Man in the Box
By Fergie Boy
Copyright Fergie Boy, 2009
Published by Firm Hand Books at Smashwords
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Prologue
This would be the best day of the holiday, and it came as a surprise: a big surprise after the shouting match that went on last night.
He had fully expected to be packing up and leaving this morning; leaving early, like they always seemed to do. His mum twittering on about a language she couldn’t understand, and a religion that was not to her taste. But who cared about any of that; when there were miles of beaches and castles to be built, and Loch Roag down the road, where his friends, the otters, swam and played?
He waited on the announcement over breakfast, when porridge was wafted under his nose and firmly refused. Cornflakes, then square sausage in a roll with a dollop of brown sauce would do nicely for him - he had no intensions of eating any of their gruel, no matter how hard they coaxed.
But it never came. Instead she announced that she was off for the day, going to Stornoway with Aunt Maureen: his dad would be taking care of him.
Aye, this would be the best day - by a long, long stretch.
They spent most of the time at Dalmore Beach, mesmerised by the ocean’s power and the ruggedness of the land: cliffs funnelling the already mighty water into thunderous waves crashing onto the sand. Too dangerous to swim in, but it was too cold anyway - it always was in the Hebrides: you didn’t come here for the sun and a tan. You came here for the rawness, and for a day like today: the best day - when there was no one else around; only the island whose name that he bore, and the man who had given him that name.
They had their lunch sitting on the sand; tea from a flask in a cup that they shared and ham sandwiches made from a pan loaf. Now that was a thing that would never have been allowed; not on any other day - wholemeal was better for you apparently, but it didn’t taste as good.
Cradled in his legs, protected from the wind; he watched the sea - the Minch, that separated them from the mainland, as he heard tales of the Blue Men who lay there in wait. They were the storm kelpies who would emerge from the deep in search of boats to sink and sailors to drown: a wee boy had best beware and not run off from his dad when his back was turned - dangerous waters would have him away and the kelpies would have him for dinner.
He wasn’t afraid. He wouldn’t run off. Why on earth would he want to do that? But those kelpies could still be a problem: out there in the sea; waiting - waiting for them to go home. Perhaps it would be best to stay. That should be the plan. Then there would be no school to go to where the boys weren’t his friends, or work to claim his dad and make him stay out late. Then that man, Mr. Murdoch, wouldn’t need to come: come all the way from England, just to tell them that he was no good. The rest didn’t matter, not really, not as long as he could have days like today. But that man; that man he did fear - he was afraid that he would fail him, and that he would let his dad down, and that their dream would come to an end.
Oh, if only those kelpies would sink all the boats; then he wouldn’t be put to the test.
Back at the cottage, they settled down at the kitchen table with his book - the one that he’d got for Christmas and went everywhere with him. It held all his heroes: valiant warriors who fought in white. He knew all the stories, but was more than content to hear them again. He could happily sit here all day, waiting on the moment: the moment that only his dad could bring about - when time would stand still and then rush ahead. He understood the ritual: heroes first, that was the rule. Pay homage to the past before the dream could commence.
It had to happen. How could it not on this best of days? Time was running out - the holiday would soon end and those kelpies were unlikely to come to the rescue. That man was coming, like it or not; coming to see him and to tell them the truth, and then they could no longer pretend.
Pretend?
Suddenly all chance was gone when that thing flew into the room. A sparrow, small and plump - a fluttering mass of terror as it bounced from wall to wall, unable to find the door that had proved all too easy to enter through. Their reaction was immediate; both man and boy, covering themselves under arms, cowering, terrified of this small panicked creature that meant them no harm. Still shielding himself, he emulated the demon and took to the air, as his father hoisted him from his chair and carried him outside.
They stood there at a safe distance, looking at the door, hoping for an exit and a dignified reprieve. Minutes that seemed like hours, stood silently waiting in vain. Then he asked the question that had been on both their minds.
“What are we going to do?”
“The door’s open; it’ll find its way out.”
“What if it doesn’t: will we just wait here till mum gets back, and Aunt Maureen?”
“They could be hours yet; there was mention of a hairdresser’s.”
“My book’s still in there.”
“It’s hardly going to tear it apart: it’s just a wee bird.”
A name had been given to the tormentor and the man felt the trembling at his side. He felt a hand; tensing, clutching the fabric around his leg. And then he looked down, held his eyes and saw the fear that sat there.
‘Where had that come from?’ he wondered: he had never seen it before. The same ornithophobia that he had carried with him for thirty years, and had somehow managed to pass on.
How: nature or nurture?
He didn’t care a jot: it still came out the same...
And what was he supposed to do now? Stand there and underline it all? Teach his son how to be afraid?
No.
He had taught him a lot; but that was one lesson that would never be made.
“Come on. As I said, it’s only a wee bird. Took us both by surprise, did it not? It’ll kill itself in there if we don’t get it out soon; and your Aunt Maureen will kill us both if it makes a mess of her house in the process. We’ll go in and chase it out. What do you say?”
“You do it, dad. I don’t like them.”
The grip was tightened, and a cheek laid against his hip for added effect. There was no faking going on: it was an honest plea. And of course he would do it. He would do anything for his boy. Protect him with his very life. Even go into a house and confront a sparrow: that’s how much he loved him. But fear: that was not something to be ruled by. He had allowed it in himself for far too long. He would not instil such a thing in his son.
“It’s a two man job if you ask me. Grab your beach towel once we’re in there and we’ll try to corner it or force it out the door. Come on: it’s only a wee bird - it can do us no harm.”
“I don’t like them.”
“I’m not asking you to like them. I just want you to help me chase it out the house.”
“Can we not just wait till it flies out by itself?”
“Now come on: that’s not the way I’ve been showing you, is it? You need to make things happen; not just wait and hope for the best. Be brave, my wee Scottish soldier; and help me out here, will you? Do it for your old dad, eh?”
“Aye, all right,” he responded; knowing that there could be no other choice. He would face the ordeal, this ultimate terror, which paled the threat of that Mr. Murdoch into a puppy dog to be stroked. And as for those kelpies, they could go hang themselves - only reality would save the day.
Still the best day - by a long, long, stretch.
Chapter 1 – The Party.
Lewis McLair had never felt comfortable at social events. He had reasons enough to feel awkward at this one, by Christ he had, but it had always been the same for him. It didn’t matter what baggage he happened to be carrying at the time; good or bad.
Earlier that evening he was actually looking forward to going out: although it was hardly going to be the break from routine that he had planned weeks ago, when the invite was made. But he had felt fine; getting ready. Just to get out and away from Jim for a few hours; away from his moaning and that sour, sour, face. But now the excitement, as usual, had been replaced by a creeping anxiety hitting the pit of his stomach. And that was before the muscle Mary from Thailand greeted him at the door, and insisted on escorting him into the room. He was a sight indeed; wearing nothing but a sarong and a Mohican hair cut, which he had cunningly dyed green. It reminded Lewis of a cockatoo, the head crest in full display as it tried to impress and attract a mate; only in this case, it was doing the job of scaring off a less flamboyant male. Then the intimidation heightened with a combination of cheesy smiles and crotch watching, which had made Lewis reach for his flies, just to be sure, before going in.
Now they both stood in the doorway, while the guests in the vicinity turned and stared. Hardly a surprise, given the visual impact his companion was undoubtedly making; but it was Lewis that they were staring at; and that was even less surprising.
“I go tell Mr. Collins you have arrived. But first, can I get you something to drink, or to eat maybe?”
“No thanks. I’ll help myself, if that’s alright.”
“Of course. Enjoy the evening, Mr. McLair.”
Lewis watched him walk off, all rippling muscles and an ass that swayed just on the right side of mincing. He was a lot less threatening when viewed from behind, and Lewis was certain that plenty of men had done that in the past: at very close quarters, and without the inconvenience of a sarong in the way. It was an ass that invited, and suggested a hell of a lot more; and a turn of the lad’s head confirmed it all. It’s yours: for tonight anyway - but that’s as far as we go.
Lewis turned away, annoyed with himself for having fallen so easily into the trap, but then he looked round again and considered it briefly as the cockatoo’s ass sashayed away. It was dark, and there was a garden outside; they could both easily disappear for a while...
That would have been one option for the evening, dear reader
And the Thai boy might have been happy to play
But Lewis, as we will find out
Had a role to play tonight
An example to set and a duty to do
And a reputation that needed to be addressed
Being caught with a rent boy, a Thai one at that
Was certainly not the way to go!
So Lewis had watched as the boy sashayed off
Then took a deep breath and put him out of his mind
It was time for our hero to get on with the show!
And it’s time for you to find out
What our hero is all about
So let’s go meet him...
Mr. Lewis McLair
...There were soon plenty of smiles being cast in his direction, and the odd, “Good to see you, Lewis!” or “Glad you could make it!” was called out as he passed people by. He ignored them all, and battled his way through the buzz of the crowd to find the bar at the far end of the room. It was mercifully quiet, and the scowl on Lewis’s face meant it would probably stay that way, at least until his host appeared.
“Vodka and tonic please, mate,” said Lewis to the barman as he drew up a stool then turned to take in the scene properly for the first time.
It was a flamboyant affair, and no mistake. The men outnumber the women by about three to one, and had probably outlasted them by the same margin, in getting ready for the party. He could see that they had all made an effort. But it was the men in sarongs, five including the Thai boy, who really caught the attention. The costumes alone made them stand out in the crowd, despite some serious competition, but it was their gym perfected bodies, that the costumes displayed, that really made the impact. It wasn’t only on Lewis; he could see that most of the other men were watching them as well; some with sneaky glances as they walk passed with their trays of drinks and canapés; and others, the older boys mainly, ogled at them without giving a shit.
‘Which one are you then, Lewis,’ came a voice from within, ‘a glancer or an ogler?’
‘I watch, discreetly, from afar,’ was his silent reply.
‘Sounds like no man’s land to me.’
‘Cheeky sod! I think it best that you piss off for the night if you’ve got nothing better to say. There’s going to be enough catty remarks floating about without you sticking your oar in.’
‘No chance! I enjoy a night out: unlike some people I could mention... You know, some of them are quite nice: the ones without the kaleidoscopic hairdo’s that is - if you’re into that sort of thing I might add.’
With a smirk on his face, Lewis examined these men more closely from his vantage point; discreetly of course, because that was his way. One of them actually looked familiar. He was the tallest of the five, six foot two at a guess; short jet black hair and pale white skin: which was a bit unusual considering they were in Australia at the peak of its summer. Lewis watched his progress around the room, enjoying what he saw. He had a sort of crooked smile, and a set of teeth that would need a few grand to put right, but in a way it added to his attraction - it made him real, this imperfection. There was nothing imperfect about the body, though: it was absolutely spectacular. He was naturally well built, but had added a stone or two of muscle to devastating effect, and he carried it well: there was no suggestion of a mince anywhere near him. His chest was smooth, probably shaven to highlight the impressive, but not overly developed pecs; large nipples for a man, the only feminine thing about him, but they would be perfect for chewing on; a door to some pain, and then - who knew where else. This was a real man, and would you credit it: a glance had just been made. No open invite, like the cockatoo’s ass, but an opening none the less. Such a shame Lewis would have to pass.
As he continued to watch, no longer discreetly, Lewis was convinced that he had seen this guy before.
‘Where would that be from then?’ he wondered.
‘Well, you haven’t shagged him; that’s for sure.’
‘I told you already. Put those claws away and then piss off for the night... God, I knew this was a big mistake. Oh well, I’m here now. So where’s my drink?’
It was sitting waiting for him thankfully, and Lewis didn’t hesitate before downing a fair sized gulp. Checking out the room again, this time he took in the décor. A sort of monochrome effect was dominating the walls, which counter balanced quite nicely the more outlandish outfits on display elsewhere. He noticed the framed posters on each of the walls leading away from the bar: all black and white. They were of various sports men and women. He recognised Billie Jean and Martina; none of the others. But it was the two much larger, spot lit posters, on the far wall which dominated room; and these two people he knew all too well.
Lewis took another swig of his drink, and considered the poster to the left. Chantal Duboir: at the ripe old age of twenty seven, holding aloft the Australian Open Trophy. It was the first major title she had ever won, coming seven years after her only previous appearance in such a final.
Lewis smiled, as he remembered the day she won the title, thinking, ‘Seven years! How the fuck did you keep it going for another seven years, Chantal? Never quiet getting there. God, you deserved it, girl: played brilliantly; like you had dozens under your belt. I was crapping myself watching you, though: waiting for you to blow up; praying that you wouldn’t. It never happened: kept your cool all the way to the end. How did you turn it around? Marie? Too easy an answer; but I bet she helped.’
Lewis raised his glass in salute to the poster then whispered, “Cheers, Chantal! God Bless You!”
Having made his toast with the remains of his vodka, Lewis ordered one more, before turning his attention to the other image at the front of the room. He had seen it before, a few times in fact, and had to concede, it captured the moment really well. It was of himself, Lewis McLair, kissing the Men’s Singles Trophy, at Wimbledon.
Chapter 2 – A Champion Comes Out
Lewis took a sip of his vodka and allowed the memory to come back. He was twenty one when he made his first Wimbledon appearance. He had ignored the advice of his coach, and shunned the wild card on offer the previous year. He wanted to go when he was ready for it: ready in every way. But by this stage his ranking was good enough to merit a place in the draw: no more excuses - it was time to make his debut.
He had already made a bit of a name for himself on the tour earlier that year, by reaching his first final, in Dubai, and taking the match to a deciding set. The fuss died down, though; especially once the tour moved onto European clay. Not his surface at all. He was a net court man, and playing on grass was where he felt most comfortable. Not many others on the tour could say the same.
To the world at large his first two matches went unnoticed. They put him on outside courts, well away from the television cameras. But he was drawing the crowds: he was winning! The obscurity was not to last, however; how could it? By the third round, he was the only British player left in the tournament, and was up against the No. 4 seed; the losing finalist from two years before. It had to be Centre Court: and it was! He was nervous before the match, but that was okay; he was always nervous. On the tennis court, all it would take was a few points to calm him down. Nerves were for after the match, when consequences might have to be faced.
As it was, nerves played little part in deciding the outcome. Latin temperament and a partisan crowd played a much bigger role. It was all over after he won the first set. The crowd went berserk; and so did his opponent.
Spanish: such a fabulous language, with a range of expletives second to none. Fortunately, few at courtside were blessed with the gift, and those who had mastered the odd word before heading off to the Costa’s for their week in the sun, were not versed in the choice phrases that were uttered that day. They passed everyone by. The only thing that didn’t get passed... was Lewis. He crunched everything away.
Game, set and match!
As he sat at the bar looking at his own image, Lewis cast his mind back to that June afternoon, and its repercussions, and he silently toasted the Argentinean who had opened the door for him with his petulant display.
‘You lost it, mate!’ he said to himself. ‘Cheers!’
It came flooding back to him. There he was, out of the blue, the nation’s new sporting hero. He was on the telly, playing it down, and on the back pages, giving it large.
‘A right cocky bastard if you ask me. You looked like you were up for another round in the Falklands! No class.’
‘Aye, well; the boy was rattled. It did no harm to get the crowd to rattle him a bit more. I was having a great time out there. But you’re right; I might have got a bit carried away.’
The tabloids loved it: a Brit winning at Wimbledon, and beating an Argentinean into the bargain. It was gutter press ecstasy. They painted a picture of Lewis McLair which was a long way from the truth. He’d seen a weakness and exploited it to the full - put on a performance: a means to an end. They saw what they wanted to see - a Brit with balls, and South American cajoles that were righteously squeezed.
“See you, Hombre!”
“Kin yer mither sow?”
“Well, she can stitch that! Here ye go!”
“A Glesgie kiss fae the new face o’ tennis.”
“Hard man McLair sends the Argie back home.”
The nation was hooked. It was all a load of bollocks, but why not let them believe: believe in this fanciful image? Three Wheetabix for breakfast and porridge to boot! Did it really matter: the truth?
It mattered to some - there was one middle aged lady who lived in Dundee who cared a hell of a lot about the truth, and she certainly wasn’t going to spill any of it when the press came to her door. It was time to head south and watch her son play. She had never wanted to come down; didn’t want to see the matches; too stressful apparently, or at least that was the excuse.
‘Not as stressful as all those hacks parked outside her door, though,’ thought Lewis as he chuckled to himself, remembering his mother’s reaction to the press intrusion.
‘She watched you after that! By God, she did.’
And so it had started. That match - that display, which wasn’t really required: he would have won anyway without all the theatrics. But the fuse had been lit; and Lewis had fanned the flame. It was only a matter of time before the bomb would go off.
Suddenly Lewis McLair was big news: the press wanted to know everything about him; and there was plenty to tell. Lewis had a story for them, but it would have to wait. They would have to wait. He reasoned that the interest would blow over again; just as it had done earlier that year. It was only the one win after all. Tennis would be forgotten about after a couple of weeks, and Lewis McLair along with it: till the following year.
But that was not to be. Lewis McLair had turned a corner in his life, whether he liked it or not, and that life was now the property of the British media, until it decided otherwise. The frenzy of interest following the match was only intensified, as successive victories took him all the way to the final. He was the first British man to get there in almost seventy years.
He couldn’t believe it. Somehow it had come true; or part of it had. This dream; this mission he had set. Suddenly, his young life became focused on a stage that no one thought he was ready to enter: loads of bluster, but no real belief - it was a walk on part and a pat on the back.
“Well done, old chap!”
“Jolly good show!”
“Better luck next year. Be sure to return.”
‘Well, they could stuff that load of defeatist bollocks right up their arse! They might not have thought I was ready for it. But I did: if I’d got there, then I had to be ready.’
‘You were as it happens, at least ready for the final, but you sure as hell weren’t ready for the rest.’
‘Could I have waited any longer?’
‘Yes, for a while, but then it would have destroyed you.’
It was a shaky start in the final for Lewis; the nerves seemed to linger a bit longer that afternoon. But he stunned his Swedish opponent, and most of the observers, as he clawed his way back into the match, and won it in four sets. It all became a bit of a blur for him after that, except for one moment. He had just been presented the trophy, and when he looked at it, he saw his name, etched onto the role of champions: those valiant warriors who had fought in white. His face just seemed to erupt with happiness. He threw a look to the skies and offered some words, and then he kissed the cup.
Lewis stiffened in his chair as he dredged up the past. ‘Was it an hour?’ he asked himself. ‘It was probably less. Not even an hour. That was all I had.’
‘All you allowed.’
‘Studio interview: piece of piss! Just sit back and bask in the glory, and there was plenty of that! Usual stuff; about the match, the thrill, how gutted I was for my opponent.’
‘Yeah, right!’
‘The time was just passing. I had to do it. I wanted it on my terms. Not someone else’s. And then she said it, or asked it.’
‘Whatever!’
‘I knew it was as good a queue as I’d get. “Your perfect day,” she said. Well, I just sat there for a minute; waiting - knowing what I had to do. They probably thought I was cracking up.’
‘You were in a way!’
‘But I just sat there and looked at her; waiting on the words: and then they came out.’
It was a relief to everyone in the studio when Lewis finally started to speak, but not by the time he had finished.
“No, not perfect,” he had said. “For it to be perfect it needed my perfect man; sitting there, in the box, watching me. Hopefully I’ll meet him soon and I’ll have another big final to play, then he can sit in the box and watch; and that would be perfect, even if I lost.”
Still on his own, eighteen months later, Lewis looked at the euphoric face kissing the cup, and raised his glass as he had done for Chantal Duboir. An involuntary smile appeared. Whatever happened after that: all those disappointments; with himself, with others. Nothing could take away the reality of that moment from him, or his name from that trophy, still the only one of consequence to bear it.
Chapter 3 – Chantal and Marie
The present came crashing back to Lewis McLair in the form of a spherical beaming face, atop a garish peach shirt, which was heading towards him.
“Lewis, we are so happy that you managed to make it. Jon was convinced you’d cry off, but I said no, sweetie, he’s a trooper! Why bother about a little tittle tattle, eh? Oh, I’m Sebastian by the way, committee secretary, one of Sydney’s biggest SLAGSS.”
“Come again?” prompted Lewis with a frown.
“Sydney Lesbian And Gay Sports Society. If the G-string fits, then wear it, that’s what I say, sweetie. Most of us here tonight are SLAGSS, one way or another. Is there one in particular you would like to meet?” asked Sebastian raising his eyebrows.
Lewis glanced around the room again, and tried to block out the headlines that would be appearing over the next few days. The name had been mentioned when he had received the invite, but he hadn’t made a connection with the initials. The tabloids would, though, and would no doubt have a field day over it. Oh, well. Thankfully, there were a couple of familiar faces in the crowd.
“I just want to have a chat with Chantal for a few minutes, then I’ll do the rounds and say hello to some people, if that’s okay,” said Lewis as he got off the stool and withdrew slightly. He felt discomfited by Sebastian’s proximity.
“Of course, sweetie, you do that. Naturally, I’m going to say a few words later. Have you prepared anything yourself, or do you want to give it a miss? People will understand, but be hugely disappointed. Everyone is thrilled that you’ve come along, and want to gobble you up.”
“Something around: the importance of gay participation in sport. That’s what you asked for, wasn’t it? I’ll do my best, but don’t expect too much.”
“Thanks, sweetie. Just stand there and smile at them; that will make their night. And that accent; they’ll be swooning in the aisles! I do hope we have some medics on hand,” said Sebastian, theatrically tossing his head as to look round the room. “Now I’ll leave you to the lovely Chantal: we’ll be on in about half an hour. Okay?”
“No worries.”
No worries indeed. The very idea of public speaking was a trauma, but he was starting to get used to it. This was self inflicted, though. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea coming here after all. Another drink, and some familiar company, would hopefully calm him down before the ordeal.
He took in the full splendour of the two women as he approached them. Not classical beauties, but each had a presence which drew the eye and demanded its admiration. Chantal Duboir was the taller of the two by at least five inches, Amazonian in appearance: dusky skinned and muscular. Her broad shoulders were proudly displayed by the strapless dress which clung to her body, and softened by the thick auburn hair which fell over them. The effect drew the attention away from her companion, Marie Clement, a chameleon in black and white: black bobbed hair, and ivory white skin. A black tailored suit which only suggested, but somehow, demanded more in the end.
“Chantal, you look gorgeous. You too, Marie, how are you both?” asked Lewis, as he kissed the cheeks of both his friends.
“Better than you no doubt! I’m surprised you came. Even we were having second thoughts, but Chantal felt we should support them,” replied Marie, who in reality was the one who had forced the issue by cajoling her reluctant girlfriend to attend. It was inconceivable to Marie that she could possibly miss out on the exquisite drama of Lewis showing his face here tonight.
“Well, I’ve got time on my hands after that fiasco earlier this week, so why not? Chantal, did you know that we’re in a room full of SLAGSS?”
“Oui, très amusent,” she replied without displaying the slightest trace of joviality; instead it was with a frown she continued, “But Lewis, you seem to be making a habit of it. What on earth were you up to?”
“Oh, please!” he protested.
“I’m not going to lecture you, but you should have been more careful,” Chantal persisted.
“Oh, I was careful alright, but not in the way that you mean,” replied Lewis smirking at her.
Chantal pouted her mouth, in a way only the French seem to have mastered. Lewis’s head dropped from the rebuke, knowing that she deserved more from him that a flippant remark. She was concerned for him, and he adored her for it: this woman; whom he had admired for years, and was now privileged to count as his friend; perhaps his only true friend on the lonely, unforgiving tour that dominated his life. She, more that anyone could relate to what he was going through, and the journey he had made. Marie, sensing that they would like a few minutes alone, slipped away as he lifted his head.
“How did you cope? I mean… they used to write stuff about you. Did anything like this ever happen?”
“No; nothing like this. There have been some awful things said about me, but nothing like this, Lewis... I coped because I always had good friends around me, and now of course, there is Marie. That’s what makes you strong: strong enough to carry on; whatever others may do, or say about you.”
“Does it ever stop?”
“No, but it gets easier.”
“Not for me.”
“You give them the bullets, Lewis: picking up strangers in the bars. What did you expect?”
“Christ, you make it sound like I’m out there every night. It was a one off. I suppose that’s all it takes. There are enough sorrier people than me out there who can vouch for that.”
“Just the once?” asked Chantal with a wry smile.
“Well, a few more, but that’s all; honestly. And I never let it interfere with my tennis.”
“You did this time.”
“They changed the schedule. I didn’t expect to play on Monday.”...
Chapter 4 - A Night Out in Sydney
Schedule changes do not normally happen on the first day of a tournament; especially where the top players are concerned. And Lewis, despite the lack of titles, had still managed to establish himself in the top flight; if only just. But if one big name withdrew suddenly: as happened at the Sydney Open that year, then the organisers would look to fill the gap on a show court with another top player. Lewis was unlucky; it was his match that they decided to bring forward a day. It was a last minute change, which the organisers conveyed to his coach, Jim Murdoch, on Sunday evening. Lewis, however, was not around to get the news. He was sitting in a bar.
Now why would that be, I hear you ask, dear reader?
A tennis professional sitting in a bar!
Not any old bar I have to add
This was The Darlinghurst, and it was full of queers!
I think it best we go back a few days
And see what Lewis was about...
As it happens, Lewis was about to leave when the guy came over: he was already two vodkas over the limit he had set for the night; and that was two more than he was really allowed. He wasn’t having any fun anyway: he’d just sat there quietly looking around. He knew he’d been recognised by a few people, but nobody had bothered him - Lewis had a knack of putting a ‘don’t fuck with me!’ look on his face in places like this, which made most people do exactly that. But not this guy: this guy made it clear right from the start that fucking was what he was all about.
Ten minutes of chat, that was all, then they headed back to his flat. No hint of recognition, but who cared a damn, Lewis was a young lad and he was desperate for a shag!
It was 3 a.m. when Lewis finally got back to his hotel room, and he was far from amused to find Jim Murdoch sitting there, waiting for him.
“Where the hell have you been till this time of night?” growled the Scotsman.
“That’s none of your fucking business really, is it? Your wife’s next door, not in here, now piss off,” replied Lewis sharply.
“Fine! I really can’t be arsed with you any more, Lewis. Just get some sleep, you’re on at two tomorrow, they called in a new schedule. Oh aye, and see this mobile, try taking it with you the next time you sneak out.”
His play the following day was woeful. The jeers from the crowd as he left the court rounded his afternoon off nicely. There was some speculation in the press, that he had actually lost the match deliberately, tanked it, in order to move on to Melbourne and focus on the Australian Open. Not a very likely scenario, but players had been known to tank in the past. The organisers in Sydney, however, were far from happy with him, whatever his reasons, and demanded an explanation for the lacklustre performance.
They got one the following day; but not from Lewis. It was the Sydney Herald that came up with all the answers, by running a story under the headline: “My Night of Steamy Sex with Wimbledon Champ”. It was Jim who brought the good news to Lewis in his hotel room. Thrusting the paper into his hands; he actually looked quite pleased with himself for the first time in months. When Lewis read the article, it was clear that a lot of embellishments had been made, which was nothing new where the young Scotsman was concerned, but there could be no denying the central truths, over which the good people of Sydney, and the following morning Britain, would gleefully eat their breakfast.
‘Christ!’ he thought. ‘Why did I stay in that bar? I just needed to get out and have a look. How can you come to Sydney and not go out and have a look around?’
‘Just looking?’
‘A couple of drinks: then home. I didn’t think that Jim would even notice.’
‘And what if he did? Couldn’t you have just told him what you were up to?’
‘Don’t be daft! He would have had an apoplectic fit if I’d told him I was off out on the pull. But I wasn’t really; I just needed to see it; have a little taste before the tournament started... But I had more than a couple of drinks, aye, quite a few more; and then he came over. He seemed fine. What a bastard! He must have known all along who I was.’
‘And you fell for it. Fell for the idea that he actually liked you. You: not who you were or what you’d done, but you, just you.’
‘BOLLOCKS!’
Losing the match was bad enough. There was no question that Lewis could have done with a decent run in Sydney, as a warm up for the Australian. But this; well, they had him now. He had tried to be careful, ever since that day, when he knew that they would be after his blood: so never in Britain.
‘Christ, there’d only been a few times anyway,’ he thought as he paced the hotel room. But he had been pushing it a bit more of late: a few more risks and a lot more drinking. Perhaps Jim was right; he didn’t really want success on the court badly enough.
Was he right? Was he right that deep down he wanted to fail? Wanted the career to come to an end? Lewis had asked the questions enough times.
How much did he really want it?
How much did he want the success?
Did he want it more that the drink; more than the men?
And in the cold light of day, the answers came back, as they always did.
‘YES! I want it.
I want my day again.
I want it more than the drink; more than the men.’
But alone at night, he would have to concede; that yes, he wanted it more than the drink, and he wanted it more than the men, but maybe, just maybe, not more than the man: the perfect man who could watch from the box, or convince him to give it all up.
Chapter 5 - Lee Porter
Chantal Duboir looked at Lewis McLair, her face betraying the frustration that she felt over a talent that had gone astray, and behaviour that would make her own flag bearing role all the more difficult.
“It wasn’t the schedule that caused the problem, Lewis. It’s what you did. You must know that, no?” asked Chantal.
“Yes, I know it,” replied Lewis. “Where as you: you went and found yourself a beautiful girlfriend, and I’m jealous as hell. Where’s she gone anyway?”
“Oh, flirting probably; but she comes back.”
“Always?”
“Yes, always.”
He smiled at her, pleased for her certainty. “That’s good.”
“You will find someone, Lewis. Someone who will make you happy again; but I do not think that he is in a bar… We are getting too serious! Perhaps he is here; what do you think of the men in skirts?”
“I think they look fabulous! The one with the green hair is a bit scary, but the rest look great. Though somehow… I don’t believe that they’re candidates for a meaningful relationship. No, I think it best I stay well clear of the men in skirts, and then maybe I can keep out of the papers before going to Melbourne.”
“When will you leave?”
“A few more days yet: we’re booked here through to Sunday; a bit optimistic as it turns out but that’s the plan. Jim thinks we should be there already. He’s probably right.”
“There will be fewer men in skirts and maybe for you that is good now. No?”
“Now there speaks a happily married lady,” replied Lewis, as he cast his eye around the room again, seeking the model he thought he recognised, still puzzling over where they might have met. He spotted him immediately, and once again was treated to the sight of those imperfect teeth as an invitation was underlined with yet another smile.
“I wonder who they are anyway,” he said absently, returning from a dream world of fantasised fun that he dare not embrace, to the reality of Chantal Duboir, who had whiled away the few moments silence by scanning the room for Marie; finding her, and seeing her smile; filling Chantal with a degree of assurance that her tennis had never known.
“Oh, they are from England,” said Chantal. “Their manager spoke to me before you arrived. He was very charming. He’s standing over there talking to your green haired friend.”
Lewis looked across the room and spotted the Thai lad who had greeted him at the door. He was obviously now enlisted to join the others, in porting drinks and canapés around the room. But at that moment, he had halted his tour, to chat to the man that Chantal was referring to. Someone that Lewis had not noticed before, but now instantly recognised.
Lee Porter was without question a celebrity in his own right, but his fame was restricted to a gay subculture. He managed a group of models and dancers. It was a competitive business, but Lee had climbed his way up to the top, so that he and his boys were now the first choice in England, for most gay event organisers and glossy magazine editors, should a bit of titillation be in order. It was a world that Lewis was well aware of, but had never encountered: at least not in Britain, so their paths had never crossed. But Lee also ran a web site as a promotional tool, and it was on this that Lewis now remembered seeing the model he had noticed earlier. He was one of several nameless men whose body Lewis had looked at on the site, but not lingered over, not fantasised over with a degree of lust that hurt. Only one man had incited that degree of passion: the man that had drawn Lewis to the site in the first place, having once spotted his physical perfection in a magazine; the man he was now gawping at with a fluttering heart: Lee Porter himself.
“Lewis, are you okay?” enquired Chantal.
He turned back towards her as he tried to regain a degree of composure. “Oh, sorry! I was just trying to place him. I might have seen him before once... maybe not.”
“Well, he is looking over here now. Perhaps you should go and talk to him.”
“Now that would be a bad idea, Chantal! No, I’ve changed my mind. I do want one of the men in skirts after all... I need another drink!”
At the other side of the room, Lee Porter, and his latest recruit, Joey Chang, watched Lewis as he ordered his desperately needed drink. Unlike his charges, Lee was more formally dressed, although he could carry off a sarong as good as anyone here. That was made all too apparent by the tight fitting T-shirt he wore, above equally tight chino trousers.
“Did he say anything to you when he came in?” enquired Lee.
“Oh yes, we have long talk. He say he like my hair, and I look good in sarong; better than other boys. You think also?”
“Cut out the crap, Joey; what did he say?”
“He very quiet really; not say much. Just want get drink on his own; not want me get for him. I sure he like me, though. I see him looking. Maybe he want go to nightclub later. I ask him. What you think?”
“I think he’ll run a mile if you go anywhere near him again. Mr. McLair needs a low profile right now, and being seen out with you isn’t exactly going to do that for him.”
“Yes, you right. Maybe just invite him back to apartment. Sell story to papers, get much money like other boy. Why he go with him? I see picture. Not special. I show him much better time.”
Lee snapped out his response; a little too fiercely for his own liking, “Leave him alone! He’s had enough of that sort of shit.”
“Ah, you want for yourself. Get big publicity; everybody happy. Good plan.”
“It’s time you got your arse in gear, and take those drinks around the room, otherwise nobody’s happy. Now shift... Oh, Joey; did you find out what he ordered at the bar?”
“Of course: tonic water - because he want to be good boy... With vodka - because he not.”
Lee Porter moved back a few paces, in order to watch Lewis McLair more discreetly; just as he had been doing since the tennis player had arrived. He quickly ran over the banter with Joey, and appreciated the young man’s level of perception. He was a smart lad, and no mistake: too smart perhaps to take back to England. That was something that Lee had plenty of time to mull over. But McLair? No, Lewis McLair couldn’t wait. That needed to happen now...
‘…Or let it pass.’
Coming to Sydney had been a risky venture for Lee Porter. He was known here, but the contacts he had were thinly spread; nothing like the coverage he had in England. But winter in England, once the Christmas and New Year parties were finished, was his slack period, whereas Australia was in full swing. ‘New meat to a new market,’ he had thought; and Sydney seemed a very attractive alternative to those cold and wet months back home. Lots of sun, lots of fun, and make a few bob whilst they were down there. That was the plan. But Sydney was proving to be a tougher nut to crack than Lee had expected.
They had arrived with a reasonable number of bookings already lined up, like the one here tonight, but not enough to cover his costs. He had been sure, though, that once he and the lads had hit town, more would follow. They did, but still not enough. What he needed was more publicity. And there it stood right in front of him; all the publicity he could ever wish for - in a single scoop. It didn’t matter to him what Lewis McLair had done; all that mattered was that he was big news again. In Lee Porter’s world there was rarely such a thing as bad publicity. But for Lewis McLair: that was different. The question that Lee had been wrestling with for much of the evening came back to him again. ‘Why? Why did he do it? And on that day, of all days!’
He looked at the poster of Lewis kissing the cup, and remembered the day himself. Lee had always enjoyed the tennis, but like most other people, he only really watched it around Wimbledon time. On that day, almost everyone was watching it. Lee threw a party; about twenty people came round to his flat. A few beers, then they all settled down to watch Lewis play. Lee didn’t think that he would win, though; especially after the first set.
‘But he turned it around; big style!’ Lee mused. ‘Who would have thought it? The first British champion in seventy years they said. So that meant… he was the only one that anybody could ever remember except for a few geriatric who hadn’t as yet lost their marbles. The boy McLair had the world at his feet... and then he kicked it away.’
Lee recalled the scene when they gave him that trophy. ‘The stadium just seemed to erupt; you could hear the cheers all around the neighbourhood. Everyone was screaming in the flat. They had no idea what was to come.’
After the players left the court, Lee went outside to light up the barbeque. Then someone said that Lewis was going to be interviewed. Lee came in to watch him and to hear what he had to say.
‘Nothing much was expected; nothing much was needed. He could have just lounged back and said nothing. Who would have cared? All the sponsors waiting outside for him: the advertising men; blank cheques in hand, just waiting for him to say the number: the crowd: the press? Even the interviewer wouldn’t have cared! He was British, and he’d just won Wimbledon for fuck’s sake! Nobody would have cared if he’d just sat there, dumbstruck. He’d done enough.’
‘Why did he do it?’ Lee wondered again. ‘How much money did he lose in those few seconds? Millions! A winning lottery ticket and he threw it in the fire. He’s done alright; must be loaded by most people’s standards. But it’s nothing compared to what he could have made out of it: and for what - for all the shit that they threw at him?’
It was only now; however, as he returned his gaze onto the real Lewis McLair, that Lee had the benefit of hindsight to question Lewis’s wisdom that day. But he had to admit that such questions were far from his mind when the revelation was actually made. Like everyone else who had been around him, he had thought it was great. Especially the way it came out. A real hoot! Yes, at the time, it seemed right to him. “Good on you!” he had shouted.
And as he looked again at the tennis player, another admission came flooding back. ‘Yes, Lewis McLair. On that day; like everyone else in that flat, I asked myself the question… Could it be me? Your perfect man; sitting in the box... watching you... like I’m watching you now.’
Lee’s reverie was disturbed by Sebastian Collins, who had taken up a position at the front of the room, shouting into a microphone. He got his desired effect, as conversations were terminated, and the room hushed. Lee knew he was going to have a scene later with Collins, when he would collect the balance on the night’s fee from him. The old queen wasn’t too best pleased about Joey taking his place for the night. But that was too bad; there were no names on the contract and he had his own reasons for not appearing along with the others. Collins was getting his pounds of flesh, and should be happy with them. The boys were putting on a good show. The sarongs were working well; a bit classier than the usual lycra trunks and boots.
‘Better, for this sort of event,’ thought Lee. ‘Better, for you, Lewis McLair.’
Lee ignored Sebastian as he started his speech, and turned his attention back to Lewis; this time with a professional eye. He had to admit that he looked good; not like the lads in the troop, but good, different. Lee could tell the boy was obviously fit, which he would have to be, given what he did. And there was a reasonable amount of muscle, but it was in need of more development in order to conform to the stereotypical ideal. The legs were fine; Lee conceded him that; and yes… there was no question about the arse: it was well up to the mark. The trousers he was wearing didn’t advertise the fact, but Lee was an expert judge in such matters and he knew what was there.
Lee continued his assessment of Lewis’s body, having satisfied himself that the lower half was most certainly up to the scratch. But it was the upper body that failed the test if he were considering him for the troop; there just wasn’t enough muscle on the arms and chest to comply with the gay ideal. Such was the fate of a tennis player: Lewis’s body was design for that job. But to turn into a Mary like the boys in the band; he would have to do a lot more work. More work on that upper body then perhaps... yes, perhaps he could join them in a year or so: but it would be best not to give up the day job, just in case.
Smiling to himself, Lee considered if that would have been such a smart move. He knew the look he wanted for the troop, and it was right for the clubs. But would he really turn away someone like Lewis McLair, if he asked for a chance? There was something there… something else. He instinctively looked over to the poster again.
‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘there it is. Just look at that face. What happened to that face, Lewis? It captivated everyone back then… When you won… The look in those eyes; and that smile… God; that smile! It just seemed to radiate. Radiate joy. Looking at that face; it just made you feel happy.’
‘It still does!’ came that persistent and much ignored voice: the voice of Lee Porter’s conscience.
It was some time before Lee turned his head again, to examine the other face of Lewis McLair, which was staring blankly at Sebastian Collins. He could see that it was the same face, but it had somehow lost its spark.
‘Stress!’ Lee speculated. He could see it sitting there, etched into his brow.
‘That hasn’t happened suddenly over the past week. You’ve carried it ever since; haven’t you?’ considered Lee. ‘This burden… You look tired. Too tired for someone your age: almost ready to throw in the towel perhaps. Was that the last straw then, Lewis?’
Once again he questioned why. ‘Why did you do it? You should have lived the lie, boy! There was too much to gain: too much to lose. Oh, you could have been outed, but that would have been well down the line. That would have been this week! Eighteen months on, after eighteen months of gravy.’
Lee was aware that Sebastian had now finished, and had handed the microphone to Chantal Duboir, but he was still lost in his thoughts. He heard her thank the people of Sydney and Australia for their support over the years, but was too engrossed in Lewis McLair to take much more in. He noted a change in expression, now that Chantal was speaking. A bit of the spark was coming back.
‘Well, I glad somebody can do that for you,’ he said to himself. But he could see there was tension still there; McLair was far from relaxed. ‘Why’s that then, my lad?’ he quizzed. ‘You next I suppose. Well, they’re not going to roast you here; that’s for sure.’ But Lee acknowledged that he himself would be tense, if he had to make a speech, so he knew how Lewis felt. ‘Now that’s a first!’ he thought, amused at the sudden empathy.
With this still in mind, he was not surprised to see Lewis swig back the remainder of his vodka and tonic. Lee had been counting over the evening; that was four now by his reckoning, the minimum for the night so far. ‘What’s going on there then, Lewis?’ he wondered. ‘Good move, though, vodka and tonic: could be anything really. No smell on the breath: the drink of a man who doesn’t want to advertise it. Interesting.’
Lee watched further as Lewis became more agitated, then he realised that Chantal Duboir was now taking some questions. He smiled in anticipation. ‘Okay, Lewis. Let’s hear what you’ve got to say for yourself.’
Chapter 6 - The Speech
Lewis McLair was fumbling in his pockets for the envelope which had been given to him earlier in the day by an Association of Tennis Professionals official who had the gall, in Lewis’s opinion anyway, to turn up at the hotel he was staying at, and tell him to back out of tonight’s bash. It had been a stormy meeting, and went like this...
“It’s a ‘Gay in Sports’ event!” Lewis shouted as he stomped around his room. “Exactly which part of that does the ATP have an issue with, or is it the whole thing that really bothers you?”
His adversary glanced at Jim Murdoch, entreating him to coach some sense, as well as tennis prowess, into his charge. A shrug of Jim’s shoulders made it clear that such things were way beyond his calling. He knew Lewis well enough to stay out of this argument. Accepting that there would be no help from the older Scotsman, the official tried to reason with the fiery youngster.