Our Lord, Amen.
It's a large cemetery; it needs to be. Green and wet, colours
brilliant under a clearing sky. Half a glance is enough to see it
holds an awful lot of Rileys, living and dead. Jostling for space,
year by year. They're not the cremational sort.
Away at the back, behind fidgeting children and neighbours who'll just
stay a wee while to help at the house, Dave Quinnan tamps down the urge
to break something. He's one of a handful of tired, wet men shut out
by the family. They stand apart, awkwardly, in singles and pairs.
Most are Job, none Sun Hill; from Paul's time on the beat, most likely.
If they were CID their suits would fit.
He's in jeans. He wasn't invited. But there was a notice, in the
Canley Gazette; a notice and more. Paul's was a remarkably high-
profile death.
He's supposed to be somewhere else, being someone else. But there's
any number of ways he might have known Paul, if he's asked.
He's cold, and itching to leave. Joe Riley, shaven head pale in the
rain, holds his father upright and does his best not to look over. The
police aren't welcome here. They should stay where they belong, at the
official Met service.
Dave's uniform to the bone; he wouldn't go in a million years. Joe
knows that.
The gathering finally disperses; Joe surrenders his father to Bridget,
and slips away under her unreadable gaze. Dave waits for him to draw
level, and falls into step. Huddled into their coats they make for the
gate, no sounds but distant traffic and their feet on the gravel.
Joe's got a car; there's a pub down the road. They both know where
they're heading.
The silence between them is tall, with high cheekbones.
====================
Paulie and Joe, Joey and Paul. Seven years and three kids between
them. Joe loves all his siblings, but Eddie and Michael are pains in
the arse, and Caitlin's just a girl. He's old enough when Paul's born
to take an interest, to look in wonder at the path between dribbling
nuisance and member of the family.
By the time Paul's seven, their lives run in strange parallel, both
adrift in the family and looking for guidance. Joe, clever but not
smart, Gable charm in a Costello body, is at that troublesome age. He
fancies himself alienated and mysterious, prone to great insights no-
one else understands.
He welcomes the company of someone younger, someone who'll listen, who
doesn't insist on pointing out the obvious flaws in his logic. Paul
welcomes the attention, the chance to play Robin, to not be the baby.
They're equals. Symbiotes. Notes passed, homework done, errands run,
cigarettes shared.
Joe'd kill for his little brother.
They're both favourites, both indulged, both explorers in their own
way. Going boldly where no Riley's gone before. Expectations are
high. Complicity develops. They're not like the others. Having a
girl in the family ensures neither's spoilt.
It gets so they're thought of in tandem. Paulie's starting high
school, Joe's losing his first job. So clever (Joe), so thoughtful
(Paul). Paul never says anything, Joe never shuts up. They both
giggle a lot, and smoke out the window so Bridget won't find them.
They're used to being prized, and indulged, and in the wrong. To
sharing, and secrets, and us and them; to fixing up each other's messes
before anyone finds out.
Joe tells Paul everything nobody else will. Paul wins favours nobody
else can.
The bond between them's deep, and obvious. It's only natural to take
advantage. They're given a room to share. Bridget's idea, what with
responsibility, examples, and the middle boys being more of an age.
It makes sense. Besides, Cait's… well… Bridget gives them her best
meaningful look, smiling proudly. She's all grown up, now. Aren't
you? Cait turns bright red and runs for the kitchen, in tears.
Paul throws a tantrum. He's been in with his sister since he was born;
he's her responsibility, her little pet. He resents the change, and
chants not *fair*, with no clear idea why. He hates being in with a
girl, always has. He gets bullied when people find out.
Joe, who's had and loved his own room for years, knows better than to
argue with hormones. Or his mother. Bridget has a habit of snookering
her men.
He takes Paul aside and explains it all, quietly, in a logical,
colourful way which leaves the younger boy absolutely sure he was
better off not knowing a thing.
- Typical bird, says Joe, they get funny like that, when that,when
it's. Does something to their brains if you ask me. Just do what they
say, saves trouble in the long run.
He tousles Paul's hair, and starts making room for a second bed.
- Can't be helped. Put these in the laundry, will you?
==========
2002
Dave doesn't ask Joe not to smoke in the car; he feels enough of an
arsehole already. Intruding.
Joe's glad he's there, one way and another.
- Been a while.
- Yeah.
- How's the lady friend?
- Isn't.
- Know the feeling.
Joe's love life, the one people know about, is legendary: varied,
active, and surprisingly successful, considering. Women love him, till
they catch him with the next one. He's great fun, but ultimately
unreliable. It's not a description he minds.
It's a safe subject, common ground. They've swapped war stories
before, over bottles at Paul's, pondering the end of fun, when the
wheels fall off. Why birds go funny when you hit thirty, and leave you
for doing the things that got them interested. Why it's fine to be you
one day, and not the next.
- Not fair, is it? You can't help what you feel.
They agree fidelity's an odd concept. Bigger than sex.
In his own way, Joe's been faithful for years; caught in a pact he
never wanted, didn't start, couldn't leave. The love of his life, and
he's never told anyone.
It's none of Dave's business. That's why he's here.
============
1990
Joe's a charismatic, hopeless young man, full of big dreams and hope.
Show him a tenner, he'll show you a Rolls; a chainstore, an empire, a
nation. He's never finished anything in his life. He's the big
picture man, the one who has the dream and gets things started.
Cloaked in messes of crucial omission from which everyone else emerges
wiser, he's perennially bouncing from the wreckage, working out what
he'll do differently next time.
The only thing he's any good at is girls.
Nobody's entirely sure how he survives. It's probably best not to ask.
Some of his friends work, or know people. He's got a nose for
investment, and charm in spades. And he means well.
Bridget and Bill can't quite bring themselves to despair of him. Joe
falls through the cracks, somehow running for cover with someone else's
lady cleaning up the mess. The rules don't apply to Joe.
Besides, he looks after Paul.
His brother wades through adolescence with indifferent ease. Dreamy,
not-quite-there, an idealist when he can be bothered. The real world
runs past, and he's happy to watch.
He hasn't a clue what he wants, or how to reach it, only that it's out
there somewhere. Simply opening the door is beyond him. His desires
are unfocused, unnamed; they grow with him.
The year Paul turns fourteen, he watches Joe watch him make a mess of
shaving, and listens to tales of the arcane things Alison Kane does for
a ciggie if you catch her in the right mood. Joe's stories change all
the time; that's half their charm. They're always complicated,
baroque, embroidered at night with rain and thunder outside. They're a
cosy pair, Joe with his cheroots and fear of sudden loud noises, and
Paul with common sense and the will to be charmed. Stormy and
exciting; entropic, and warm.
With school a bore and his physicality all over the place, it's natural
Paul focuses on Joe, on the evidence Joe brings him of human
interaction, of what to say and do and how. Of what matters. What
works is another thing altogether. He's smart enough to draw his own
conclusions.
Watching Joe and Joe's friends, a privileged part of the outer circle,
he learns he's attractive. Like Joe, but different. Paulie's going to
be tall, and thin, with a delicate face, long fingers and thick
straight hair that begs admiration as often as scorn. Honey-gold and
halfway down his back, it's naff, but he doesn't care. Joe likes it
long. He wouldn't tease him if he didn't.
He watches Joe come in of a night, stays up talking, watching him dress
and undress. Learns his moods, his poses: strutting and proud,
crestfallen and defensive.
Joe changes every day. He's given to leather jackets and confidence,
both a little too large for their owner. His puppy-fat boyskin's gone,
leaving oddly broad shoulders behind. He's padded in places,
comfortable to hold. He looks bigger than he is, Riley blond but
upholstered with chest hair as thick and black as Connery in the films.
His smile lights rooms.
Stumbling home at all hours, tipsy and frustrated, he radiates warmth
and the honesty crucial to the small- time crook. Paul loves the
contrast between his agile, graceful exits and his noisy, stupid
returns, cold and chattering, with stolen beer on his breath and Alison
on his fingers.
Paul's never noticed girls notice him. He keeps forgetting he's
supposed to. Joe laughs and says he'll never get anywhere with those
priorities. A young man's fancy, and all that.
Paul thinks a lot about *all that*. It's dawned on him, slowly,
naturally, over a lot of late nights, that you can't make something
relevant if it's not. You can't learn to be interested, if you're not.
Not if you know what you want.
And he wants Joe.
It's as simple, as complex as that. Not girls, not boys, just Joe.
It's impossible. It's a buzz. It's something he'll just have to live
with.
====================
2002
Joe sits down, heavily, waits for Dave to follow with the drinks. He
hasn't slept for two days. The pub's loud and brash, Paulie's sort of
place. Crap music. Karaoke.
He can't stay long. Things to do.
He's using Paul's car. Cleaning up, getting things sorted, he'd found
Exile on Main Street in the deck, and a handful of battered cassettes
in the glovebox. 1916. The Black Album. The tapes are worn, old,
copies of copies.
Paul hated the Stones. Abhorred rock and loathed metal. Too many
years listening to Joe yowl through solos, air guitar in hand. But get
him pissed enough, and he'd be up there giving it Loving Cup. It's
Joe's favourite, after Ace of Spades.
Copies of copies, painstakingly labelled in his own sprawling hand. He
still forgets the second L in Metallica.
Joe lights up with shaking hands; leans back as Dave sits down, puts
their pints on the table.
They don't look at each other for a long while; watching the rain
through the windows, curls in the smoke, tiny bubbles rising through
lager the colour of Paulie's hair.
- I never made him, says Joe, at last. Softly, with an edge of wonder,
as if he's tasting something for the first time.
Dave's watching two old men playing darts in the corner, all skivvies
and coughs, squinting and cursing and carrying on.
- I know.
Two old men, holding hands.
He wishes he could reach out as easily.
====================
2001
Dave's kinship with Joe is the call of like to like. With Paul it's
harder to define. They seem to have fallen into an unofficial
triumvirate of Good Blokes: them and Mickey Webb. With George gone,
and Tony gone cold, it's only natural.
They share a few interests: football, a drink, a good night out. He
likes being the token Married Man; likes it less when it all falls
apart. Mickey's sympathy is easily lost, for a variety of reasons. It
leaves him drinking with Paul, too late and too often, swapping partial
truths.
Dave thinks Paul's got a married fella somewhere up North. Doesn't
approve, but that's fine. Paul thinks Dave's a philandering idiot who
talks too much. Dave can't disagree. They're fond of each other.
Dave's life is a right mess. Paul wouldn't get involved in a million
years, normally; he's not one for hand- holding. And he can't help
siding with Jenny on a lot of things. Can't imagine living away from
his family, for real, or not wanting kids. He's a firm believer in
monogamy.
But one night, preparing to sleep it off on the Quinnan sofa, he's
shown a photograph. A wedding snap, high- colour and fuzzy. Dave, of
course, with Jenny, Polly and someone else, someone built like Joe.
Shaved head, wary smile, stiff-backed and caught in the flash.
The girls, in the middle, look straight ahead. Being seen to get
along. The men are talking without words, separated by the wine, and
the women. Looking at their eyes you'd swear they were alone.
Dave's told him about George. A little. Enough.
He tells Dave, then and there, there's a bed free if he needs it.
Ever. And kicks himself, hard; the spaces in his life are there for a
reason. But the idea of anyone else feeling like he does is
unbearable. He can't not reach out, despite himself.
And Dave says yes, says no, says I've got Pol, and cries. It works out
well in the end; they get mindless pissed, amnesiac pissed, and float
off the hook.
But when the need comes up, as Paulie knows it will, the offer stands.
=====================
1990
Paul's known, in his head, for a while now, though it's been in his
bones forever. The sky doesn't fall, no bolts from the blue. It feels
like waking up.
It creeps up on him one quiet Monday. Joe's been out fighting again.
Some girl who had a brother who had a friend, you know how it goes.
Gave as good as he got, and stumbled home with her number in his
pocket.
Joe wakes up late with huge black bruises that he can't reach. He's
working just now, got to be able to lift boxes down the dogs. He needs
help to get out of bed.
Paul hauls out the liniment from his football days, abandoned now that
sport's too much like hard work. Perched on the edge of the upstairs
bath, smoothing the foul-smelling cream gently into the sneaker prints
on Joe's lower back, he becomes aware of heat. Under his fingers, in
his face. The little room narrows, shrinks to the cool of the tiles
under his feet and the curve of Joe's shoulders filling his palms.
Overwhelmed with desire, without thinking, he lays his head against
Joe's broad back and holds him, tight. Joe, bewildered, puts his big
bruised hands over Paul's, and they stay that way, for a time.
Joe feels his brother's racing pulse, and swears silently. Paulie's
never been hit, never fought, never seen what can happen. Joe's never
let him near the ugliness before. He should have known he'd be upset.
He gathers Paul in a proper hug, tells him not to worry. He's had
worse.
Paulie's not listening. He's spellbound, dizzy, a world away and
anchored in skin. Too many things make too much sense. He lets Joe
push him away, gently, returns to the salve with shaking hands and
crossed legs. He wants to kiss the bruises away.
He settles for the next best thing, skipping school and heading down to
the track. To help out, when the boss isn't watching. Joe agrees out
of self-interest and guilt.
Paul does his bit, and watches Joe and Joe's friends; watches for
tenderness, watches himself. Just to be sure. He has to be sure.
At the end of the day, he's elated and angry. A hundred questions boil
down to one: why not? Why the fuck not? It's not *fair*.
His blind spots blossom fast. Everyone knows the rules don't apply to
Joe.
Watching Joe sleep, touching himself, he tries to be wrong, but can't
believe it matters. Desire feels like a handmedown shirt: worn and
comfortable, just the right size. He wants to show it off, wants to be
seen in this brand new, forgotten skin.
He wishes he could ask Joe what to do.
It takes him a week or so of near-despair to work it out. Joe gets
what he wants, up to a point, despite his innate simplicity. Despite
impossible goals and an enduring, endearing incompetence. There's no
reason Paul can't, too.
They've always wanted the same things.
Growing up a Riley teaches you to be grateful for what you've got.
Some Rileys are more equal than others. But growing up with Joe
teaches you it's worth having hope. Put a monkey on the long shot, for
better for worse. 'Cos you never know, Paulie, you never know.
====================
He spends his nights reading by candlelight, waiting for Joe. Pulling
Joe through the window when he's been locked out. He does whatever he
can to delay the light going off, the dark falling in, Joe's broad
chest melting into shadow. The memory of those soft black hairs
crushed against him, shifting under his fingertips, haunts his dreams.
Two boys sharing a room develop tacit routines, little politenesses
about the things they don't want heard. He breaks the rules; watches
while he feigns sleep, allowing Joe to masturbate in peace.
When Joe stays out, he buries his face in Joe's discarded clothes;
breathes his unique scent, a heady mix of sweat, deodorant, oil and
tobacco. He imagines being held, and… and he's not sure what, exactly,
but it makes him burn. It's intoxicating, intimate, a way of shouting
without sound. Their normal rough and tumble takes on an immense
power, with all its opportunities for closeness, for touching, for
catching scent. He engineers fights, half-hearted shoving matches, and
relives them later, tangled happily in polycotton blend.
He's glad he's not interested in girls. Imagine doing that, for them.
It's not unusual to find Joe's shirts ineptly hidden, stuffed between
Paul's mattress and the wall. Bridget, on one of her rare forays into
their space, assumes it's the boys' way of tidying up. Rileys wash
their own clothes, always have. It's not her job once they start
school. It'll stand them in good stead later. And it saves on
embarrassment. You know.
She had brothers herself; loved them to pieces, and learned early which
buttons to push.
Paulie's nothing if not his mother's son.
His fifteenth birthday sees him up far too late for a school night,
allowed a little too much beer, and an awful lot of license. It's a
boys' night in, a milestone. Joe, shaven, indulgent, on edge, hangs
around long enough to give Paulie his very first lighter and a handful
of classic LPs on tape. He's part of the party but not quite there,
clearly itching for a call, a knock at the door, *something*. He
disappears in the end, unnoticed, leaving Paulie bullied and tickled
and all-grown-up on the floor, buried under their brothers.
Around one, Paul giggles his way up to bed, alone and a little
unsteady. The Littlest Riley, tired as hell, a maths exam in the
morning. Running on empty, he shuts the bedroom door and finds himself
sprawling with a smoky, salty hand over his mouth.
It's Joe, bleeding and wired and stubbing out dog-ends in the muddy
carpet under the window. He can't get up. Won't. And doesn't want
Paul to either, which suits Paul down to the ground once he's worked
out where up is. Joe's propped against the end of Paul's bed, leaving
ominous smudges all over the candlewick. He's got chips and a joint,
and a bottle of something expensive. Paul, giggling madly, pulls
himself round, pulls his head into Joe's lap and closes his eyes. It's
a small room, and warm; not moving as much as it was. Neither wants
the light on.
Joe talks, and smokes, tracing patterns in the moonlight. He's in
trouble, again. Offended someone or misplaced something, Paul can't
follow the story. Not that it matters, it'll change three or four
times before morning.
Paul lies there and listens, breathing in salt and vinegar and
nicotine. Joe absently strokes Paulie's hair and talks more, talks it
up. He's proud, vulnerable and glowing. He won, for once.
Thing is, he was back by midnight, all tucked up. Someone must have
seen him come in, mustn't they? He thinks they did. He thinks it
might have been Paul.
Paul, dishevelled and dizzy and brimful of sleepy affection, agrees.
Flicking his brand new Zippo, surveying the damage to his brother's
face, the little splits and growing bruises, he announces, solemnly,
that anything's possible. And smiles.
Paulie's beautiful when he smiles.
Joe, mesmerised, just looks at him, silent for once; looks at the too-
long hair framing Paulie's face, at the smooth white skin and laughing
eyes, at the texture of Paul in the flickering golden light. He runs a
smoky thumb gently, so gently over Paulie's lower lip, and back; and
before either of them really understands, covers it with his own. A
gentle, split and salty meeting; closed eyes, the touch of tongues, a
mingling of breath.
And when a second later icy realisation hits him, and he tries, he
really tries, to pull away, get up, *run*, Paulie won't let go.
====================
Joe can't get free. He falls over himself and ends up flat, softly
squashing chips warm against his back.
Paul leans on him slightly, just enough to hurt. -- Say happy
birthday, Paul...
And kisses him again.
Paul's watched Joe with girls, watched him won over, led by the nose,
time and time again. He can't resist tenderness or enthusiasm. And
any fool can see his cock has a mind of its own.
Paul kisses him with passion, with calculated imprecision. Joe, high
and terrified, can't help responding. Can't help wanting to, more to
the point. And that's half the battle.
It's almost innocent, the two of them stretched full- length between the
beds. Paul's never kissed anyone before. Joe takes full advantage.
Never can help showing off.
The interface between Paul-the-brother and Paul-the- man carries a
dreadful excitement, but that won't haunt him till morning. For now
he's not thinking too hard, not thinking at all, as Paul wriggles him
out of his tee-shirt and goes to work on his chest. He'd never have
pegged him for a nipple man. The thought makes him laugh. The state
Paul's in, it's infectious.
Joe forces Paul over; finally, is pulled on top; writhing and pushing,
kisses him deep and bites. Forces a leg between Paul's thighs, pushes
and rubs; finally uses his hand, outside, then inside his jeans. He
remembers the first time Alison touched him; he didn't last long. He's
always felt a little ashamed about that. Not any more; Paul's twice as
quick; Joe's fingers have barely closed around him before he comes.
The small noises Paul makes are already part of his soul; he's heard
things he's not supposed to, too.
He rolls away, gives Paul time to recover; watches his brother strip
completely, stone-fascinated by the way his skin glows in the
moonlight. Mesmerised as Paulie goes down on him; one hand on Joe's
cock, one on his own.
Paul's rehearsed this a hundred times in his mind, in improbable
fantasies which gloss over the actual sex and end up with him curled in
Joe's arms. He's always expected he'll know what to do, but faced with
the actual thing, hasn't the foggiest. He's all thumbs, sticky
thumbs; fumbling, and slipping, and worried about teeth. He suspects
it'd be easier if he stopped laughing.
Joe rescues him after a minute; slows him down and shows him how. He
knows what he likes, and is well versed in passing it on. He's an
inventive teacher, patient and kind. The night passes slowly in
laughter and skin and Paulie's hair to hide them.
===========
The others have Riley heads, strong as sin; and they're up and gone by
six. Bridget and Cait, returning from the night-at-an-aunt's that
ritual demands, are back around nine, banging doors hard and smirking.
Serve the boys right for having all the fun.
For Joe, warm and tangled in Paul's beautiful hair, waking is panic,
waking is hell. He stumbles to the shower in silent horror, stays
curled and numb till the water's cold. It's an hour before he comes
down, ineptly dressed and uncommunicative.
The black eye and bruises work in his favour. Nobody asks, when it's
Joe. Bridget, sure that what she doesn't know won't hurt her, waves
him off with a kiss and a tenner for the pub. He looks like he needs
it.
Joe, cold and sick and the wrong side of sober, thinks Paulie might be
hurt, he might need help. He smokes, walks, stays away, nauseated by
the arousal his memories produce. Everything's different.
Everything's dead. It's a relief when he's stopped by police. It
takes him a while to realise they're only asking about the brawl.
Last night's a life away. *Before*. He doesn't have to use his alibi.
He finds space down by the docks, and stares unseeing over the water
for hours.
Paul, hours late for school, spends the morning chastised and the
afternoon bored, bored, bored. Dozing over stupid questions he can't
see the point of, revelling in the scent of Joe's skin on his hands, in
his hair. Everything's different. Everything's *there*. He's
aroused, and happy, and out the door on the dot of the bell, racing for
home.
==========
In a thin-walled house of seven active people, it's hard to find time
to themselves. Doors don't lock, they can't. Everyone walks in and
out of everybody's space, all the time, without thinking. It's only
memorable, only noticed when it can't be done.
"Personal space", for a Riley, means "the bit you have to clean".
Except for early morning, or guests-are- coming-all-hands-on-deck, or
when Joe's rushing with a mate or job or girl to go to. Paulie's
watched Joe shave since he was a little boy. It's always been their
time to talk. Nobody intrudes.
Joe hides away in the upstairs bathroom, shamed and tearing a flannel
to bits. He can't let it go. Can't let it go further.
He just wants Paul to know he's sorry. He won't cover it up. The
memory of his enjoyment, his enjoyment of the memory, sickens him.
He'll face what he has to, or leave. Both.
With his back to the mirror, he tries out the words, over and over.
Christ, I'd never hurt you. I love you. You know that, don't you?
They die in his throat. If he really loved Paul, it wouldn't have
happened.
He leaves the water running, as a signal. Not that Paul needs it;
within minutes he slips into the room, bubbling with excitement. And
stops in shock at his brother's reddened eyes, his flinching attempt at
retreat. The room closes in, fast.
He hears Joe's stumbling speech with disbelief, then dismisses it
outright. He's mystified by Joe's obvious fear. It was right, it was
meant. It's kept him warm all day.
He's come expecting kisses, and more.
Joe only knows it's all his fault. Paul can't know what he's saying.
He pushes his brother, hard; he'll hit if he has to, if that's what it
takes to keep him away. To keep him safe.
Frustrated, near tears, with the family downstairs, Joe can't shout,
and Paulie's not listening. Joe gives up and slams his way out of the
house.
So be it. This never happened.
He spends the night at a friend's. And the next, and the next. Boys
and beer and not having to think. They make a week of it: get blind,
steal cars, have fun.
When it's been long enough, when he feels clean, he comes home to hugs
and censure, and ferchrissake ring next time. He finds Paulie curled
in his own bed, asleep. The room's tidy, the mud's gone, you can't
even smell smoke. It's all more normal than normal.
He gathers fresh clothes and something to kip in; there's a big enough
couch downstairs. He's in for the mother of all hangovers. If there's
talk to be had, it'll be when he's ready and his eyes don't hurt. If
not, so much the better.
Feeling saner than he has in days, he takes one last look at his
brother. He can't leave the room without making sure Paulie's okay.
Bridget's the same with all of them; they've joked about it often. All
those years, with Bill working late and the little ones small, making
sure they're warm, tucked in, sleeping, breathing. Checking for fever,
picking up toys. You don't lose the habit.
He stoops quickly to kiss Paulie on the forehead, the way he always
has. With pride, with love, without thought. And is lost, when Paul's
eyes open, when he smiles with a boy's sleepy relief. It's midnight,
Joe's back, all's right with the world.
Joe, shame flooding his face and his legs giving out, sits heavily on
the edge of the bed. Takes Paul's hand, drops it, and whispers he's
sorry.
Paul, looking deep into Joe's frightened eyes, whispers he's not.
There's more, but Joe doesn't hear it. He's paralysed, dumbstruck and
numb. He doesn't resist when Paul pulls him close and tells him not to
cry.
============
1991
Growing up a Riley teaches you all about secrets, and grievance; about
hiding and finding out, about theft and memory and the way things get
out of hand. That above it all there's someone deciding when the rules
apply.
Joe says there's always a way round a thing, if you'll work for it.
And Paul works hard when it comes to Joe. He's a natural coquette:
insisting, tempting, pushing buttons. Joe tries and tries, but gives
up resisting in the end. It's too hard with Paul in every room, round
every corner. And he's honest enough to admit he wants.
Paul doesn't see anything wrong in it all. This alone frightens Joe
more than his own desires. In a way it makes them the lesser harm.
Somewhere cold and deep in him comes to believe the damage he's done is
old and irrevocable. Sheep for a lamb, and all that.
The entanglement escalates fast and with ease. Joe being Joe, he's
been around. Everyone knows Cliff down the dogs'll let you, for a
fiver. Can't help being curious.
He wishes it was the sex that kept him coming back. He could fight
that.
The bottom line is he loves Paul. He loves fucking Paul. He loves
lying with Paul, after. He's happy, at peace, in his brother's arms,
in a way he can't be anywhere else. He's seen and loved and allowed to
be Joe, not made to be Joe-if-only. There's no pretence, no
illusions, no secrets to drive them apart.
It's only once they're out in the light that the wrongness yawns in his
chest.
The more they're together the worse it gets, and the more Paul makes it
better.
The complicity between them takes on new, sharp edges. People look at
them differently, not sure what's changed. He's careful not to touch
Paul in public, now; in case he forgets, forgets to stop.
Paul behaves like he always has, puppyish and all over the place, a
mess of sprawling limbs. They're supposed to touch, they're brothers.
Seeking distraction, cover, something *else*, Joe takes a job and
actually turns up. Bridget watches him closely, sure it's borderline
criminal. Must be; he's far too old to grow up.
She couldn't be more wrong. Why court the law when the shadows at home
hold so much? His other life, smoky and complex, falls by the way.
Strung out and running from worse than police, or fucking Paul in the
bath: no contest. He hasn't fought or stolen for months. Joe's in
thrall to the buzz, learning the hard way, developing a sense of
restraint nothing else has taught him.
Paulie's not afraid of getting caught. He's smarter, luckier, than
Joe; high on sensation with right on his side. Persuasive and
impatient, he has to be kissed, or touched, has to share beds, or
showers, or run his hand between Joe's legs in the back of the car.
He's brimming over with doors to lock and places to go.
Paulie hasn't thought it through. Joe's trying not to.
Joe's reputation's the perfect cover. Even walked in on, even flushed
and dishevelled on the downstairs couch, too far apart with buttons
undone.
In Joe's world, fast exits are par for the course.
The assumptions made are earthy and crude, natural with that Alison
only next door. His brothers are men of the world, engaged to The Ones
That Won't. With quiet envy, they say it's about time Paul was broken
in.
It gets back to Bill, who sanctions them lightly. Boys will be boys,
and all that. Bridget's not quite as impressed.
Joe starts rumours to back it up. He rather likes the cachet, and you
never know. He'd like to watch Paul with a girl.
When they're caught for real, it saves them. Just. A wake, a lock-in,
a dark room at the back of their parents' pub, where they've slipped
away at Paul's insistence. They've a barmaid on their tail, young,
part- time, and keen, with a thing for Joe.
High as kites, the boys mean well but forget she's there in the end.
She starts to understand once Joe's on his knees and Paulie's bent over
the kegs. With spite born of affront she causes a scene, leading
Bridget to find them half-cut, half-dressed and much the worse for
wear. She sacks the girl on the spot.
The diatribe that follows revolves around influence and age, power and
fault, and why that dirty little tart when there's *nice* girls just
through there. It's prolonged, hurtful, and tremendously entertaining.
Rileys tend to have voices which carry. The crowd in the other room
file it all away for retelling at parties. That Joe, always good for a
story.
Paul thinks it's funny. Joe's cold and disgraced; hit harder than
Bridget could have imagined. Too many truths. It shatters the spell.
Paul's still laughing, later. At home, with the door locked, and the
Stones playing loud to piss his mother off, he lowers himself onto Joe,
sets up a rhythm, fucking himself to Casino Boogie. Nothing matters
but Joe's big hands and the salt of his mouth-hardened nipples. Fuck
the rest.
They're untouchable.
Joe buries his face in Paulie's hair; crushes him tight and says it's
got to stop. He's sick of it all, sick of himself. He'll move out in
the morning.
Paul, gone still and cold as steel, says you do and I'll tell.
==========
1994
Joe's cheerful on the outside, forever dabbling with projects all over
the place. Inside, he's hurling furniture, punching walls, lashing out
in hopeless self-defence. The unfairness of it all is overwhelming.
He knows he doesn't want to live like this.
Joe's carried the stigma of influence as long as he can remember. You
should know better, you should know more, you should know right from
wrong.
Joe the free spirit can do what he wants. But Joe the son is steeped
in rules. Four siblings, twenty years: responsible.
He knows it's his fault. It must be.
He has trouble sleeping.
They still share a room, less often a bed; Paulie's too tall now for
both to fit. When Joe's home, they sleep on the floor with the door
locked. He's free to spend nights where he pleases. The company of
women keeps him calm, keeps him Joe, and Paulie doesn't mind. They've
worked out rules over time.
Paulie's never had to threaten again. He knows Joe'll thank him for it
in the long run.
Withdrawn and unfocused, Joe's made trouble for himself here and there.
Too ambitious or too insistently small-time, hard to say. He talks
about moving away, about new starts. He hasn't worked in years.
He still comes to Paul, still willing, with love. But there's a
weariness in him now, a growing grief his brother doesn't understand.
Paul shrugs it off. He's never seen the need for guilt. He worries
they're growing apart. Peers laugh at his cautiously worded questions,
say get over it. Brothers can't stay friends, it's not natural.
Paul wants a definition of natural, wants empirical proof, but nothing
other boys can offer helps. He reads what he can: Playboy, self-help,
Jonathan Gash. Nothing's much use, although Lovejoy's dislike of
holding after sex rings several uncomfortable bells. Joe sleeps with
his back to him now.
He thinks Joe needs goals, and encourages him into various projects.
Buildings, horses, removals, whatever comes up. Doomed, of course, and
it keeps Joe away, but it pays off in an easing between them.
Paul fills the gap with activity. Martial arts, recruitment seminars,
legal time at the pub. He studies hard, finding ways to do well
unremarkably. He prefers to get high marks for effort.
He needs the distraction. Joe's away for days sometimes. Comes back
distant, distracted and less amenable to company. But he always gives
in. Can always be tempted.
He's rougher, faster, when he returns. Less considerate. Paul likes
it; it proves he's been missed.
===========
1995
As time drags on, Eddie marries and Michael moves out and Joe gets his
space back at last. He moves his records, staking claim, before Paul
even knows there's a decision to be made.
Bridget thinks it's high time. It'll be good for both of them. Paul
should be thinking about what he wants to do with his life. She's
given up on Joe, and says so. He doesn't mind; it's said with love.
It infuriates Paul, already fighting resentment, boredom and the
dreadful, nagging feeling that there's more to life than Joe. It won't
leave him alone and he hates it. Joe's shouted it at him, often
enough, when the house is empty.
He'd start to believe it, if Joe stopped coming. But he doesn't. It
might be weeks between, now, and only minutes of rough silence before
the door closes, but it's all still real. He knows Joe well enough to
know that the time in his arms brings him peace, of a sort. And he
knows how to make him want it.
He knows best of all how to wait.
He has faith. Things'll get better.
In any case, he has more immediate problems. Joe's old crowd are back
on the streets. And Joe being Joe, he's back on board, embracing the
buzz with open arms and courting very real trouble.
Paul tells the family he's considering joining the police, in the hope
that it'll make a difference. It doesn't, but he can't back down, and
has to apply, in the end. It's a bargain with God: I'll do it if you
keep him out of trouble.
It backfires, and fast; Joe's all for it. He pitches in with
enthusiasm, picking up forms, borrowing books, dragging Paul to the
interview in a stolen van with hooky MOT.
To his own amazement, Paul does well, and wants to. There's a genuine
interest under the bluff. The panel unearths it, with care. He's as
surprised as they are.
Joe's expected no less. Bridget's taught them well. And there's
always the church thing. Gets into the bones, doesn't it; love and
freedom, love and responsibility, being good for people, not for
goodness' sake.
In a sense, Paul's contract with the Met is signed, sealed, years
before he even thinks about policing. He says something of the sort,
to Joe, over a drink, in a pub where nobody knows they're related.
Where they can be themselves. He speculates on duties of care,
reaching for his brother's hand, and gets shoved aside as Joe walks out
raw-eyed and abrupt. Shut down.
They don't talk about it.
The day Paul's accepted into Hendon, Joe spends the whole night with
him, all of it, curled on the floor with chips and a joint and a bottle
of something expensive. Joe makes him sit straight, in candlelight and
jeans, combs his hair down his naked back and holds him close with
closed eyes. Takes a photo which won't come out, and kisses him crazy,
kisses him to sleep for the first time in months. He's happy, loving,
and warm; the man Paul fell in love with.
When Paul wakes up, he's gone. Up north on a promise, taking his LPs,
five shirts and a heavily pregnant Alison Kane, black-eyed and married
a month to someone neither can stand. She'll be gone in a week, but
that's fine.
==========
Four and a half months, intensive. Residential. Paul, empty and hurt,
misses home like hell, but makes himself cope. There's always
something to think about. He studies people, fends off interest. And
Bridget writes weekly, with photos and stories and news. You'd think
he'd emigrated. He's embarrassed and grateful.
She hasn't heard from Joe.
Paul puts his anger, his energy, into the course and does well.
Aptitudes surface, taking him by surprise. His memory's good, his
instincts are good, and he's used to watching people. Living with
Joe's trained him to think around corners.
He enjoys pulling apart the amorphous, abstract tapestry of 'the law'.
Enjoys the idea of putting things right, putting things back. He's
free from the social ideals that blinker his colleagues. Growing up a
Riley teaches you the fluidity of fairness. He's less interested in
protection than reparation.
It shakes him to the core to learn a jury would find him abused. That
they'd have to, they'd *want* to. The knowledge settles in him,
changes him somewhere nameless and dark. He becomes bitterly ashamed
to have thought Joe a coward, and more so of the power he wields. But
he can't regret having used it.
He makes a promise to watch for it in others.
"Without fear, or affection, malice or ill-will".
He gets phone calls, sometimes; nothing said, no message left. It's
enough.
==========
He learns he'll be placed at Barton Street. Truly local. It's the
talk of the pub back home. Bill's proud of his boy, and Bridget bears
the embarrassment stoically. With their punters, having a thief in the
family's easier.
They travel up for graduation and throw him a party. It's loud and
embarrassing and tremendous fun. Caitlin calls Alison, who calls a
friend who calls a friend; it wouldn't be right without Joe.
He refuses to come, point-blank, on the phone, but turns up anyway,
looking well. He's happy, doing all right, got himself settled and
things lined up. Same old Joe; he even talks like he used to. Before.
Sure that the past is the past and everything's fine, he hugs Paul
openly and hard. He doesn't have to keep his distance now. He's free,
and Paulie has too much to lose.
Paulie knows both of them better than that. Less than four hours after
becoming a proper policeman he's got Joe alone in their father's car.
Parked in the shadows, outside the grounds, it only takes a touch.
It's an old car with bench seats; they know it well. Paul's gentle for
once; doesn't chatter, doesn't push, just takes Joe's face in his hands
and kisses him. Kisses him sorry, kisses away the pain. Lets Joe say
no and set the pace; a tiny, fundamental concession that says more than
words ever could.
It's a gentle ride, and slow, something to treasure. They've both
changed. Joe, buried in Paul, feeling him shake, feeling whole at
last, keeps touching his brother's hair. Shorn like a boy's, it leaves
him stark- featured and adult, a different man. Someone growing into
things. It makes him want to be tender, to manage the shame, and be
part of his brother again.
He's been lonely as hell for months.
He accepts, at last, that he can't be near Paul without this. Accepts
too that he wants it, more than anything.
But they can't afford the risk now.
It's two years before he sees Paulie again.
==========
1997-2000
Time crawls, for Paul. Probation, beat, CID. His mother tells him
when they've heard from Joe. This girl or that, this dodge or that.
The whole street knows his ups and downs, that he never asks for money
and never comes home. The family collect enough for tickets, anyway,
and send it once or twice a year. Just in case.
Paul spends hours on long, passionate letters that don't get sent.
Some are apologies, some are obscene. They all hurt to write. He can
never decide whether to burn them or not.
He scrawls his love on the end of other people's cards.
Work goes well, on the whole. He's good at what he does, no more or
less successful than anyone else. He likes it that way, doesn't want
to stand out. He instinctively partners himself with people who do.
He's tailor-made for Debbie McAllister, an unpleasant, ambitious WPC,
moved to CID because uniform hate her guts. He does the work, she gets
the glory, the job gets done. She reminds him of Cait at menarche, all
spite and big eyes, demanding attention. He knows his role and
welcomes it, happy to tag along and keep her grounded.
He feels safe with her, being far too far down the food chain to be of
any interest. He feeds her red herrings at intervals: no detail,
nothing untrue. The rumours she spreads help explain why he's single.
They save him having to.
He's a beautiful man, and knows it. Slender, gym-fit, easily desired.
It's useful sometimes, but he doesn't let it out unsupervised. He
wears Joe's abandoned clothes, for a long time, and when he buys new,
buys in Joe's size. A little too big. He looks shy, inept,
unnoticeable. It's a finely honed skill.
His spare time's filled with jujitsu, weapons group, the family. Long
nights with a crate and the boys. Darts, sometimes, the odd pub snog.
It's expected. He tries, for a while, to be interested in sex, but the
point eludes him. A certain kind of man likes him very much, and he
knows where to find them. But they don't feel right against his skin.
He grows his hair, and bargains with God.
Transferring to Sun Hill's one more step on a very level path. It lets
him leave home, and open doors.
==========
Joe's doing what Joe does best, cheerfully working his way from mess to
worse. Sure things will work out, surprised when they don't. It's
never his fault. He moves around a lot, happy to admit it makes him
harder to find. Towns are always smaller than you think.
At thirty, a little thicker in the waist, a little less tired, he's as
charming as ever. Not what you'd call handsome, but that's never
mattered. He can still talk his way into anyone's heart. He shaves
his head, for a tough-guy edge, but nobody's fooled. It makes him
look vulnerable, and young.
A certain kind of woman falls over herself to look after him, then
throws him out when she realises that that's what she's done. But
that's fine.
Birds talk. They've always got curious friends.
He has a weakness for tall, slender women with honey- gold hair worn
long. He's never noticed a pattern.
On the rare occasions that things hurt too much, when it's late and
dark and he's blind rolling drunk, he sends Paulie postcards. No
message, no return address.
It's enough.
==========
To celebrate the move, Paul gets a place of his own at last. Four
floors up on a shabby estate and straddling manors. He's on Sun Hill's
patch, and his old nick's visible in the distance. Far enough from the
family. They learn to ring before turning up.
The McAllister bitch makes the shift with him. She's been made up to
Sergeant on the tails of his work, with the help of a friend or two.
Word is she's dispensable, disliked and kicked up the pole to get her
out of Barton Street's hair.
She's nervous and mouthy, painting herself as the best of the new with
rumours and outright lies.
He watches her at the Sun Hill welcoming party. She's well on form,
gets him labelled a Don't before the evening's half over. He can tell;
there's winks from the blokes and the girls keep a wary distance.
He silently toasts the poisonous cow and sets about finding the ones he
can talk to. Meets Dave Quinnan's dark eyes over a proffered pint, and
smiles.
From the start he feels at home. Vik's like Eddie, Mickey's like Mike,
and the rest are fine. He can work with them. Work around them. They
won't even know he's there.
==========
2001
When Joe comes back, as they both know he will, he doesn't tell Paul.
It's pure chance Paul sees him on the street. Without thinking, he
breaks obbo, and runs to his brother.
By the time he's got there, his mind's caught up with his heart.
They're watching for drugs. He shoos Joe away, makes him promise to
come back later. They're both a little in shock.
Back at the car, he tells Mickey Joe's a snout. It's all he can think
of at the time. He's not sure why he lies.
When they finally meet, turning up early and armoured in change, they
sit close. Not touching. Not thinking about not touching, feeling
their way round an off-white lie.
They're both due somewhere else, reluctant and dry- mouthed and
searching for reasons to stay. It hurts to look at each other, but the
burn is good under it all. They both begin to hope.
Behind his eyes, Joe's needing cover, forcing a game. He watches his
brother talk without listening, chatters mindlessly and imagines
sliding his fingers between Paul's full, wet lips, tasting him under
the beer.
He's grown strong, hardened by independence. A different man. But
still Joe under it all. He offers a pretext for meeting again; it's
stupid, tissue-thin, a question with only one answer.
Paulie bargains with God, surrenders control. And exults when Bridget
calls him with frost in her voice.
-Joe's back to stay. Please try to get on.
He plays the game, counting the days to Joe's birthday; a family do,
impossible not to attend. Joe knows he'll be there, and hides away in
the garden, smoking. They have the conversation they're expected to
have with people around, about business ventures, big ideas and Joe
not having a clue. It looks like an argument, sounds like a fight, but
their eyes are shining.
Their hands brush, and Joe blows smoke in Paulie's face. It's a
promise soon fulfilled. With a house full of family, they're not
missed for an hour or three. When they return, whole and bubbling,
just like it was, nobody sees.
It's midnight, Joe's back, all's right with the world.
Riley parties go on forever. They get blind, sleep on the living-room
floor, fully clothed and curled in each other's arms.
==========
Joe being Joe, it's too good to be true. Two days later he's tied to a
ring of violent Continental car thieves. Debbie's case. Paul's case.
Joe admits it all, freely, in private. His involvement's peripheral,
innocent. You know how it is.
He's fucked it all, before it begins.
Paul doesn't let himself think about that.
He'll keep Joe safe, but it costs.
He breaks in on his brother in the bath at home; just like old times.
Tamping down the memories, channelling his anger at Joe's blithe
assumption he can't be touched. The room closes in as he works out a
plan, looking anywhere but at the dark, wet hair, the white, wet skin.
Paul forces the issue, cleans up the mess, leaves a trail ten miles
high behind. He's wide open, in pain. And Joe slips through it all
like Teflon.
Here to stay.
Joe's always said be careful what you wish for.
Paul doesn't mean it when he says to stay away.
The McAllister bitch knows they're related. But Joe being Joe, so does
everyone else before long. Before she can cause trouble. He's back on
form, drawing the wrong kind of attention. Paul tries not to be glad
when he falls on his face; saves his life as well as his arse, this
time, and belts hell out of Joe's attackers. In front of people.
He has to be restrained.
Paul being Paul, it surprises people. But not Mickey, who's seen them
together, who's heard Paulie talk and heard Paulie lie. Mickey puts
two and two together, coming up with something just the wrong side of
true, and turns cold as stone overnight.
Paul doesn't ask why. Mickey's got shadows of his own. He remembers
his epiphany, at Hendon. Not the only one who'd have juries on his
side.
Paul's one friend down, and getting noticed. Chandler files him under
liability.
Being played hurts. It's Joe being Joe, but it still fucking hurts.
He bites his tongue, puts up with the flak, covers their collective,
soldered-together arse, and sees Joe when he can.
It's the only way to win him back.
==========
Things settle down, eventually. It's not long before the black sheep
brother's a station joke and nothing more. They meet now and then at
family dos, awash with beer and other people's children.
Paul plays it cool at work. It's lonely now, with Mickey off-side and
Dave off his nut. But it's all he's got. He keeps his head down,
stays busy, and waits. He knows how to do that. And he knows things
could be worse.
After Jamie Ross, no-one round Debbie can afford to have an iffy
private life. She's knows Joe's a crim; she's threatened Paul once.
But she won't see anything else. She hasn't the imagination.
In any case, Joe never visits alone.
It solves the puzzle for Paul, on obbo one night, tired and cold and
thinking in circles. Examining his own reactions, he realises Joe's
still afraid. Of himself, of Paul, of what he wants. Crippled by
guilt, after all this time.
After all this fucking time. The waste astounds him.
He can't stay angry. A peace of sorts evolves. No sex, no favours,
almost friends.
When Dave of the breakdown, Dave of the broken hearts comes back, he
needs a bed. Somewhere to stay while he gets back on his feet. Paul's
the only one who's stayed in touch, the only one Dave's bothered to
call.
Fate being fate, Joe's on the doorstep first, laden down and cheerful.
He barges his way past Paul, working nights and rudely woken.
Bridget's had enough, at last, and kicked him out. Something to do
with two girls and a bedroom. And the money he owes, and the thugs he
brings home, and, and, and.
It's easy to be proud of a free spirit when he's living somewhere else.
Joe's broke and he's run out of friends. He knows Paul won't say no,
and ignores it when he does. They can work out the boundaries later.
Paul's promise to Dave isn't a problem. Joe couldn't have asked for a
better result. Having some big thick copper about the place is a
bonus, a safeguard.
He'll sleep upstairs, on the couch Dave's rent's supposed to pay off.
Paul, exhausted, falls asleep refusing. By the time he wakes up, Joe's
ensconced and the place looks like a bomb site.
The flat feels like home, at last.
Paul's not given to clutter or decoration. You'd never know that he
was happiest in a shared room, in a mess, where nothing went where it
was meant and everything lived under Joe's socks. Now, you'd have to
work hard to find enough stuff in his life to make one room untidy.
Living alone, he gives everything a place and keeps it there. It's
clean-lined, designed, sterile. At some half- acknowledged level it's
another bargain with Him Up There. If he keeps it up long enough, if
everything ends up where it belongs, then maybe Joe will.
He's not too old to believe wishes are granted.
In the comforting wreckage of his kitchen, breathing cigar smoke and
the last of the bacon, he warns Joe to behave. Dave's problems are
none of his business.
Dave, working two-till-ten, is still unpacking and wondering at the
arid comfort of the downstairs room when Joe comes home.
Joe's been thinking. Without readies, he's stuffed. Dave's been away,
he needs a chance; an opportunity waiting to happen. He turns on the
charm.
Dave being Dave, he settles in for a drink and thinks Joe's a laugh.
Joe being Joe, and a little too pissed, he heads out later to nose
around. To ask about Danny Krestyn; put a monkey on the long shot.
There's a deal under this, he can tell.
Twelve hours later, he's regretting it more than he thought possible.
It's not the beating he's taking, it's Paul on the floor having the
shit kicked out of him for Joe's mistakes.
Waking up in hospital, his hand in Paul's, is worse.
To cap it all off, Dave stiffs him on the sub. Never trust a copper.
==========
Paul, furious and distraught, wants Dave out, wants him gone. He's
overreacting, and knows it. It's not Dave's fault Joe's such a fucking
prat.
Joe agrees, privately, although he wouldn't have put it in quite those
terms.
He's badly hurt, but St Hugh's needs the bed. Joe can't go home, not
without Bridget taking sides; and God save them from that. He has to
stay with Paul. And if he stays, Dave stays. Simple as that.
It's the start of an enduring bond.
Dave's guilty enough, at first, to spend time he doesn't have to with
Joe. But whiling away the mornings becomes a pleasure, once they start
to talk. Neither's ever seen the point in grudges.
They're very alike, under it all. Chancers, charmers, plagued by
libido and doing the best they can. Hobbled by other people's
expectations and their own. Missing friends and missing boats.
Finding solace in the simple things, and sad that other people (birds,
Jenny, Paulie and Pol) don't know how.
They both make friends easily.
When Joe's healed enough, he makes a point of meeting up with Dave
after the after-shift session every couple of days. Both agree there's
no reason not to. Joe's learnt his lesson; grassing's for fools. And
Dave's pissed off enough with work to see who he damn well pleases.
Dave's grateful for company with no preconceptions. Company to laugh
with, muck up with, have fun with. He says Joe reminds him of someone.
It's obvious who, to Paul.
He joins them sometimes, welcome but a little left out. He suspects he
cramps their style, but that's fine. He wants Joe easy and
comfortable. He trusts them with each other now.
He volunteers to stay on nights, takes turnabout with Mickey Webb. It
saves them having to talk. And everyone else has lives.
It gives him Joe to himself in the late afternoons; a tender distance,
a way to play it cool, until. They share the bedroom now. Joe sleeps
while Paul's at work, then stays out and about while Paulie kips. Like
Dave says, why waste a resource?
Joe pretends he doesn't feel his brother curl beside him briefly when
he gets off-shift. Above the covers; above board. The brush of Paul's
hair on his cheek when he leaves is harder to ignore.
He knows Paul knows he's awake.
Joe gives in, after a week, with grace and a genuine physical hunger.
It's been far, far longer than either intended, and the waiting's been
worse than before.
There's not enough room on the bed for both. Just like home.
With tenderness and enthusiasm, they set about rebuilding. Dave sleeps
downstairs; Dave sleeps like a log. They're safe until eight.
==========
Having Dave in the house is a buzz; he's a risk, a protection, a charm,
a defence. He wouldn't be there if Joe was up to anything. Tony says
so, often, to get up Debbie's nose. Even Mickey thaws, after a while;
thinks it must all be okay. Dave would say if it wasn't. He decides
he's seen his own ghosts, and asks both of them out for a drink. The
Good Blokes ride once more. It doesn't escape Chandler's attention.
Paulie feels untouchable again; it makes him careless, makes him take
the reins. He's reawakened and pushy, with Joe's conscience in his
hands.
He wants Joe happy, and he thinks there's a way. But all in good time.
They've catching up to do. And Joe's fine when they're alone.
Eventually, Paul's on lates and Dave's got time off and both forget to
say. Home from his counsellor, Dave's ambushed by sound, loud and
sensual. He pads quietly up to the kitchen, smirking.
He never thought Joe'd have the nerve, not here. Paul's a bit odd
about visitors.
Dave can't resist a peek. He's betting on the new barmaid down the
Elcott; she's built the way Joe likes, and knows it.
The grin dies on his face. Dumbstruck in the doorway, he can't not
look at the couple on the floor. At white- gold legs, wrapped around
Joe's waist; at the kiss of hair between Paulie's arching
shoulderblades.
Before he was a cop, he was a brother. Part of him wants to tear them
apart, throw Joe across the room, beat him raw and bloody.
The other part sees Paulie's face.
They don't hear him go.
==========
Tight-lipped over breakfast, he sifts through what he knows, what he's
heard, what he thinks. Lets things Paul's said over time make gentle,
terrible sense.
He looks at Joe and sees a man defined by inability. He's too honest
not to think about his own behaviour, about Steve and George and Polly
and Jenny and Uncle Tom Cobbley and all.
He thinks he understands Joe, perhaps. They're both trapped by things
they've forgotten how not to want.
He doesn't know what he thinks of Paul.
He knows what he's supposed to; it's in the bone. Time on the force
drives home the infinite wrongdoing of the elder, the stronger, the
brighter, the best.
But Paul is happy; always has been. Genial and strong-willed, at ease
with the world. Ordinary. Joe, despite his bowl-you-over charm, has
the air of something hunted and small when he thinks no-one's looking.
He watches them together, bickering, at ease and affectionate. They
come alive in each other's company, always have. Nothing's changed.
It's none of his business.
==========
Sectionhouse living accustoms you to other people's sex. It's all
around you, open, secret and loud. It turns you on or it doesn't.
There's no shame in that. Dave's missed it in a way.
He grows used to waking early, hearing Paul make his way up the stairs
with far more energy than he demonstrates at work. He listens, and
touches himself, thinking of George.
He's come off the Prozac at last, and he's managing fine. Not the
least bit obsessional. He makes sure he isn't, self-checks, all the
time. Finds things to think about other than Pol.
He finds himself looking for traces, for clues, making a game of coming
upstairs just as they emerge from the bedroom. Sometimes before. It's
always the same, Joe first, dressing-gowned to the neck and diving for
the safety of the sports page or the shower. Paul, if he comes out at
all, is vibrant; half-hard and flushed, with marks on his skin. Both
sport stubble trails, scratches. Their carelessness astounds him.
He's careful to behave as before, careful not to embarrass Joe. He
knows Paul doesn't care.
Paul sees him watching through the door sometimes.
Joe radiates satiety and guilt, a happy fear. He's the worst liar in
the world. It's hard to imagine anyone less equipped for criminality.
Harder not to take pity, to ease his mind. Dave hates having to let
him stay haunted.
Over a drink without Paul, he lets on obliquely that the uniform
doesn't come home. It's the most he can do. There's blind eyes and
there's abetting. The line's only crossed if you're caught, but still.
It's time he found his own place anyway. He's got plans, private
plans, and they don't involve Sun Hill.
They look hard at each other, then talk about something else. Wary,
but friends. It's been a long time since he felt this close to anyone.
Watching them together, watching Dave watch them, Paul starts to see a
solution, a way to put things right.
There's always a way round a thing, if you'll work for it. And he's
always worked hard for Joe.
Dave's growing, unresisted interest is a gift. And a pleasure. He's
missed having to tease, to tempt. It's like Joe in the beginning all
over again. He likes the fact that Dave can't stay away; that he
stands in shadow, cock in hand and watching Paul. He makes eye
contact often. Joe's oblivious. Keeping him that way's half the fun.
For now.
He starts leaving other doors open. When he's showering, when he
changes, when he strips for the gym. Reads over Dave's shoulder in the
mornings, and lets sweat-scented hair brush bare shoulders, bare arms.
Slaps backs and lets his hand rest in passing.
Joe doesn't notice. It's what Paulie's like.
Dave's almost inured to the nearness of men. Almost. It's a little
harder here than in the locker room.
The Napper case tips the balance. They're thrown together, doing
proper work, physical work. Off-site and out of mind. Pretending to
be what they're not. They're both experts at that, whatever Chandler
thinks. Being tradesmen in front of thugs, friends in front of
Mickey; painting Paul a fool and Dave an impatient bully. And all the
while watching each other.
Dave's bank's come through, finally. He's found a flat, he'll move
out, after the op. That settles it, for Paul.
He cranks up the tension between them, powerful and claustrophobic.
Slips into his role easily, carrying it home, carrying it back,
encouraging Dave to do the same. With the heat, and Mickey sloping
off, and no effective supervision, it's inevitable Paul ends up on his
knees with Dave fucking his face; ends up splayed against a half-
plastered wall, Dave brutal and groaning against skin that smells of
Joe. Pushing buttons, and playing at rape.
It's a game, a one-off. Fun for them both, letting off steam. And it
lets Paul ask Dave for a favour.
Joe's woken, next day, by a soft, quick knock and the door swinging
wide. Tangled in sheets, in a sleeping Paul's arms, there's no time to
hide. But that's fine. It's Dave, bearing tea and the sports page.
No need to get up, he just wants advice on a horse.
==========
April 2002
Growing up a Riley teaches you things don't change. Only a fool's
surprised when people keep being themselves.
It's not that long after, when Dave's gone, when Dave's hurt Pol and
run undercover and still hasn't written to George, that Joe skims the
top off the wrong someone's bet and feels the call of the road.
Paulie or running from worse than police: no contest.
Joe packs and cleans and thinks about where he'd like to live. Keeps
himself busy. He doesn't rehearse. He'll let what he has to say
emerge on its own terms, in its own way, tonight. From the heart, and
final.
He's happy, has been for some time. He's lived quietly, without fear;
a brother outside and a lover in and someone else in the know. No
bolts from the blue, the sky's still there.
Maybe that's the problem.
It's not enough any more. He's kept out of trouble, kept his head
down, delighted in Paul at last. And it's paid off in itchy feet.
Joe's not Joe without the buzz.
Paulie'll understand in time. Besides, he'll come back. Joe always
comes back.
- Pause for business, hope you understand.
They both prefer things a little difficult.
He'll be gone in the morning, gone before dawn. But they'll have a
damn good night first. They always do.
Paul's known something's in the offing, for a while. He's expecting a
break, and soon. But he hasn't thought it through.
Hasn't time, just now. Conway's dead, the streets are in uproar, and
they're more than one man short. As the day darkens, and the team
stands down, home's the last thing on his mind. He settles in with
Sam, Kate and Di, in desperate need of a laugh. Well, they've stress,
and a bottle, and CID to themselves.
He doesn't ring to say he'll be late. Paulie likes to keep Joe on his
toes.
==========
Thanks to Debbie McAllister, nobody's sure whether Paul lives alone, or
not, or has someone, or not, and by the time he's found missing, the
time he's been found, it's past the time to rush.
But they send someone round, just in case.
There's nobody home, but they're greeted on the walkway by a cheerful,
light-footed man. Carrying chips, and a joint, and a bottle of
something expensive.
==========
2002
Paul told Joe he loved him. Dave heard. It's as good an epitaph as
any.
They don't say goodbye. Dave pats the roof of the car, casually, then
heads off back toward the grave. Changes his mind, halfway there.
He's in enough trouble with SO10 already.
He passes Joe later; halfway down Canley Road with trouble to spare,
the Stones up high, and half of Bridget's savings in the boot.
Neither waves. Joe being Joe, they'll see each other around.
=== © bessie 2002 ===
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