Marc Jesmond - 19. Chapter 19 'The Cure'

Alan watched, helplessly, as his new found man sank, sobbing. The news had sledge hammered Marc into the ground,

‘Everything I try to do I get knocked down. Then I get back up, over and over again, each time wondering why I bother. And it’s for this; everything leading up to the day when I’d be told I’m a dead man’

The medic was trained in counselling, but nothing prepared him for a situation in which he was beginning to feel he had so much invested. Kneeling in front of Marc, he put his hands on his friend’s, and measured out the words,

‘This – is – not – a – death – sentence!’

But Marc was convulsed with pain, and, just like a small child, unable to apply reason to the source of its upset, gives way to tantrum, Marc yielded to choking tears. Alan stood up,

‘Look, I’m going to the car. I’ve something that’ll help. I’ll be seconds’

Marc, barely aware, bent forward and covered his face. For weeks now he’d felt he was stumbling along an endless, gloomy corridor: by turns, doors shutting against him to the right and left: by turns, feeling rejected, hurt, and angry. But now he’d reached the end of the corridor, the way ahead was blocked and it was too far to go back.

Alan returned with a sedative. After Marc had taken the medicine, his guardian angel helped him up from the sofa,

‘Come on, we’re going upstairs. You need to lie down’

Marc protested weakly,

‘Sorry Alan, I’m such a fucked up mess. You go home, I’ll be OK’

‘No, I’m staying here, with you’

He laid Marc on the bed, dimmed the lights and drew open the blinds, the starry sky and night-lit river turning the bedroom into a magical home cinema. Then he climbed onto the bed and put his arms around the stricken man,

‘Try to get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake. It will be better then, I promise!’

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Marc slept for about an hour, Alan not at all.

They freshened up and they sat out on the balcony, pulling rugs around their legs, defence against a clear but cold night. Alan debated whether or not his patient was ready for yet more counselling,

‘I used to think I was good at this sort of thing, now I feel an idiot’

Marc smiled, more a flicker of the lips,

‘You’re no idiot. And I’m glad you’re here, you don’t know how much’

‘When the info stops sinking in, let me know. I can talk a bit too much sometimes’

Marc smiled wider. The Alan he pictured could never be accused of talking too much.

‘OK, the bad stuff first; you are young to have this disease. It tends to occur in older men. But it’s reckoned that if every man on earth lived long enough, we’d all have it’

Alan kept his eyes closely on Marc, to monitor how well each sound bite would go down,

‘Literally millions of men worldwide have prostate cancer without knowing it. In its early stages there may be no symptoms. Question is, is it advisable to test and reveal it to men, or are they better off not knowing?’

‘I wasn’t given that choice’

Marc’s tone sounded defeated and bitter,

‘I know, and that was shitty. But now that you do know it, you can’t un-know it. So let’s make the situation work for us’

Silence.

‘There’s no need for an instant reaction. You have months, and possibly years before you decide to do anything about this, if you choose to act at all’

‘How come?’

‘Because Marc, your cancer is early stage, what we call a ‘pussy cat’; in fact yours is more like a kitten’

Marc was bemused at the idea of cell dysfunction being compared to a cute kitten.

‘Some poor guys have ‘tigers’. Then we DO have to act, and quickly, but the vast majority have a condition that can be tracked over many years’

‘But what if I’m the sort of guy who just can’t stand all this waiting and wondering?’

Marc was now deliberating. Alan liked that,

‘Then you’ve choices. You can blood test every three months, or six, and keep an eye on it. If the cancer develops and you want to start treatment, there are various options available’

‘Yeah, like that horrendous operation you talked about!’

‘Of course, it’s a possibility. But there are loads of others, radiotherapy, freezing the gland, inserting radioactive pellets to kill off the tumour: new treatments are being developed all the time’

Marc attempted a faint chuckle,

‘Christ, you’re selling this well’

‘It’s important I do’

‘All your talking is making me thirsty. Let’s have a coffee’

Alan stood up to fetch the drinks, but Marc barred him,

‘No, I’ll do it. I’ve been useless, it’s time I got my head straight’

As Marc went downstairs Alan mused; should he press on with further explanation, or take a break? On his return Marc seemed steadier. Together, the men drank coffee and watched the river: could they be thinking the same thing? Alan broke the silence,

‘You know, years from now we could be sitting on this same balcony. We’ll look back, and this health scare will seem like some horrible nightmare’

Marc was temporarily thrown; did Alan mean ‘we’ or ‘we’?

‘It’s amazing you’re here at all. You could be doing stuff, but instead you’re stuck here with some crazy guy, sinking under his own pity. I really mean it when I say thanks’

He drew Alan close and hugged him. But he broke free and turned to face Marc,

‘If you really want to thank me....’

And he kissed him.

The men locked mouths, hands and bodies. Their kissing was generous, unforced, and lasted until delicious, warm stirrings began. Sensing their mutual excitement Marc fell back, laughing aloud in a way Alan had not yet heard,

‘Oh man! You’re turning me on. That’s not part of your job description?’

Alan laughed, his blue eyes, sparkling sapphires in the evening light,

‘Maybe I should try another job, but I don’t think my...

‘Stay with me’

Alan paused. It was now his turn to dwell on the significance of words. Did Marc mean ‘stay’ or did he mean ‘stay’?

‘Yeah, of course I’ll stay. I’d love to’

Then he held Marc right in front of his face, lips almost touching,

‘There’s nowhere I’d rather be, and no-one I’d rather be with’

Easy words perhaps, and based on a brief association. But there are men of great sincerity in the world, just as there are men of none. And a sincere man, who has the courage to risk all for what he believes is the rarest and most beautiful gem of all.

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Morning

How do we finally know we’re in love?

Marc sat outside the riverside café, just yards away from his apartment: fondling his espresso cup, he knew that only one thing – or rather one person - could make him feel better right now. Alan had promised to kick start the day with a visit to the Land Registry and uncover the dirty dealing that led to the loss of the duplex. Marc had wanted to join him but had been ordered to rest. Fidgeting with the newspaper, and coffee cup, he reached for a cigarette. Alan wouldn’t like that! Alan, who wanted the best for him: Alan, who’d stayed with him all night: Alan, who he couldn’t get out of his head!

Marc sorted the check and walked over to his apartment. When he got indoors he erupted,

‘Shit, I’m out for twenty minutes and miss his call’

Mad with frustration, he switched on the answering machine,

Hi Marc,

tried calling but you’re not in. Guess you’ve found another man already. Listen, got some good news. Your place was bought by a guy called Jamie Eltringham. He’s a student, twenty, no way he could have the sort of money to buy a duplex. Here’s the thing. He’s on Facebook, two hundred friends, like they all have, and one of them’s a girl called Elspeth Parnaby. I think that’s too great a coincidence. She’s most likely a cousin of the barrister. I think this one’s looking good. I’ll get the copies and see you soon.

Love you!

Marc played the machine over and over. Sure, he’d got the message, but he couldn’t get enough hearing those two words.

And he made a plan. When Alan got back they were going put all this stuff to one side, climb the stairs, and love each other for the rest of the day.

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Dominic’s first year at university had been a joyous release, and worth all the trauma of coming out. Even the unique pain of telling the woman who’d given him birth, ‘Mum, I’m gay’, made him feel powerful and special. Only in later life, would he discover how many of his brothers and sisters, old and young had not quite managed to cross that particular Rubicon!

But Dominic still had much to learn. Out to his lovers of course, fellow students, and family, but not to the public, he’d learned to divide strangers into those who needed to know about his sexuality and those who didn’t. As he entered the foyer of the police station he considered carefully which hat he should wear today.

The public area boasted more security than the Oval Office – as well it might - and today it was more than usually choked with the dust and debris of a broken society. Dominic’s good looks and great style may have won him plaudits in Gash, but the same attributes would here threaten his very security, and he was relieved when the sergeant called him over,

‘Yes?’

‘I’m really concerned about my friend. He hasn’t come home’

‘Your friend?’

The policemen had cut to the chase in double quick time,

‘Yeah, the guy I share my flat with’

The hairs on the back of Dominic’s neck detected murmurings from the underclass seated behind him.

‘The guy you share your flat with?’

repeated the policemen, ensuring all heard. He wandered off and returned with a form. Placing it in front of the young man, he invited him to read through the questions. Dominic was floundering,

‘I can give you his name and description, but I don’t know his date of birth, or any of this other stuff’

And it was true; he knew scarcely anything about the man he’d shared intimacy with. Who needs to trade Social Security numbers when you can swap body fluids? But now, for the first time, that missing knowledge troubled him.

The wily sergeant regarded the boy: cynicism tempered with concern,

‘Why don’t you go home son, and maybe he’ll be there when you get back?’

Dominic slunk out of the station, form discreetly folded away, eyes down.

Yes, being gay and out, and a friend of Glen Roberts, wasn’t promising to be an easy ride!

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So many gay men are like birds of paradise; their truncated lives given over to spectacle, show, trilling and twittering, and the amusement of others. Was it always this way? Did they always feel they had to please and amuse, to be the poet or court jester? Was it to earn approval and love, or, more darkly, to resist torment?

Parnaby was not an attractive man; but he too had been a performer of sorts. With dazzling eloquence, he’d trodden the boards of the legal profession, and taken the encores. But now that was over. And, just like a million birds that fall silently to the ground every day, the barrister’s passing would go unnoticed.

No funeral can be completely private, but so far as it was possible, Gerald wanted his partner’s to be. And it wasn’t hard to achieve, the clerk anticipating perfectly the reaction to his invitations. Lord A was indisposed, Judge B ‘didn’t actually know him all that well’ Lady C wanted to know where she should send the donation. Put simply, Robin Parnaby had committed the twin sins of being gay, and dying in rather strange circumstances. Nothing was more certain than his friends and colleagues staying away in droves.

The funeral service itself was drearily unimpressive. Three men were present, besides the corpse and Gerald; an Anglican minister, who insisted on delivering a church service; the clerk to the barrister’s chambers, and a stranger, sitting at the back of the tiny chapel.

The crematorium got on with the bleak business of effacing the barrister. Ten minutes of insipid obsequies in recognition of 46 years of life, the comical jerking of a purple curtain, and he was gone. Parnaby would have seen the funny side.

Gerald Campfire wasted no time dismissing the legal representative and the minister, the latter with sentiments bordering on offensive. Then he walked over to the stranger, hand extended,

‘Mr Appleby?’

‘Yes’

Jim Appleby stood up and the men shook hands. Jim offered his sympathy,

‘I’m sorry, was the deceased someone you knew?’

Gerald’s porcine eyes remained frozen,

‘Yes, knew very well indeed, you may say. But I don’t want to waste your time. We can’t stay here; they’ll be planting another poor wretch in two minutes time. Let’s step outside’

The men moved to the rear of the premises to shelter from driving, icy rain.

‘I’ll not beat about the bush Mr Appleby, I’m a lawyer and a collector of information. What I know I know. And I realise that you too recently experienced a tragic loss’

Leon’s father’s grew angry,

‘And I can see now, that to trace me either you, or someone you know, must have contravened data protection’

Campfire waved the comment away, literally,

‘Data protection! The world works because information flows, not because it’s stored. Don’t query how I know things, that’s my business’

Appleby ached to fell the clerk with one blow,

‘So, as I was saying, you are the man who identified Leon Sadowitz’ body, gave your name as Jim Appleby, and claimed that you were the boy’s father?

‘Yes, and I am his father! But I’m damned if I ever expected them to hand out my mobile number to people like you’

‘That aside, you’re to know this. Your son was seeing someone, a man twice his age. And, since it’s not unreasonable that you should be seeking answers to Leon’s tragic death, I can tell you that this man holds the key’

‘What man, what’s he called?’

‘His name is Marc Jesmond’

‘Right, let’s cut the shit; and less of this ‘holds the key’ crap. How is that guy implicated?’

‘I didn’t say implicated. I simply suggested that it might benefit your enquiries to see him’

The merchant seaman needed more convincing, he glared at Campfire,

‘Men like you don’t ring strangers up out of the blue unless it serves their purpose. And I’m not stupid. You’re not going to tell me what you’re really up to, are you?’

‘Very well; I can see that you’re a man who deals in straight talking. You doubt me, but don’t doubt this. You’ll find that Marc Jesmond has a mobile phone whose screensaver shows your poor boy’s final agony. Would that put the matter beyond all doubt?’

Nothing more was said; both men knew that it would.

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