Blood Relatives. Stevan Alcock

are separatists,’ Jim had said, ‘who think all men should be castrated.’ I crossed my legs. ‘Some of them,’ Jim had said, ‘tried to buy an island off the coast of Scotland,’ either to put all t’ men on or for themsens, he couldn’t quite recall. They wanted to de-sex the Isle of Man, and Manchester and manhole cover, and chimneybreast wor to become chimney-chest. And ‘women’ wor now spelt ‘wimmin’. What’s more, Jim had said, all lesbos wor trouble, always getting into fights and being aggressive. Once, he said, a lesbo had threatened him wi’ a snooker cue, though he didn’t say why, leaving me to think that all lesbos threaten men wi’ snooker cues.

      The women made for t’ stairs, one slopping the drinks, t’ other portering the box. The box, I noticed, had once held Fairy Liquid bottles. I got up from my seat and crossed to t’ bar. I coughed at the barmaid who wor vigorously twirling glasses on a plastic brush head. She jutted her chin in my direction.

      ‘Do you have a snooker table upstairs?’

      ‘We do, luv, but there’s a meeting on up there tonight.’

      ‘So, erm … what meeting’s that, then?’

      She set two upturned glasses on a red slop cloth.

      ‘Gay Lib meeting. Sue and Lorna are setting up.’

      She spoke brusquely, as if it wor owt o’ nowt and time wor pressing. Her hands ceased their busying about t’ bar, her chin jutted out again, only over my shoulder toward someone else. Behind me I heard a voice saying, ‘Hey, Rick? Rick?’

      I turned, feeling the colour flooding from my face as I found mesen eyeball-to-eyeball wi’ an ex-school mate.

      ‘Warren?’

      ‘Rick?’

      My skin wor poppin’ and burstin’ like popcorn on t’ hob. Warren had sat next to me for t’ first three year of high school. I hated him, cos he wor good at maths and I worn’t. He’d shot up an inch or two since I’d seen him last, and had the wispy makings of a moustache on his upper lip. I closed my eyes, willing Warren away, but when I opened ’em he wor still there, grinning like a gargoyle.

      ‘Rick Thorpe. Where have you been hiding?’

      I grabbed an ice cube from t’ bucket on t’ bar, crushed it in my fist, letting the water trickle between my fingers.

      ‘I … I … might ask yersen t’ same question.’

      ‘Me? I wor just passing by when I spotted you through the window. So this is where you lurk, is it? No one sees you any more.’

      ‘Here … and other places.’

      I smiled inanely at him. I had to escape, to reach cool water, cold air, but I wor trapped. I would have to … have to … Out of t’ corner of my eye I clocked two men arriving. A young’un wi’ a haystack of hair and decked out in Northern Soul gear – the platform shoes, the highwaister keks and a tank top wi’ a star motif on it – and an older bloke, thinning on top, wearing purple crushed velvet loons and a green denim jacket spewed over wi’ badges and buttons. He had the friggin’ set: Anti-Nazi League, pink triangles, pro-abortion, trade unions, Chairman Mao and Che Guevara, Keep Music Live, Rock Against Racism, and down both lapels, lines of friggin’ miniature railway pins. ‘YES, I’M HOMOSEXUAL TOO’ screamed the first badge in my sightline.

      ‘Oh, fuck!’ I murmured. Please, Warren, please – I wor thinking so loudly it felt that I wor shouting at him – please don’t turn round, don’t look at those men. I put a hand on Warren’s shoulder so he wor jammed between me and the bar stool.

      Warren looked petrified, though fuck knows why – I wor t’ one in t’ pig pen.

      ‘So,’ he wor saying, ‘what brings you in here, then?’

      ‘Me? I’m … meeting … someone.’

      ‘Bird, is it?’

      From t’ edge of my eye I saw t’ two men move to t’ end of t’ bar, where they wor served by t’ barmaid. Then, drinks in hand, they headed toward t’ stairs.

      ‘No, no, truth be known … Well, yeah, you’ve got me, yeah, I am. I’m meeting this bird and she’ll be here any mo’, so it might be a good idea if … Warren, I’ll be back in a jiffy, I’m bustin’ for a leak.’

      I pelted for t’ gents. Fortunately, it wor empty. No friggin’ mirror. Never a mirror in t’ gents. Mirrors are poncy. I rammed on t’ cold tap and threw water onto my neck, arms, face. I gripped t’ cool porcelain sink, inhaling and exhaling, my face tight wi’ agony, wi’ relief.

      I could scarper. Or I could slip up them stairs. I dried my face and hands on t’ dirty roller towel. What did it matter if Warren knew? Let him blab, let him tell every so-called friggin’ school mate who never wor my mate, let him tell t’ headmaster, all t’ teachers, every last one of those friggin’ tossers who said I wor a useless good-for-nowt and that I wor wasting my life. I wor out of their grasp now. No more hiding in t’ science-block toilets in a blind panic or bunking off school cos I wor terrified. A strange, floating calmness coated me. I stood tall, patted my hair. I strode back into t’ bar. Warren had skedaddled.

      I wor miffed to find my drink had been whisked away, so I ordered another one.

      Folk started arriving in greater numbers now, singly and in pairs. My finger ends wor tingling. I bided my time, watching. It wor as if I’d stumbled on some secret society, and I wor about to be initiated, stretched out naked before ’em while all manner of acts wor performed on me. It occurred to me that maybe Warren hadn’t left at all. Maybe he wor upstairs wi’ t’ rest of ’em. That would take the biscuit. I stood there, undecided what to do. Then I took a long sup from my lager and lime and headed up the stairs into t’ growing hubbub.

      There wor a good thirty people there. Thankfully, most of them wor men. The meeting passed in a daze. I wor crushed by t’ stomach-aching ordinariness of it all. I found it hard to fathom what it wor all about, and my attention drifted off into musings on some of t’others about me. Such as the man in t’ Michael Caine glasses and mustard poloneck sweater. Or t’ long-haired man in black velvet loons who perched cross-legged on his chair all evening. The woman in t’ white denim all-in-one, the bib decorated wi’ flower patches. The thin-faced Asian bloke who listened wi’ his chin tilted toward t’ cornice.

      My stomach wor growling so loudly I wor sure everyone could hear it. The weasly, freckle-headed man sitting next to me must have heard. And yet, somehow the demons beneath t’ skin stayed quiet.

      Mustard-poloneck man stood up, took off his specs and wiped them, then welcomed everyone, ‘especially the new faces’. A few heads swivelled my way, so I looked down at my boots.

      There wor an agenda. And friggin’ points.

      Point one: Should the women have separate meetings? This wor held over, cos there wor so few women present. Maybe they wor stuck on t’ island Jim said they’d bought.

      Point two: Back copies of Gay News should be collected and donated to fish-and-chip shops as politicised wrapping. This wor passed, and two people said they’d take care of it.

      Point twelve: Should PIE be part of t’ meetings?

      I turned to t’ weasly man next to me. ‘Pie?’ I whispered hopefully. I wor friggin’ famished.

      ‘Paedophile Information Exchange,’ he replied.

      This caused a long and heated debate about t’ Gay Lib position on t’ age of consent, wi’ some saying there shouldn’t be one at all, and others saying it should be lowered from twenty-one to sixteen, which one of t’ PIE men said wor discriminatory against kids, and then he got into a right shouting ruckus wi’ this other bloke which ended wi’ t’ PIE man calling us all fuckin’ fascists and storming out. Finally there wor a show of hands. I didn’t raise my hand. PIE would still have lost.

      There wor more friggin’ points, and then we wor asked if