Out Of Tune Read online

  Gordon smiled, “Raul is more than able to argue his own corner. He’s the most charismatic man I’ve ever met. Besides, I doubt that anyone will mind if I just slip quietly away. It’ll give them an opportunity to talk about me behind my back. I think I’m calm enough now to have another go at talking with Nat. Hopefully he’ll be calm enough to listen to me.”

  John interrupted, “get out there and socialise. Just remember that the residential venture you have in mind will need to be supported by the money you earn from private practice now, so you’ll need to maintain as many contacts as possible. There’s a potential source of referrals and donations out there. A couple of our erstwhile colleagues will happily sign cheques if it means keeping you out of the arena.” He jabbed a stern finger at Gordon and then at the door, “shift yourself. You can call on sulky Simon later, on your way home.”

  Part Three

  ~~~

  Nathaniel heard a knocking on the front door, but made no move to answer it. The letterbox rattled and something dropped lightly onto the doormat, but he made no effort to investigate. He sat in the dark drinking beer until the silence became too loud and he got up and put an album on the record player, softly singing along to a refrain from 'River Man' one of his favourite Nick Drake songs: “going to see the river man…” he trailed off, the haunting tune suddenly bringing a mist of tears to his eyes. Gordon would disapprove of both the beer and the record choice. He would call it deliberate self-sabotage, using alcohol and emotive music to drive a low mood even lower. Well stuff Gordon, Nat took another defiant swig of beer, he wasn’t around to remonstrate. Finishing the beer, he curled up on the couch and drifted into an unhappy sleep, lulled by alcohol and Drake’s achingly sad vocals.

  Gordon stared out of the window as the taxi taking him home pulled away from outside Nathaniel’s flat. He’d been disappointed to find the place in darkness, almost as disappointed as he’d been when Nat had failed to meet him at the airport on his return home. He wondered where he was, finding it hard to believe that he’d gone to bed at barely nine o clock at night.

  On impulse he asked the taxi driver to go past the cinema where he’d unexpectedly spotted Nat earlier that afternoon. His heart leapt as he spotted a figure with a guitar, then sank as he very quickly realised it wasn’t who he hoped. Obviously the cinema was a popular and potentially lucrative spot for buskers, especially if the out coming crowds had enjoyed the film and were in a happy and giving mood.

  After paying the taxi driver, Gordon got out of the cab, walking through the town, calling in at a few of the small pubs that Nat had been known to frequent from time to time, if only to give himself the illusion of being in company. Loneliness was something that haunted many sufferers of mental illness. It shadowed them. You could see it in their eyes, like a dark spectre. In Nathaniel’s case it was so powerful, so tangible that it almost stood outside the boy himself, as if his light frame could not contain the burden of it any longer, as indeed his breakdown had proven. There was no sign of him round and about and Gordon abandoned the quest and headed for home.

  Once home he tried the phone again, only to get the same dead tone. “If you’ve deliberately unplugged your telephone,” he growled into the receiver, “I’m going to be very put out with you, Nathaniel Andrews. You’re pushing your luck too far.” He put the phone down feeling slightly better for the one sided conversation. Making himself a mug of tea he settled down to read.

  A half hour later the page remained unturned and he gave up all pretence, closing the book and setting it aside. What he really needed was practical distraction. He busied himself with packing more of his belongings into cardboard boxes ready for the move to the house that he’d signed the contract for prior to leaving for India. He’d only gone to view it, but instinct told him it was exactly what he wanted and he immediately put in an offer that was accepted by its absent owner. It had all happened much quicker than he had originally intended, but in a way he was glad of that. He was eager to make a start on a new phase of his life.

  Next morning to the propitious accompaniment of Sunday church bells, Gordon walked up a short flight of stone steps and inserted a key into the lock on the front door of the property he now owned. A ripple of excitement flowed through him as he turned the key and stepped inside. The excitement increased as he gazed down the broad hallway with its multiple doors. An ideal family home the estate agent had gushed as she showed him around the uninhabited house. Such big old houses were unfashionable these days, difficult to sell, hence the reasonable price. If only people realised the investment potential of them. A lot of what she’d said had been meaningless sales blurb, but that small phrase had rung true for him. This was a family home. You could feel it in the atmosphere, sense it in the fabric of the house. It had been a family home for generations past and it was meant to be a family home again.

  Gordon permitted himself a smile. The ‘family’ he had in mind wouldn’t quite fit the rules of convention, but then families took many forms. A family was simply a community that had love, respect and care at its centre. As a gay man, having a family wasn’t supposed to matter to him. Many people assumed that being gay meant giving up such domestic notions, in fact most people insisted on it. Well he had no intention of giving them up, not for himself and not for the others who might benefit from the support of a family environment.

  Propping the door open with a couple of hefty psychology textbooks he began carrying in boxes and bags. The big move would take place in between Christmas and New Year. In the meantime he could at least start bringing the smaller stuff in, the dribs and drabs, the books and pots and pans that meant as much to a home as the bigger fixtures and fittings.

  It was late afternoon when hunger decreed that he lock up and head home for sustenance. In typical December fashion the light had long since given way to darkness and there was more than a suspicion of snow in the air as he walked to his car. He took the same route he’d taken the day before, driving past the cinema. The Salvation Army Band had cottoned onto the lucrative nature of playing for cinema queues and was belting out Christmas Carols with customary zeal. Their old fashioned black and red trimmed uniforms made them appear like figures from a Victorian style Christmas card. They made a pleasing addition to the urban winter landscape.

  Drawing to a halt by the curb, he wound his window down a touch in order to listen to the music. He had a lot of respect for the Salvationists and the work they did with the most vulnerable and often the most unattractive in society. There was a high incidence of psychiatric disorders among the homeless, which often went undiagnosed and untreated due to their nomadic habits. He was therefore pleased to offer service as an unpaid consultant once a month, heading informal clinics at various Salvation Army hostels. It was work he enjoyed. It enabled him to practice both his medical and psychiatric skills, helping people who had little access to standard services.

  He noted with approval that the box being shaken by one of the Sally Soldiers was receiving gratifying attention from the line of people waiting to view E.T. the film currently in vogue. He suddenly frowned, winding his window down further as the collection box was politely shaken under the nose of a figure sitting glumly on the edge of the pavement. The figure in question stuck up two fingers in a decidedly uncharitable manner, giving the impression that perhaps it was unwilling to contribute to this particular worthy cause.

  Getting out of his car Gordon hurried across the road to where the figure was following up sign language with savage, full frontal verbal abuse. Depositing a handful of coins into the charity box of the shocked Salvationist, Gordon wished him a cordial Happy Christmas, and asked him to pass on his respects to the band members for their fine efforts.

  Nat found himself being whisked across the road to the robust tune of Good King Wenceslas. “Page and Monarch forth they went, forth they went together,” he warbled with a touch of breathless defiance, adding, “I bet you see yourself as the Monarch don’t you, Gordon? Where does that leave
me then, page or yonder peasant? Yonder peasant I bet. Where is yonder do you think? Is it near the Urals or maybe even the Gorbals? Oh I know it’s near St Agnes fountain. I believe the place is teeming with peasants. Apparently they hang around all day waiting for monarchs to come hither with flesh, wine and pine logs. I can’t help but notice you’re a bit lacking in that department, Gord. I might have to report you to the Saints and Monarchs Committee for failure to divvy up the seasonal goodies.”

  “Shut up.” Gordon put a large hand on top of Nat’s head, thrusting him down onto the front passenger seat before placing his guitar onto the back seat. “I’m taking you home.” He briskly closed the door.

  “I don’t want to go home,” Nat pouted as Gordon got into the car. “Why don’t we go for a drink somewhere? After all it is the season to be jolly, fa’la’la’ and all that shit.”

  “You’ve had more than enough to drink and far too little to eat by the look of you and it appears to have made you anything but jolly. Ill mannered and obnoxious are the terms that spring most readily to mind. There was no excuse for the disgusting abuse you gave that poor man. You, of all people, owe them some respect. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You’re going home and that’s all there is to it.”

  “You’re a spoilsport, Gord, has anyone ever told you?”

  “The name is Gordon, and yes I’ve had that accusation thrown at me a time or two. Frankly it doesn’t bother me in the slightest.”

  Nat gazed at him sourly, “that’s because you’re tall. Tall people are better at being spoilsports than people of more average height. Tall people see it as their god given right to be oppressive spoilsports.”

  “Shut up, Nathaniel.”

  “See, there you go again, oppressing the little person for simply expressing an opinion. By the way, your precious Sally Army buds hate homosexuals. They want us to recant.”

  “I said be quiet and if I have to say it again there’ll be trouble. You, my man, have had over and above your quota of my seasonal goodwill!” Gordon shot a sideways look at Nat that even in the dark interior of the car had an impact. Silence ensued with Nat concentrating on fingering the string of red-brown wooden beads that were a permanent part of his apparel. He used them almost like a rosary moving from bead to bead as if in supplication. It was, Gordon knew, a comfort mechanism.

  On arrival at Nat’s place of abode Gordon parked the car and got out, moving round to the passenger side and opening the door.

  Nat staggered out, trying to shake off the helping hand at his elbow. It refused to be shaken, insisting on guiding him firmly up the short path to his front door. “Okay, Gord,” he fumbled for his key. “I can manage from here.” He made a stab for the lock, and missed. “Stay still you cunning fucker,” he muttered, stabbing again, then again.

  “Give it here.” Gordon deftly removed the key from Nat’s hand, quickly unlocking the door and stepping over the threshold. He reached out a hand and yanked Nathaniel indoors, closing the door smartly behind them. “Where’s the light switch?”

  “On the wall to your right.”

  Gordon located and pressed the switch. Nothing happened. He tried again.

  “It’s broken.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

  “I thought you knew everything, Gord, like God, so I didn’t bother,” there was a touch of gleeful mockery in Nat’s voice. “The kitchen light works okay, just follow me. I hope all your shots are up to date.” He crunched his way down the dark passageway.

  Gordon followed, wondering what he was crushing underfoot. It didn’t sound good. Staring around the tiny kitchen he felt his vexation edge up the scale. The piled debris of weeks cluttered the sink and every available surface. The note he'd posted through the door the evening before was scattered in torn remnants across the floor. He didn’t attempt to pick it up. Judging from the way his feet were sticking to the surface it would be a virtually impossible task. It had become an indelible part of the filthy collage that constituted Nat’s kitchen floor. “Don’t you ever wash up or clean in here?”

  “Nah, it only gets mucky again, so why bother.” Nat lurched for the fridge, “anyway, the germs reach a certain level and then they start eating each other. Before you know it they’ve cleaned themselves up. It’s a perfectly balanced ecological system. I should be nominated for a Greenpeace award really.”

  Gordon was unimpressed with Nat’s environmental theory. “So, your diary, the one you fill in outlining the tasks you complete on a day to day basis has been a total fabrication?”

  “Yep,” Nat’s head was thrust inside the fridge as he foraged for something in its unhygienic depths, but there was a cheeky grin in his voice. “I just tell you and dear John what you want to hear. It keeps you happy, a job well done, a soul saved, a nutter rehabilitated and all that shit.”

  Scanning the kitchen Gordon located two brown bottles of pills. Checking the dates and tipping the contents of first one and then the other into his hand his quick calculations confirmed his suspicion that Nathaniel had not been taking his medication properly for some time. Little wonder his mood was out of kilter. He slipped the bottles into his pocket just as Nat emerged from the fridge holding a beer bottle in his hand. “I told you that you’d had enough to drink.” He plucked the bottle from his hand ignoring the yelp of indignation. “This place is disgusting,” he deposited the bottle in the smelly, overflowing waste bin. “It’s a miracle you haven’t gone down with something. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Yeah, you’ve mentioned that fact already.” Nat’s sarcastic retort turned into another yelp, his eyes widening with shock, as for the second time that weekend a granite hand exploded onto his rear. “Fuck, I wish you’d stop doing that!”

  “Get some things together,” said Gordon sternly, “pyjamas, a change of clothes. You’re not fit to be left alone. You’re coming back with me where I can keep an eye on you. I'll make sure you keep your appointment with John. You need a review of your medication if nothing else. You haven’t been taking it properly.”

  “I don’t f...”

  Gordon raised a warning finger. “If the rest of that word emerges I’ll be seriously put out, Nathaniel. I mean it. I've had enough of your behaviour. To call it reckless would be an understatement.”

  Nat erupted. “Who do you think you are, Mr Squeaky Clean, swanning back from India like some Maharaja, then coming in here and laying down the law about what I drink and what I say? This is my dump. If I want to fucking swear and drink in it I fucking will. And if you don’t like it you can fuck off, because it’s none of your business!” He plunged a hand into the bin and retrieved the bottle of brown ale before savagely booting the bin onto its side, spilling still more rubbish onto the floor. He then began scrabbling among the dirty crockery in search of the bottle opener.

  Gordon went over to the sink, quickly rinsing the sour dishcloth under the tap. Pulling out one of the grubby kitchen chairs he wiped it down and then dried it.

  The floor was dirty, very dirty. Nat hadn’t really noticed just how filthy it was until his nose hovered inches above its germ-encrusted surface. He was slightly puzzled as to why he was seeing it from this strange angle. He hadn’t popped anything but prescription drugs for a good while, and not too many of those. An almighty wallop landed on the seat of his worn jeans, causing him to emit a gasp. If he was on a trip, it looked like it was going to be an unpleasant one. “Hey,” he spluttered, quickly sobering as another stinging slap landed on his backside. “What are you doing?”

  “For heavens sake, Nathaniel, work it out,” said Gordon crisply. “What do you think I’m doing, whistling Dixie? I’m giving you a wake up call. If you insist on behaving like a foul mouthed, bad mannered adolescent, then I’m going to treat you like one. In my philosophy such behaviour deserves a good spanking. You’ve goaded me since the moment you clapped eyes on me and I’m sick of it.”

  Gripping Nat firmly around the waist Gordon began sla
pping his backside hard and fast, until his palm began to sting. Spotting a solid looking plastic spatula lying among the clutter on the Formica table he picked it up. It still had egg and grease traces on it, but that hardly mattered. Nat’s jeans were encrusted with dirt. A few more stains wouldn’t make much difference.

  Nathaniel bellowed as the spatula lashed his bottom. Even through his jeans its sting brought water to his eyes. He couldn’t reach back to protect his rear with his hands because of the way he was held over Gordon's lap, but he made good use of his vocal chords and his lower limbs, hollering loudly with one and kicking out wildly with the other. “You can’t do this, you can’t,” he shouted. “It isn’t right.”

  “I am doing it and doing it rather well if that isn’t too immodest of me.” Gordon zealously applied the spatula to the jean-clad bottom. “The only thing that isn’t right is your attitude, which I aim to correct.”

  Nat’s prayers were seemingly answered when the bulb in the kitchen blew, plunging them into darkness. The spanking ceased.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare light bulb?” Gordon hoisted Nat into a vertical position once more.

  “You suppose right,” snapped Nat, furiously rubbing at the heat radiating through the denim fabric of his jeans. “Fucking place eats light bulbs.”

  “In that case we’d better sojourn to another room in order to complete this conversation.”

  “You’re so cocksure of yourself, aren’t you?” Nathaniel used sarcasm to offset the desire to cry. It was bad enough getting a spanking at his age. He’d be damned if he’d cry over it as well.