Getting Away from It All

***references to outdated attitudes - homophobia, racial - veiled references to self harm and eating disorder - strong language***

Sam had been tracking the girl’s movements for a while. Not obsessively so, that would have made it all too obvious, but through a combination of social media and word of mouth –eavesdropping mainly – it had been easy enough to find and pick her out, approach her if and when he decided that was what he wanted to do. However, when he first came across her, encountered her face-to-face as opposed to through some shop window or the one in his bed and breakfast overlooking San Pemlin’s town square, their meeting had been entirely unplanned. He’d been down by the canal seeing a man about a boat, and she’d been hanging around the towpath begging cigarettes.

‘Aw, don’t be like that, mister. You can spare me just one, can’t ya?’

She and the smoker in the sportscoat had still been some way off as he’d walked towards them, but there had been no mistaking the desperation in the girl’s voice as, with body bent and hands held out in a gesture akin to Mary Magdeline clutching at the robes of Jesus, this waif-like hooded being, who looked half the man’s height and width, and therefore more of a child than she was, teetered behind him with all the pathetic determination of a stump-legged dog trying to keep step with its master before finally catching hold of his sleeve.

‘Get lost, will you? Go mooch from somebody else. Better still, go get a job.’ The man had shrugged her off in much the same way as he might have detached himself had his clothing been snagged on any one of a number of brambles (the terracotta-bricked wall which ran the length of the path was densely overhung) and he’d continued on his way, the smoke from his cigarette blown back in her face.

“Better watch out, mate. She’ll be at you next. You know, they talk about cleaning up the waterways, but it’s the scum on dry land that really needs dealt with.’

‘Yeah,’ Sam had mouthed as the man caught his eye in passing, but he didn’t mean it, the word had just slipped out, so in a semi-conscious bid to dissociate himself from this unnecessarily cruel and uncharitable way of thinking, and all that this man doubtlessly stood for, he’d waited until the guy was out of earshot and added ‘pompous prick’ under his breath.

‘Haha, hear that, wanker? That’s what folk think of you. Pompous prick, yeah that’s a good one. Like the man said. Hope you choke on that cigarette. Hope you die!’

The girl who must have had excellent hearing, for Sam could have sworn he’d only whispered, hadn’t held back. Hands on hips yelling, not caring a jot, he’d kind of admired her nerve, but, curiosity aside, hadn’t he come all this way to escape this kind of behaviour? This unsavoury, ugly aggression, this drawing of negative attention he’d seen so much of in recent years? He'd stopped and closed his eyes… Fallout… Even if the man didn’t turn – which, thankfully he didn’t – if the girl was who he suspected she was to him, it was bound to come.

‘Hey, don’t suppose you’ve got a ciggie to spare?’

The elfin face, the mischievous expression, Sam recognised those, but it was the eyes which had caught him the most. Greeny-blue and bluey-green, were they really two different colours or was this merely a trick of the light? Reflections off the water in the mooring combined with own imaginings? He hadn’t noticed this in any of her photos online so shook the thought away… ‘No, sorry. Gave up years ago.’

‘Yeah, figures. Everyone has except the tightwads and them’s I wouldn’t go near. Ta anyway.’ She’d shrugged.

‘Tell you what, though…’ He’d delved into his pocket. (Same two-tone jacket as the man she’d accosted – now what were the chances? Same age, same race, but white kindred mid-life spirit be damned.) ‘I don’t carry much cash around these days, but I might have a couple of quid here…’ He drew out a five-pound note and with it the long-defunct credit card he’d pilfered from his ex. No skin off Sexy Dexy’s nose if he borrowed his name, and having the girl see it had been part of his plan.

‘Fuck you, Mr Dexter Doherty Dickhead.’ The girl’s face darkened. ‘I’m not on the fucking scrounge, you know, not for brass. I’ve got plenty of dough, just not on me. My boyfriend’s got one of them boats, see, and all my stuff’s on it. Didn’t think I’d need it. Said he’d be back in a bit. Just taking longer than I thought. Bloody phone’s packed in as well.’

‘Just gone to the restroom, eh…?’ Words spoken into the air, Sam's thoughts had drifted - to the ducks he’d seen in the pond that day and how people still fed them bread even when they knew it wasn’t good for them, to when he'd got off the bus where the poplars grew on one side of the road and clusters of fire-bright berries hung from a bush by the wall on the other - and he'd thought about Dexter too, the last time he’d seen him, choking his guts up on a fat cadged cigar on that bench in Princes Street Gardens… Edinburgh. So many miles away, and so many years he'd spent there, yet how swift the journey back to his Cotswold roots.

‘What? What do you mean restroom? He’ll be at the boatshed with his dad.’

The fury had gone from the girl's face to be replaced by a quizzical look. It was much the same look as the woman had given him that day when Dexter had plonked himself down on the bench beside her reeking of beer and cigar smoke, hacking-up all over her meal-deal sandwich lunch. Partner or carer? If the former, so mismatched, had to feel sorry. And if the latter, well jeez, she hoped the job was well-paid. And what was up with this self-proclaimed ‘Sexy Dexy’ Irish drunk? No way she’d be singing ‘Oh Danny Boy’ no matter how much he wanted to bet her, and did he think she was born yesterday when he’d told her that back in Ireland, he was a regular guest at breakfasts hosted by Daniel O’ Donell, Sinead O’ Connor and Shane MacGowan, no less? He’d turned beetroot when he'd tried to inhale that cigar, but there would be no kiss of life from her, she’d heard the way he’d sworn at those people in passing… That woman with the union flag tote bag and the little ones in the pushchair… Oh yes, she’d said it all with her eyes. Partner or carer? Partner-carer-fool… Just going to the restroom…

‘Never mind… Sorry, didn’t mean to suggest. It’s just…’ Just what, Sam had wondered as he'd stood on the banks of the canal, his means of deceptive protection in hand. Just being the dickhead the girl had said he was? Well, she was probably right. The second he’d left Dexter, he’d gone up onto the street to the nearest bank, withdrawn as much cash as the ATM would allow him, and hopped onto the bus back to their rented apartment – tidy only because he was the one who constantly cleaned it up, every night, every morning after his various shifts. He’d packed a bag and left the money where he knew it would be found, on the bed between the pages of De Profundis.

Whether Dexter would get the significance as he would have done in the past was unlikely, he had regressed so far, but the way he’d treated him – the mood swings, the relying on him to support him in every which way whilst drinking and gambling away his pay, not to mention great chunks of his inheritance, the foul-mouthed aggression he showed to himself and others, the violent outbursts and jealousy - this was Wilde and his lover, Bosie all over, and he may not have ended up as tragically as the famous Irish wordsmith did before he’d penned his great work whilst in Reading Gaol, but his was a prison none the less, and he’d seen more than enough of these internal bars. He’d called the landlord, paid two months’ rent in advance - only right he give his ex-lover fair warning - called his boss to tell him he quit – he could find another tour guide easily enough - and with Dexter’s useless credit cards swiped as a blind, less than two hours later he’d found himself on the train heading south… Family, he didn’t have any. All dead, but he’d heard about the girl.

Lara Wright. Aged fifteen three years back when she’d run away from home. It had been both online and in the papers, and her parents had launched an appeal before she was found shacked up with another young female runaway who no one appeared to care about. Lara’s mother, Marie, would remember him for sure, as would everyone else who’d lived in San Pemlin’s at the time. But he didn’t look like that boy anymore, the skinny youth with the long black ponytailed hair, and even longer black leather statement trench-coat. His appearance had altered dramatically in nineteen years; he’d broadened out, his hair was short, turning grey and receding, he dressed far more conservatively now, and he’d grown a beard. No one would know him except by name. Best keep it to himself, at least to start with. Best everyone call him Dexter. Best pay everything cash.

Sam Arlington? Whatever happened to him? He’d heard it asked in the pub just days after he’d arrived. The old crowd, the ones he’d been to school with, a few were still around, and him a stranger in their midst; a traveller with an intriguing accent – part Scots, part English, part Irish - just passing through. Word had it he was after buying a barge. Haha, Sam, oh yeah, think he went to Bangkok… Hilarious.

He hadn’t gone to the restroom when he’d been outed as gay – when Marie, the only girl he’d ever slept with - and this when he'd still been confused and out to prove himself - had called him 'half a man' in front of every one of his friends. No, that had happened days after, when his grandmother who had raised him from the age of three when both his parents had been killed in a motorway crash, had got so bad with her dementia, he could no longer take it. Seeing her like that – institutionalized and unaware of who he was, lashing out with both fists and tongue. He’d made her a cup of tea and she’d thrown it at him. Oh yes, he’d gone to the restroom then, and never come back. Not even for the funeral, as they'd said that day in the pub... 'And to think she’d left him that massive house as well. Put it into his name before she was even hospitalized. Fucking bastard queer…'

The Edinburgh crowd had seen him differently. He’d made the Scottish capital his home and been accepted for who he was. Respected even by the homophobes, he liked to joke, but it was near-enough true. By the time he'd been there a couple of years, he'd done quite a bit of charity work for the homeless and had become a well-known cheery face at Edinburgh Dungeons where he worked, so the night he’d met Dexter, with his reputation preceding him, he’d somehow managed to talk down a gang of Glasgow Rangers FC supporting skinheads who’d been about to set upon this mouthy young Irishman who had dared set foot in what they considered to be 'their bar' waving both the rainbow and Irish republican flags. This had resulted not only in him and Dexter getting together but also the coining of his nickname. Sam, the Good Samaritan, Arlington. Sam, the provider of comfort and shelter and food, and pretty much all else. Bread to ducks. Lame ones... He'd slipped the credit card back into his pocket as he'd considered the girl.

‘You think I need a good meal inside me…? Yeah, okay, I get it. I’ll take your fiver, but I’ll pay you back. Could do with some chuddy to keep me going. Might even manage to cadge a smoke or two off the old biddies up at the caff if I offer to pay them… See you around then.’

And with that she’d headed off, leaving him thinking all sorts and trying his darndest not to.

***

He hadn't seen her again until today when he'd bought the boat. Had to give his real name, no getting away from that, but the grizzled old geezer whose barge it was had been none the wiser. What folks got up to in private was 'nowt to do wi' him'.

‘Just mind and register at the boatyard if ye plan to moor here and live on it permanent-like. Might want to move on though. That black guy on the cruiser o’er there’s the son of him who owns the yard and he thinks he’s king o’ the waters. Father lets him use it as a plaything. Lost count o’ the number o’ tarts he’s had in there. Ye might want to invest in some earplugs.’

He'd discovered as much for himself when he'd heard the shouts – foul language galore from both ‘ship and shore’ and Lara, on the latter, had been responsible for most of it. Couldn’t blame her though. The boyfriend, Leroy, had just thrown ‘all her shit’ all over the towpath and was about to pull anchor with ‘one of his own kind’, pater-approved for once and not some ‘trashy white skank’. Yeah, and tell her she needs to starve herself harder and that she’s slicing and dicing those skinny arms of hers the wrong way… The voice from the boat, the classy black girl. Whoop, whoop, whoop from onboard as they'd motored off.

She was crouched on the ground by the time he got to her, drawing hard on a cigarette. Didn’t know him at first, but when she'd finally placed him, she’d dragged a hand across her face, sniffed up her nasal secretions, dried her tears, and wiped what remained on her sleeve, the cuffs of which were both frayed and pulled way too far beyond her wrists.

She'd refused to get on the boat. He’d told her for a street-smart kid her ‘gaydar’ was completely off. She’d said she knew what century he belonged to now, dickhead. And then she’d told him her father was gay. ‘Left town before I was born. Mum never told him she was pregnant. Was only when I run away with Nina, my first, and they hauled me back that it all came out. Dad – well, my pretend one – said that must’ve been where I got it from, my gayness or bi-ness whatever it was, my perversions... you believe that? No wonder I don’t want to go back. They’re in London now anyway. Living their best life. Don’t need me causing them any more grief.’

Those blue-green, green-blue eyes, just like his grandma’s… He could have told her then, faced the fallout, but it was easier somehow just to offer up his room at the bed and breakfast, paid until the end of the week, and he’d sleep on the boat.

‘But, Mr Dohety, what about your personal belongings? Are you quite sure they’ll be safe?’ the landlady had asked when he’d called. ‘Nothing worth stealing,’ he'd said, and there wasn’t. Except now, hours later, he realised what he’d done. What he’d forgotten. When he’d packed and left Edinburgh he'd only taken so much, but along with Dexter’s dud plastic and other essential items, he’d also thrown in the only gift his ex-lover had ever given him – a second-hand paperback version of The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde that he’d found in a charity shop not long after they’d met and on the inside of which he’d penned an inscription: To Sam, my good Samaritan, Arlington, because (1) you deserve an Oscar and (2) I know how you love your Irish Wilde, Love always, your Sexy Dexy Doherty… He’d left the book in the B&B by the side of his bed.

Restroom time? Well, perhaps, but maybe just maybe, he’d tough this one out. After all, restrooms were all good and well to lock yourself in for a while, but sooner or later someone always came knocking, and what a fool one would look in front of their child if they chose to come out then ran straight into another just for the sake of hiding away from life.