Out Of Tune Read online

  “Okay.” Nat made an effort to smile, but didn’t quite succeed. He headed upstairs, cursing himself for having forgotten to pick up his prescription before leaving the house earlier.

  “I’m not really hungry,” Nat put his fork down, “do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” Gordon gave a ghost of a smile. “I admit that it isn’t one of my better culinary efforts. I can’t get to grips with rice, it always ends up sticky.”

  “It’s not that. Your cooking is definitely getting better. I just don’t have much appetite. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine, don’t worry. Nothing’s wasted. I’ve got a therapy group at St Gile’s tomorrow afternoon. I’ll take the leftovers.”

  Nat nodded, then chewed miserably at his lower lip. He wanted things over with. When it came to punishment he preferred it to be instant. A swift execution dealt and accepted without ritualised delay for ‘discussion.’

  Gordon understood and put down his own fork, getting to business. “Have you anything you want to tell me, anything you want to say about this afternoon?”

  Nat shook his head and Gordon frowned. “So, lying aside, you broke our agreement for no particular reason?”

  “I didn’t lie, not exactly. I didn’t think we had an agreement actually.” Nat spoke slowly, as if he were thinking carefully about each word before saying it. “Not as such. You voiced your concerns. I said that it was probably a one off incident and I was fine with it, and it most likely wouldn’t...”

  Gordon interrupted. “I’m not concerned with ‘probably’ and ‘likely.’ I’m concerned with facts and the fact remains that it wasn’t a one off incident. The man poses a genuine threat. He’s hassled you on several occasions and last time it was more than just verbal hassle. In my opinion he has an aggressive fixation with you and such fixations tend to become increasingly unstable. He knows you’re regularly out there on the streets and he’s watching for you. Next time you might not be able to deflect the punches he throws at you and there might not be other people around to intervene on your behalf. I thought we decided...”

  It was Nat’s turn to interrupt. “You said that you’d prefer me not to busk anymore, but you didn’t directly forbid me, not in so many words. And I made no promises as I recall.”

  Gordon’s face darkened. “All right. If that’s the way you want to play it. I thought we’d discussed it and come to an agreement, but obviously not. Though to my mind the fact that you felt you had to be deceitful about your activities this afternoon indicates otherwise. I’ll accept that perhaps I failed to make my position clear enough. I apologise. Let me see if I can rectify that mistake. I forbid you to go busking again. Play your guitar in the house for personal pleasure by all means, but no more busking outside. Is that plain enough, Nathaniel? I totally forbid you to engage in this activity ever, ever again.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “I don’t need to give you grounds. The fact that I say so should be enough. You do not question my authority, that’s the first rule of our relationship.”

  Nat experienced a gut twist of mixed emotion as Gordon plainly stated his dominance. In theory he fully accepted his partner’s rank and the overall structure of their lifestyle together. However, theory was one thing and practice was quite another, especially in circumstances involving a direct conflict of interest. The truth of the matter was simple. His partner’s dominance wasn’t convenient at this point in time. It wasn’t wanted. He belligerently stuck his chin out, “is that your way of saying you have no specific reason other than a need to flex your authoritarian muscles and put me in my humble place?”

  Gordon’s eyes chilled down further and he bestowed upon Nat a look more dangerous than icicles on a schoolhouse roof. “If a stated reason is what you need then I’ll give you one. My primary reason is your safety, something you frequently have scant personal regard for. However, that said, I have never been happy with you busking. I think it keeps you tied to another time and another place and as such it prevents you from fully moving on in an emotional sense. You persuaded me that wasn’t the case. I believe I was wrong to accept your argument and had I stuck to my guns this situation would not have arisen in the first place. It’s not as if you really need to earn money by busking, not now that you have the job at The Reindeer to supplement your grant. The matter ends here. You will not do it again, and for deliberately misleading me about this afternoon I’m grounding you for two weeks.”

  “Two weeks! You can’t be bloody serious?” Nat’s stomach contracted sharply, this time with an uncomplicated single emotion-anger. “I’d rather receive corporal punishment than be grounded for that length of time.”

  “If you speak to me in that disrespectful tone again I’ll certainly oblige you as far as a spanking goes, but it will be in addition to grounding you and not instead of. Is that what you want?”

  Nathaniel shook his head, recognising that the ground beneath his feet was in danger of turning to quick sand.

  “Have you finished eating, do you want anything else?”

  Nat again shook his head.

  “Then I suggest you go to bed and by suggest I mean do it.”

  Nat flung his chair back with such violence that it overturned. Storming out of the kitchen he slammed the door behind him. Gordon hastened after him, catching him before he reached midway up the stairs. Taking his arm he briskly escorted him back to the kitchen. Picking up the abused chair he manoeuvred him back down onto it. “You’ll leave this room in a befitting manner and not like a spoilt, hormonally overloaded teenager.”

  Nat thumped a temper-laden fist down onto the table, “so some nutter has hassled me a few times, so he threw a punch last time. Big fucking deal. He lost his temper when I gave him some verbal back. It doesn’t mean he’ll do it again. I’m not a baby. I can look out for myself. I survived living on the streets for Christ’s sake!”

  “The subject is closed. Is that CLEAR?”

  Gordon raising his voice, a rare occurrence, was enough to sober Nat. He nodded and then sat silently glaring at the tabletop, fighting a powerful urge to swipe everything from it. He knew from sad experience that the satisfactory moment of temper indulgence would not be worth the consequences that would inevitably follow.

  He made a concerted effort to calm himself, going through the management routine, unclenching his jaw and hands, relaxing his muscles, taking deep, slow breaths from the stomach and not the chest. Once he’d composed himself he got up pushing the chair back under the table, walking sedately across the kitchen and up the hall and then the stairs. He longed to thump a protest onto every step with his feet, but didn’t, because Gordon would make him go back to the bottom and walk up them again, and again, until he did it in an approved manner. He’d gone through that battle of wills more than once and he never won.

  Sitting on his side of the bed he picked up the tiger toy that had been a gift from Gordon. He stared into its immovable bright blue eyes for a few moments and then buried his face in its soft pile, giving way to a bout of frustrated tears.

  Downstairs, Gordon began to clear away the debris of the evening meal, scraping the contents of one plate on top of another. He then scraped the lot into a plastic bin outside the back door. The pigs at St. Giles’s psychiatric hospital farm always had an increase in their diet when it was his turn to cook. At least Sandy, a member of the therapy group, would be happy. Gordon permitted himself a small smile as he thought of the shy man who preferred animals to humans. Sandy’s porcine friends were among the few, possibly the only fans of his culinary efforts. Though it had to be said, he gave himself credit where credit was due, he did a pretty mean French toast and no one could open and heat a tin of soup with the same panache as he could.

  After filling the sink with hot water in preparation for washing up, he focussed his thoughts on the man upstairs. Had he over reacted to the situation? Was he being dictatorial just for the sake of it? No. The answer came back at once, unequivocal. He washed the plates,
putting them onto the drainer. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Nathaniel had indeed gone to the library, as he said he had. He also didn’t doubt he had then turned right round and gone to do what he had intended to do all along. He had deliberately manipulated the situation and he deserved to be disciplined for that alone. As for the ban, he pressed his lips together. The ban was necessary to ensure Nat’s safety. He wasn’t being dictatorial just for the sake of it. He was fulfilling his agreed role as caretaker, which by its nature incorporated the role of disciplinarian as and when necessary.

  Putting the last cup on the draining board, Gordon dried his hands and then went across the hall to his study. He gazed around with appreciation. Nat had done a fine job with the décor. Its warm and restful shades created a pleasant environment to work in. He was working wonders with the house in general. It was amazing just how much difference a bit of paint and paper could make to a room. Hope House was gradually becoming a real home.

  As the evening wore on, his glance kept wandering from the case notes on his desk to the empty leather armchair in the corner of the room. Feeling suddenly cold he got up drawing the curtains across the tall windows before turning the gas fire on. Its flickering warmth soon took the chilly edge from the room, but it still lacked something and that something was upstairs and no doubt sulking. More often than not Nat kept him company as he worked, curling up quietly in the chair, reading and studying for the sociology and psychology degree that he’d undertaken in September. The subdued hiss of the fire provided a comfortable background noise that seemed to bind them together. It was one of the best bits of winter evenings, that shared, cosy companionship.

  After completing the last of his client notes Gordon filed them away, and then stretched, feeling a twinge of stiffness in his neck and shoulders. Turning off the fire and the lights and making sure everything was locked up safely, he then went into the kitchen to collect Nat’s evening medication. He took it upstairs, opening the bedroom door, expecting to find him reading as was permitted when a particularly early night had been imposed. The room was empty and the bed pristine. He sat down on it, taking a few calming breaths. It seemed that Nat had declared a battle of wills.

  Getting up he strode down the landing to the bedroom where Nat had taken up residence. The room was in darkness and the figure in the bed was quite still, but he knew that it wasn’t asleep. He addressed it crisply. “If I thought for a moment that this action was a genuine need for space on your part then you’d have my blessing. It isn’t though, it’s more to do with rubbing my nose in it and I’m not putting up with it. I’m going to have a shower, Nathaniel. I expect to find you back in our bedroom when I’ve done so. Your medication is on your bedside cabinet along with a glass of water. Make sure you take it.”

  Nat continued the pretence of sleep. He turned to face the door only when he knew that Gordon was no longer standing there. He remained where he was, listening to the sound of running water from the bathroom. Scowling into the darkness he embraced bad feelings. Gordon was being unreasonable. In fact he was being a bloody big pain in the arse. The grounding was bad enough, but the ban on busking was even worse. He needed the extra money it brought him and when all was said and done it was his life and it was up to him to calculate any risks involved. In the same vein it was up to him to decide where he slept. The shower turned off and Nat hurriedly flung back the covers.

  Gordon relaxed as he heard Nat’s footsteps pad along the landing, followed by the sound of their bedroom door opening and closing. Stepping out of the shower he reached for a towel and dried himself before heading for the bedroom. In the event, his relaxation proved premature.

  Pulling open a drawer, he selected a pair of clean pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, pulling them on. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” he glared at the figure huddled under a blanket on the floor by the side of the bed. “Stop acting the brat and get up, otherwise I’ll have to contact the Students Union and have your status as a ‘mature’ student revoked.”

  “You said I had to come back to our bedroom.” Nat popped his head above the parapet of the blanket. “You didn’t say anything about our bed. Really, Gordon, you’re going to have to brush up on your communication skills, especially if you insist on issuing orders every five seconds. I believe The Open University offers a course on communication skills for household dictators. It’s called how to ride roughshod without misunderstandings.”

  “Get up, Nathaniel, at once.”

  “Fuck off, Gord,” to his horror the words that Nat had meant to keep internalised traitorously popped off the end of his tongue. He made it even worse, parodying Gordon’s instruction still further, “at your own pace of course.”

  Gordon didn’t waste any more words. Picking up a pillow he arranged it over the end of the pine bedstead before reaching down and effortlessly hauling Nat to his feet. In one economic movement he stripped down his pyjama bottoms and bent him over the pillow, using his hand to communicate his displeasure far more effectively than speech.

  Nat began to squirm, emitting little gasps of discomfort as Gordon’s hand relentlessly slapped the cheeks of his bottom, first one and then the other in hard repetition. Clutching at the bedclothes in front of him he began drumming his feet on the floor as the painful heat reached levels that demanded greater expression than gasps. “I’m sorry,” he finally submitted, shouting, “Gordon, please, please stop. I’m sorry for being rude.”

  It took a few seconds for Nat to register that the only sound in the room was the sound of his own tears. It would take a longer space of time for his backside to register that the spanking was over. His pyjamas were pulled up and the covers pulled back and he was effectively put to bed. The light snapped off and the bedsprings creaked, as Gordon got in beside him.

  The space between the two of them was but inches, but to Nat, curled on his side with a fiercely blazing bottom it felt like miles. To Gordon, lying on his back, it felt like obdurate sulking. He knew his man. “Negative attention seeking,” his calm voice cleaved the darkness, “will get you negative attention, every time.”

  “Negative,” snapped Nat, “try telling my backside that the attention it just got was negative! It’s still hurting.”

  “You have only yourself to blame.” Gordon was unrepentant. “I won’t put up with defiant brattish behaviour from you. I thought you would have realised that by now. Do you intend to keep your back turned to me all night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well, goodnight. I love you.”

  “No you don’t. If you loved me you wouldn’t bully me the way you do.”

  “I totally refute the accusation of bullying. You know exactly what standards and principles our relationship is based on. You were complicit in the making of the rules, they’re not hidden and you know what to expect when you break them. You, my boy, are the one that tries to bully me from time to time using emotional manipulation. Are you coming over for a cuddle? You know you want one.”

  “I don’t actually, which shows how much you know. What I want is to choose what activities I engage in, like busking.”

  “No,” said Gordon firmly. “The subject is closed. I’ll punish you if you mention it again.”

  The darkness grew heavier pressing about them almost tangibly. There was a creak and sudden movement. “Two weeks!” Nat rolled over, draping himself across Gordon, “two weeks for pities sake?”

  Gordon wrapped his arms around him, stroking his hair, “that’s what I said, two weeks, no remission.”

  “What if I refuse?” Nat’s voice was barely audible.

  “You don’t have that option.”

  “What would you do though, if I did? Would you...”

  Gordon interrupted, “reject you, cast you out into the falling snow and abandon you? No. We love each other and we’d work through it. Life would be horribly tense for us both and,” he gently patted Nat’s rump, “horribly uncomfortable for you. This conversation is serving no purpose. I’ve made my deci
sion and you’ll abide with it. That’s how it works. Now go to sleep.”

  The tone of voice left no further room for argument or manipulation. Nat considered pulling away from Gordon and turning his back again. However the arms around him were warm and comforting. Time enough tomorrow to fight things out, and he was determined to fight them out. Slipping a hand up inside Gordon’s t-shirt he settled to sleep.

  Two

  ~~~

  “Put the lid back on that jar. You’ve had two cups of coffee this morning already. You’re not having anymore.”

  Nat banged the jar down on the counter top and glared resentfully at the domineering newspaper from behind whence the order had issued. “It must be bloody marvellous to have x-ray vision.”

  Gordon folded the paper, laying it on the table. “I don’t want you drinking coffee while you’re at poly today, stick to water, fruit juice or herbal tea. Just remember that the reason you have to limit your caffeine intake is because it undermines the effectiveness of your medication by inhibiting its absorption, and not just because I fancy imposing my will upon you.”

  “You’ll have to get yourself a stomach pump, Gord, then you can check my stomach contents each evening to see what I’ve been consuming behind your back.” Nat crossly flopped down onto a chair.

  “I don’t need a stomach pump to know that you’re full of sour grapes this morning.” Gordon buttered himself another slice of toast, ignoring Nat’s scowl. He was used to it. Nat had been scowling fiercely at regular intervals since the day they met. Fortunately his smile, when it came, more than made up for it. He calmly took a bite of toast waiting for the scowl to be followed up by some verbal affirmation of the scowler’s disgruntlement with him.

  “What’s it like being perfect, Gord? It must be hard to live up to yourself? Doesn’t it frighten you sometimes, being in competition with God and the Pope on the infallibility and perfection front? They might get together and plan to assassinate you out of jealousy.”