Sex, Booze & Consequences - 1. Marcus

He doesn’t really know why he’s agreed to go to a church function in the first place, but his mother so wanted him to come, so here he is, drinking coffee and trying to avoid the priest who’s been attempting to catch his eye—not, he assumes, in order to seduce him, but rather in order to convince him to come to church more often.

‘Marcus!’ his mother calls. ‘I’d like you to meet someone! This is Jenny Clarkson.’

She’s very pretty. A couple of years younger than him, perhaps, with dark hair and a fair complexion and light brown eyes flecked with gold. She smiles at him and shakes his hand and they exchange ‘pleased to meet you’s and ‘how do you do’s.

‘You’ve changed,’ she remarks.

‘Do we know each other?’ he asks, a little embarrassed.

‘We went to school together, but I doubt we ever spoke,’ she assures him. ‘Everyone knew who you were. I’m not surprised at your not remembering me, I was nobody.’

‘You look like somebody to me,’ he says softly. He realises he’s flirting. Why is he flirting? Marcus has never liked a woman before, but something about this one seems to interest him.

‘Mary tells me you’re a barrister?’ Jenny inquires, and for a while they talk about Marcus’s work. Then they talk about Jenny’s work. She studied sociology and works with marginalised youth—the very essence of Christian charity. She seems like such a sweet, compassionate human being, and for a moment Marcus wonders what it would be like to be with a girl, to be normal, to not have to hide anything from his mother and be accepted in church and just be a person.

They meet for coffee the following day, and then for lunch the day after that, and Marcus enjoys her company immensely. They have so much in common, they think the same, they are, in so many many ways, the same. It’s good to have a friend again, albeit one he tries not to swear at too much and is perhaps a bit gentler towards than is his usual way.

Then he realises that in the real world, men and women aren’t just friends, apparently, and that when he takes her out to dinner, she thinks it’s a date. One thing leads to another, and it’s just so convenient. He really does like her, and when he tells her that he loves her, many months later, that’s not a lie either. He really, truly fucking wants to be in love with her. He convinces himself that this can work, that as long as he loves her they can be together. Maybe he wasn’t gay after all. Maybe he just never met the right woman.

But when he takes her to bed on their wedding night, he has to keep his eyes closed. He has to pretend that her moans are deeper in character, that her skin is rougher and her hair shorter, and he feels miserable and horrible. He is, he knows, a shit person.

* * *

The first time it happens, it’s with an intern from work, and how much of a fucking cliché is that? Marcus notices Neil, who has floppy dark hair and brown eyes, but is a little bit tall for his liking. Twenty-three years old, a bright young thing, fresh out of law school. And perhaps he lets his gaze linger a little longer than necessary on Neil’s well-shaped arse, as he walks away after dropping off a memo. He would never act on it, he convinces himself. Not at work. You don’t shit where you eat.

Then comes the office Christmas party, and Marcus attends out of politeness, drinks mulled wine and whisky and puts on his best sociable mask (it’s a good mask; no one’s caught him out yet). He’s starting to get drunk, and suddenly Neil is at his side, laughing at something another intern just said and taking Marcus by the arm.

‘Jesus, look at you, you’re getting really pissed,’ he murmurs. ‘Come on.’ And then he whisks Marcus away from their coworkers and leads him towards the gents’. Marcus concedes that he is rather drunk and follows meekly.

When they get there, Neil checks that the booths are empty and then locks the door before pouncing on Marcus. Marcus lets himself be pushed up against the wall, lets Neil’s tongue enter his mouth, lets the boy loosen his tie, before he remembers who he is and where they are and the fact that his boss and all his coworkers are next door, and pushes him off again.

He draws a few shallow breaths, staring at the cocky youth before him (and he’s only about six years older than Neil, Marcus has to remind himself, even if he feels fucking ancient lately; he’ll be thirty in May). Then he clears his throat and says, ‘I’m, er, I’m flattered really, Neil, but . . . I’m married.’ It’s a lame excuse, for all that it’s true. Marcus wants Neil more than he’s ever wanted Jenny.

‘What, seriously? I thought you just wore that ring to deter people.’ Neil smirks. ‘You don’t act like a married man. Is he nice?’

‘She,’ Marcus corrects him.

‘She?’ Neil repeats, and then he laughs. ‘Oh, the poor woman . . . Does she know her husband’s gay, then?’

‘You listen here, you little arseleakage—’ Marcus begins, but deflates almost immediately. ‘No,’ he says quietly. ‘She doesn’t know.’

‘Only, you pinged on my gaydar pretty much the moment I saw you. Plus you’ve been checking me out for weeks, don’t think I haven’t noticed.’ Neil steps closer. ‘So, how about it?’ he asks softly. ‘Wanna have some fun?’

Marcus places a hand on his chest and glances towards the door. Music and laughter are seeping in through the crack underneath. Almost everyone he knows is in that room. ‘Not here,’ he says softly. He looks at Neil again. The intern stares back with lidded eyes. ‘Your place.’

‘Okay,’ says Neil and smiles.

Marcus has been married for less than a year. Jenny is four months pregnant. They probably haven’t made love since conception. He uses that term in his head, ‘made love’, because he can’t call what he and Jenny do fucking or shagging. She’s his wife, she’s a lady, and it’s the only language available to him.

He and Neil fuck. Repeatedly and with abandon, for several months, until Meg is born just after Marcus’s thirtieth birthday. Then the guilt becomes too much to bear and he breaks it off. Some months later, he meets another gorgeous young man, and the whole process starts again, and Marcus hates himself.

* * *

He lets her have the house.

He moves out quietly, goes to a hotel first where he spends a week in a drunken stupor and doesn’t see anyone. It’s easier that way. Easier to live with the fucking shame and guilt if he can’t remember it properly. He dreads most explaining it to his mother. At least she got the grandchild she always wanted. He wonders if she’ll forgive him. When at last he does tell her, the love and acceptance she gives him is worse than any anger or condemnation could ever have been.

When he’s finally sober enough to move from his bed, he communicates with Jenny through her solicitor. She wants a divorce, of course, good Catholic girl or not. That’s fine. So does he. Infidelity is a good way to get it through quickly, so at least some good has come of his indiscretions. He finds a flat. She agrees that Meg can come and stay with him, every other weekend. That’s gracious of her, really, all things considered.

Marcus throws himself into his work. He spends long nights at the office, living mostly on coffee, biscuits and occasional fruit. He has a bottle of whisky stashed in his desk drawer, and when the office is empty, he drinks, eventually falling asleep over his notes and papers. He doesn’t let it affect his work—at least not much—but after a while it becomes a nightly routine. He never drinks in front of Meg, though. When she stays with him, he’s sober. He’s Dad. He hopes she doesn’t notice how thin and weary he looks, or how sad he is. Sometimes he’s almost certain that she does, though, and it kills him.

One night, in a haze of Lagavulin (at least he makes enough money that he can afford to get pissed on quality stuff), he rings Jenny up. He slurs that he never should have married her and that he’s sorry, and that he was gay all along and nothing’s her fault. He tells her that he’s glad he married her anyway, because Meg is beautiful and he can’t imagine life without her. He tells her that he loves her, really, it’s true, he never lied about that. He just doesn’t love her in the way she deserves to be loved and anyway, everything’s so fucking complicated. In the end he realises he’s been ranting at voicemail for twenty minutes and hangs up. If she ever gets it, she never responds. That’s probably for the best.

He doesn’t drink for a while after that.

Then, a few months later when the divorce has just gone through, he finds himself in a hotel bar after a late running meeting in a town near by his old university, and he feels like he’s seeing a ghost when Jacob approaches the bar next to him, looking exactly the same as he did ten years ago, really, and it occurs to Marcus for the first time that the reason he’s so fond of smokey Islay malts might be that they remind him of this scruffy fuck, who always smoked too much in spite of his fucking asthma.

It’s good, that night. It’s better than good. It’s amazing. Marcus is drunk. Marcus says a lot of really stupid shit that he would never say were he sober. And it’s okay because Jacob does too. See, booze is a good thing. Isn’t it?

Some weeks later, Jacob comes to see him, and they spend a weekend fucking and not much else. But then Jacob goes back home, and Marcus is left alone again, just him and his mind, except for his weekends with Meg, and it gets worse again. What’s even worse is that now Christmas is approaching. His mother invites him over. Her sister’s over from Belfast. Marcus declines. Meg is with her mother and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins for Christmas. He hopes she’s happy. It’s the kind of Christmas a child should have.

And so he sits in his flat, and drinks, and drinks. And drinks. Until the memories fade. Until all he can taste and feel and smell is whisky. He drinks until he passes out on the floor.

It could be hours later, or days, but he’s roused briefly from his stupor by someone breaking into his flat. He thinks he should care. He doesn’t. Then he wakes up in his bed, mostly naked, mouth tasting like death, and there, at his bedside, sits Jacob.

‘You fucking cunt!’ he shouts, standing up the moment Marcus opens his eyes. ‘What the titwanking hell do you think you’re doing? Are you fucking trying to kill yourself? I’ve been calling you all fucking week! I even tracked down your mum’s number to see if she’d heard from you. You had to be here, didn’t you? Hiding like some fucking coward. I had to stick my fucking fingers down your throat, you disgusting fucking pig!’

Then, all shouted out, Jacob collapses in the chair, falling forwards onto Marcus’s chest, and starts to shake. He might be sobbing. Marcus doesn’t ask. Let the man keep his dignity. Instead he raises a hand weakly and twists his long fingers into Jacob’s hair. Jacob covers the hand with his own, gripping tightly. ‘Don’t you ever, ever do anything like this to me again or I will fashion a fucking football out of your skull and sell it to fucking Man United! And then I’ll light the rest of your miserable bloody carcass on fire and watch it burn while singing the motherfucking Bloodhound Gang.’ His threats are made somewhat less ominous by virtue of being mumbled into the duvet covering Marcus’s abdomen.

Marcus takes a deep breath. It rattles in his throat and he coughs. ‘I’m sorry,’ he croaks at last. ‘I’m really . . . Forgive me?’ Jacob makes a non-committal grunt in response and grips the hand in his hair even more tightly. ‘Could . . . Think I could have some water?’ Marcus tries after a moment.

‘Get your own, you twat,’ Jacob mumbles.

‘I’d love to, but you’re on my chest.’

Jacob gets up, picks up the empty glass on the nightstand and vanishes without another word. He returns a minute later with the glass full and hands it to Marcus who gulps it all down at once.

‘Clearly I can’t leave you alone,’ Jacob grumbles. ‘You’re obviously utterly incapable of looking after yourself, you dumb shit.’

Marcus smiles. He doesn’t think it’s normal to be this happy about being called a cunt, a pig, a twat and a dumb shit all in the space of five minutes, but he is anyway. ‘Well, you’re just gonna have to come visit more often, then,’ he says, his voice a bit closer to its usual tone now that he’s no longer as parched as the fucking Gobi desert.

‘Fucking right I will.’ Jacob glares at him with dark eyes, but after a moment his expression softens. ‘You’re such a fucktard, Marcus.’

‘I know.’

‘I fucking . . .’ He licks his lips and sits back in the chair, running a hand through his hair.

‘I know. It’s all right. You don’t have to—’

Jacob leans forward, placing a finger on Marcus’s lips to shut him up and glowers at him. ‘I’m only gonna say this once, so pay attention, you fucking fuckarse!’ He looks away, swallows and looks back at him. ‘I couldn’t fucking live if something happened to you. I don’t want anyone else. You’re the only one who—Fuck me, I sound like such a fucking girl! My point is, I fucking love you and you’d best get used to having me around.’

Marcus doesn’t know what to say to that. His chest feels tight, and his eyes feel really weird, and he’s pretty sure he’s not yet entirely sober, though he feels the onset of a fucking massive hangover. So instead he kisses the finger on his lips and, with whatever modicum of strength he has left, pulls Jacob up onto the bed with him. Jacob pushes the duvet aside and settles next to him, wrapping both arms around him and holding him tightly. Marcus turns over on his side so Jacob can snuggle up against his back.

‘Fuckwit,’ Jacob murmurs. ‘Merry Christmas.’

Marcus wants to say something, but he doesn’t know how to say it, and he’s not entirely certain he can without crying. He clutches Jacob’s hand to his chest and draws a shaky breath and it feels so fucking good to just be held for a moment.

It’s possible that, as he drifts off to sleep, Marcus mutters a drowsy, ‘I love you.’ It’s also possible that Jacob kisses the back of his neck several times, calls him a cunt or something similarly offensive again, and that from his lips the word sounds like a term of affection. Marcus won’t quite be able to remember; he was very drunk at the time. And soon he’s asleep.