Behind Bars:
Part Two
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: Snow, racism and homophobia in Strathdubh.
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: Snow, racism and homophobia in Strathdubh.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Brendan
1
I stared, open-mouthed, momentarily unable to speak. I didn't know whether I wanted to kiss him or hit him. Eventually I asked: “What are you doing here?”
“Well,” he said, “that's a nice welcome, I must say.”
“Sorry,” I said. “That came out wrong. What I mean is I wasn't expecting you.”
He leant on the bar counter. “It was a spur of the moment decision. I tried phoning you, but I kept getting the unobtainable tone. I thought your phone might have been cut off, particularly when I was able to get through to the hotel and book a room.”
“Phones and electricity were down for ages, and our phone was one of the last to be reconnected. Didn't you hear about the storms?”
Graham shook his head. “Not a word. The further away from London things happen, the less likely it is to make the news. It was only on the way here I found out. Must have been awful.”
“We coped. The whole community worked together to make sure everyone was okay. Would you like a drink?”
He ordered a pint, then said: “I wish people down south did that. If that had happened in Brum, I reckon there would have been looters and others taking advantage.”
I laughed. “I never had you down as a cynic.” One of the regulars, Bill, a joiner employed by Andrew's firm, came in the bar. I told Graham I would catch up with him later, keeping my voice as calm as I could.
Bill stared at Graham, then turned away when Graham smiled at him. He ordered his usual half and half: a half of heavy and a dram of whisky. He lit a cigarette, exhaled and stared at Graham again. He drank and smoked in silence for a while, every so often staring at the black stranger. Graham finished his drink, left his empty glass on the counter and whispered: “See you later.”
After he left, Bill looked at me and said: “Fucking hell. I didn't think they let wogs come this far north.”
I shrugged my shoulders and said: “Everyone's money's the same colour.”
“Ha fucking ha!” He finished his drinks and demanded the same again. After I'd given him his drinks, he said: “I suppose coming from England you're used to seeing lots of black cunts about, you're probably so used to them you don't notice them.” A couple more regulars came into the bar, and were welcomed by Bill saying: “Be careful, there's a wog stopping here. Keep your hands on your wallets and your wives.” He laughed; no-one else did.
Some people came in several nights a week and just had two or three drinks before going home. Others only came in on special occasions and when they did they normally booked a table in the restaurant. But some, like Bill, only came in when they intended to get totally pissed. He once told me he saw no point in having a drink unless he got so drunk he could hardly stand up. So I knew he'd be in for the rest of the night.
He had a habit of repeating himself, of getting stuck on one topic and the more he drank, the more he was like a broken record. Tonight's subject was clearly going to be his views on black people. It looked like being a long night.
It was indeed a long night. When he left after the second half and half, I thought we were saved an evening of him, but he'd only nipped home, and when he returned he handed me a short glass and a half pint jug, both with Rangers insignia, saying: “I'm not drinking out of glasses that black cunt has used, I might catch something. Keep those behind the bar and mind you don't let anyone else drink out of them. And wash them separately.” He spent the rest of the evening regaling everyone who would listen with his hatred of black people, repeating every known stereotype. The longer the evening went on, the more raucous he became. Some people ignored him, others laughed at him, a few agreed with him, but no-one challenged him. Perhaps I should have done, but to my shame I didn't. The one thing I did say was that he should remember the only reason the bar stayed open in the winter was because of the money from hotel guests, hardly a ringing assault on racism.
When my shift finished, Graham was waiting at reception for me. We walked home together.
2
On the way, he told me Bill had been speaking so loudly he'd overheard him, and so decided not to come in the bar for a drink after his meal. “It would only have made things worse.” I said I was sorry for not challenging Bill, but Graham said: “What would you have achieved? I bet he doesn't like gays either.”
“You've got it in one,” I told him. “The last time he was in he spent all night talking about queers being a risk to kids and how, if he had his way, he'd castrate the lot.”
I was hoping Kathleen and Catriona would be in bed: there was so much for the two of us to talk about, things we hadn't even mentioned but were hanging in the air like a bad smell. They were still up and when I walked in with Graham it was clear they were both gobsmacked. Then they began to speak at once. I burst out laughing.
“Well, fuck me,” Kathleen exclaimed. “I think this calls for a drink.” She got a bottle of Glenfiddich and four glasses from the kitchen, and poured each of us a generous shot. “Now tell us about your trip up here and why you didn't call us to let us know you were coming.”
“Sorry about that. As I told Brendan, I did try ringing but I gather your phone was down because of the weather. Didn't realise you'd had awful storms.” He took a sip of his whisky. “The journey was okay, except for when I was stopped.”
“Stopped? Who stopped you and why?” I asked.
A reflective smile crossed his face. “Oh, I stopped at a garage near Carlisle for some petrol, and then went for a bite to eat at the café next to it. I got a few stares, which unnerved me a bit. I know there's lots of racism in Brum, but at least I'm not the only black face there. Anyway, I left and I'd only been driving a few minutes when a police car pulled me over. That was when I got really scared. They began by asking me whose car I was driving, and when I told them it was mine they laughed and asked how someone like me could afford such a nice car. I've been in that situation before, so I went to get my license, log book and insurance documents out of the glove compartment, but they stopped me and ordered me out of the car. I tried to tell them I was a priest and I could prove the car was mine, but they told me to shut up. One of them said, in a tired voice as if just humouring me, ‘Perhaps we'd better check the glove compartment, I suppose. Probably a waste of time, but before arresting the coon, we'd better check.’
“At first they tried to claim the documents must be false, but in the end they had to accept I was who I said I was. But that didn't stop them from keeping me at the side of the road while they checked everything they could: tyres, lights, brakes, everything. Eventually they let me go with a warning to behave myself. But if it hadn't started raining heavily, I reckon they would have kept me there longer. I don't think they wanted to get wet.” He drained his glass, placed it on the table, stood up and said: “I'd better be going. I've had a long day and I need some sleep.”
Kathleen and Catriona looked at each other, each raising an eyebrow. Close to panic, I asked: “Aren't you stopping the night here?”
He shook his head. “Got a room booked at the hotel. It's better that way.”
Catriona stood up. “I think you two have got a few things to talk about.” Looking at Kathleen, she said: “Come on, girl, bed time.”
After they'd gone upstairs, I asked him to stop for a few minutes. He nodded and sat back down, and I poured us each another dram. We sat in silence for a few minutes and then we both began talking at once. “Sorry,” he said, “you first.”
I took a deep breath. “When I saw you in the bar and when I saw the grin on your face, I thought... Well, I thought you'd made up your mind. I thought you'd come here to spend time with me, for us to spend time together. I thought...” My voice tailed off.
He leant across and took my hands in his. “I'm sorry. I know I'm messing you about.”
I pulled away from him, freeing my hands. “Why did you come here? Why did you raise my hopes?”
“I always take two weeks break in January. I thought it would be nice to see you and if I stopped at a hotel it would help me avoid temptation, but I'm so confused.”
“You're confused! What about me?” I yelled. Realising I'd been shouting, I lowered my voice. “I just wish you'd make up your mind. Do you want to be with me or not? Just tell me.”
He took my hands again. I let him. “Of course I want to be with you, of course I do. But there's this vow of celibacy I've taken. And the catechism tells me it's wrong to go with another man, even without the celibacy vow. But I so wanted to see you.”
“How can it be wrong? You claim this God of yours is a god of love, and yet he makes us like this then tells us it's a sin to do anything about it. A bloody cruel God, if you ask me.”
“Who knows the mind of God?” he said.
I started shouting again: “That's a fucking cop out!” I took a deep breath and said: “Sorry. I shouldn't swear like that, but...” I turned away so he wouldn't see the tears that were forming in my eyes.
He stood up. “I think I'd better go,” he said. “I'll see you tomorrow.”
I too got to my feet. Without thinking, I put my arms around him, pulled him towards me and kissed him. He responded. I knew he was aroused when I felt his erection pushing against me. He stayed the night.
3
While I was cooking breakfast, Graham rang the hotel to let them know he was okay. When he put the phone down, he said to me: “Just as well I did, they were about to contact the police in case anything had happened to me.”
“Did you tell them where you were?”
He shook his head. “Just told them I had stopped with friends.” I put a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. Between mouthfuls, he said: “They asked me if I still wanted to stay at the hotel.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I told them yes.” When he saw the look on my face, he put his knife and fork down and said: “About last night, I'm not saying it won't happen again and I'm not saying it will. Part of me wants it to, but part of me is feeling so guilty it hurts. Best if I keep my room at the hotel, we can see each other as and when, and we can keep our options open.”
“There's only one option for me.”
He took my hand. “I know.”
Shortly after, Kathleen appeared, yawning and bleary-eyed. She saw Graham, blinked, blinked again, then grinned. “Well, well,” she said, “you did stay after all.” She looked at Graham's plate. “You are honoured if he cooked breakfast for you.” She yelled up the stairs: “He's still here.” I could feel myself going red. Kathleen's response was to go back to the stairs and yell: “And Brendan's blushing.” Then she started giggling.
Catriona, still in her dressing gown, came down and asked: “What's all the noise about?” Seeing Graham, she grinned and said: “Ah, I see.”
“Look, you two,” I said, “behave. We're not just here to entertain you.” When they both began giggling again, I gave up and offered them a cup of tea.
“What about some breakfast as well, seeing as how you're at the cooker?” this from Kathleen.
I sighed heavily, but I started frying some more eggs and bacon. Meanwhile, the two women were quizzing Graham, who was looking ever more uncomfortable, so I told them: “Will you two just leave the poor man alone?” This just got them laughing again.
Eventually they calmed down and apologised. “It's just good to see you looking so happy,” Catriona told me. Shortly after, Graham left for the hotel, saying he'd see me later. After he'd gone, Kathleen said: “Well.”
“Well what?” I asked.
“Just well. And I'm so fucking pleased for you.”
“We'd better not get ahead of ourselves,” I told her. When they both looked puzzled, I added: “He still isn't sure, still doesn't know what to do. We're just going to take each day as it comes. He's got a lot of thinking to do.”
“Doesn't he realise how much he's messing you around?”
I nodded. “Yes. And that's just one more thing that's making him feel guilty.”
“The church has got a lot to answer for. At least he's here, I suppose.”
Catriona, who had been staring out of the window, turned around and said: “Look!”
When we saw what she was pointing at, Kathleen said: “Fuck me. When it settles let's go out and build a snowman.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kathleen
1
I know it's childish, but every time I see snow I can't help myself. I get so excited I'm surprised I don't piss myself. In the city, with all the smoke and people and traffic it soon degrades into shit-brown messy slush, that is when it doesn't become a life threatening ice rink. I can tell you, working the streets in those conditions was so unpleasant, sometimes I didn't even bother. But that first rush when the snow falls and settles, when the whole world looks virgin white, is something I've never been able to resist.
So when I saw the snow falling, I was jumping up and down, incoherently yelling crap about snowmen and snowball fights. Catriona and Brendan were in stitches. I ignored them. “I hope it sticks around for a while,” I said. Catriona's response was to tell me to be careful what I wished for.
I turned to her and said: “Stop being such a fucking killjoy. Yeah, I know after a day or so it'll be a mess, but until then isn't it just beautiful?”
Catriona shook her head. “It isn't like what you've seen in Brum.”
“What d'you mean?”
“Up here when we get snow it can stay around for ages and often leads to road closures. It looks pretty with the mountains and moors pure white, with not even a stalk of heather sticking out, but it can make it harder to get anywhere.”
“Don't you have gritters up here?”
“Of course we do. But their effectiveness depends on the amount of traffic and, as I'm sure you don't need me to tell you, there's not much traffic up here in the winter.”
She was right, of course: she's always right. The one road into and out of the village was closed for a few days, and we had to cancel gigs. Still, we got to build a snowman. And as during the storms earlier in the month, the community came together to help those in need. That would never have happened in Brum where most people didn't know their neighbours, though Graham did tell us the church did its best to help when needed. I told him the likes of me would never have even thought of asking a priest or a vicar for any help back then.
I was worried about Brendan, as was Catriona. He was overjoyed at Graham being in Strathdubh, but he refused to look too far in the future. His mantra was one day at a time, but I knew when Graham left he would become depressed again. I attempted to talk to Brendan about it, but he just got defensive.
I think Catriona had more luck: she had a way of getting through to people, one of the many things I loved about her, and they spent a long time together. I kept out of the way. Afterwards she told me I shouldn't underestimate Brendan: he knew Graham would be leaving soon and it was likely the future of their relationship would still be unresolved, but he just wanted to make the most of whatever time they did have together. “Surely you can understand that?” she asked.
I decided to tackle Graham anyway. Even if it made things worse, at least I would be doing something. Brendan was at work and Catriona was visiting her parents, so there were just the two of us. I didn't beat about the bush. I asked him: “Why are you here?”
“I've told you, I always take a couple of weeks off in January. Christmas is always so busy, I need a break.”
“No, you haven't told me anything. Why are you here in Strathdubh and not somewhere else?”
“I wanted to see Brendan.”
“Why?” I wasn't going to let him off the hook easily.
“Oh, come on, Kathleen, you know why. Because I'm crazy about Brendan. You know that.”
“And what happens when you go back to Brum?”
He lowered his head, appeared to be examining his shoelaces. “I don't know.”
“So you're not committing yourself to any sort of future with Brendan?”
He spoke so quietly, I had to ask him to repeat himself. Unable to look at me, he said: “I don't know.”
“Look at me!” I demanded. When he did, I continued: “Let's see if I've got this straight. You're feeling lonely and randy, so decide to come up here, get a few free fucks, then you intend to go back south, leaving Brendan not knowing where he stands. I call that fucking selfish.” I folded my arms.
“It's not like that,” he whined.
“So tell me, what is it like?”
“Come on, Kathleen, please don't hassle me.” When I remained silent, arms still folded, he sighed and then said: “I'm supposed to be celibate, I've taken a vow before God to that effect.”
“Well, you've broken that vow several times, haven't you?”
“Yes, and each time I've asked for forgiveness.”
“Fuck off, Graham. That's a cop out, and you know it. I remember enough about the Confessional to know it only works if you are truly sorry and make an effort not to repeat the sin.”
“It's not just breaking my vow. I know priests who've had sex with women. But even though they shouldn't, at least their desires are normal. Lusting after another man is banned. I can quote you the bits in the Bible that say so, if you like.”
I pointed at him. “Don't patronise me. I was brought up a Catholic, remember. I am well aware of the few, very few, passages that outlaw it. I also know what Jesus called the scribes and Pharisees who tried to catch him out. Do you?”
He lowered his head again. “Yes,” he replied.
“Well. Tell me.”
“Hypocrites.”
“I can hardly hear you. What did he call them?”
“Hypocrites,” he repeated, louder.
“And what's a hypocrite?”
“What is this? Twenty questions?” He was silent for a few moments, then said: “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I know you're only concerned about your friend.”
I ignored his apology, and asked: “Why are you still paying to stay at the hotel? You've spent most nights here, so why not stop here?”
He sighed. “Because if I did, I would be saying I am going to sleep with him, that I am going to break my vow and go against God's law. As long as I keep my room at the hotel, there's a chance I'll resist temptation.”
“Fucking poppycock!”
He put his hands over his face and began to sob, and within a few seconds was bawling like a baby. I thought that perhaps I was being too hard on him, so I put my arm around him and let him cry. After he'd calmed down and cleaned his face with a tissue, he said: “Everything you say is right. Yes, I am selfish. Yes, I am a hypocrite. But I've given my life to the Church, and I know I can't be a priest and live with Brendan. I still believe in this God you despise, I still have faith in him and his plan for us. If I lose that, what do I have then?”
I replied with one word. “Brendan.”
He looked at me and asked: “Have you ever heard of Faustus?”
I shook my head. “Who's he? Some obscure theologian?”
He laughed. “No. In fact, the opposite. It's an old legend, it was turned into a play by Christopher Marlowe, a poem by Goethe and a novel by Thomas Mann.”
“Never heard of any of them.”
“Sorry, no reason you should have. In the legend, Faustus is an academic who wants to explore as much as possible before he dies, so he sells his soul to the devil so he can pursue earthly knowledge and earthly pleasure. Then the day arrives when the devil comes to claim his soul and take him down to hell.”
“I hope you're not suggesting Brendan is a devil. Because if you are, you can fuck off right now.”
He shook his head. “No, of course not. Brendan's the most caring, the loveliest, the most beautiful person I've ever known. But if I choose Brendan over Jesus, then I might just as well sell my soul to the devil.”
“I still don't see why you have to make that choice. I get it that you can't continue to be a priest if you live with Brendan, but does that have to mean you turning away from your Jesus?”
“It feels like it does.”
“You know the Gospels better than I do, I'm sure, but I can't recall Christ ever condemning gay people.”
“He didn't.”
“I thought not. But if I remember correctly – it's been a long time since I was taught about religion, so I could be wrong – he did condemn lots of things, didn't he? So if he condemned pride and envy and hate and judging others and selfishness and hurting children, why didn't he condemn homosexuals? Particularly as, again if I remember properly, he said all commandments could be summed up as love. And, a hypocrite you may be, but I'm as certain as I can be that you love Brendan.”
He laughed. “You should have been a theologian. Yes, I do love him, and thank you for acknowledging that. But don't you think all that stuff hasn't been going through my head all the time? I'm just so messed up.”
“Yeah, well just remember this: Brendan's been through enough shit, he doesn't need any more. Anyone who harms him in any way will have to answer to me and, as I'm sure know, I can be a right fucking bitch if need be.”
He looked at me, a genuine smile on his face despite the tears rolling down his cheeks. “You know, Kathleen, whatever happens, whatever choices I make, whatever you think about me, one thing is certain: Brendan has a good friend, the best friend he could possibly have, in you.”
The following day Graham gave up his hotel room and asked if he could stop with us for the remainder of his stay.
2
The road out of Strathdubh was still blocked when I got a phone call from Rob. He was near hysterical, unable to speak coherently. All I could make out were the words: “It's da.”
“What's happened to him?” I asked.
I heard a deep intake of breath on the other end of the line, and then he said quickly and simply: “Da's dead.” I told him I was coming round to see him.
When I got there, Rob was doing his best to comfort his distraught mother who refused to accept the man who'd been a part of her life for over 40 years was dead. “He was fine earlier,” she said between sobs. “He was fine, then he said he wanted to lie down. Now he won't wake up. He won't wake up.” She was holding the body in her arms, refusing to let go.
I stayed with them for some time, making cups of tea and offering my sympathy, though I felt uncomfortable and didn't really know what to do or say. I wished Catriona was with me: she was much better at this sort of thing than me. I just let them talk. Later Catriona told me I had done the right thing. “The silences might be uncomfortable,” she said, “but it's always best to let them decide if they want to talk or just sit in silence.” I already knew Rob was adopted, but I didn't know much about the couple who had adopted him.
I learned they had got married shortly before the second world war. He had worked on the fishing before being called up. She had been in domestic service, working at the “big house” – the home of the family who at the time owned lots of land in the Highlands including the Strathdubh estate, though since then the estate had changed hands and was now owned by someone whose company was registered in Liechtenstein. Fiona had had to give up her job when she got married. After Ruaridh had been conscripted, she got work in a local shop, work she continued with when the war was over, eventually becoming manager and then buying out the owner when he retired. They struggled for years but once the bank loan was paid off, the shop was theirs. Despite years of trying, they had never had children of their own, so for them Rob was like a gift from heaven. When Fiona told me this, she ruffled Rob's hair. He responded by blushing like a teenager.
The doctor arranged for the undertaker to come round. Even though Rob and his parents had as little to do with Andrew as possible, there was little choice but to use him as he was the only funeral director within a reasonable distance.
All four of us went to the funeral service at the free kirk. A few people stared at Graham, and if it hadn't been a funeral I might have said something. It was the first time I'd been inside the building which looked unprepossessing from the outside, with its plain white harled walls. Inside it was gloomy, one of the dourest interiors I had come across: plain white walls empty of any decoration apart from thick brown beams and brown rafters on the ceiling, rows of dark brown forms, a dark brown bookcase containing hymn books with plain brown covers and at the front a dark brown pulpit with steps leading up to it. The only natural light came from windows so high it was impossible to see out of them. It was as if the whole building was designed to make those attending feel as small and insignificant as possible. The service was equally as dour: some tedious metrical psalms, Bible verses about how we were all sinners and the most impersonal sermon imaginable. From his place on high in the pulpit, the minister hectored us with condemnations of sin, pointing out that none of us were worthy of being in the company of Christ and it was only His unconditional love that saved us, an unconditional love that apparently only the elect would experience on their death. He only mentioned the deceased once, and that was just to say that only God knew if Ruaridh was one of the elect.
What a miserable send off. I'd only ever been to one funeral before, and that was when another tart, someone I knew quite well, died of a heroin overdose. That funeral had taken place in an Anglican church and though it was a bit perfunctory, at least the vicar had taken the trouble to find out something about her. He had spoken about her troubled life and sad death. He'd also preached about Christ forgiving prostitutes their sins and so he believed she too was forgiven and was now with Christ. A load of crap, but at least that vicar had taken the time to find out something about Helen's short, brutal life and had attempted to give us all some hope.
There was no such humanity from the free kirk minister. After the service I overheard some people saying that at least this time he'd got the name of the deceased.
After the body was laid in the ground, we went to the funeral tea at the hotel. To begin with it was dismal, but once people had taken a few drams they began to share their memories of Ruaridh. He had been popular, and apparently had always been generous and friendly. I wished I'd known him better.
3
Eventually the road was cleared and the thaw set in. The temperature rose enough to ensure the rain didn't freeze overnight, and within two days the only snow that remained was on the peaks, with a few isolated patches in sheltered glens and north facing slopes. This was a relief to Graham: he'd already had to extend his break and he was due back at his parish at the weekend.
I was still worried about Brendan and when the opportunity arose, I asked him how things stood between the two of them.
“Well, we're sleeping together, so that's okay.”
“But what happens when he goes back to Brum?”
Brendan shrugged. “He goes back to his job as a priest. Holiday over.”
“Come on, Brendan,” I said, “you know what I mean. What the fuck happens to your relationship?”
He sighed. “How the hell do I know. He's still dithering. Last night he told me he can't live without me and he can't live with me. He said he can't reconcile our relationship with his vows, that he's trapped by the double lock of his vow of celibacy and what the Catechism says about homosexuality. The only key that will unlock the cell is to leave the priesthood. And he also said there was no-one down there he could talk to about it. He said he knows no-one in the church would understand and, unless it's in the confessional, whatever he said could be passed on to the diocese.”
“So what's he going to do?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Not sure. Just wait and see how things unfold, I suppose.” He was silent for a while, then said: “Look, as long as we can meet up from time to time in a safe place like this, we'll cope, even if it's only a few days every other month. I suppose I'm the queer equivalent of a mistress, and the priesthood is like a marriage.”
I smirked. “Did you think that up all by yourself?”
“Bugger off!” he told me. “I thought up the mistress bit, but only after he'd said he was married to the church. Though I did point out that a marriage that isn't consummated isn't really a marriage at all. He didn't find that the least bit funny.”
“Yeah, he wouldn't. Look, are you sure you'll be okay when he leaves for Brum?”
“I hope so. Won't be easy, but there are lots of couples who for various reasons have to live apart much of the time. For some it might be because they work in different parts of the country. If it's a choice between not seeing him again or only seeing occasionally, I'll choose the latter.”
I hugged him. “You know your problem,” I said. “You're just too fucking nice.”
The night before Graham was due to leave, we had a bit of a party for just the four of us. Nothing big, just a nice meal and a few drinks. Afterwards they went to bed, leaving me and Catriona to clear up. They'd offered to help, but I told them we'd do it as this was their last night together for a while. They didn't protest.
We'd almost finished when there was a ferocious knocking at the door. “Who the fuck's that?” I asked, looking at my watch and seeing it was gone midnight.
“Only one way to find out,” Catriona said, going to the door. I could hear muted voices, but couldn't make out much of what was being said. I heard boots on the stairs, and Catriona shouting: “You can't go up there!”
She dashed into the living room, yelling: “It's the police. They're here to arrest Brendan and Graham. They pushed past me and have gone upstairs.”
We could hear shouting coming from their bedroom, followed a few minutes later by Brendan and Graham being led down the stairs, both of them handcuffed. “What the fuck's going on?” I asked one of the pigs.
“Mind your language, young lady.”
I was about to launch myself at him, and would have done if Catriona hadn't pulled me back. “No need for you to get arrested as well,” she told me. Turning to the police she asked them politely what the problem was.
“We had a tip-off about them, about two men engaged in illegal sexual activity.” He looked with contempt at Brendan and Graham. “And we caught them at it. Bloody queers,” he sneered.
“But it's legal now in private, has been for years.”
One of the police officers shook his head. “No, not in Scotland it isn't. It may be okay in England, but the law doesn't apply in Scotland. Buggery and any genital contact between men, is still illegal here. We don't want any queers up here.” He paused for a moment before adding: “And one of them's a black bastard.” With that, they hustled Brendan and Graham out and into a waiting police car.
After they'd gone, Catriona said: “We'd better get them a solicitor.” Picking up the phone, she added: “I'm going to ring da: he'll know of a good one.”
1
I stared, open-mouthed, momentarily unable to speak. I didn't know whether I wanted to kiss him or hit him. Eventually I asked: “What are you doing here?”
“Well,” he said, “that's a nice welcome, I must say.”
“Sorry,” I said. “That came out wrong. What I mean is I wasn't expecting you.”
He leant on the bar counter. “It was a spur of the moment decision. I tried phoning you, but I kept getting the unobtainable tone. I thought your phone might have been cut off, particularly when I was able to get through to the hotel and book a room.”
“Phones and electricity were down for ages, and our phone was one of the last to be reconnected. Didn't you hear about the storms?”
Graham shook his head. “Not a word. The further away from London things happen, the less likely it is to make the news. It was only on the way here I found out. Must have been awful.”
“We coped. The whole community worked together to make sure everyone was okay. Would you like a drink?”
He ordered a pint, then said: “I wish people down south did that. If that had happened in Brum, I reckon there would have been looters and others taking advantage.”
I laughed. “I never had you down as a cynic.” One of the regulars, Bill, a joiner employed by Andrew's firm, came in the bar. I told Graham I would catch up with him later, keeping my voice as calm as I could.
Bill stared at Graham, then turned away when Graham smiled at him. He ordered his usual half and half: a half of heavy and a dram of whisky. He lit a cigarette, exhaled and stared at Graham again. He drank and smoked in silence for a while, every so often staring at the black stranger. Graham finished his drink, left his empty glass on the counter and whispered: “See you later.”
After he left, Bill looked at me and said: “Fucking hell. I didn't think they let wogs come this far north.”
I shrugged my shoulders and said: “Everyone's money's the same colour.”
“Ha fucking ha!” He finished his drinks and demanded the same again. After I'd given him his drinks, he said: “I suppose coming from England you're used to seeing lots of black cunts about, you're probably so used to them you don't notice them.” A couple more regulars came into the bar, and were welcomed by Bill saying: “Be careful, there's a wog stopping here. Keep your hands on your wallets and your wives.” He laughed; no-one else did.
Some people came in several nights a week and just had two or three drinks before going home. Others only came in on special occasions and when they did they normally booked a table in the restaurant. But some, like Bill, only came in when they intended to get totally pissed. He once told me he saw no point in having a drink unless he got so drunk he could hardly stand up. So I knew he'd be in for the rest of the night.
He had a habit of repeating himself, of getting stuck on one topic and the more he drank, the more he was like a broken record. Tonight's subject was clearly going to be his views on black people. It looked like being a long night.
It was indeed a long night. When he left after the second half and half, I thought we were saved an evening of him, but he'd only nipped home, and when he returned he handed me a short glass and a half pint jug, both with Rangers insignia, saying: “I'm not drinking out of glasses that black cunt has used, I might catch something. Keep those behind the bar and mind you don't let anyone else drink out of them. And wash them separately.” He spent the rest of the evening regaling everyone who would listen with his hatred of black people, repeating every known stereotype. The longer the evening went on, the more raucous he became. Some people ignored him, others laughed at him, a few agreed with him, but no-one challenged him. Perhaps I should have done, but to my shame I didn't. The one thing I did say was that he should remember the only reason the bar stayed open in the winter was because of the money from hotel guests, hardly a ringing assault on racism.
When my shift finished, Graham was waiting at reception for me. We walked home together.
2
On the way, he told me Bill had been speaking so loudly he'd overheard him, and so decided not to come in the bar for a drink after his meal. “It would only have made things worse.” I said I was sorry for not challenging Bill, but Graham said: “What would you have achieved? I bet he doesn't like gays either.”
“You've got it in one,” I told him. “The last time he was in he spent all night talking about queers being a risk to kids and how, if he had his way, he'd castrate the lot.”
I was hoping Kathleen and Catriona would be in bed: there was so much for the two of us to talk about, things we hadn't even mentioned but were hanging in the air like a bad smell. They were still up and when I walked in with Graham it was clear they were both gobsmacked. Then they began to speak at once. I burst out laughing.
“Well, fuck me,” Kathleen exclaimed. “I think this calls for a drink.” She got a bottle of Glenfiddich and four glasses from the kitchen, and poured each of us a generous shot. “Now tell us about your trip up here and why you didn't call us to let us know you were coming.”
“Sorry about that. As I told Brendan, I did try ringing but I gather your phone was down because of the weather. Didn't realise you'd had awful storms.” He took a sip of his whisky. “The journey was okay, except for when I was stopped.”
“Stopped? Who stopped you and why?” I asked.
A reflective smile crossed his face. “Oh, I stopped at a garage near Carlisle for some petrol, and then went for a bite to eat at the café next to it. I got a few stares, which unnerved me a bit. I know there's lots of racism in Brum, but at least I'm not the only black face there. Anyway, I left and I'd only been driving a few minutes when a police car pulled me over. That was when I got really scared. They began by asking me whose car I was driving, and when I told them it was mine they laughed and asked how someone like me could afford such a nice car. I've been in that situation before, so I went to get my license, log book and insurance documents out of the glove compartment, but they stopped me and ordered me out of the car. I tried to tell them I was a priest and I could prove the car was mine, but they told me to shut up. One of them said, in a tired voice as if just humouring me, ‘Perhaps we'd better check the glove compartment, I suppose. Probably a waste of time, but before arresting the coon, we'd better check.’
“At first they tried to claim the documents must be false, but in the end they had to accept I was who I said I was. But that didn't stop them from keeping me at the side of the road while they checked everything they could: tyres, lights, brakes, everything. Eventually they let me go with a warning to behave myself. But if it hadn't started raining heavily, I reckon they would have kept me there longer. I don't think they wanted to get wet.” He drained his glass, placed it on the table, stood up and said: “I'd better be going. I've had a long day and I need some sleep.”
Kathleen and Catriona looked at each other, each raising an eyebrow. Close to panic, I asked: “Aren't you stopping the night here?”
He shook his head. “Got a room booked at the hotel. It's better that way.”
Catriona stood up. “I think you two have got a few things to talk about.” Looking at Kathleen, she said: “Come on, girl, bed time.”
After they'd gone upstairs, I asked him to stop for a few minutes. He nodded and sat back down, and I poured us each another dram. We sat in silence for a few minutes and then we both began talking at once. “Sorry,” he said, “you first.”
I took a deep breath. “When I saw you in the bar and when I saw the grin on your face, I thought... Well, I thought you'd made up your mind. I thought you'd come here to spend time with me, for us to spend time together. I thought...” My voice tailed off.
He leant across and took my hands in his. “I'm sorry. I know I'm messing you about.”
I pulled away from him, freeing my hands. “Why did you come here? Why did you raise my hopes?”
“I always take two weeks break in January. I thought it would be nice to see you and if I stopped at a hotel it would help me avoid temptation, but I'm so confused.”
“You're confused! What about me?” I yelled. Realising I'd been shouting, I lowered my voice. “I just wish you'd make up your mind. Do you want to be with me or not? Just tell me.”
He took my hands again. I let him. “Of course I want to be with you, of course I do. But there's this vow of celibacy I've taken. And the catechism tells me it's wrong to go with another man, even without the celibacy vow. But I so wanted to see you.”
“How can it be wrong? You claim this God of yours is a god of love, and yet he makes us like this then tells us it's a sin to do anything about it. A bloody cruel God, if you ask me.”
“Who knows the mind of God?” he said.
I started shouting again: “That's a fucking cop out!” I took a deep breath and said: “Sorry. I shouldn't swear like that, but...” I turned away so he wouldn't see the tears that were forming in my eyes.
He stood up. “I think I'd better go,” he said. “I'll see you tomorrow.”
I too got to my feet. Without thinking, I put my arms around him, pulled him towards me and kissed him. He responded. I knew he was aroused when I felt his erection pushing against me. He stayed the night.
3
While I was cooking breakfast, Graham rang the hotel to let them know he was okay. When he put the phone down, he said to me: “Just as well I did, they were about to contact the police in case anything had happened to me.”
“Did you tell them where you were?”
He shook his head. “Just told them I had stopped with friends.” I put a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. Between mouthfuls, he said: “They asked me if I still wanted to stay at the hotel.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I told them yes.” When he saw the look on my face, he put his knife and fork down and said: “About last night, I'm not saying it won't happen again and I'm not saying it will. Part of me wants it to, but part of me is feeling so guilty it hurts. Best if I keep my room at the hotel, we can see each other as and when, and we can keep our options open.”
“There's only one option for me.”
He took my hand. “I know.”
Shortly after, Kathleen appeared, yawning and bleary-eyed. She saw Graham, blinked, blinked again, then grinned. “Well, well,” she said, “you did stay after all.” She looked at Graham's plate. “You are honoured if he cooked breakfast for you.” She yelled up the stairs: “He's still here.” I could feel myself going red. Kathleen's response was to go back to the stairs and yell: “And Brendan's blushing.” Then she started giggling.
Catriona, still in her dressing gown, came down and asked: “What's all the noise about?” Seeing Graham, she grinned and said: “Ah, I see.”
“Look, you two,” I said, “behave. We're not just here to entertain you.” When they both began giggling again, I gave up and offered them a cup of tea.
“What about some breakfast as well, seeing as how you're at the cooker?” this from Kathleen.
I sighed heavily, but I started frying some more eggs and bacon. Meanwhile, the two women were quizzing Graham, who was looking ever more uncomfortable, so I told them: “Will you two just leave the poor man alone?” This just got them laughing again.
Eventually they calmed down and apologised. “It's just good to see you looking so happy,” Catriona told me. Shortly after, Graham left for the hotel, saying he'd see me later. After he'd gone, Kathleen said: “Well.”
“Well what?” I asked.
“Just well. And I'm so fucking pleased for you.”
“We'd better not get ahead of ourselves,” I told her. When they both looked puzzled, I added: “He still isn't sure, still doesn't know what to do. We're just going to take each day as it comes. He's got a lot of thinking to do.”
“Doesn't he realise how much he's messing you around?”
I nodded. “Yes. And that's just one more thing that's making him feel guilty.”
“The church has got a lot to answer for. At least he's here, I suppose.”
Catriona, who had been staring out of the window, turned around and said: “Look!”
When we saw what she was pointing at, Kathleen said: “Fuck me. When it settles let's go out and build a snowman.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kathleen
1
I know it's childish, but every time I see snow I can't help myself. I get so excited I'm surprised I don't piss myself. In the city, with all the smoke and people and traffic it soon degrades into shit-brown messy slush, that is when it doesn't become a life threatening ice rink. I can tell you, working the streets in those conditions was so unpleasant, sometimes I didn't even bother. But that first rush when the snow falls and settles, when the whole world looks virgin white, is something I've never been able to resist.
So when I saw the snow falling, I was jumping up and down, incoherently yelling crap about snowmen and snowball fights. Catriona and Brendan were in stitches. I ignored them. “I hope it sticks around for a while,” I said. Catriona's response was to tell me to be careful what I wished for.
I turned to her and said: “Stop being such a fucking killjoy. Yeah, I know after a day or so it'll be a mess, but until then isn't it just beautiful?”
Catriona shook her head. “It isn't like what you've seen in Brum.”
“What d'you mean?”
“Up here when we get snow it can stay around for ages and often leads to road closures. It looks pretty with the mountains and moors pure white, with not even a stalk of heather sticking out, but it can make it harder to get anywhere.”
“Don't you have gritters up here?”
“Of course we do. But their effectiveness depends on the amount of traffic and, as I'm sure you don't need me to tell you, there's not much traffic up here in the winter.”
She was right, of course: she's always right. The one road into and out of the village was closed for a few days, and we had to cancel gigs. Still, we got to build a snowman. And as during the storms earlier in the month, the community came together to help those in need. That would never have happened in Brum where most people didn't know their neighbours, though Graham did tell us the church did its best to help when needed. I told him the likes of me would never have even thought of asking a priest or a vicar for any help back then.
I was worried about Brendan, as was Catriona. He was overjoyed at Graham being in Strathdubh, but he refused to look too far in the future. His mantra was one day at a time, but I knew when Graham left he would become depressed again. I attempted to talk to Brendan about it, but he just got defensive.
I think Catriona had more luck: she had a way of getting through to people, one of the many things I loved about her, and they spent a long time together. I kept out of the way. Afterwards she told me I shouldn't underestimate Brendan: he knew Graham would be leaving soon and it was likely the future of their relationship would still be unresolved, but he just wanted to make the most of whatever time they did have together. “Surely you can understand that?” she asked.
I decided to tackle Graham anyway. Even if it made things worse, at least I would be doing something. Brendan was at work and Catriona was visiting her parents, so there were just the two of us. I didn't beat about the bush. I asked him: “Why are you here?”
“I've told you, I always take a couple of weeks off in January. Christmas is always so busy, I need a break.”
“No, you haven't told me anything. Why are you here in Strathdubh and not somewhere else?”
“I wanted to see Brendan.”
“Why?” I wasn't going to let him off the hook easily.
“Oh, come on, Kathleen, you know why. Because I'm crazy about Brendan. You know that.”
“And what happens when you go back to Brum?”
He lowered his head, appeared to be examining his shoelaces. “I don't know.”
“So you're not committing yourself to any sort of future with Brendan?”
He spoke so quietly, I had to ask him to repeat himself. Unable to look at me, he said: “I don't know.”
“Look at me!” I demanded. When he did, I continued: “Let's see if I've got this straight. You're feeling lonely and randy, so decide to come up here, get a few free fucks, then you intend to go back south, leaving Brendan not knowing where he stands. I call that fucking selfish.” I folded my arms.
“It's not like that,” he whined.
“So tell me, what is it like?”
“Come on, Kathleen, please don't hassle me.” When I remained silent, arms still folded, he sighed and then said: “I'm supposed to be celibate, I've taken a vow before God to that effect.”
“Well, you've broken that vow several times, haven't you?”
“Yes, and each time I've asked for forgiveness.”
“Fuck off, Graham. That's a cop out, and you know it. I remember enough about the Confessional to know it only works if you are truly sorry and make an effort not to repeat the sin.”
“It's not just breaking my vow. I know priests who've had sex with women. But even though they shouldn't, at least their desires are normal. Lusting after another man is banned. I can quote you the bits in the Bible that say so, if you like.”
I pointed at him. “Don't patronise me. I was brought up a Catholic, remember. I am well aware of the few, very few, passages that outlaw it. I also know what Jesus called the scribes and Pharisees who tried to catch him out. Do you?”
He lowered his head again. “Yes,” he replied.
“Well. Tell me.”
“Hypocrites.”
“I can hardly hear you. What did he call them?”
“Hypocrites,” he repeated, louder.
“And what's a hypocrite?”
“What is this? Twenty questions?” He was silent for a few moments, then said: “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I know you're only concerned about your friend.”
I ignored his apology, and asked: “Why are you still paying to stay at the hotel? You've spent most nights here, so why not stop here?”
He sighed. “Because if I did, I would be saying I am going to sleep with him, that I am going to break my vow and go against God's law. As long as I keep my room at the hotel, there's a chance I'll resist temptation.”
“Fucking poppycock!”
He put his hands over his face and began to sob, and within a few seconds was bawling like a baby. I thought that perhaps I was being too hard on him, so I put my arm around him and let him cry. After he'd calmed down and cleaned his face with a tissue, he said: “Everything you say is right. Yes, I am selfish. Yes, I am a hypocrite. But I've given my life to the Church, and I know I can't be a priest and live with Brendan. I still believe in this God you despise, I still have faith in him and his plan for us. If I lose that, what do I have then?”
I replied with one word. “Brendan.”
He looked at me and asked: “Have you ever heard of Faustus?”
I shook my head. “Who's he? Some obscure theologian?”
He laughed. “No. In fact, the opposite. It's an old legend, it was turned into a play by Christopher Marlowe, a poem by Goethe and a novel by Thomas Mann.”
“Never heard of any of them.”
“Sorry, no reason you should have. In the legend, Faustus is an academic who wants to explore as much as possible before he dies, so he sells his soul to the devil so he can pursue earthly knowledge and earthly pleasure. Then the day arrives when the devil comes to claim his soul and take him down to hell.”
“I hope you're not suggesting Brendan is a devil. Because if you are, you can fuck off right now.”
He shook his head. “No, of course not. Brendan's the most caring, the loveliest, the most beautiful person I've ever known. But if I choose Brendan over Jesus, then I might just as well sell my soul to the devil.”
“I still don't see why you have to make that choice. I get it that you can't continue to be a priest if you live with Brendan, but does that have to mean you turning away from your Jesus?”
“It feels like it does.”
“You know the Gospels better than I do, I'm sure, but I can't recall Christ ever condemning gay people.”
“He didn't.”
“I thought not. But if I remember correctly – it's been a long time since I was taught about religion, so I could be wrong – he did condemn lots of things, didn't he? So if he condemned pride and envy and hate and judging others and selfishness and hurting children, why didn't he condemn homosexuals? Particularly as, again if I remember properly, he said all commandments could be summed up as love. And, a hypocrite you may be, but I'm as certain as I can be that you love Brendan.”
He laughed. “You should have been a theologian. Yes, I do love him, and thank you for acknowledging that. But don't you think all that stuff hasn't been going through my head all the time? I'm just so messed up.”
“Yeah, well just remember this: Brendan's been through enough shit, he doesn't need any more. Anyone who harms him in any way will have to answer to me and, as I'm sure know, I can be a right fucking bitch if need be.”
He looked at me, a genuine smile on his face despite the tears rolling down his cheeks. “You know, Kathleen, whatever happens, whatever choices I make, whatever you think about me, one thing is certain: Brendan has a good friend, the best friend he could possibly have, in you.”
The following day Graham gave up his hotel room and asked if he could stop with us for the remainder of his stay.
2
The road out of Strathdubh was still blocked when I got a phone call from Rob. He was near hysterical, unable to speak coherently. All I could make out were the words: “It's da.”
“What's happened to him?” I asked.
I heard a deep intake of breath on the other end of the line, and then he said quickly and simply: “Da's dead.” I told him I was coming round to see him.
When I got there, Rob was doing his best to comfort his distraught mother who refused to accept the man who'd been a part of her life for over 40 years was dead. “He was fine earlier,” she said between sobs. “He was fine, then he said he wanted to lie down. Now he won't wake up. He won't wake up.” She was holding the body in her arms, refusing to let go.
I stayed with them for some time, making cups of tea and offering my sympathy, though I felt uncomfortable and didn't really know what to do or say. I wished Catriona was with me: she was much better at this sort of thing than me. I just let them talk. Later Catriona told me I had done the right thing. “The silences might be uncomfortable,” she said, “but it's always best to let them decide if they want to talk or just sit in silence.” I already knew Rob was adopted, but I didn't know much about the couple who had adopted him.
I learned they had got married shortly before the second world war. He had worked on the fishing before being called up. She had been in domestic service, working at the “big house” – the home of the family who at the time owned lots of land in the Highlands including the Strathdubh estate, though since then the estate had changed hands and was now owned by someone whose company was registered in Liechtenstein. Fiona had had to give up her job when she got married. After Ruaridh had been conscripted, she got work in a local shop, work she continued with when the war was over, eventually becoming manager and then buying out the owner when he retired. They struggled for years but once the bank loan was paid off, the shop was theirs. Despite years of trying, they had never had children of their own, so for them Rob was like a gift from heaven. When Fiona told me this, she ruffled Rob's hair. He responded by blushing like a teenager.
The doctor arranged for the undertaker to come round. Even though Rob and his parents had as little to do with Andrew as possible, there was little choice but to use him as he was the only funeral director within a reasonable distance.
All four of us went to the funeral service at the free kirk. A few people stared at Graham, and if it hadn't been a funeral I might have said something. It was the first time I'd been inside the building which looked unprepossessing from the outside, with its plain white harled walls. Inside it was gloomy, one of the dourest interiors I had come across: plain white walls empty of any decoration apart from thick brown beams and brown rafters on the ceiling, rows of dark brown forms, a dark brown bookcase containing hymn books with plain brown covers and at the front a dark brown pulpit with steps leading up to it. The only natural light came from windows so high it was impossible to see out of them. It was as if the whole building was designed to make those attending feel as small and insignificant as possible. The service was equally as dour: some tedious metrical psalms, Bible verses about how we were all sinners and the most impersonal sermon imaginable. From his place on high in the pulpit, the minister hectored us with condemnations of sin, pointing out that none of us were worthy of being in the company of Christ and it was only His unconditional love that saved us, an unconditional love that apparently only the elect would experience on their death. He only mentioned the deceased once, and that was just to say that only God knew if Ruaridh was one of the elect.
What a miserable send off. I'd only ever been to one funeral before, and that was when another tart, someone I knew quite well, died of a heroin overdose. That funeral had taken place in an Anglican church and though it was a bit perfunctory, at least the vicar had taken the trouble to find out something about her. He had spoken about her troubled life and sad death. He'd also preached about Christ forgiving prostitutes their sins and so he believed she too was forgiven and was now with Christ. A load of crap, but at least that vicar had taken the time to find out something about Helen's short, brutal life and had attempted to give us all some hope.
There was no such humanity from the free kirk minister. After the service I overheard some people saying that at least this time he'd got the name of the deceased.
After the body was laid in the ground, we went to the funeral tea at the hotel. To begin with it was dismal, but once people had taken a few drams they began to share their memories of Ruaridh. He had been popular, and apparently had always been generous and friendly. I wished I'd known him better.
3
Eventually the road was cleared and the thaw set in. The temperature rose enough to ensure the rain didn't freeze overnight, and within two days the only snow that remained was on the peaks, with a few isolated patches in sheltered glens and north facing slopes. This was a relief to Graham: he'd already had to extend his break and he was due back at his parish at the weekend.
I was still worried about Brendan and when the opportunity arose, I asked him how things stood between the two of them.
“Well, we're sleeping together, so that's okay.”
“But what happens when he goes back to Brum?”
Brendan shrugged. “He goes back to his job as a priest. Holiday over.”
“Come on, Brendan,” I said, “you know what I mean. What the fuck happens to your relationship?”
He sighed. “How the hell do I know. He's still dithering. Last night he told me he can't live without me and he can't live with me. He said he can't reconcile our relationship with his vows, that he's trapped by the double lock of his vow of celibacy and what the Catechism says about homosexuality. The only key that will unlock the cell is to leave the priesthood. And he also said there was no-one down there he could talk to about it. He said he knows no-one in the church would understand and, unless it's in the confessional, whatever he said could be passed on to the diocese.”
“So what's he going to do?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Not sure. Just wait and see how things unfold, I suppose.” He was silent for a while, then said: “Look, as long as we can meet up from time to time in a safe place like this, we'll cope, even if it's only a few days every other month. I suppose I'm the queer equivalent of a mistress, and the priesthood is like a marriage.”
I smirked. “Did you think that up all by yourself?”
“Bugger off!” he told me. “I thought up the mistress bit, but only after he'd said he was married to the church. Though I did point out that a marriage that isn't consummated isn't really a marriage at all. He didn't find that the least bit funny.”
“Yeah, he wouldn't. Look, are you sure you'll be okay when he leaves for Brum?”
“I hope so. Won't be easy, but there are lots of couples who for various reasons have to live apart much of the time. For some it might be because they work in different parts of the country. If it's a choice between not seeing him again or only seeing occasionally, I'll choose the latter.”
I hugged him. “You know your problem,” I said. “You're just too fucking nice.”
The night before Graham was due to leave, we had a bit of a party for just the four of us. Nothing big, just a nice meal and a few drinks. Afterwards they went to bed, leaving me and Catriona to clear up. They'd offered to help, but I told them we'd do it as this was their last night together for a while. They didn't protest.
We'd almost finished when there was a ferocious knocking at the door. “Who the fuck's that?” I asked, looking at my watch and seeing it was gone midnight.
“Only one way to find out,” Catriona said, going to the door. I could hear muted voices, but couldn't make out much of what was being said. I heard boots on the stairs, and Catriona shouting: “You can't go up there!”
She dashed into the living room, yelling: “It's the police. They're here to arrest Brendan and Graham. They pushed past me and have gone upstairs.”
We could hear shouting coming from their bedroom, followed a few minutes later by Brendan and Graham being led down the stairs, both of them handcuffed. “What the fuck's going on?” I asked one of the pigs.
“Mind your language, young lady.”
I was about to launch myself at him, and would have done if Catriona hadn't pulled me back. “No need for you to get arrested as well,” she told me. Turning to the police she asked them politely what the problem was.
“We had a tip-off about them, about two men engaged in illegal sexual activity.” He looked with contempt at Brendan and Graham. “And we caught them at it. Bloody queers,” he sneered.
“But it's legal now in private, has been for years.”
One of the police officers shook his head. “No, not in Scotland it isn't. It may be okay in England, but the law doesn't apply in Scotland. Buggery and any genital contact between men, is still illegal here. We don't want any queers up here.” He paused for a moment before adding: “And one of them's a black bastard.” With that, they hustled Brendan and Graham out and into a waiting police car.
After they'd gone, Catriona said: “We'd better get them a solicitor.” Picking up the phone, she added: “I'm going to ring da: he'll know of a good one.”
About the Author
Born in Manchester in 1951, Kevin Crowe has lived in the Highlands since 1999. A writer of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, he has had his work published in various magazines, journals and websites. He also writes regularly for the Highland monthly community magazine Am Bratach and for the Highland LGBT magazine UnDividing Lines.