Westpoint Tales - Jon & Bobby's Tale, 3

(I forgot - Lagoon, Yacht Club at left rear.)

It seemed like a long time, but it was only about 30 minutes really, until he emerged from the water. First, his head and shoulders burst through, then he caught a wave, rose up the rock-face and crawled out. He stood up and walked back to the foot of the cliff, out of their sight.

Seals started to emerge from the water. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry now.

In a couple of minutes he appeared over the top of the cliff, fully dressed again. He grinned and climbed back over the fence.

“Wow, Jon," Billy exclaimed. “How did you get back up that cliff? How did you get down there in the first place?”

“Very, very carefully,” he replied. “I’ve had a lot of practice climbing rocks. This is great! Can we go and get my bags now please? I’m going to stay here.”

“You’re going to stay here?” Dee said. “How long are you going to stay here?”

“I dunno. A few days, a few weeks – whatever. We’ll see.”

“But. But how are you going to live?” Bobby asked worriedly. “You’re not a seal. You can’t live out on those rocks.”

“No, of course not. I’ve got no layers of blubber on me. I’ve got a tent in my pack, and a sleeping bag, and everything I’ll need. I’ll be fine, don’t worry. This is my life.”

“This is your life? You’re a strange, strange person, Jon Nobody. Well, as long as you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. Can we get my bags now please?”

As they walked back to the car, Dee asked. “Are you going to be all right? I don’t see how you can put a tent up on those rocks.”

“I’m not going to put it up on the rocks. There’s flat grassy areas at the back of the beach in the bay there. I’ll be fine. I’ll have more bodyguards than the King of England.”

“But what are you going to eat?” Billy asked.

“Fish of course.” He looked at Bobby. “Raw fish. Seal food,” he grinned.

Dee opened the car and the boys pulled the bags out. Jon took the backpack, Billy had the suitcase and Bobby took the carrier bag. Dee let them. She believed in equality of the sexes, but only to a certain degree.

They went part-way back up the track and then climbed down to a small grassed ledge below them. Jon shrugged the pack off and lowered it to the ground. He took the case from Billy and the bag from Bobby and put them down next to the pack.

“Thanks guys. I’ll put the tent up later. There’s plenty of time for that. Now, I’m going swimming.”

He started undressing again, completely unconcerned about the three pairs of eyes watching him. Billy actually made a low whistle as Jon’s slender, boyish body emerged from his clothes. When clad only in his khaki boxers, he stopped and shook hands with the other three.

“Great to have met you all today. Thanks for all your help. I’ve gotta go now.”

He slipped the boxers off. He was definitely not a child! He grinned again, waved, dived off the ledge into the sea and was gone.

They stood there waiting and watching the waves, but he didn’t re-appear. Dee had had enough. “Well, he’s gone. Come on you two. He might be going to stay out here, but we’re not. It’s time we went back to town.”

“But, Dee,” Bobby protested. “Couldn’t we wait a bit longer?”

“No, we couldn’t. Come on.”

The boys, reluctantly, followed Dee back to the car and she drove back to town.

“He’s finished with us for now. He’s busy and here’s nothing we could do anyway if he wants to stay there. If he’s 18, then he’s an adult and no-one’s going to tell him what he can or cannot do.

“He’s not 18,” said Billy. “He’s 17. He said that he’s nearly 18.”

“Nearly 18!” Bobby scoffed. “There’s no way he’s that old. He’s more like 14 or maybe 15, but he’s not nearly 18.”

“He says that he is, why would he lie?” said Dee. “He’s not a child anyway. Naked, he’s definitely almost a man.”

“Yeah, definitely!” Billy agreed.

“Shut up, Billy. Don’t be crude,” said Bobby.

Dee said “Look, I’m going to come back and check on him tomorrow. You can come too, if you want.”

“Yeah! Thanks Dee. We’ll do that.”

Dee went back to the Lyon’s house in the morning and collected the brothers. They went back out to the cape, but, while a small green tent was there, along with his luggage, there was no sign of Jon. A big seal, lying in the sun, wouldn’t let them go into the tent. It got really agitated when they got too close, so they backed off.

They waited around a while, and then went back home. As she dropped them off, Dee told the ‘twins’, “I’m sure he’ll be all right. He’s obviously got his bodyguards looking after his stuff.”

“That was amazing, Dee. How can you get a seal to look after your gear?”

“I can’t, but he can, obviously. See you around, Boys. Let me know if you see him again.”

“Will do, and you tell us if you see him.”

“Thanks, Dee. ‘Bye.”

“Later Guys.”

Over the next week, Dee made several trips out to the Cape, at different times of the day, but she didn’t see Jon again. Billy and Bobby also went back there three times. Once with Dee, once with their father and once with their older sister driving and grumbling all the way out there and home again. They never saw him either and, on the third trip, his tent and gear had all gone.
Bobby, especially, was very disappointed. He couldn’t help remembering Jon’s words. “I have never seen you before today, and, hopefully, I’ll never see you again.” But, they had patched that quarrel up, hadn’t they?

He wasn’t sure why, but he really wanted to see the kid again. He liked him.

Then, on a sunny afternoon, Jon came back to Westpoint. He came in through the river mouth, sitting high and dry on a small raft made of logs and driftwood, with his bags sitting around him.

The raft slowly and smoothly made its way up the river and into the lagoon where the fishing boats were berthed. The boy, dressed in his army fatigues, sat looking straight ahead and ignoring the many eyes watching him.

Everyone working around the wharves stopped and stared as the raft, with no visible means of propulsion or steering, silently made its way across the lagoon and on to the pebbled beach by the old Westpoint Yacht Club’s sheds.

The kid stepped off the raft and on to the dry ground. He lifted his pack, case and carrier bag up on to the grass above the retaining wall at the back of the beach. He then pushed the raft back out in to the water and it moved away and back out into the river as he stood watching it go. He put on his backpack, picked up the other bags and walked up into the town.

After walking a couple of blocks along the first street he came to, he found his way across to the long main street. He looked along there and started walking back up to the end he had seen before. At the next corner, he saw the ‘Vacancies” sign in the window of the Beachhouse Backpackers and Boardinghouse, so he went in there and rang the bell at the office window.

The wooden slide slammed open and a tall, frizzy-haired woman demanded, “What do you want!?”

“Whoah. I’m sorry.” Jon jumped back from the counter.

“Oh.” She deflated a bit and smiled at him. “Sorry, Kid. I thought you were someone else.”

“No. I’m just me,” he replied.

“Now where have I heard that before? Sorry, Kid. What can I do for you?”

“How much is a room for one person please?”

“A room for one? $35 a night.”

“Thirty-five dollars? That’s, umm,” he did a quick calculation on his fingers. “That’s $245 a week.”

“That’d be right. That’s room only, no meals and laundry and hot water are extra.”

“Oh. I can’t afford that. Well, could I please have a room for just one night while I look for something cheaper?”

“You won’t find anything cheaper in Westpoint. One night then?”

“Oh. I guess that I can’t afford to live in Westpoint then. Thank you. Sorry to disturb you.”

Crestfallen, he turned to go, but the woman stopped him.

“Hey! Wait a minute, Kid. You’re not just a tourist then? Are you looking for somewhere to live?”

“Yes Ma’am, I was, but I can’t afford it. I haven’t got much money.”

“And why not? Are you a run-away?”

“No, I’m not. More like a throw-away really. I’m not a kid, I’m nearly 18.”

“Seventeen? That old? You don’t look it.”

“Well I am. ‘Bye, Ma’am.”

“Wait a minute, Kid. Do you want somewhere to live or not? We can give you a single room for $80 a week.”

“Eighty dollars! That would be great. I can afford that, for a couple of weeks anyway, until I can find a job.”

“Okay then. $80 a week, no meals and laundry and hot water are coin operated. You’ll be on the top floor, in an attic bedroom. It’s just a poky little room but it’s a single and $80 for regular boarders.”

“Thank you. I’ll take it. Do you know where I could get a job?”

“Well, I don’t know. What are you good at?”

“Umm. Nothing really, but I’m honest and a hard worker. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

“Well, nothing dishonest.”

“Good for you. Have you thought about going on the game?’

“The game? I don’t know what that is.”

“Prostitution. Boy-whores can make good money. Especially the good-looking ones.”

“I don’t think I could do that, Ma’am.”

“No. I didn’t think you would really. You’re a nice kid, I think. Come and look at this room.”

She led the way up the stairs.

“My name is Sherry. Sherry Coombs. What’s yours?”

“Jon. J. O. N. Jon.”

“Okay then Jon. Nice to meet you. What’s your other name?”

“I don’t have another name – just Jon.”

Sherry stopped and looked back at him. “Of course you’ve got another name. We need to know it in case this old place burns down or something; there are regulations. What is your whole name?”

“Oh. If you have to know – it’s Williamson. Jon Williamson. But I’d rather just be called Jon.”

“That’s fine. Jon it is then. Now we go up these other stairs. Watch your step, it’s dark up here.”

They climbed the second set of stairs. Dark, steep and narrow, these were only half the width of the first ones.

“This old place used to be a hotel. Guests were on the first floor and staff slept up here. Now we keep the first floor for backpackers and our regular boarders live up here. A word of advice, don’t let the other boarders lead you astray. There’s some pretty rough characters amongst them. Deadbeats really. Keep your door locked.”

“I will. Thank you Ma’am – Sherry.”

“You’re welcome, Kid. Are you sure that you’re 17? You’re small for your age.”

“I am. Nearly 18 actually.”

“Okay, I’ll believe you. Thousands wouldn’t. If you’re serious about a job, go try the Food-World Supermarket. They don’t pay much, but they’re always looking for staff. Probably because they don’t pay much.”

“Food-World Supermarket? Great. Thanks, I’ll do that right away.” He beamed his winning smile and Sherry sighed. She wished that she was 20 years younger.

“Yeah, they’re just up the street, on the far corner of the next block. If you see the manager, David Craddock, tell him that I sent you. He’s a cousin of mine.”

“Excellent! Thank you Ma’am, I’ll do that.”

“Sherry,” she said. “Don’t call me Ma’am, I’m not that old. Here’s the room. It’s not much but it’s only $80.”

It was a dark, dingy little room. A single bed, a wooden kitchen chair and a painted chest of drawers were the only furnishings. The carpet was threadbare, the wallpaper faded and tatty in places and the paintwork was yellowed. There weren’t any windows, the room was lit by one, bare, bulb. Am old framed print of some faded roses was the only decoration. Jon stood looking around quietly.

Sherry said, “It’s actually quite a new bed, one of the best we’ve got. Toilet and showers are to your right at the foot of the stairs. What do you think? You want it?”

“Oh, yes please, Sherry Ma’am!” he beamed a killer smile which seemed to light up the room. “This is wonderful. I’ve never had a room of my own before.”

“Okay, good. Doesn’t take much to make you happy then. That curtain in the corner is your wardrobe, there should be some coat-hangers in there. Don’t play loud music after 10pm. Umm, if there’s anything you want to know, just ask.”

“Thanks Sherry. I don’t have any music. This is great – just great. Exactly what I need.”

“Okay Kid. Enjoy it then. Oh, the laundry is down on the ground floor, out back of the kitchen. You’re welcome to use the kitchen, just clean up your own mess.”

“I will. Thank you.”

They went back down to the office where he paid a week’s rent in advance and collected his bags to haul them up to his room. As he was starting up the stairs, Sherry stopped him.

“Kid – Jon, you’re welcome to have visitors as long as they don’t disturb the other guests and we don’t like people staying overnight – fire regulations again.”

“Thanks, Sherry. I won’t be having visitors, I’ve got no friends in Westpoint.”

“I don’t imagine that it will stay that way for long. You’ll make lots of friends here.”

“I probably won’t. I’m too weird for most people. But, thanks.”

Sherry and her partner, Jacquie, watched him go up the stairs. “Weird?” she said. “I don’t think so. I think you’re a lovely boy. You’ll make friends and soon.”

Jacquie poked her in the ribs. “He’s too young for you, anyway.”

“He is,” Sherry agreed. “Much too young – dammit!”

Westpoint Tales- Jon & Bobby's Tale, 2

“Hey. No need for that, Brother,” said Billy. “Just because someone doesn’t agree with you, doesn’t make him a weirdo.”

“He is fucking weird. Everything about him is weird – walking around with all his stuff in the rain.”

“He can’t help it if it’s raining, can he? Lay off, Bobby. I think that you need to apologise.”

“Apologise? What the hell for? I’ve done nothing.”

“I’ve done nothing? You started it. He said that he wanted to see the seals and you started on about how horrible they are.”

“Well excuse me for breathing! So I’m not allowed to have my own opinion about anything now. Is that how it goes?”

“Don’t be stupid. Of course you can have opinions, but you don’t have to force them on people and get upset when they don’t agree with you.”

“I wasn’t forcing anything on anybody. I was just saying what I think. He’s the one who got all personal.”

“He was not. He just told you about seals, he obviously knows more about them than you do”

“Obviously? Screw you! What are you taking his side for? You’re supposed to be my brother.”

“Of course I’m your brother. So what? Doesn’t mean that I have to agree with every stupid thing you say.”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you too, o , actually – not!”

“Ha Ha. Tell me when to laugh.”

“I wasn’t being funny and neither were you, Dickwad.”

“Wanker! I’m outa here. Enjoy your new friend.”

Bobby got up to walk away and they exchanged some more insults until Jon got to his feet and shocked them both into silence by yelling, “Shut the Fuck up! Shut up, the pair of you. Bobby, you stay right where you are.”

“Screw you too, Weirdo.”

“Shut up! Sit down, both of you. Sit down or I’ll knock you down.”

Bobby and Billy sat down where they were. A bit nervous now, they looked at the strange kid.

“That’s better. Thank you. Now you listen to me. Don’t, either one of you, don’t ever let anyone or anything come between you and your brother.

I had a brother and now he’s gone. Paul was my big brother, he was my role-model, my protector and my best friend. He was my only friend. I wasn’t always nice to him. Sometimes I was a right little shit, and sometimes he was mean to me, but mostly we were tight.

I loved my brother. I didn’t realise how much I loved him until I lost him, and now it’s too late. He’s dead and gone forever, and I miss him SO much! I would give anything, anything! I would give my right-hand, if only I could have my brother back, if only for an hour. I would give everything I own.

I would even top myself if I could be sure that I would be with him again. Are you hearing me? Billy? Bobby? Don’t ever let anything; don’t ever do anything that would separate you from your brother. Absolutely nothing and no-one else matters. Your brother is your best friend and your friend for life. Don’t lose him. Believe me, it hurts. Are you hearing me?”

“Yes, I’m hearing you,” said Billy. “Sorry, Bobby. Please don’t walk away.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry too; I love you, Billy. Thank you, Jon.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Billy agreed. “I love you too, Brother.”

“That’s better,” Jon aid. “Don’t ever forget it. I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be.”

The three boys looked around at the speaker. A curly-haired teenage girl had walked up to them unnoticed.

“If yelling is what it took to make them listen, then you yell loudly! Don’t be sorry. I heard what you said. I don’t have any brothers but I’m sure-as-hell going to tell my sisters that I love them.”

“Dee! Gidday,” Billy smiled. “You’re exactly right too. Jon, this is Dee Jamieson-Carter. Dee, this is Jon, he’s new in town.”

“Welcome to Westpoint then, Jon. It’s the coolest town but we can always do with more people.”

So, Dee sat down and joined in their conversation. Despite their three-way barrage of questions, they weren’t able to get much more information out of the new kid. He wouldn’t say what his name was, or what it used to be, or where he came from. He just said it was a farm, on an island and isolated.

He did tell them his age, but none of them believed that this smooth-faced boy was ‘nearly 18’.

There were no taxis in Westpoint.

When the rain stopped suddenly, Jon packed up his gear, closed the pack and bag and stood up. “Well, people, it was nice to meet you. Now the rain’s stopped, I’d better be going. I’ve got a long way to go. I hope I’ll see you again sometime.”

“You’re going back to the I-Site?” asked Billy.

“No. I don’t need to now. You guys have already told me all that I need to know.”

Bobby said, “You don’t seriously think that you’re going to walk all the way out to the Cape, do you?”

“Sure I am. There’s no other way to get there and I’ve got nothing else to do. I’ll get there, one step at a time.”

“With all your luggage? And what are you going to do when it starts raining again?”

“Get wet, I suppose,” Jon replied with a little grin. “A bit of water never killed anyone. Not rainwater anyway. See you Guys.”

“Wait a minute, Jon,” said Dee. “You can’t walk all that way. I’ll take you out there, I’ve got Mum’s car. Sharon Hartigan was supposed to meet me here, but it doesn’t look like she’s coming. Come on then, the car’s just around the back.”

“But. . I. .” He looked ruefully up at the dark sky. “Okay. Thank you, Dee. I would love a ride. I can pay you for the gas.”

“There’s no need for that. Mum’s paying anyway, though she’ll never know it. Come on then, it’ll be something to do. Are you two coming as well?”

“Us?” said Billy and Bobby together.

“Of course, you. There’s no-one else here, is there? You two can be the chaperones in case Mr. Almost-18 here starts getting frisky.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Dee.”

She looked him up and down and grinned. “No, I didn’t really think you would. Bugger it. I was just joking. Come on then, let’s do it before the rain starts again.”

They went down and around to the street behind the grandstand and got into Dee’s mother’s small car. Luggage went in the boot, ‘twins’ in the back and Jon in front, next to the driver. Dee drove them out of town, through the large suburb of Carver’s Beach and on out to the Cape.

Luckily, when they arrived, it was still not raining. They left his luggage in the car and the four of them walked up the short track to the lookout above the seal colony.

Dee was panting as they climbed. “Damm. I wish they’d put the road up here. This was where Superboy first showed his true colours – well, around the other side that is, on the track up from the Star Tavern carpark.”

“Superboy?” Jon queried.

“Yeah. Mum’s friend, Justin. Don’t you know about Superboy? Hang around here and you will. Superboy owns Westpoint.”

“Superboy owns Westpoint? Really?”

“No, not really. He doesn’t actually own it, but he might as well. My Uncle Justin is the main-man around here.”

“You can stop name-dropping, Dee. He’s not impressed. Besides, Superboy’s everyone’s friend, not just yours.”

“I know that, but he’s MY uncle. Well, kind-of he is. Here’s the seals, at last!”

They stepped up to the fenced-off viewing area looking down at the seals on the rocks below. Dee, Bobby and Billy had all been there before and were not that interested. They just watched Jon to see what his reaction would be, and they were not disappointed.

He stood quietly looking down at the seals; there must have been 40 or 50 of them, at least. Cows and calves and big old bulls were lying around on the flat rocks. As he stood watching them, a smile spread across Jon’s face, and what a smile! All white teeth and sunshine, his face was radiant with joy.

Three pairs of eyes watched him intently. Three hearts were melting.

After a couple of quiet minutes, he climbed up and stood on top of the security fence.

“Jon! What are you doing?” Dee exclaimed. “Be careful. You fall down there and you’re dead.”

“I’m always careful, Dee,” he replied. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled a long, loud, penetrating whistle.

What they saw next was something that none of the handful of people there would ever forget. All movement stopped on the rocks below them and the seals, who normally ignored the humans observing them, all turned and looked up at the boy up on the fence high above them. Then they started barking, loud persistent barking like a hundred dogs gone wild. Even the youngest of the pups were doing it and the old bulls were making deep-throated roars.

Jon climbed down, on the outside of the fence, and looked at Dee and the boys. “I’ll be back soon. If you get tired of waiting, just leave my bags in the carpark.”

He disappeared from sight, rapidly scaling down the cliff face. After a couple of minutes, he appeared again, down below them as he walked out to the front of the rock ledges and he was naked! His pale, white, body was completely naked, not a stitch on him. He stood on the front of the rocks and then dived into the surging water.

Every seal there followed him into the water in a series of lunging waves and, within a few seconds the whole area below them was completely deserted, no sign of life anywhere.

“Wow!” said Dee. “What just happened down there?”

“Who knows?” Bobby replied. “You don’t think that they’re going to hurt him, do you?”

“Nah. Doubt it,” Billy said. “He seems to know what he’s doing.”

“What is he doing?” said Dee, looking at the surging water.

“Well, I don’t know.”

“There he is!” Bobby pointed excitedly as a white-haired head broke through the surface.

They could see his ear-to-ear grin from away down there. He rolled over and, with a flick of the feet, he was gone again.

Other heads, seals’ heads, were continually surfacing and then diving again. Dee thought she saw Jon again, but she wasn’t sure.

Westpoint Tales - Jon & Bobby's Tale, 1

(Westpoint : 2025AD)

Midday in Westpoint, a typical wet and gray Spring day. A persistent rain fell drenching the town and colouring it the same dull gray as the sky. It was, mostly, windless but occasional heavy belts of rain moved across the landscape.

All along the edges of the streets miniature rivers ran in the flooded gutters. The few people going about their business dashed between vehicles and shops, keeping as much as possible underneath the sheltering verandahs which covered much of the sidewalks along the main street.

Right on twelve, midday, as the town clock sounded the hour with the bells ringing out the Westminster Chimes, a particularly heavy shower of rain came down and a passenger coach swept across the bridge over the river. Spraying water from its wheels, the coach made its way along the main street and nosed into the open-fronted depot – Duncan Motors Ltd.

“Welcome to another lovely day in Westpoint.” The driver stood and looked back up the aisle as he addressed his passengers. “We will be here for exactly one hour. The Doo Duck Inn, café/restaurant is 2 blocks down that way. Billy’s Burgers are across the street and one block down. There are several other cafes – something for everyone’s taste. We leave for Nelson at 1pm. Don’t rely on the town clock; the silly old thing is often wrong.”

There was only one passenger leaving the service here and he followed the driver around to the rear to collect his luggage. The driver climbed up into the luggage compartment and he passed the bags out to the teenage boy standing out in the rain. There was a big case, with wheels on one end, a large, overstuffed carrier bag and a huge tramper’s backpack, complete with a bedroll, boots and other packages tied on the outside.

The boy sat the case and carrier bag down on the wet ground while he shrugged into the straps of his backpack. Then, with a damp smile and thanks to the driver, he picked up the bags and walked over to the nearest shop-front verandah on the main street.

From the shelter in the coach, the driver watched him go. A slender teenage boy, far too small to be carrying a pack that size, never mind the bags as well. He had a large black beanie seemingly permanently attached to his head – the hat hadn’t come off once during the journey despite the heat inside the coach.

He was wearing army fatigues, a big oversized jacket and baggy, multi-pocketed trousers, but the kid was definitely not in the army; he was far too young for that; despite the fact that he had paid an adult fare, (15 and over).

He reminded the driver of, (a) himself when he was much, much younger, and, (b) of a little boy dressed up in men’s clothing. So, what was he doing tripping around the country all on his own? There was no-one here to meet him, and what was with all that luggage? The bags must have weighed more that the kid did himself.

‘Ah well, none of my business anyway. ‘Bye kid, have a nice time in Westpoint – in the rain.’

The boy stood under the shelter, looking down the long street, while he put his pack on properly and buckled it up. Two other boys came across the street, water splashing from their running feet. They stopped next to him under the verandah.

“Hey,” one of the pale-skinned, black-haired boys smiled at the stranger. “Just off the bus? Welcome to Westpoint. You’ve got a great day for it. Bloody rain.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I don’t mind the rain, it keeps the dust down.”

“It does that. You won’t see much dust around here. Where are you from?”

“Far, far away. Is there a visitor information centre around here?”

“Visitor information? Oh, yeah, the I-site – there’s an office two blocks along that way, in Brigham Street, next to Mr. Roselli’s office. Just turn right at P. J’s Music Centre.”

The two boys stood waiting for the rain to ease off, but the stranger smiled his thanks and plodded off down the street with his excess baggage. He really didn’t mind the rain then?

Two blocks down, he came to P. J’s Music Centre on the corner and turned into the side street. The ‘I-Site’, information centre was easily identified by its signage and was just behind the Music Centre, in the same building, but when he reached it, it was closed. There were no lights showing inside the darkened building and the glass door was locked.

The stranger stood in the rain and studied the town-map displayed on the inside of the window, and then carried on down to the next block where the map promised that there would be a public park – Britannia Square. There should be some shelter there.

He entered the park at the corner, passing under the gray-stone arches of the Memorial Gates – a memorial to the town’s sacrificed in some long-forgotten war.

‘Gates, but no fences – go figure.’

He walked on into the park on the diagonal, tree-lined path. There were several statues along the way – old identities and fathers of the town. One was a large marble bust of some old codger who used to be the MP for the district; but the one that caught his eye was a small, bronze figure mounted on a plinth of the same gray-stone as the arches.

At first he thought that it was an elf or something, but then he realised that it was of a youth, laughing and running while his outstretched hand pointed west, to the sea.

‘Very clever. Someone pointing west in Westpoint.’

He didn’t stop to read the inscription.

The path took him out to a large, oval, rubber-coated, running track which surrounded the central sports-field. There, he stood, still in the rain, looking around. Then he hurried over to the shelter of the old grandstand at the side of the track.

Out of the persistent rain at last, he climbed up to the top of the tiered/stepped seats and thankfully sank down in the back corner of the top row. He dropped the bags, one on each side, and rested the heavy backpack on the wide ledge behind the seats. He unbuckled and shrugged out of the straps.

Next, he took off the black woolen beanie and wrung it out. His medium-length hair was white-blond. It really was literally white, the colour of freshly fallen snow, but it tended to take on the hue of whatever clothes he was wearing – currently the green/brown of his army fatigues. His hair was long on top and it also tended to take on the shape of a dandelion seed-head, which was why he wore the beanie to control it.

He took a bath towel out of the carrier bag and dried his face and hands, and then removed small packages from the pockets of the pack and proceeded to make his lunch – salad vegetables, cold rice and fruit, washed down with plain water.

A couple of minutes later, as he sat eating, with his fingers from a paper plate, two boys came running in out of the rain – the same two boys he had spoken to outside the bus station.

“Hello again, Boy-Off-the-Bus,” one of them smiled as they climbed up the seats towards him. “You’ve found yourself a dry spot then.”

“And there’s not many of them about,” the other boy agreed. “Did you get what you wanted from the I-Site? You did find it, didn’t you?”

“Hey,” he replied. “Yes I found your I-Site all right, but it was closed. There’s no-one there.”

“Closed? Maybe they’ve gone for lunch; I think they do that sometimes. There can’t be many tourists wandering around on a day like this.”

“You should try again, after lunch,” the second boy said “They’ll probably be back then. Maybe.”

The two boys sat/knelt down on the row of seats below the stranger, one on either side of him. Two pairs of identical blue eyes looked up into his green eyes. Their shiny black hair hung around their faces in jagged spikes, dripping water.

“What a day to arrive in town! It’s not always like this you know,” said the first.

“No, it’s not,” the other agreed. “Sometimes it’s wet AND cold.”

“That’s okay,” the stranger smiled. “I quite like the rain.”

“You do? Well I think you’re going to love it here!”

“Maybe,” said he stranger. He handed the towel to one of the boys and took out a second towel from the bag and offered it to the other. “Here. Dry your heads. Get rid of some of that water.”

“Cool. Thanks.” They both wiped their faces and rubbed vigorously to dry their sodden hair.

“Do you always carry towels around with you?”

“You’ve got your lunch stuff too. What else have you got in those enormous bags?”

“All my worldly goods – everything I own. I’m like a snail with my house on my back.”

“Everything you own? So are you here for good? Going to live here are you?”

“Maybe. We’ll see what we see.”

“You could do worse. Westpoint’s a pretty cool town, if you like small towns. So, what’s your name? I’m Bobby Lyons and this is Billy. We’re brothers and we’re 14 and 15.”

“My name is Jon. J. O. N. Jon.”

“Jon who?”

“Just Jon. Nothing else.”

“But you must have a second name, a family name, everybody does.”

“Not everybody, I don’t. I used to but I don’t have a family anymore, so no family name.”

“So you’re Just Jon from far away.”

“That’s me. Jon Nobody. You two are brothers, one year apart? I thought that you were twins actually.

“No,” Bobby grinned. “Lots of people make that mistake because we’re in the same class at school. We get called ‘the twins’ all the time, but we’re not really. Billy is 10 months older than I am.”

“Billy’s 15 and Bobby’s 14. How come you’re both in the same class?”

“When we were little, Billy wouldn’t start school until I did, so we’ve always been together. For 2 months of the year we’re the same age. I’ll turn 15 in November and we’ll both be 15 until Billy is 16 in January.”

“That’s very cool. I had a brother, we were very close, but he was always 3 years older than me.”

“You HAD a brother? What happened, did you lose him?”

“Yes, I lost him. Paul is dead.”

“He’s dead? That’s too bad. I’m sorry. How did he die?”

“Horribly. Fucking dolphins killed him.”

“Dolphins? The fishy things? But dolphins are friendly aren’t they? They help people.”

“Friendly? That’s what Paul thought too. Bastards. They’re predators and nasty, vicious killers. I hate dolphins.”

“Yeah. That’s understandable, I guess.” Billy was really embarrassed now and wishing that they’d never started this conversation. Bobby was a bit quicker, he changed the subject.

“What did you want to ask the I-Site people? Maybe we can help you. We’ve always lived around here, so we might know what you want.”

“Okay. Where are the seals? I heard that there was a colony around here where they live and breed on the shore.”

“The seals?” Bobby exclaimed. “That’s what brought you to Westpoint, the seals?”

“Yes, of course. I came to see the seals.”

“But why? Seals are horrible things. They’re dangerous and they stink. Great fat lumbering things, like dogs’ head on slugs’ bodies. They steal fish too. Fishermen all hate them. Horrible things, seals.”

Jon looked intently at Bobby, and then he shrugged. “Well that’s you finished. Seals do not stink, they’re cleaner than you are. Their breath smells of fish just like yours would if that was all you ate. They are clumsy when they are on land, but when they’re in their natural element, in the water, they are the most graceful creatures under the sun.

The worst killers out at sea come out there in boats, stealing other creatures’ food supply that they have lived on, and conserved, for thousands of years – since long before there were any men here, or any of their nasty, vicious offspring either.”

He turned his back on Bobby and addressed Billy. “Do you know where I can find the seal colony?”

“You, umm. You go back out of town, over the bridge but don’t turn left to the highway at the end. You just go straight ahead, past Carver’s Beach and on out to the Cape. I think you’ll find that it’s signposted. Just follow the signs from the bridge.”

“Okay, thank you. How far is it?”

“I think it’s about 15k. You’re never going to walk all that way with all your luggage.”

“15k? You’re right, I wouldn’t want to walk that far. Is there a bus service out that way?”

“No, absolutely not. No buses go anywhere near it.”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Bobby squawked. “What do you mean, nasty vicious offspring of men? Are you talking about me? And what do you mean, that’s me finished?”

“The friends of my friends are my friends and their enemies are my enemies. I have no desire to know you. I’ve never seen you before today and, hopefully, I’ll never see you again. I have finished with you.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are? I don’t want to know you either. You’re a bloody weirdo!”

Westpoint Tales - Christian & Roman's Tale, 7 (Final)

Christian was afraid. He wasn’t scared, (much), but he was afraid that he was going to get beaten up today. It had to happen. If it did, when it did, it would be his own fault but, whatever. He was doing this for Roman.

He had to keep telling himself that – he was not going to ruin the life of the boy he loved.

He held his head up and minced into the school. That wasn’t deliberate, he hadn’t planned on the mincing. It was just that it was hard to walk in high-heeled, backless, woman’s shoes when you’re not used to them and Christian certainly was not.

He’d never liked being the centre of attention and avoided it whenever he could; but, not today. Today he was up-front and every eye in the place was on him. Inside, he wished he could shrivel-up and die, but he kept his head up, kept the painted smile on his face and made his way through the crowded school.

His life was over now anyway. He didn’t care what happened to him. He was doing this for Roman; for his life and his future, though he’d never know it.

The jeers and taunts had started as soon as he appeared, long before he even reached the school. So far, it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared it was going to be. Most people just stood and stared in open-mouthed shock. Then came the moment he’d been dreading – the whole point of this charade.

Coming out of the locker-room, he rounded the corner and came face to face with Him. Roman Dallas stood stock-still and staring at him. Like so many others, his mouth hung open as he stared.

Christian waited for the sneer and the look of hatred to appear on Roman’s face, but it didn’t happen. All that did happen was that his face got redder and redder, like a tomato skin. Good. He’d embarrassed him anyway.

“Hey, Roman.” Christian wanted to cry but forced himself to smile instead. “Still invited to your party, am I?”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Roman stood still, staring in stunned disbelief. THIS was Christian? This was the quiet boy that he was coming to have great respect for? This was the boy that the whole school knew that he wanted for a friend?

His eyes slowly rose up the sight before him, taking it all in. Christian was wearing red woman’s high-heeled shoes, skin tight, sausage-skin tight, long-legged white shorts, (they were actually his brother’s and three sizes too small for him). He wore a hideous, fluorescent pink and orange shirt – long-sleeved and loose and flowing, but it barely reached his mid-riff. His hair, gelled and stiff, had been coloured green with pink high-lights. And the face!!

His face was powdered white with far too much red blusher on the cheeks. A wide cherry-red smile was plastered around his mouth and his eyes were heavily mascarred. Very heavily and with a deep-blue and purple eye-shadow up to his brows. Gaudy silver and glass ear-rings dangled from his ears.

He looked like a clown. He looked like a cheap two-bit hooker after a hard night on the streets.

The silence dragged on and on until Christian could stand it no longer. His smile almost faltered, but he kept it up. He held his hands out from his sides, painted nails and all, and turned a slow, mincing, circle.

“Mufti day,” he announced. “Like my new look? This is who I am.”

Roman still stood staring at the apparition before him. One thing that had attracted him to Christian squires was his masculinity. Christian was 100% boy. But this? This look was a travesty and really, really hideous.

His first words still rang in Roman’s ears. “Still invited to your party, am I?” and, he knew! He knew exactly why Christian had done this to himself. He was trying to shock him and drive him away.

Well it was not going to work. He knew that the self-confessed ‘loser’ was doing this out of love for him. More than that, in that instant, he knew that he loved this boy. He’d fallen in love with Christian Squires. Silly little shit that he was!

Maybe he should have been embarrassed by this whole scene, but he was not. He was mad, really mad that this beautiful boy thought that he had to do this to himself. He was mad that their whole lives and families conspired to keep them apart. In that instant, Roman’s life changed.

He was not having it! He was not going to allow anything or anyone, including Christian himself, to keep him apart from the boy he loved. Nothing! Nobody! Nothing mattered except this silly-looking boy standing grinning nervously at him.

“No way!” Roman exclaimed. “You bloody little idiot!”

He grabbed him by the arm and dragged him through the unresisting crowd who hurriedly got out of the way of Roman Dallas’ anger. He marched him into the boy’s toilet block. The few kids in there fled when he demanded, “Get out! Now!” and they were left alone.

Christian looked really frightened now, but he was not about to let up on him. Still gripping his arm, he turned the taps on, on a hand-basin, then stood back and demanded.

“Get that crap off your face. All of it. Now!”

This was not going as Christian had planned it. He’d expected that a lot of people would give him a hard time today, maybe even beat him up, but Roman was not one of them. This was not what was supposed to be happening.

The barely-contained rage on Roman’s face was scaring him, and he bent to obey.

Finished, he looked around and up, seeking approval. Roman just growled. “And the hair.” And he pushed his head back under the water. The temporary dyes easily washed away, leaving just a few streaks on his skin.

Finished again, he stood up, turned, and looked down at his feet. Roman stepped forward, turned the taps off and then removed the earrings. He handed him some paper towels.

“Dry it.” He ordered.

Christian complied, and then took the ridiculous shirt off when told to do that too. Roman took it from him and dropped it on the floor, where the earrings already were.

There was one, hopeful, instant when Roman surveyed his now bared torso and a soft look crossed his face, but then it was gone.

“The shoes,” he demanded. “Get those stupid bloody shoes off!”

He stepped out of them. His feet were relieved, but he still didn’t know what was going on here. He wasn’t going to make him take the shorts off next, was he? He’d be naked! In the middle of the school.

He didn’t. What he did next was to turn and walk out of the door. Uncomprehending, and all-but naked, Christian stood still not knowing what to do.

Roman stopped and looked at him. “Well? Are you coming or not? Follow me.” He started walking without looking back.

Christian didn’t know what else to do, so he obeyed again. He was almost running as he followed Roman’s angry striding through the motionless and staring crowd. They went right out of the school.

They came to Roman’s car; he opened the passenger door and commanded, “Get in.”

Christian hesitated. How long was this going to go on? He was nobody’s slave. “What about school?”

Roman wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Fuck school. Get in the car.”

He took hold of his arm again and pushed him in. Half of the school were standing out on the pavement now, staring at them. Roman didn’t care. He got into the car and drove away at speed.

They went past the racecourse and the stables, left into Coach Street and along, past the fish-factory, (which his father owned), and right out to the end of the tiphead protruding into the sea.

For one horrible minute, Christian thought that he was going to drive right off the end and into the sea. He didn’t. He jammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop at the end of the road.

He sat still, staring straight ahead and breathing deeply as Christian, cautiously, studied his face. Then he pounded the steering wheel, with both fists, and he yelled, “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck and Fuckit!”

He swung around and faced Christian who gulped nervously as he began.

“Roman, I’m sorry. I. . .”

“No! No, Christian, you shut up. You shut up and listen to me. You’ve said what you wanted to say; you said plenty turning up dressed like that. Now you can listen to me.”

“Well, say it then!” Christian snapped. “What have you got to say?”

“This.” Roman leant over and kissed him on the lips. Christian froze. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but not this.

“”Roman? What are you doing?”

“Loving you. I know what you were doing. You were trying to drive me away. It didn’t work; it’s not EVER going to work. I love you, Christian, and I’m not ever going to stop loving you. Nothing and no-one, not our families, not the school, not the whole bloody town is ever, EVER, going to stop us from being together. I love you.”

“Really? Are you sure, Roman? This could cost you everything.”

“It will cost me nothing. I don’t care about anything else; if I have you then I’ll have all I want. Without you, I’ll have nothing. I need you. I love you. Bloody idiot!”

“Oh Roman! I love you so much. If you want me, then I’m all yours, always. Kiss me, bloody idiot yourself.”

And – he did.

Westpoint Tales - Christian & Roman's Tale, 6

Roman went home to his own chores – homework, study and training. He had to slap Bruce’s groping hands away several times. He wasn’t interested, not any more. He was bored with sex with Bruce, he wanted something better. He wanted Christian. He SO wanted to get it on with Christian Squires!

Christian was sexy, he was cute and what a great body! And he was such a great kid. Roman was seeing more and more to him all the time. Christian liked him too; didn’t he? Yes, sure he did.

Nevermind the Christmas party, if he wouldn’t come to that, well, he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter anyway. He didn’t need to impress the kid with the Dallas’ family wealth. That just seemed to put him off anyway.

What he wanted, what he needed, was Christian Squires and he was SO going to have him! He was, wasn’t he? Yes, of course he was. He was Roman Dallas and he always got what he wanted. Didn’t he? Actually, this time, he wasn’t so sure.

Roman had always had anyone he wanted, but this kid was something different. He wasn’t playing the game the way he was supposed to. Normally all he had to do was to signal his interest and they threw themselves at him, but, not this time. Not this boy. And he so wanted him – something bad.

It was almost 8.30 by the time he was finally free of his family and tutors. He hurried to the bedroom and his telephone. There was no reply from the Squires’ number. The phone rang and rang, but no-one picked up.

He tried again at 9pm, and again, and again. Finally, at 11pm, he gave up and went to bed. He’d try again in the morning.

On the other side of town, Christian watched the flashing light on the silent telephone. He was tempted to answer it, but he forced himself not to. He’d known Roman, from a distance, for all of his life, and he knew how it worked.

Roman had everything. He’d been born with the proverbial silver-spoon in his mouth. All their lives, Roman had had anything and anyone that he wanted. All he had to do was ask.

Christian had fantasized and dreamed about Roman Dallas for years, but he’d never thought that he would have a chance to get close to him. His plan, of course, as soon as he realised that Roman was showing some interest in him, was to play hard to get.

If he got the message that Christian was, sort-of, interested but not going there, that would make him want him all the more, wouldn’t it? Yes, of course it would. It seemed to have been working up until now.

But now, lying sleepless in the night, Christian was having second thoughts. He changed his mind.

Roman had surprised him in more ways than one. He realised two things – one was that Roman was actually a nice person. He was rich, (that didn’t interest him), he was good-looking, bright and talented, but on top of all that, he had a good heart too. This boy was all-but perfect. It was not fair!

The other important thing that he realised was that this could not be just a hot sexual affair. He had fallen in love with Roman Dallas, really in love, and that was impossible.

If old Romeo and Juliet thought that they had it bad, they should have met the Dallas and Squires families. If he ever got involved in any sort of relationship with Roman, old man Dallas would kill them both. And, if he didn’t, Trevor Squires would do it for him. He couldn’t let that happen.

He’d been playing Roman along, like a hundred-pound tuna on a twenty-pound fishing line. It had been working too, but now it had o stop.

It wasn’t just lust, he loved him, and he loved him to much to wreck his life. Roman had everything and he had the perfect life ahead of him. Christian Squires had no right to take that away from him. He couldn’t and he wouldn’t.

He didn’t know how he was going to do it, but somehow he was going to have to tell him that there never could be anything between them. The stupid hard-to-get game he’d been playing didn’t make it easy, but, somehow, he had to tell him that it could not happen. Ever.

At about three in the morning, he had an idea and he had a new plan. It would not be easy, it would be hard on him, but he had to do it for Roman, no matter what it cost him.

Next morning, Christian slept in. That was nothing unusual after a, largely, sleepless night, but today it really annoyed him. Dammit! He barely had time to get himself to school, his plan would have to wait until the following day. Would it have hurt for his mother to wake him up?

Tomorrow would be better anyway. Friday was the last school-day for the year and it was a ‘mufti’ day – uniforms were optional, which meant, of course, that nobody wore them. For a small donation to a local charity, students could wear whatever they pleased for the day. Yes, Friday would be better.

Roman arrived at school and he had a new plan as well. He’d been thinking, he’d decided and he had a new plan.

He still wanted Christian to come to the party, not to impress him, he just wanted him to come and spend the day with him and have some fun. Yes, he still wanted to bed him, but, more importantly, he just wanted to be with him.

Also, he wanted him to come and he wanted people to know that he was invited and that Roman wanted him there. Invitations were really sought after, everyone wanted one but only winners got one. People thought that Christian was a dork and a loser, he said himself that he was, but he wasn’t. Christian was a really cool kid, he was a winner and Roman wanted everyone to know that he was. He deserved more than the crappy hand that life had dealt him.

Christian was at school, of course he was, he never missed a day, but he didn’t get to talk to him all day. He seemed to be avoiding him again. Roman looked at lunchtime, but couldn’t find him anywhere.

He wasn’t there when they went in for the first class after lunch, but then he arrived, late. Roman grinned his relief. He stood up and the teacher looked at him. He knew that he was a favourite of old Mrs. McElwee’s, so he didn’t expect any trouble.

“Excuse me, Mrs. McElwee, but there’s something that I have to do.”

“Very well, Roman. What is it?”

“This,” he replied, and, with all eyes on him, he walked up to the front of the class and laid the invitation on the desk in front of Christian.

“Christian, this is your invitation to the Dallas’ Christmas party. Please don’t give it back this time; I really want you to come. If you don’t, I’m not going either. Thank you, Mrs. McElwee.”

He went back and sat down again, at the back of the class. Shocked whispering broke out all around until the teacher pulled them into line and the class continued.

As soon as school was over and they were dismissed, Christian was up and gone. He was the first one out of there. Everyone there, including Roman, saw that the invitation was left lying on his desk.

(‘Bugger!’)

A couple of girls stopped him on the way out and challenged him in front of everyone.

“Roman, what did you invite that loser to your party for? Is this a joke?”

“No, Kelly. It’s not a joke. I asked him because I want him to come. Christian is actually a really great kid and, if you can’t see that, then you’re the losers.”

“He is? Really?”

“Yes, really he is. Excuse me, I’ve got to go.”

He hurried out, but he was too late, Christian had gone.

‘Man! This kid can move when he wants to!’

He got in his car and drove down to the racecourse stables, but Christian was not there. Mr. Jenkins said that he didn’t work on Thursdays. He thought about going back to his house, but decided against it. It didn’t look like Christian wanted to talk. He’d see him tomorrow.

Next day, Mufti Friday, and the last day of the school-year, Roman arrived in his most stylish outfit, his best casual clothes. He wanted to look good today; it was important, somehow.

He did look good, he knew that, but nobody took any notice of him whatsoever. There was a sensation abroad in the school that day. Had he seen Christian Squires? Ohmigod! He had to see what he’d done to himself!

Westpoint Tales - Christian & Roman's Tale, 5

The day after the engraved invitations had been hand-delivered, Roman had not heard from Christian; he was looking for him at school but couldn’t find him anywhere. That was nothing unusual, the kid hid in corners, like a mouse.

He opened his locker and the first thing he saw was the white envelope of a party invitation that had been posted through the air vent. He opened it and it was what he feared it would be – Christian’s invitation returned with the ‘declined with regret’ box neatly ticked.

This box was merely a formality, no-one had ever declined an invitation to the Dallas’ party, until now. He couldn’t believe his eyes. This was not part of his plan! He went looking for Christian.

He found sitting, alone of course, under the pine trees at the west side of the school.

“Here you are, Christian! What the hell is this?”

“Hey Roman. It’s an invitation to your party.”

“I can see that. It’s your invitation. What did you send it back for?”

“I ticked the box – declined with regret. Thanks for asking me, but I can’t come. You’ll have to invite someone else.”

“I don’t want to invite someone else, I want you to come. You’re the only person that I sent a personal invitation to this year.”

“Really?”

“Yes really, so you have to come.”

“No, Roman. I can’t. Thanks but no thanks.”

“But you have to. I need you there. If you don’t come, I’ll be on my own all day.”

“Welcome to my world. But, seriously, all you have to do is invite someone else. Anyone would be happy to come to your party.”

“But not you?”

“No, not me.”

“Well, why not then? Why won’t you come? Don’t you like me?”

“That’s got nothing to do with it. I’ve got my world, you’ve got yours and I don’t belong there. It’s as simple as that. We’ve got to go, school’s going in. ‘Bye Roman.”

Roman was amazed. He was also more than a little pissed. This was not going according to his plan.

“Fuck school! Forget about school, this is important. We’re talking here.”

“We’ve done talking, there’s nothing more to say. You might get away with cutting classes, but I would not. I’ve got to go. See you later, Roman.”

“But . . but . . .you – all right then, go. But we haven’t finished this; I’ll talk to you later.”

“My answer won’t change. Why don’t you pay Patrick Bentham to come to your party?”

He walked away, leaving Roman standing there lost for words.

‘Pay Patrick Bentham? Oh shit! You know. How do you know about that? Damm! This is not going well.’

All day long he was stewing. Christian seemed to be avoiding him, or ignoring him when he couldn’t, and he didn’t get to talk to him again. Roman was not used to this. At home he was always under the thumb, but at school, he was the king.

He basically did whatever he liked, within reason, and he had never had any trouble getting on with anyone he wanted to. Everyone wanted to be friends with the scion of the Dallas family, but now – not Christian. Who did the little twerp think he was?

He was nothing but a loser and Roman was, well, he was Roman Dallas! How dare he turn him down? Didn’t he know that Roman could destroy him?

But, could he? It didn’t seem like Christian’s life could be much worse anyway. Why didn’t he want to go to the party? Everybody wanted to go to the Dallas’ Christmas party.

Fuck him anyway. (And he would, as soon as he figured out how to).

He skipped football practice after school. That was a first – he never missed a practice before, but – whatever. Today, he had other things on his mind. It appeared that he’d missed Christian, he couldn’t see him anywhere around, so he got in his car and cruised the streets, searching for him, with no success.

Finding himself outside the Squires’ home, he parked in the street and walked in and rang the bell. A woman answered the door. Christian’s mother, he presumed.

“Hello. Mrs. Squires is it? I’m looking for Christian. Is he here?”

“No, not yet. You’re Roman Dallas, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am. That’s me.”

“And you are looking for Christian? Why? Oh, nevermind. He’s not here anyway, he’s at work and won’t be home for a couple of hours yet.”

“At work?”

“Yes. Shoveling shit around at the racecourse. It’s not much and the pay’s lousy, but it’s the best job he could find.”

“Oh. Well, thank you, Mrs. Squires. I’ll catch up with him.”

“You do that. And, Roman, thank you for inviting him to the Christmas party. My husband doesn’t agree, but I think that it’s great. This could do wonders for Christian’s reputation; he doesn’t have a lot of friends you know.”

“I know. I’m hoping to change that. Well, thank you Mrs. Squires.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you, Roman.”

He went back to the racecourse and drove in there. There was hardly anyone around; a couple of horses were training, out on the track, but he couldn’t see Christian anywhere. So?

‘Oh, yeah! He’ll be in the stables if he’s shoveling shit.’

He drove back out to the street, along and in to the entrance to the stables area. Out of the car and looking around at the long rows of cubicle-sheds, he still couldn’t see him, but then, he heard him. There was singing coming from one of the stables.

“The Captain of the Lugger, He was a dirty Bugger,
He wasn’t fit, To shovel shit,
From one hole to the other.”

This was an old, crude, sea-shanty. The kid was singing the same verse, over and over again.

“Hey Christian.” Roman stood in the doorway to the stable where Christian was busy shoveling a huge mound of straw and horseshit onto a wheelbarrow.

The Kid looked around and a big grin lit up his dirty, dusty, sweat-lined face.

“Roman! Hey. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, of course. I want to talk to you.”

“Oh. Sorry, I can’t right now. I’ve got to work, I don’t get paid for talking.”

He started shoveling again and Roman stood watching. He was amazed, the Kid looked great. He looked fantastic, actually. He had an incredible body. Amazing!

Barefoot and bare-headed, he was dressed only in tight, faded, blue-denim shorts, obviously made by cutting down some old blue jeans. He was covered in dirt, and dust, and sweat, and – muscles! Incredible muscles.

Stripped down, the small and slender teen looked like a miniature body-builder. Wow! There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him and every muscle was clearly defined. He didn’t have a six-pack abdomen – this boy had an eight-pack!

Roman was entranced. He’d never expected this, Christian’s body was amazing. Amazing and beautiful. A really, really beautiful boy. He just had to have this kid!

“Wow, Christian! Where did you get that body?”

“What body?” He stopped again and leant on the shovel.

“It’s just a body, Roman. Everyone’s got one.”

“Sure they have, but not like that. You look great. Where did you get those muscles?”

“They just grew. Hard work and clean living will do that.”

“Certainly worked for you. I’m bigger than you and I work out with weights and stuff, but I haven’t got muscle definition like you’ve got. You look great.”

Christian’s face went red. He flashed a shy smile and then hung his head as he mumbled.

“Thanks, I guess. But I don’t look as good as you do.”

He raised his head and looked him in the eye.

“Nobody looks as good as you, Roman.”

“You think? You’re wrong you know. How can you hide away like you do? You never play sports, you should. If you appeared in a Speedo, you’d be beating the girls off with a stick.”

“Why would I want to do that? I’m gay you know.”

“Well, you’d be beating the boys off then.”

“Not likely. I’m just a dork; no-one wants to know me.”

“They’re fools then. I want to know you, Christian. I very much want to know you.”

“You do? Enough to pay Bentham and his thugs to beat me up? Again.”

“I’m sorry about that. Really sorry. That was the stupidest thing that I’ve done in my life. I didn’t want them to beat you up; I just wanted them to hassle you a bit so that I could come and save you. I guess that I wanted to look like a hero to you. I’m sorry.”

“Okay. Let’s forget it then. You don’t have to pay people to make you look good, you already do. You are a hero, a real hero. You always have been.”

He blushed again and lifted his shovel.

“I’ve got to work, Roman. It’s a shitty job and it doesn’t pay much, but it’s all I’ve got and I can’t afford to lose it. Excuse me, please.”

Roman felt that he could stand there all day, watching him working. The play of shadows and light moving across the small, tightly-muscled body was just beautiful. And so hot! How come he’d never noticed this boy before? He was gorgeous.

He would have liked to stand there all day, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have the time. He didn’t dare be late home. They’d already be having a fit if they found out that he’d missed football practice.

“Christian, I’ve got to go. I wish I didn’t, but I do. Are we all right then?”

He stopped, looked at him and sighed. “Yes, Roman, we’re all right – as all right as we’re ever going to be.”

“Cool! So will you come to the Christmas party?”

“No. I told you, I can’t.”

“Of course you can. Please come, I want you to.”

“I can’t. We live in the same town, but we live in two different worlds. I’m a loser and I live in a dysfunctional, working-class family. You are . . well, You’re Roman Dallas!”

“I wish to hell I wasn’t.”

“What? How can you say that? You’ve got everything and you’re the perfect kid.”

“I’m not perfect. Don’t say that. I’m far from perfect and I don’t have everything I want either.”

“What then? What could you possibly want that you don’t have now?”

“Lots. I want . . . I want you, Christian.”

“Me? Really? Me??? How do you want me?”

“I want you like this.”

Roman stepped forward and kissed him on the lips. Christian didn’t respond. He stood rigid, and then he pulled back and looked him in the eye.

“Woo-Who,” he whispered. “Any second now, you’ll laugh in my face and then I’ll wake up.”

“You’re not dreaming and I would never laugh at you. Look, I’ve really got to go or I’m in trouble. Can I phone you tonight, about 8 o’clock?”

“Of course you can; if you really want to.”

“Oh, I do!”

He kissed him again and, this time, Christian responded enthusiastically, holding him tightly. They broke apart and grinned. Then Roman pecked his lips again.

“I’ve got to go. ‘Bye, Beautiful boy. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah. ‘Bye, Roman. Thanks.”

“Thanks? Thank you!”

He left in a hurry and Christian returned to his work, smiling to himself. He loved it when a plan came together. Roman Dallas wanted him? They were nearly there, but not quite. Not yet.

Christian had a plan.

Westpoint Tales - Christian & Roman's Tale, 4

Monday morning, back at school for one more week, Roman and company sauntered into the locker room. He was surrounded by his sycophants, as always, but they were not what he was looking for. He cast his eyes around, looking for Christian, he found him and what he saw was not good, not good at all. He hurried down through the long room to where Christian was bailed up in a corner by two of the biggest goons in the school.

These two were not amongst those at the square on Saturday night, but they were well-known bullies as well. Bullying was not allowed at Westpoint High. The staff were really vigilant and fast to squash any incidents, but today there were no staff around. Was Kieran Archer keeping a look-out in the doorway? Yeah, probably.

They didn’t see him coming. Christian had his head down and the other two had their backs to him as he approached quietly.

“So, Squires,” the bigger one hissed. “We hear that you got some of what was coming to you, Saturday night at the Square. You needn’t think it’s finished yet. It’ll be finished when I say it is.”

Christian was only half the size of either of them, but he wasn’t cowed at all. He lifted his head and glared defiantly back at the bullies.

‘Whoah,’ Roman thought. ‘There’s more to this kid than meets the eye.’

“What’s it to you, Bentham? What have I ever done to you?”

“To me? Nothing, and you’re not going to either. We’re just sick of all you faggots around here – walking around like you’ve got the right to breathe our air.”

“Your air, Mr. Bentham?” Roman interrupted. “Who said it’s your air?”

“What the? Oh, it’s you. Going to defend your girlfriend again, are you, Dallas?”

“Girlfriend? I haven’t got a girlfriend, but this boy is my friend. Fuck with him and you’re fucking with me. Is that what you want, Pussy?”

“Pussy? I ain’t no fucking Pussy!”

“No? Well you’re no friend either. Fuck off, Bentham. Hassle my friend again and I’ll do you.”

“You don’t tell me to fuck off, Dallas.”

“I just did. Don’t forget that it’s our farm that you live on. Your father works for my father. Want me to tell him to fuck off too?”

“My father’s got nothing to do with this. You leave him out of it.”

“And you’re going to make me? How? If you hassle my friend again, if you even look the wrong way at him, first I’ll whip your arse and then you’ll be moving house and your father will be looking for a new job.”

They were thick, but they weren’t stupid. They left without another word. Kieran Archer joined them as they walked away.

“Archer!” Roman was clearly heard in the quiet room.

“What?”

“That goes for you too. Stay away from my friends.”

He turned and looked at Christian who was standing with his mouth hanging open.

“Close your mouth, Christian, before you catch a fly,” Roman grinned.

“Friends?” Christian asked wonderingly.

“Yes, friends. You are my friend aren’t you?”

“Yeah!” A smile spread across his face. (And what a great smile this boy had!) “Friends. Thanks, Roman, again. Thanks, but you can’t keep fighting my battles for me.”

“Says who? I said anytime, and that’s what I meant. Anytime. See you later, Friend.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks. Later, Friend.” (Another great smile).

Roman walked away, feeling on top of the world. That went well. That went really well. Patrick Bentham’s acting was worth every cent that he’d paid him. The goon should be on a stage or something. He made a mental tick against stage one of his Plan.

However, Robbie Burns knew what he was talking about when he wrote, “the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft aglae,” (often go astray).

Nobody liked bullies around there and all day Patrick Bentham and his mates were a laughing stock throughout the school. Christian knew nothing about that. All he knew was that people were actually being nice to him.

It was good, sort-of. He just wasn’t used to it; even his own sister, Sarah, was nice to him for once. Was this a taste of what it was like to be Roman’s friend? It was good – but.

By the time school was over for the day, Kieran Archer had had enough. He hated being laughed at and the money that they were paid was not enough. Not by a long shot. He caught up to Christian Squires, on the way home, and stopped him.

“Squires, wait up!”

“What? You stay away from me, Archer. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“Maybe not, but I’ve got something to say to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The money we got was not enough.”

“Money? What money?”

“That little scene in the locker room this morning; Dallas paid us to give you a hard time. It was not enough.”

“He paid you? What would he do that for?”

“So that he could be the big hero and rescue you of course.”

“But . . .But, why?”

“Don’t know, he didn’t say.”

“I don’t believe you. Roman doesn’t need to pay people to make him look like a hero.”

“I’m telling you, he did. Ask Bentham. Ask Henderson. We all got paid. I’d watch my arse if I was you; I think Dallas is out to get you. Then again, if I was you, I probably wouldn’t, would I?”

“Fuck off, Archer.”

“Yeah, well. Just thought you should know. ‘Bye, gayboy.”

Christian went home and puzzled over that all night. He didn’t know what to think. Was that true? Roman paid those jerks so that he could rescue him? Why? Was he ‘out to get him’? Surely not. He wouldn’t have to pay for what he could just have anyway. Or, didn’t he know that?

Roman Dallas wanted Christian Squires? Yeah, right! Not in this world.

But, why would Archer lie about it? Maybe this was just some weird way of getting revenge on Roman? Could it be? It just made them look even stupider, didn’t it?

He didn’t know what to think, but he thought about nothing else all night.

Life went on at school next day. Everything was as normal, no-one spoke to him but no-one hassled him either, so that was good. He saw Roman a few times, but he didn’t seem to take any notice of him either. He was obviously forgotten, again.

The annual round of Christmas parties had begun. It was nothing to do with him, but his parents were never home. They weren’t about to miss out on free drinks and they were at parties all over the town.

They weren’t going to be at the big one though. Mr. and Mrs. Squires were never invited to the annual party at the Dallas’ home. This year, to everyone’s surprise, Christian was invited. Christian wasn’t surprised, he was dumbfounded!

Every year, for two days, the Dallas family opened their home and threw a massive party; no expense was spared as they set out to dazzle the peasants. Everybody who was anyone was there and it was always referred to, by those who weren’t, as ‘the Party in the Palace’.

Usually, Roman was allowed to invite four friends, this year he was asking only one – Christian Squires. Roman had a Plan.

Westpoint Tales - Christian & Roman's Tale, 3

(One for Saturday - and for Joah!)


Christian didn’t wait for the fireworks; he just went out into Russley Street and started walking home.

Roman Dallas had saved him (!), but he didn’t know if he’d do it again if those jerks came back, and he didn’t want to take any chances.

Damm! His ribs hurt. Maybe he should go and get the hospital to check him over? No. They’d just laugh at him.

He limped home, cleaned up and inspected his wounds. He was going to have some major bruises, but the only cut was the one above his eyes, so he taped that up to stop it bleeding.

Ten minutes to ten. The fireworks would be starting soon. He went out to the garage and dragged out a ladder. They had plenty – his father was a painter. He stood it up on the side of the house and climbed up on to the roof.

His body was really sore, but, stuff ‘em. He was going to see the fireworks. It wouldn’t be the best view from there, but at least he’d see some of it. They were not taking that away from him.

Perched up on the roof, like an overgrown seagull or something, he saw the display begin. The view wasn’t that bad, it wasn’t too far away, but he still couldn’t see much; he was crying. Again. He was such a girl, but he couldn’t help it.

Tonight was one of the biggest nights, the biggest party of the year, and everyone was there. Everyone who was welcome, that is, and he was not. How had his life got to be so stuffed up? He didn’t know, but he knew that he hated it.

It couldn’t just be because he was gay. That was part of it but it wasn’t the whole reason for his horrible life. Other people were gay and their lives weren’t as bad as his. Nobody’s was.

Despite the beating he’d received, there was one bright spot in his night – Roman Dallas had saved him! That was great. Why did he do that anyway? He was no friend of his. Nobody was. Roman said that he hated bullies, so that’s why he did it. Nothing else. It made him look good for the girls too – Superboy lives.

Roman really was a Superboy, he was the greatest. He was. . . he was probably snogging three or four girls about now. Lucky bitches. Why couldn’t he be more like Roman? God! He hated his life!

He stood up and looked down from the roof. There was one thing he could do about it. He could do what Lennie Peterson had done and just end it. If he took a running jump off the roof, would that be enough? No, probably not.

It wasn’t high enough. It was only a single-storey house and he’d just finish up hurting even more than he was now. Probably break some bones too. Bugger that.

A car came around the corner, cruising along slowly. It turned and stopped in his driveway.

‘What the? That’s not Dad. Who’s that? What do they want? Are those bastards coming to finish the job?’

It wasn’t them. One door; the driver’s door opened and Roman Dallas got out of the car. Wow! Roman was standing in his driveway. It was hard to see against the glare of the headlights, but he knew it was him.

He leant back into the car and killed the lights, then stood up again, looking up at the loser on the roof.

“Hey, Christian. What are you doing up there? You’re not going to jump are you?”

“Hey. No, I’m not going to jump, I’m not that stupid. It’s not high enough anyway.”

“So what are you doing?”

“I was . . .I was just watching the fireworks at the Square.”

“Of course you were! Why didn’t you stay at the Square? You’d see them better from there.”

“Maybe. I’m not welcome there. Obviously.”

“Yes you would have been. You could have come and hung with us.”

“Really?” (‘Really???’) “Thanks, Roman, but I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not then?”

“Because . . . Because. Look, you’re the coolest kid in town and I’m the biggest loser. I don’t think that even you could afford to be seen with me.”

“Sure I could. You’re not a loser, Christian. I know a loser when I see one, and you’re not. Those bullying bastards back there are losers, not you.”

“I am you know. Look around. All of my friends are here – every single one of them.”

“Your friends? I don’t see anybody.”

“No, you don’t. Neither do I.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I’m here.”

“Yes, you are. What are you doing here anyway?”

“Checking up on you. Someone said that you hobbled off home. I wanted to make sure that you got here all right.”

“Really? Well, as you can see – I did. Thanks. That’s nice of you.”

“Hey, I’m a nice guy. Are you sure that you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I got up on the roof didn’t I?”

“You did. Well, if you’re sure that you’re okay, I’m going back to the square. Do you want to come?”

“With you? No. Thanks, but I’ve had enough fun for one night.”

“Yeah, I guess. Well, I’m going. Take care, Christian.”

“Thanks Roman. Thanks again for what you did. You were great.”

“No troubles, Kid. Anytime. See you around.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks. ‘Bye, Roman.”

“’Bye, Kid.” He got back in his car and drove away.

Christian stood up on the roof and watched him go. It must be so cool having your own car. Roman Dallas had everything. He was a great guy too – a really great guy. Ah, if only.

He, painfully, crawled down from the roof and went to bed.

‘To sleep, perchance to dream. Bloody Shakespeare! Get out of my head!’

He knew who he’d be dreaming about, no doubt of that. If only he wasn’t Christian, the Loser, Squires, he could so easily fall in love with Roman Dallas. Roman was the perfect boy, everything about him was perfect and he had the perfect life too.

Roman didn’t imagine that he was perfect and his life was far from it. But, it was going to get better – he had a Plan.

Roman was tired, sick and tired. He was sick and tired of always trying to live up to the role that his parents, and everyone else, had cast him in. The good son – the perfect son and the top-notch scholar and sportsman.

He was sick of it. He was tired too of the girls. All the silly, simpering and giggling girls fawning over him and trying to get their hooks into him. Into his family name and fortune that is. Like his parents were ever going to let that happen!

When he got married, if he married, it would be to some girl that his parents deemed suitable. It would not be one of the local wannabes.

He’d tried sex. He’d had sex with more than a few of them, but straight sex just didn’t do it for him. He wanted more. He was gay, he had no doubts about that.

He was tired too of gay sex – gay old-man sex with Bruce, his tutor. Bruce didn’t do it for him either. They were just fucking. He was years older than him anyway, and he was paid to do it.

Someone here was no better than a prostitute; Roman wasn’t sure who.

What he wanted, what he needed, was a boy – someone his own age who he could bend to his own will. A boy who would do whatever Roman wanted him to. Now he was pretty sure that he’d found just what he was looking for – Christian Squires.

Christian wasn’t perfect either, far from it. Firstly, he was a local kid, one of the hoi-polloi. More importantly, their fathers were sworn enemies. Preston Dallas was the arch-typical, idle capitalist. Christian’s father was a working man and a union organizer – the enemy. Roman had often heard Trevor Squires’ name mentioned and never in a good way.

What else? Well, he was a bit young; at least 2 years younger, and he was a bit of a wimp. But, hey, he wasn’t looking to marry him or anything. He just wanted a bit of fun, a bit of hot and nasty sex. If the kid was young and a wimp, and a peasant, that just meant that Roman would be able to do whatever he liked with him. To him.

He was tired of being the younger, submissive, partner in bed, he wanted to be the man. He could have that with Christian Squires.

There were other pluses too. The boy was gay, single and available – very available. He’d been watching. The kid had no friends and he’d seen the longing looks he threw his way. It was obvious that Christian adored him already.

Also, well, the kid was bloody cute too! He couldn’t believe that no-one else had ever picked up on that. Christian was very good-looking, when you saw his face. It was usually hanging, shyly, downwards. He had a neat, trim, little body, and those legs!

He had long, slender – impossibly long legs for such a little kid. He couldn’t wait to get them hung over his shoulders. Oh yes! Christian Squires would do very nicely thank you! Until something, or someone, better came along.

Roman was SO going to fuck with him! To hell with what his parents thought. For once, he was going to do what he wanted to. His way, all the way. Oh yes, Roman had a Plan.

Westpoint Tales - Christian & Roman's Tale, 2

Summer was coming and Christmas would soon be on them. The sooner that was out of the way, the better. Christmas, that is – Christian liked summer, but he hated Christmas. Of all the times of the year to be alone and friendless, Christmas was the worst.

Every year he got suckered into it. With the huge media onslaught, the endless advertising blitz, the decorated shops and houses, Christmas was impossible to avoid. He knew that he should stay out of it, but he never did. He didn’t even have his parents’ option of getting drunk and staying that way until it was all over.

He did love the decorations; everything looked so festive and. . .well. . .gay. But there was nothing else about it that he liked. He should’ve known better by now, but he never did.

Every year he got to hoping, and wishing, that the season of cheer and goodwill to all men might, maybe, even extend to Christian Squires. Sad, lonely and friendless, Christian Squires. But it never did; every year he was disappointed, as always.

He never got any cards. He’d never received a Christmas card in his life. He never got any Valentine’s Day cards either, but that’s another story. The only presents he received were some thoughtless, last-minute, crap bought by his mother because she thought she had to.

The only Christmas greetings he ever got were from shop assistants and people who were paid to say it. Even they never looked like they meant it. Fuck’em anyway. He hated Christmas.

There was a tradition in Westpoint, every year they had a ‘party in the park’, in the Square, 8pm until late, on the nearest Saturday to the 10th of December. There was music, live bands and poets. There was plenty of food and drink – some of it for free, and other amusements as well. There was singing and dancing and laughter as the whole town, the whole district, celebrated the coming of Christmas and of Summer and the end of another year.

At 10pm precisely, every year, there was an awesome fireworks and laser-light display and then, after a speech from the Mayor, the winner of the lottery got to throw the switch and turn the lights of Christmas on.

No-one, not even those who decorated their houses, turned any Christmas lights on until the night of the party in the park. It was wicked cool and everyone was there. Everyone, that is, except Christian.

He had no-one to celebrate anything with; he never had. The last time he went to a party in the park he was 9 years old. He used to have some friends back then, not like now.

Saturday evening, the 8th of December, Christian had to get his own dinner. No-one else was eating at home that night. His parents and the kids, even the baby – 3 year old Catherine – were going to the party in the park and they would eat there.

After cleaning up, (one plate, one pot and one glass), he was back in his room reading and listening to music. He could hear the excited chatter, and occasional snarl, all around the house. He turned the page of his magazine and there was a full page, full-colour, advertisement. He didn’t even know what it was advertising, but the big headline caught his eye. “Life – Be In It!”

“Yeah, right,” he sighed. “What life?”

He dropped the book and looked up at the ceiling with a heartfelt sigh. Was this as good as it was going to get?

There was a rap at the door, and his mother looked in. “Christian? Are you sure that you won’t come with us?”

“No. Thanks, Mum. I’m all right here.”

“Okay, please yourself. We’ll be back later. Don’t burn the house down. Goodnight, Christian.”

“Yeah. ‘Bye Mum. Thanks.”

‘Wow. What had got into her? You’d almost think that she cared.’ Almost.

The door closed behind his family. He heard the car start up and drive away and an overwhelming sadness washed over him. What was he doing here?

He picked up the book and looked at the advert again. “Life – Be In It!”

Well, why not anyway? He was never going to be in it while he was lying here. He’d go to the party in the park. Maybe he had no-one to go with, but he could go and watch anyway – watch other people having fun. The fireworks were supposed to be worth seeing, he never had.

He had a quick shower, dressed in his good clothes and carefully styled his dirty-blond hair. He might be a dork, but he didn’t have to look like one.

By the time he’d walked the few short blocks up to the square, he’d, almost, convinced himself that this was a good thing to do. Who knew? Maybe he’d even get to talk to someone there – someone who didn’t know who he was. There might be people there from out of town. There could be.

The bright lights were on and the music and dancing had already begun when he arrived there. He stood at the edge of the Square, watching the busy scene, and he’d never felt so all alone in his life.

No-one took any notice of him, of course, and he forced himself to walk into the Square. Like an invisible man, he walked right through the crowd and out the other side. The queues were far too long at the food-stalls, and he wasn’t, (very), hungry anyway.

There was an empty bench-seat at the outside of the running track, so he went over and sat down there, looking back and watching the crowd.

A few people walked past his, mostly, empty seat, looked at it and looked at him and kept walking. This was a stupid idea, he shouldn’t have come here. What was he thinking? He was even more alone here than when he was at home, alone.

He could cry, but he’d better not. That would be the last straw. Lennie Peterson had killed himself a few months ago. No-one knew why, but, right now, Christian thought that he could understand it. Maybe.

As it got darker he started feeling a bit more comfortable, hiding in the shadows on the edge of the crowd. He’d wait for the fireworks and then he’d go home.

A group of seniors from school – ‘jocks’ – walked past his seat. His eyes must have lingered too long because they stopped, nudged each other and focused on him.

“What are you looking at, Faggot? What are you doing here anyway? You’re not welcome.”

He was a faggot now was he? Well, yes he was actually, but he wasn’t doing anything. He turned his back on them and looked the other way. That didn’t work. Someone hit him and knocked him off his seat. Bastards! He had as much right to be here as anyone.

“Are you deaf as well as dumb? I asked you – what are you looking at, Faggot?”

‘Ah, Dammit!’ Christian really wished that he was not there. Why hadn’t he stayed at home? However, one thing that he was not was a coward. These bastards didn’t scare him, and when one of them kicked him, his temper flared.

“Fuck you, Mate!” He rose to his feet and attacked his tormentor.

He could have taken him too, if he was on his own. But he wasn’t. In a very short time he was back on the ground, lying curled-up, while the five stood in a circle around him, taking turns to kick him – hard!

“Keep your fucking eyes off my fucking butt, Faggot!” (Punctuated by kicks).

“Hey! What are you doing? Leave the kid alone.”

They all, including Christian, looked around at Roman Dallas. He was walking past with his usual entourage of giggling girls and, for some reason, had decided to stop and get involved in the gay-bashing.

“Roman! We’re just teaching this dirty little queer to keep his eyes to himself.”

“Okay. It looks like you’ve done that. Now bugger off and leave him alone.”

“Going to make us, are you?”

“If I have to, yes.”

“Think you could take on all of us, do you?”

“Umm, well, yes.” (He probably could too).

The five youths stood looking at him, as if weighing their chances. Christian was forgotten now and he got back on his feet; ready, despite his hurts, to fight again. The bullies backed off when several of Roman’s friends came to support him.

(‘Must be nice to have friends.’)

“What’s it to you anyway, Dallas? Little faggot’s no friend of yours.”

“Maybe not, Corbett, but then – neither are you. I just hate bullies, that’s all and five onto one is not a fair go.”

“Come on, Guys. We don’t need this.” The five walked away. Roman Dallas could destroy their reputations in more ways than one.

“Wow. Thanks. Thanks, Roman.” Christian stuttered.

“Anytime, Kid. You all right?” He smiled back at him but two of the girls grabbed his arms and dragged him away.

“Gee, Roman. You were great – like Superboy or something!”

“Yeah. Superboy lives! Come on and we’ll buy you an OJ.”

“Yeah, great idea. Don’t worry about the gayboy. He’s still walking isn’t he?”

Roman looked back, grimaced and shrugged his shoulders as he allowed the girls to lead him away.

Christian stood watching them go, as best as he could. He was bleeding from a cut above one eye. That was really great. For a minute there, it was like someone actually gave a shit about him. Damm! He wished he could be like Roman Dallas. Nobody messed with him.

Westpoint Tales - Christian & Roman's Tale (the Plan) - 1

“Romeo,Romeo.Wherefore art thou?”

“Yeah, Romeo- where the hell are ya?”

Christian sighed, closed the book and sat looking at the cover..

‘The Complete works of William Shakespeare’. Why did they have to study this garbage anyway? The stories weren’t so bad, once you got into them – a bit overblown, overly dramatic, as stories were; but the language!

It was so hard trying to figure out what the words meant; it might have well been written in Russian or something. Did people really talk that way, way back then? Why didn’t they speak English, for fuck’s sake!

‘The Immortal Bard’, people called him. See? What was a bard anyway? A writer or something? He really didn’t see what this stuff had to do with life in the 21st century.

Now the teachers were ganging up on them. Not only had Mrs. McElwee decided that they were going to study Shakespeare, now Mrs. Lewis had announced that year 10 were going to perform Romeo and Juliet. Onstage. In public even! Oh, joy.

Bloody school. And these were supposed to be the best years of his life. Oh yes? His future was going to be really sucky then. Christian hated school. Whatever, he hated his life anyway.

“Life’s a bitch, and then you die.”

That’d be something to look forward to then.

Mrs. Lewis, or was it Mrs. McElwee? Someone anyway, said that the female roles used to be performed by young boys back in Shakespeare’s day. Women weren’t allowed on the stage in the good old days.

That got a lot of snickers and snide comments in the classroom. They weren’t going to do that anyway. Girls could do anything these days.

Christian actually wouldn’t have minded playing the part of Juliet. Not that he wanted to wear dresses and stuff – he didn’t want to pretend that he was a girl, but at least he’d get to snog Romeo, whoever he was going to be. (Probably Roman Dallas). Juliet did get to snog Romeo, didn’t she? Yes, of course she did – it was a romance. Lucky cow!

Christian had no Romeo in his life. He wished that he did, but he didn’t, and he couldn’t see himself ever having anyone. Dammit! He didn’t even have any close friends, let alone a romance.

Being gay was not the huge big deal that it used to be, but it still wasn’t quite right. This was especially true in the teenage years which, unfortunately, was where he was. All those strutting, testerone-fuelled and newly pubescent youths were looking for relationships which would lead to breeding.

You’d think that they’d be happy to hear that someone was gay. That meant less competition for the breeders. But, no – they didn’t see it like that. For some reason, gayboys were still the lowest of the low. Did they think that they were all so irresistible that every gayboy wanted to jump their bones?

Like, ewww! Fuck’em anyway. Or, not.

Christian wasn’t just looking for sex. He wanted that, of course he wanted sex like any other teenager, but not at any cost. More importantly, he wanted love. He wanted to love and be loved and that wasn’t going to happen on a one-night-stand with a breeder. It didn’t look like it was going to happen at all, not in this town.

He knew a few gay people in the town, knew of them anyway, but they were all years older than him and that didn’t interest him at all. Again, ewww!

What he wanted, what he needed, was someone his own age, someone like himself. (But better looking of course). Only trouble was, there was nobody. As far as he knew, he was the only 14 year old gay teenager in Westpoint. Bugger it!

Maybe there was someone out there. But, if there was they weren’t ‘out’ and they just weren’t interested in Christian Squires anyway.

Christian was out; he’d been open about his sexual preference ever since he’d figured it out for himself. That had cost him what friends he had and now he wished that he wasn’t, but it was too late now. Now he was an outcast, unwanted, unloved and alone. He just lived for the day when he could leave school, leave home, and start again somewhere else – somewhere where nobody knew him.

Even his parents were distant with him. Whether that was to do with being gay, or not, he didn’t know. There was not a lot of love in his family anyway. He didn’t know why they didn’t just be done with it and split up. They obviously couldn’t stand each other, so why did they stay together? Maybe they just liked fighting.

He could hear them even now, in the kitchen, screaming their lungs out. They were probably upsetting the kids. It used to scare him when he was little, but he was used to it now. They never got physical, they just yelled – a lot!

He picked up the remote and turned the music up so that he wouldn’t have to listen to them. It got boring. If his parents were an example of a straight relationship, who needed it? Did gays fight like that? Yeah, probably.

The radio was playing that song again – Somewhere Over the Rainbow. It was something of a gay anthem in Westpoint, he didn’t know why. Maybe it was because a rainbow was a gay signal, or something.

He turned the old song off, he’d heard it a hundred times before and he wasn’t interested. People said that Robbie Keenan, on west FM, was supposed to be gay. He owned the radio station and his partner, Mr. Hartigan, owned the Westpoint News. They did some magazine publishing as well, apparently. Whatever. It was nothing to do with him anyway. They were old.

Still, if it was true, good luck to them. They’d been together forever and that was what he would like – a long-term relationship. Not that it was ever going to happen.

Christian had no illusions about himself, he wasn’t ugly or anything – just ordinary. Ordinary, average and boring. No wonder he had no friends. He wouldn’t want to be friends with Christian squires either. Boring git that he was.

Ah, fuckit! Here came the girly tears again. He couldn’t help it, he was feeling down – sad, alone and lonely. As always.

He shouldn’t have been sitting there, feeling sorry for himself. He knew that. Things could be worse. At least he had a family, of sorts. He had a roof over his head and didn’t have to worry about where his next meal was coming from.

Life used to be much tougher on gayboys. Years ago, one of his ancestors had been beaten up and thrown out of his home just because he was gay. Well, not an ancestor – a relation. He had no kids, of course.

He was just a kid when he was thrown out, about 16. He left town, broken and bleeding, and never came back until after he died many years later. A ‘friend’ brought him back and he was buried here, in Westpoint. Christian visited his grave sometimes.

He wasn’t the only one either. Someone else left flowers out there as well, but he didn’t know who. Someone remembered him. Would anyone remember Christian? Probably not.

So. Things could be worse. At least that wasn’t going to happen to him, he hoped. He’d live and then he’d die. Great life, eh?

He went to bed. He might dream of someone, with a bit of luck. Someone like Roman Dallas

Christian was not the only person in town who dreamed about Roman Dallas; lots of people did, some of them not so young either. Roman was, without doubt, the most fantasized kid in Westpoint.

Sixteen years old, he was ‘tall, dark and handsome’ – very handsome. He was possibly the best-looking boy in the town; the result of generations of careful, selected breeding. But he had more than good-looks, he had talent as a sportsman, stylish clothes and fancy toys, including his own car. He had money, lots of money.

Or, his family did, which amounted to the same thing, he was his parents’ only son. He did have a younger sister, but girls didn’t count for much in their family, except as pawns. Sons didn’t really count for much either, but he was the heir and that mattered. Oh, boy! Did that matter!

Roman’s place in the family, his future and his destiny had been decided for him long before he was born. He was a Dallas and, one day, he would make a proper and advantageous marriage, produce an heir or two and, eventually, take his place as head of the family.

His parents were already considering suitable brides for their son and heir. Love did not enter into it. Love was for the peasants. The Dallas had responsibilities, they had money.

They were actually not that wealthy. They had money and were very comfortable, but they weren’t ‘filthy-rich’. That was one reason why they still lived in a small town. In a city they would just be one more well-off family, in Westpoint they were all-but gentry, and that was important – very important. The Dallas’s were the worst sort of snobs.

Roman was a nice enough kid, but he had been raised to believe that he and his family were a better class of people than the hoi-polloi. His parents believed it implicitly; Roman was not so sure.

It was a forbidden subject and never discussed, but the Dallas were probably not the wealthiest family in Westpoint. The Reynolds probably had more, but that was different – the Reynolds were peasants and theirs was new money, it came from trade. The Dallas had old money, and that was better, of course.

Roman’s father never did anything so sordid as to dirty his hands with trade. He was a gentleman of leisure and he paid others to do that for him. There was a legend in the family, and in the town, actively encouraged by the chief snob - Roman’s grandmother. The legend had it that they were descended from displaced European royalty, probably the Romanov’s; but, that was all it was, a legend and a fondly believed lie.

Roman’s unusual name was given to him because that was where he was born – in Rome, during his parents’ two-year overseas honeymoon. He was literally a Roman.

His days were tightly structured, as well as attending the local high school; he had two tutors at home. One was to keep him on top of the game at school and also to educate him in the classics, which the school did not cater for. The other was his physical tutor. His parents spared no expense to ensure that their son would be the best at everything.

They didn’t spare him either, he was lucky if he got 2 hours free time in a day. Sundays were his only free days, or, half-days. He had to make an appearance, with the family, at church in the mornings, and the evenings were tied-up with the weekly formal, (read stuffy), dinners with his parents, usually with other guests present. These occasions were a real pain. Even his grandmother gave them a miss, unless they had special guests.

His parents, and grandmother, spent much of their idle days involved with, and leading, various clubs and organizations in the town. His father, Preston, did consider becoming the mayor once, but decided against it – there was too much actual work involved.

In short, Roman Dallas’ life was privileged, comfortable, regimented and miserable – he hated it, but it was the only life he knew. He was lonely.

Westpoint’s number-one heart-throb and chick-magnet had a secret, he was gay. The girls throwing themselves at him didn’t interest him at all. His parents knew, they didn’t mind. (Read, didn’t care).

As long as he kept his orientation to himself and never, ever, revealed it to anyone in Westpoint, they didn’t care. If he was discrete and intelligent about it, he could make a suitable marriage, produce heirs and live the life he was supposed to lead.

He could, when he was an adult, take his pleasures where he would, as long as it was not with any of the locals, that could only lead to disaster. His grandfather had lived the same life, he managed.

His father even made sure that the tutor they employed for him was a gay man. Roman had no love for him, he was 12 years older and he was only an employee, but he made full use of him.

The parents knew that too, they didn’t mind. While he was having his needs taken care of at home, he was not about to be tempted into any unsuitable alliances. When Preston was a youth, he’d had a gay tutor as well, (in more ways than one). It didn’t do him any harm.

Roman’s academic tutor was straight, of course, but his physical tutor was, well – physical. The tutor, Bruce, had a partner, he lived with him in town, but he saw servicing his charge as part of the job. He didn’t mind a bit, nice work if you can get it. Most girls, and others, would give their eyeteeth to get a bit of Roman Dallas, and he got paid for it. Nice!

But, Roman was still lonely. Would he ever find his soulmate? Would he be allowed to?