Part 12 ~ Monday 18 April 1994
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Part 12 ~ Monday 18 April 1994 |
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At ten minutes past one Stan hurtled into Ray’s apartment having proved to himself that he could take the stairs three at a time from first flight to last. Too breathless to call out he began to scan the rooms, finding unsettling normality but no Ray. He stopped back in the living room, read the note on the desk and smiled grimly before looking around more calmly. There was Ray’s coat, his keys. “Ray?” he called hopelessly, following up with a quiet, “Ah, Ray.” He checked the rooms again, muttering angrily to himself about letting his partner down, when the slightest sound in the bedroom caught his attention. A breath? Gasp? He looked around the room again, checked under the bed, in the wardrobe, stood back and screwed his fingers into his hair. Another breath. The hairs on Stan’s body prickled and rose. To the side of the hefty mahogany wardrobe was a gap where it didn’t meet the wall, but surely it was far too small for a man to fit into, even someone as slender as Ray. Stan warily approached, peering into the shadow. His heart leapt. “Ray, how did you…” He reached out to where his friend had coiled himself into a knot in the corner; Ray’s hands came up, open and submissive in a helpless gesture that further shook Stan. He withdrew slightly and watched Ray fold into himself again. Trying again he laid his fingertips on Ray’s arm, feeling the shudder, seeing the shudder. “Hey…” his voice wavered. “You’re really scaring me.” Stan sat back on the floor, knowing this was the big reaction he had expected from the start, the one when Ray really took everything in and got hit with the emotional equivalent of a ton of bricks. “This isn’t about Fraser, is it? ‘ “No,” came an exhausted whisper. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. He left me this message on my phone. It was just, ‘This is Ben. Your brother needs you’. He knew I’d know. There was this…break before brother, like he was thinking on his feet, trying to say the right thing that wouldn’t get me into trouble if the wrong person heard it.” Stan paused, wishing for some reaction and not having his wish granted. “There was noise behind him. Guess he was at the airport. Would that be a fair guess, Ray?” “Yeah.” The word was little more than a expulsion of air. “Oh, fuck, this is stupid!” Stan, upset, angry, jumped to his feet and put his shoulder to the wardrobe. After several heaves with no movement he braced himself against the wall and tried again, bringing up a foot to help push. There were creaks and then progression; a few more shoves and there was room to extricate his partner. Ray tried to draw back further as Stan reached for him but he was gripped hard by the upper arms and edged forward. “No.” The one weak syllable was the only resistance Stan met and he persisted, bringing Ray toward him painfully slowly, inch by inch. “Look at me, Ray,” he ordered with strength he didn’t feel. “Look, Ray, it’s me, it’s Stan. Ray!” Ray finally focused and after a painful few seconds Stan saw recognition dawn. “You trust me, Ray. Come on, come out. I’ll look after you.” “Poppa…” “Not here. No-one’s here, just us, and I’ll keep you safe. Promise.” Stan let Ray think about that, remaining hands-on but unmoving until there was a discernible shift in the atmosphere between them and Ray allowed himself to be drawn out of his hiding place. Out of the shadows and into the light, Ray looked terrible, almost as if he’d been beaten. Stan carefully sat his partner down on the edge of the bed then went to the bathroom, coming back with a wet towel. Ray drew in a sharp breath as the coldness touched his cheek, but he quickly recognised how good it felt, taking the towel from Stan and pressing it over his face. “Thanks,” he mumbled through the material. “I’m gonna make coffee. You stay here. Or come with me. Don’t go back in there.” Stan waited for the shallow nod of acquiescence before moving toward the door, hesitating when he got there, stepping out, stepping in. He looked at Ray and felt a brand new surge of uselessness. “I’m okay,” Ray told him without looking up. “I will be.” Stan accepted that, because, boy, he needed to, and headed for the kitchen, finding the extra-extra-extra-strong coffee and making a pot. Movement in the doorway caught his eye and he glanced around as Ray joined him, leaning heavily against the counter and looking like he’d been through every level of hell. Stan turned to him, wanted to offer some support or comfort, felt the need to hug the life back into him but knew he couldn’t breach the damned exclusion zone. “I wish I could… I mean, I can’t… Talk to me, Ray, tell me. Or pace. Pace.” “I haven’t got the energy,” Ray admitted with a weak smile. “Is this about what I know? Or did everything get worse?” Ray remembered and the tears welled in his eyes again. Stan saw, took a stride forward but withdrew as quickly. “Oh, fuck, Ray…” Ray palmed the tears away and steeled himself. “There’s some stuff you need to know.” … Dawn was breaking. Stan watched through the kitchen window
as “What do you think?” Ray’s hoarse voice broke the twenty minute silence. “Can’t think straight. We need to get some sleep,” Stan replied, turning back to the room. “You got something to help?” Ray nodded, knowing Stan was referring to the sleeping tablets in the bathroom cabinet. “Good. Forget it all for a while.” Ray nodded again before dropping his eyes and moving toward the doorway. He paused there, drew a breath to speak but Stan got in first. “Go to bed, you’ll feel better tomorrow.” “That the best lie you can come up with?” “I’m flying on fumes here, gimme a break.” “Go home. Thank you and…go home.” Stan dithered for a few seconds then did as he was told, glancing back as Ray wandered in the direction of the bathroom. Mildly reassured that Ray was heading for the sleeping tablets and a few solid hours sleep, he finally left. At the sound of the lock clicking shut, Ray swerved and went to the hallway closet, gathering up pillows and blankets to leave on the sofa for Stan, knowing he’d be back within the hour. When he finally made it to the bathroom he stopped and stared at himself in the mirror, barely recognising this wounded soul. He missed Ben so acutely it was akin to a physical pain. He wanted to be held and told everything was going to be all right – he’d happily take that ridiculous lie right now if it came with Ben’s presence. He gave a shiver, unnaturally cold through exhaustion and grief, and knowing if Ben was here he’d be all over him, warming him up and making everything better despite the fact that nothing could ever be better, not now— Ray stopped that train of thought, unable to cope with the death and the betrayal. A shudder rocked him from head to toes. “Feel like I’m never gonna be warm again,” he whispered to himself. The man in the mirror shared his loss but had no words of comfort or wisdom; Giving up on the day, Ray took two sleeping tablets and fell into bed, still shivering as he embraced oblivion.
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