I'm Fine E-Book

Richard Hall

• Herausgeber: Eye Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 442

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

In 2024 a gay youth leader was jailed for 22 years. One of his victims tells why it took him two decades to call the police In 1996, at the age of fourteen, Richard Hall met a man who changed his life. Two and half decades later, he called the police. As a result, the man was jailed for twenty-two years. This is the story of what came before the police: how a teenage boy who had been hounded at school because he was gay walked into a world where he thought he would be safe, but which he was too inexperienced to navigate. In his naïvety, he thought what happened next was normal, or somehow his fault. In a vivid, compellingly readable account, Hall recreates with unnerving frankness – and with surprising bursts of humour – the year in his childhood when the attention of older admirers went to his head, with lasting consequences for the rest of his life. I'm Fine is not just the intensely moving story of one mixed-up boy's private hell. It also stands as a powerful warning about predators operating with the impunity conferred on them by 'community' status.

Leseprobe

‘An incredibly powerful memoir. The courage, fortitude and fire it takes to share a story of this magnitude is nothing short of miraculous’

Diriye Osman, author of Fairytales for Lost Children

‘Many gay men reading Richard Hall’s brave, compelling, troubling and at times traumatic coming-of-age memoir will experience shivers down their spines as they recognise aspects of themselves, their lives and their behaviours. I’m Fine should be read by all gay men for its adamantine honesty and for the unflinching and often uncomfortable light it shines on masculinity, gay identity, sexuality and power. This is an important book’

Neil McKenna, author of Fanny & Stella

‘An exceptional coming-of-age story that manages to be both a joyous love letter to a time in our lives when everything seems possible and a damning exposé of those who seek to prey on us while we are learning who we are. I’m Fine is so charming and engaging and funny and sad and real that it’s hard to believe this is Richard Hall’s debut’

Bethany Clift, author of Last One at the Party

‘Hall captures what it means to be both seen and used — how predators can double as protectors, and how the lines blur when you’re young, scared and already marked. He is funny, sharp-tongued, occasionally cruel — but never dishonest. Beneath the camp, there’s something fierce and aching. This is the story of survival, told without apology’

Ray Robinson, author of The Mating Habits of Stags

‘Touching, honest, at times disturbing, but ultimately hopeful and heartening’

John R. Gordon, author of Drapetomania

Published in 2025

by Eye Books Ltd

29A Barrow Street

Much Wenlock

Shropshire

TF13 6EN

www.eye-books.com

ISBN: 9781785634239

Copyright © Richard Hall 2025

Cover design by Nell Wood

Typeset in Garamond 3Lt Std and American Typewriter

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Our authorised representative in the EU for product safety is:

Logos Europe, 9 rue Nicolas Poussin, 17000, La Rochelle, France

[email protected]

The events in this book are true and accurate to the best of my recollection. Some names, locations and descriptions have been changed. Others have not.

To my mum.She loved me from before I was born, and I feel it every day of my life

Contents

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In 1996, at the age of fourteen, I met a man who changed my life. In 2020, I called the police. On 28 March 2024, he was sentenced to twenty-two years in prison.

This is the story of what came before the police. How, isolated and alone, I walked into a world that I was too inexperienced to navigate.

1

My mum told me I was gay just before my tenth birthday. Well, she told me about gay people, when I inadvertently told her I was one. It was during a family holiday to Avignon in the south of France in 1991. The drive there was arduous. My older sister Jenny and I had been strapped into the back of the car all day, making each other squeal by poking and hitting each other, or issuing threats to do so. Each time we squealed, Mum sighed louder, and Dad frequently threatened to turn the car around and go home. Once, he even turned himself round to glare at us, which made Mum shout about watching the road, and Jenny and I screamed because if Mum was panicked, we were clearly all about to die.

I quickly learned that, in France, bread was life, so each day started with a walk to the bakery for baguettes. One particular morning, Mum and I left the house early, before it got too hot. Our house was on the edge of the village, and to nine-year-old me the walk seemed long. Our noses were filled with the scents of wild herbs, lavender and pine sap, which would fade later, as the day grew hotter.

‘Mummy,’ I said during this walk. ‘Why am I different?’

She slowed her pace. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, all my boy friends like girls, and I like girls, but I think I like boys more.’

Mum nodded and started talking about friendships. Saying it was how a particular person made you feel that counted, not if they were a boy or a girl.

‘No, Mummy, I mean, all my boy friends talk about liking girls, but I think I like them the way they like the girls.’

Our walk got slower still. Mum explained that while most boys like girls, sometimes boys like boys or girls like girls. ‘For some people, it’s just for part of their life,’ she said, ‘and for others it’s their whole lives.’

‘But how would two boys love each other?’

Mum came to an abrupt stop. She didn’t answer.

‘Mummy? We did babies at school last year, so how do two men do babies?’

Silence. Her face reddened.

‘Mummy?’

We started to walk again. ‘Did… Er… When they taught you about babies, did they tell you about where they come from?’

‘Of course,’ I said impatiently. ‘Ladies have eggs you can’t cook. And men have tadpoles that when added to the eggs make babies.’

‘Erm, yeah, that’s close. So they explained what sex is?’

‘That’s a bad word isn’t it?’

‘No. Well, it depends how you use it. Between you and me, just this morning, it’s okay.’

We reached the village square where the bakery was, along with stalls selling vegetables and cheese, a butcher’s and a café that seemed to only sell miniature cups of coffee. ‘So they explained about vaginas and penises?’ Mum asked.

‘Vagina is definitely a bad word. Mrs Whitlaw said boys can’t say it because we don’t have one.’

An old woman looked round from a vegetable stall because I’d said ‘vagina’ quite loudly.

‘Good morning. Oh, I mean bonjour,’ Mum said to the old lady, blushing. Then, to me: ‘Let’s get the bread and we can talk more on the way home.’

In the bakery Mum peeled my face away from the patisserie display case. ‘So that’s two baguettes and two – er, deux – petites strawberry tarts, um, fraise, s’il vous plaît.’

I didn’t know what ‘petites’ meant, but it was written in a decorative hand on a label by a tray of desserts small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. ‘Do I get a whole one, or do we only get half each later?’

‘If you keep your face off the glass, we get one each on the way home.’

Outside the bakery Mum passed me one of the tarts on a paper napkin. Underneath the shiny strawberries was the French custard that tasted so much better than its British equivalent.

‘So, sex. They told you how it works?’

‘The man puts himself in the woman when he wants a baby.’

‘Well, sure, though maybe Mrs Whitlaw should do a lesson in equality.’ She took a bite of her tart. ‘But it’s not always about babies. Sometimes, when adults want to, they have sex for fun.’

‘Like playing a game?’

‘Kind of. And when it’s straight people there’s a woman and a man. Gay people, there are two men.’

‘And one of them has a vagina?’

‘Not exactly. Two men, so two penises.’

‘So one puts his penis in the other one’s penis?’

‘No. Just let me tell you and then we can have questions. When two men want to have sex there are no babies.’

‘Because two tadpoles?’

Mum blinked slowly. ‘Well yes, kind of. Some men, if they want to, well,’ – she was as red as the strawberries in the tart – ‘they put their, erm, they put their penis in the other one’s bottom.’

‘With all the poop?’

‘I…erm…I don’t think so. Let’s just say it’s magic, okay?’

‘So I should like bums then?’

‘I said sometimes, and if they want to.’

‘So I should like some bums?’

‘That’s closer.’

‘Should I like my own bum?’

‘It’s not about the bums, okay; it’s about adults being in love.’

‘A LIZARD!’ I ran towards the bright green creature that sat watching us in the middle of the path. But I tripped, and the remains of my tart landed where the lizard had been. I looked up at Mum. ‘I only got to eat half.’

‘Here; have mine. And let’s not mention this conversation to Daddy or Jenny.’

We carried this secret together. I was alone, apart from Mum, and by the time I was fourteen, this was weighing on me.

One morning, at home in Wiltshire, I came downstairs to find Jenny lying on the sofa watching Live & Kicking, and Mum fixing breakfast in the kitchen. She was dressed for work, wearing the grey trousers that made her butt look even bigger, and already had a spot of margarine on her silk blouse. The sound of Dad lumbering around upstairs came through the ceiling as he got ready for work.

Just to be irritating, I took the remote from Jenny and changed channels. Being older, she had a TV in her room. I didn’t, which in my view meant I should get priority for the TV in the sitting room.

‘I was watching that!’ she shouted, jumping up and grabbing at the remote. ‘Change it back now!’

I opened my dressing gown and stuck it down the front of my pants. ‘You do it!’

‘You’re repulsive!’ she bellowed, and stomped out of the room.

As I regally waved her away and dumped myself down on the sofa where the cat was asleep – she now woke and jumped away to safety – Mum appeared in the doorway. I assumed she was about to lecture me to be nicer to Jenny, so I pulled out the remote control and closed my dressing gown. Instead she held up a finger to show I should both wait and be quiet. A moment later the sound of Live & Kicking came from Jen’s bedroom. Mum came and sat by me. She’d been going through the Radio Times, she said, and had seen a new show advertised: Gaytime TV. I said nothing as she explained it was a show for the lesbian and gay community. It had aired late last night and she’d managed to tape it without anyone knowing. She’d already watched it to check it was suitable for me. Did I want to watch it?

Of course I did. For the last five years it’d been just me, Mum and a dream there were more people like me out there. And now, it turned out, there were.

‘You’ll have to wait for the house to be empty.’

I begged, pleaded and promised to turn off the TV if Jenny came out of her room, but Mum wouldn’t budge. ‘I’ll let you have the tape when you can watch on your own.’

Waiting was going to be torture, but Mum was right: I didn’t want Jenny to know about me. If she told one of her friends, it would only be a matter of time before it got back to school. Worse would be her saying something to Dad. I didn’t think he’d be able to support me ‘choosing’ a life that was sinful and might end with me dying young from AIDS. Even if he found a way to accept it, I could imagine the look I’d get every time a male friend came round.

The house was finally empty. Mum produced the VHS cassette. I eagerly pushed it into the VCR, pressed play and sat cross-legged in front of the TV, so close that I could only just see the whole screen.

For the first time in my life I was seeing people like me and listening to them talk about things I was thinking and feeling. A beautiful muscular man and a quick-witted, funny woman presented a current affairs programme. They talked about politics too much, but there they were, right in front of me: gay people being who they were with no apologies, no hiding, no fear. Living their lives the way I yearned to.

For weeks after that, Mum would record the show and watch it through by herself, then I would get to see it, and for that hour I’d lose myself in a world I could see but not touch. It was out there somewhere: a place where I didn’t have to hide; with people who felt like I did. I hadn’t known what I was missing until it was there in front of me.

A week came where there wasn’t a tape for me, and Mum told me I’d have to wait until tomorrow. The next afternoon she stood in front of me with the video cassette in her hand, not offering it to me.

‘There’s about fifteen minutes of the test card towards the end,’ she said. ‘It was a segment that wasn’t appropriate for you, so I taped over it.’

She wouldn’t tell me what it was, which made me even more curious. I stuffed the tape in the VCR and hit play. I got lost in the show as usual, until the presenter was cut off mid-sentence and replaced by the test-card picture of the annoying girl and creepy clown, and the horrible high-pitched tone that went with it. I pressed fast-forward, watching the static lines rumble across the screen, then the show was back. I hit rewind and there was a skinny old man with a pencil-thin moustache who looked like a marionette. The shot opened up and Rhona Cameron, the female presenter, was holding her hand towards him saying, ‘The amazing John Waters, everyone.’

I rewound and paused on the picture of the old guy, then pressed play again. There were only five minutes of the show left, and I spent all of them wondering what could be so transgressive about him.

Mum was sitting at the table in the breakfast room, her back to the door. Her shoulders jumped when I announced my presence by asking, ‘Who’s John Waters?’

She sighed. ‘It’s not so much him; it’s some of his work.’

‘Why?’

‘He… He makes movies of a very adult genre.’

‘You mean gay movies.’

‘It’s not that they’re gay. They’re just…in poor taste, even for adults.’

‘You’re straight. You don’t get to say that gay people are in poor taste.’

‘Don’t twist my words.’ She got up and moved towards the kitchen. ‘I don’t like the way he depicts people expressing their sexual nature. And I don’t like him encouraging men to caricature women under the guise of drag.’

‘What’s drag?’

‘I said you could watch the show if I thought it was appropriate. That bit wasn’t. End of discussion.’

She plucked her teapot off the worktop and angrily shook the spent bags out into the sink. I turned on my heel, and made a point of stomping on each stair all the way up to my bedroom.

Two days later, however, she returned to the subject, saying, ‘I think you may have been right.’ She said I’d reached an age where I perhaps needed to speak to someone other than her, and for us to not carry my secret alone. She’d trawled through the Yellow Pages, got on the phone to support groups and helplines, and found a charity: the Swindon Gay Men’s Health Project. One thing it offered was counselling. I didn’t feel I needed counselling, but since this was a door into a world that I needed to be a part of, I meekly asked her to make an appointment for me.

My mind started creating elaborate fantasies about life if I wasn’t alone. My hormones screamed boyfriend. Even the sight of a friend’s underwear discarded on his bedroom floor would set my pulse throbbing. My heart, on the other hand, screamed friend: someone I could be honest with and not hide this huge part of myself that had been growing – or shrinking – in isolation for so long.

We lived in a town called Highworth, and Swindon was seven miles away. That would be over an hour on the bus, so I was glad when Mum said she’d drive me. On the day of the appointment, she pulled up outside an old Victorian building on the edge of town. My heart raced. Inside were people who would know I was gay, people to whom I would openly voice those words.

‘Are you okay?’ Mum asked.

‘Yes,’ I lied. My heart was hammering.

We went in. The receptionist, a plump woman with a crew cut, directed us upstairs with a friendly smile. Mum led the way. Her breathing was strained. Waiting at the top of the stairs was a man about her age. He was small-framed, maybe 5'8", dressed in clothes cut for someone bigger, and to my eyes he was a dork. I’d hoped for someone more handsome, like the host on Gaytime TV. This man’s eyes flicked between Mum and me. On the upside, they had a warmth to them. Mum offered him her hand and he shook it, introducing himself as Tim, a key worker for Gay Men’s Health Project. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

‘I don’t want to get in the way,’ she said, then immediately began to do just that by asking questions: how long he’d been a social worker; whether he’d been to university and where; where he’d lived before Swindon. I stood there awkwardly, wishing she’d leave.

Eventually a voice with a strong American accent came up the stairs behind us and Tim introduced Chad, who’d be my counsellor. He was fat, wore a light-blue shirt and slacks, and held an A4 notebook with loose pages fanning out of it, and a mug of coffee. A pen in his breast pocket had leaked at some point, giving him an ink nipple, which I wanted to comment on, but didn’t. Mum put a hand on my arm, looked deep into my eyes and asked, ‘Are you okay with this?’

I quite enjoyed how protective she was being. ‘I’m good,’ I said.

‘I’ll wait outside in the car.’

Chad led me to a little room, sliding the brass slot on the door to ‘In use’ as he ushered me inside. Two small sofas faced each other informally across a low table. A vase held a single fake flower.

Chad led the conversation by telling me things about himself. He was Canadian, for instance, not American. As Highworth wasn’t exactly a cosmopolitan place, his accent made me feel like I was in a TV show or film.

‘We can talk about anything you want,’ he said. ‘It’s all confidential. We won’t tell anyone – not even your mother.’

‘Okay.’

‘How’s school?’

‘Good.’

‘How are things at home? And your friends? Your family?’

All were good.

‘Is there anything that isn’t good?’

That question worked. Before, my brain had been in defensive mode. Now, suddenly I was talking about things I’d never said out loud before. The first time I said ‘I’m gay’ I whispered it, but the little smile it prompted in Chad gave me confidence.

After a while he asked about my sexual activity and what I knew about sexual health. I was anticipating the usual school crap: ‘Don’t have sex. When you do have sex use a condom. But don’t have sex. Oh, and AIDS.’ Instead, I realised, he was asking how I felt and if I was comfortable with myself.

All too soon the session was at an end and I was aware I hadn’t made the most important point. ‘What I want most is a friend my age,’ I blurted out. The words were hard to say because it felt like I was saying I had no friends, but I saw that Chad understood.

‘We can schedule an appointment for two weeks’ time, if you’d like,’ he said. ‘I can see if one of the boys who lives with Tim can be here afterwards. Maybe we can find you that friend.’

The thought went through me like electricity. A friend who’s a boy; a gay boy.

Back in the car I couldn’t stop talking. The tension I’d been carrying rushed out of me like a tide, but my dreams of instant liberation soon beached on the shores of Mum’s realism.

‘It’s just your first session,’ she said. ‘You’re only fourteen. You’ve got a lot of growing-up to do.’

I didn’t say anything. Chad had told me that counselling might change how I felt, and that others, like Mum, might not be as excited for those changes as I was.

I wondered if I should have told Chad about Stephen in my English class, or Charles’ big brother with his jeans that fit so snugly around his butt and crotch. Or that, despite saying I had no gay friends, I was sort of dating Dan.

2

I’d been friends with Dan for about a year. It was one of those friendships that start because you both hang out at the same places, and continue because you live close to each other. He was in the year above me and had the wide shoulders of someone much older.

We didn’t have much in common other than that we could both buy cigarettes, him because he looked older than he was, me because I had a fake ID – the result of a couple of hours in the school library with some Tippex, my birth certificate and the school photocopier. But he had an animal quality: a mane of wild hair and eyes that could fix you like prey and yet draw you in. Less appealingly, he had severe gingivitis. Inevitably his nickname was Shit Breath.

The day things moved to another level, we’d met up in the thin strip of dense woodland that ran along the side of his house, in the posher part of Highworth. It was a great place for teenagers to hide in, out of sight of the road, down an embankment. I watched the muscles in his back move under his t-shirt as he idly beat a tree with a fallen branch, bits of bark and leaves raining down around him.

We sat on a fallen tree in the centre of a clearing, staring out at nothing and sharing a single cigarette. After a while, and out of nowhere, Dan asked, ‘Are you gay?’

Fear stopped me answering.

Thankfully he continued, ‘Because I’m bi.’ He said it like he was saying his name or the school he went to.

My eyes flicked to his crotch. ‘I don’t know what I am,’ I lied. ‘I’m just me.’

Could I have not been alone all this time? My mind flashed back to the time he got changed in front of me in his bedroom: his bulge large in his blue-check boxers, the two of us alone together.

‘How does that work?’ he asked. ‘Do you like girls, boys, or both?’

My twisting nerves forced out a laugh. ‘I guess both. I haven’t had either yet.’

‘Want to date then?’

The memory of him in his boxers, that little bit of hair running up to his belly button, burned in me. Was I about to get to look properly? To feel? Would it feel the same as mine? But burning just as bright was the terror of giving up my secret to the world. I had to answer him. ‘Okay. We can try.’

‘Great. Well, I’m going home. Catch you later.’ And with a smile, he left. I stood there with the taste of fear still faintly metallic in the back of my mouth.

My thoughts swirled about. So, my secret was partially out in the world? I was dating a guy? Called Shit Breath? Who, five minutes ago, was a convenience friend? Who left without so much as a hug goodbye, never mind a kiss? The idea of my first kiss being with his breath… What if he let me see inside his boxers, but it smelled as bad as his breath? Did I even want to date him? I kicked some leaves about, and went home.

Dan and I hung out together a lot more often after that, but our ‘relationship’ wasn’t much different from our friendship, though I soon told him I wasn’t confused; I was gay.

Our primary activity was still smoking each other’s cigarettes. We didn’t kiss, we didn’t cuddle, but we talked lots and lots about blowjobs and trying to find secluded spots to do them. Somehow the spots were never right: not private enough, too dirty, or else ‘my parents may be home soon’.

None of these excuses were mine. It crossed my mind that Dan might not really be bi. Could he just be trying to be cool? But wouldn’t that only work if he told people?

The two-week wait for my second counselling appointment sailed by, and Mum was comfortable enough to let me go on my own. Afraid I’d be late, I arrived far too early, but Tim was there and made me a cup of tea and let me sit in his office while I waited for Chad. Mostly he got on with his paperwork, but he asked me the odd question about how I was doing. I sensed that he was uncomfortable too, but then Chad arrived.

The second session was easier than the first. Dan came up. Though nothing had changed and I still hadn’t done anything remotely physical with him, I talked it out with Chad and then we moved on to discuss what makes a good boyfriend. I managed to resist saying ‘someone hotter than Dan’ because I thought Chad would think I was shallow, and agreed on self-respect, self-worth and valuing what I had to offer. I didn’t say what I actually wanted from a boyfriend, which was in his pants.

As Chad led me out through reception, Tim appeared in the office doorway. He smiled. ‘Richard, there’s someone I want you to meet.’

Bollocks! The new friend! How could I have forgotten? Why couldn’t I have worn my Blur t-shirt, or my Spliffy jeans that Dad thinks are named after a band. And why do I even own tie-dye, let alone rainbow tie-dye?

Tim stepped backwards into the office. I followed him.

‘Richard, this is Alfie. Alfie, meet Richard.’

And there he was, draped over an office chair, a look on his face like he’d rather be anywhere else, but I was captivated nonetheless. Everything about him was perfect. His crisp white t-shirt and baggy blue jeans that matched his eyes. His blond hair gelled up in short spikes. He looked like an understudy for NSYNC. No, he looked like someone had taken NSYNC and Take That, squished all the best bits together, then sat back to admire their work. I was in love before he even spoke.

I sat on the chair Tim indicated, Alfie to my right, Tim on my left. The intensity of my attraction to Alfie meant I could barely make eye contact with him, never mind speak to him. Tim tried hard to keep the non-conversation going but soon enough it was time for me to get my bus.

As I stood up to leave, Alfie asked with apparent indifference, ‘You want to come to the pub some time?’

‘Yeah. I’d love to. Wait – you mean a gay pub?’

He laughed. ‘Yeah, dummy. Of course.’

‘Erm, yeah, that would be great. I’ll need to ask my mum though.’

Tim passed me a bit of paper he’d been holding. ‘Here’s my number. Let us know what your mum says. You’ll get to meet Ryan, too.’

I looked at the bit of paper to check it really was a phone number. ‘Great, thanks. I’ll ask her as soon as I get home.’

I slung my bag over my shoulder, took a last look at Alfie, and with a ‘bye’, I left. Could this really be happening, I wondered as I ran to the bus-stop; could I have made a cool gay friend? A cool gay friend who wants to take me to a gay pub with him? I was at the bus stop before I wondered who Ryan was. Would he be cute like Alfie, or old like Tim and Chad?

The entire bus ride home I rehearsed different ways to ask Mum for permission to go to the pub.

I was already allowed a glass of wine with dinner, and at the start of the summer holidays I’d even been allowed to go and drink with my friends in the park. I’d said it was just going to be cider, but Dad collected miniature bottles of spirits and I’d stolen half a dozen of them to make it more fun. After I was poured through the door by my friends at midnight and vomited on Skip, our bearded collie, while the cat watched the scene with disdain, that privilege had been revoked.

But there had to be a way to make the pub sound like something I should be allowed to do. I was almost fifteen, after all. Not a kid. If she said no, I could try and get Dan to lie for me and say I was at his house, although what would I say if he wanted to come with me? I didn’t want to introduce him to Alfie. ‘Hi Alfie, this is my not-exactly-boyfriend Shit Breath, who I don’t have sex with.’ I could imagine Alfie’s nose wrinkling in judgement.

Maybe I could just sneak out, though Mum would be on high alert once I’d asked, so I probably couldn’t get away with that.

By the time I got home, Mum was cooking, Dad was yet again discussing leaving Allied Dunbar to become a freelance contractor even if it would mean less money for a while, and Jenny was doing coursework at the dining table, periodically interrupting Dad’s monologue to ask about the niceties of women’s fashion in the ’70s. ‘What’s a Farrah flick?’

I realised there would be no chance to speak to Mum privately till later. I went up to my room and checked the little bit of paper again. It was still a phone number.

During dinner, Dad said, ‘You’re uncharacteristically quiet.’ He went on to ask if I was excited to be going back to school. The holidays were nearly over and I was about to start my GCSEs, and finally get to wear the dark uniform of the senior years. ‘Are you going to apply to be a prefect?’

I managed not to snort shepherd’s pie out of my nose. ‘I’ve had two suspensions and six detentions. It’s not exactly likely.’

‘But one suspension was for shaving your head,’ he said, looking hurt, as if my rebellious haircut – an attempt to look like Brian Harvey from East 17 – was a personal insult to him. ‘And some of the detentions were for the whole class, weren’t they?’

I’d forgotten I’d lied about the detentions. I was surprised he’d remembered. ‘One suspension was for my hair, but the other was for the prank calls to Mr Samson.’

He exchanged a look with Mum. ‘I’ve still no idea why you’d do that. You know about caller ID.’

Caller ID had been the last thing on my mind that day. I’d called Mr Samson to confess my undying love for him. He was my geography teacher and also covered some PE lessons. He had an adorable lisp that counteracted the sternness of his chiselled face. The days he taught PE, he wore running shorts cut so high that they left little to the imagination. Other kids made snarky remarks, but for me, one look at the smooth, pale, soft skin on the insides of his thighs and I’d spend the rest of the lesson wishing the swelling in my trousers would deflate.

I convinced myself that once he knew how I felt, we could live the rest of our lives happily together. We could adopt some cats, and obviously my grades in geography would improve. However, each time I heard my future husband’s voice, I got scared and hung up. After the third hang-up he called back, and it was Dad who answered.

After dinner, without being asked, I did all the chores that I normally had to be harassed into doing. I cleared the table and wiped it down, I even rinsed the plates before loading them into the dishwasher, but I still couldn’t get Mum on her own.

The next day I got up early, knowing there was a sweet spot of time after Dad went to work and before Mum went to McNally’s, the local builder where she did the accounts and payroll. When my chance came, I jumped straight in: Tim’s house, new friends, Alfie, young like me, this new guy Ryan, not too late, I won’t get drunk, I probably won’t even get served, I’ll probably drink lime and soda, Tim will look after me…

‘I’ll think about it while I’m at work.’

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ I said, bouncing with excitement.

‘I haven’t said yes. I’ve said I’ll think about it.’

‘Can I make you lunch for when you get back?’

‘Stop it. I’ll think about it and I’ll talk to you later. And pick up the dog poo in the garden. It’s been on your jobs list for days.’

Mum got home at lunchtime and found me in front of the TV. ‘Where’s your sister?’

‘In her room.’

She sat down beside me and muted the TV. ‘So, I’ve been thinking all morning, and it’s a no. You’re too young to be going to pubs. You can go to their house, but not the pub.’

My heart plummeted. How could I tell Alfie I was too much of a kid to be allowed out. ‘But that’s not fair. I’ve been hanging out in pubs in town for over a year.’

‘Which pubs?!’

‘That’s not the important bit. The important bit is this pub, with my new friends, and being myself. This is huge.’

‘It’s a grown-up environment and you’re only fourteen.’

‘I’m fifteen in, like, two weeks! Call Tim. Please? Talk to him, then you’ll feel better. Here, this is his number.’ I pulled out the bit of paper I’d carried around in my pocket since I was given it.

She took it and sighed heavily. ‘Okay.’

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.’

‘I’ve already said no, and I haven’t changed my mind yet.’ She went through to use the extension in the breakfast room and closed the door. I could hear her voice but not the words. What felt like a lifetime later, she came back in.

‘Tim’s on the phone. He wants to talk to you. You can take it in the garage if you like.’

Taking the call in the garage was a big deal. The phone in the breakfast room had an over-long extension cord, the curly kind you could wrap round your fingers while talking. You could stretch it through to the garage, shut the door on it, and talk privately.

‘Tim?’ I said, dragging the phone through and closing the door on Mum.

‘Hey matey, how are you?’

‘I’m good. What did she say?’

‘Well. She said yes, b—’

‘OH MY GOD. Really? I can’t be—’

‘Quiet, mate. She said yes, but there are rules.’

‘Don’t care, I can come. Oh man, I can’t believe this. What rules?’

Tim said Mum had agreed I could go out with him and Alfie, but I had to be home by 11pm. Home meant Tim’s. I was going to stay there overnight to avoid questions being asked by Dad or Jenny. Tim would be in loco parentis. He’d need to know where I was at all times, and preferably be able to see me. ‘I have your mum’s number and I’m not afraid to use it,’ he warned.

‘When can I come? I can have a drink, right?’

‘No. No alcohol. If I catch you with alcohol, the night will be over and it won’t be repeated. How does Friday sound?’

‘Yes, yes please. What should I wear? When? Where do I meet you?’

‘Your mum has my address. I’ll see you Friday around four. As for what to wear...’ He shouted for Alfie. ‘He’ll be better at this.’ Tim said goodbye, and Alfie’s gentle voice sounded in my ear, filling me with a warmth that tingled.

Because I couldn’t see him, our conversation flowed more easily. Alfie told me white was the best colour, either for my shirt or my jeans or, even better, both. I didn’t want to disappoint him by saying I didn’t have anything white. His voice turned serious as he warned, ‘And Richard? No tie-dye.’

By the time I was done learning all the things that were wrong with my fashion choices, Dad was home and Jenny was watching TV in the sitting room. I found Mum, wrapped my arms around her and we squeezed each other. She whispered, ‘I’m trusting you. Remember the rules!’

3

Friday arrived, and I packed and repacked my bag with different outfit choices. Why didn’t I own more white?

Time dribbled past. At around 3 pm Mum put me out of my misery. As she reversed down the drive I bounced in the passenger seat, then caught myself: I was acting like a little kid.

Tim’s house was in a part of Swindon we didn’t know. We drove past a low-rise block of flats with a discarded mattress in front of it and Mum made a face. I counted down the house-numbers on his street until we came to a semi-detached with a fake Cotswold stone frontage. A Ford saloon that had seen better days was parked in front of it. As Mum drew up, I jabbed excitedly at the catch for my seat belt and the buckle rewound with such speed I was lucky it didn’t smack me in the face. I was out of the car the moment Mum put the handbrake on, marching up the garden path and rattling at the letterbox. Tim answered the door wearing a military green tee shirt tucked into blue jeans. He was still a dork but I jumped at him for a hug.

‘Whoah there.’ He peeled me off him, looking across at Mum, who was sorting out her handbag. As I tried to shove past him into a world where I could exist as myself, he added, ‘There’s no rush.’

As per our agreement, Mum came in for a cup of tea before leaving me. To make sure I was comfortable, she said. To make sure she was comfortable, she meant.

I went through to the front room, where Alfie was sprawled on a paisley sofa watching Grange Hill, a show I’d only been allowed to start watching that summer, as Mum didn’t like the way it portrayed rampant bullying in schools as normal. God, Alfie was cool. I could never look that cool just watching TV.

The room was painted a tired magnolia, with an ’80s electric fire, swirly carpet and mismatched furniture. I’d imagined the start of my new life would be glamorous like on GaytimeTV. Obviously not confetti cannons and dancers with pounding techno music, but something more than this. It didn’t matter though. I was here; it was starting; we could add the sparkle and streamers later.

Mum and Tim followed me in.

‘Put the kettle on, Alfie,’ said Tim. Grudgingly Alfie got up and went through to the kitchen. I heard the rush of the tap as Tim said: ‘How do you like it, Mandy?’

‘Just milk please.’

‘Richard?’

‘Milk with two please.’

‘You catch all that Alfie?’

Alfie had. Of course he had – he was brilliant.

Tim gestured for us to sit. I jumped in where Alfie had been sitting. I could feel his warmth on the cushions, and it stirred something in me. Mum and Tim made small talk. I looked at them: my real mum and what looked like my new gay dad. Alfie came in with the tea.

Tim tried to involve Alfie (now sprawled in an armchair) and me in the conversation, but Alfie wasn’t interested, and I was too busy being interested in Alfie. He was watching the TV, now muted but with the subtitles on.

Eventually Mum said it was time for her to ‘leave you boys to your night’. As she got up, she looked at Tim, her face tight. ‘Look after him.’ It wasn’t a request; it was a warning.

‘As if he was my own, Mandy.’

She turned to me and missed Tim winking at me over her shoulder. ‘Show me out, please, Richard.’ At the front door she said, ‘This is a privilege and I’m trusting you. Don’t let me down.’

I did my best to look innocent.

‘Get a good night’s sleep so you don’t come home looking like you’ve been up all night, and say nothing to Dad or your sister.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I love you, okay?’

‘Mum, seriously! My friends are right there!’ I waved in the direction of the front room.

‘Tell your mother you love her!’ Tim called, and I heard Alfie laughing.

I’d worried that, when faced by Alfie again, I’d clam up. But speaking on the phone with him had changed something. Until this point, apart from dully accepting Dan’s repeated excuses for not having sex, I’d done nothing but lust after random boys at school. Searching every move they made or thing they said for a hidden code or hint they might be gay. But Alfie… I knew Alfie was gay. And he was so much hotter than Dan, and cooler.

After Alfie and I had chatted for a while about our coming night out, the conversation moved onto fashion, and things like how, although Alanis Morissette was cool, I should definitely not ask for her to be played at the pub. Tim sent us upstairs to get ready and let him watch the news. I followed Alfie eagerly, taking the chance to admire his butt as he pounded up the narrow stairs. On the landing a door opened, revealing a young boy with an inexpressive face. Wreathed in steam, his towel low on his hips, he roamed over me with his eyes. He looked younger than me: maybe thirteen. His skinny, hairless frame reminded me of the time my class turned up in the changing room for PE and found a first-year still there, looking tiny and scared. But this boy was definitely not scared.

‘This is Ryan,’ Alfie said, seemingly unfazed by the virtually naked child before us. ‘Ryan: Richard.’

‘Sorry I’m like this,’ Ryan said coyly, gesturing at the towel. ‘I didn’t know you’d come so early.’

I didn’t know how to react. It felt like this boy had some sort of power, at least here in this moment, and he wanted it known.

Holding the towel over his groin, he told me he couldn’t wait to show me around ‘his’ pub. I was stunned by his confidence: holding a conversation with a stranger while basically naked. I still wore a t-shirt when I went swimming.

‘You’ll need to get dressed if you want to get into the pub,’ Alfie said, leading me by the hand past Ryan and into his room. I couldn’t believe he was actually touching me.

My heart raced as Alfie shut the door behind us. I’m alone with a hot gay boy in his bedroom. A double bed took up most of the floorspace and I couldn’t help but wonder if Alfie’s sheets smelled like him, sweet and manly. ‘So do you and Ryan share?’ I asked.

‘Nah. He’s Tim’s boyfriend. They have the big room next door.’

‘Oh wow. Okay,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘How old is he? He looks younger than me.’

Alfie laughed. ‘He’s a bit older than us, just turned sixteen. But yeah, he looks like a kid. Acts it sometimes, too. It’s always hard getting him served in pubs outside of Swindon.’

‘Outside of Swindon?’ I was as impressed as if he’d just said they got a private jet to New York for dinner.

‘Mainly it’s Bristol, but sometimes Tim takes us to London. Once the place knows us it’s fine, but the first time can be tricky. Most are okay, as long as the young guys don’t cause a problem. Tim told him to stay up here while your mum was around. Ryan can be…difficult.’

I was starting to really like Tim. He was the cool uncle who let you get away with things your parents wouldn’t. And he was gay: he was one of us – just one of us that could drive. Tim, Alfie and now Ryan, had welcomed me into their home, and I felt comfortable there. Two gay friends my own age! I was winning.

‘So you have a double bed all to yourself?’ I asked Alfie, imagining sharing it with him.

‘My boyfriend sometimes stays over if he’s around.’

Of course he had a boyfriend. How could someone who looked like him be single? I didn’t ask what the boyfriend was like.

Alfie pulled a t-shirt out of my bag and held it up critically. ‘So, what’s your look?’

‘My look?’

‘Yeah. Like, what’s your thing?’

I shrugged awkwardly as he dropped the t-shirt next to my bag and picked up the next. ‘I guess I have a lot of shirts with slogans on them.’

‘Like brands? Brands could be your thing.’

‘No, things like “I may ignore you” or “Parental Advisory”. Is that a thing?’

He dropped the last shirt beside my bag, and searched inside for more. ‘A thing is like, Ryan tries to be cute, but everyone knows he’s a bitch. I don’t really have a thing, but you should have one.’

I looked at him in his blue jeans and white t-shirt. His thing was clearly not knowing he had a thing.

‘This one, then.’ He held up my one white t-shirt. ‘Do you only have those jeans?’ he asked in a way that wasn’t exactly rude but made my heart sink.

‘Yeah, but they’re okay, right?’

‘They’ll do. But maybe don’t wear them next time. Underwear?’

It was like a line from a fantasy that started with, ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’

‘Are they good? Doesn’t matter I guess, if they’re the only ones you have. Do you want a shower?’

I managed not to ask if he meant together. ‘No thanks. I showered before I came round.’

‘Get changed then. Tim will make us something to eat before we go out – line the stomach,’ he said.

‘My mum said I can’t drink.’

‘Your mum’s not here.’

I’d eaten carefully so I didn’t get food on the only item of clothing I owned that Alfie didn’t hate. Now the vibrations of the car were making me want to burp. I held it in as Tim parked outside the community centre, which was also the overflow car park for the two local pubs – one gay, the other Irish. ‘Right, we’re here. The Cricketers Arms. Often called the Cricketers, or sometimes just the Cricks. Now remember, Richard, I need to see you at all times. And don’t do anything these two do. They’re a bad influence.’

‘Bugger off,’ Alfie said as he got out of the car.

Ryan turned to me. ‘Do what I do and you’ll be the second most popular here.’

‘Do not do what he does!’ Tim said. ‘Not unless they offer you money.’ He laughed.

‘Second most popular?’ I asked.

‘I’m going nowhere, darling,’ Ryan said. ‘Second-best is all you can hope for.’

The thump of music was audible as soon as I got out of the car, growing in volume as we walked towards the nearer of the two pubs. There was also a hubbub of voices, one of which was so dominant, it must be artificially amplified. It was deep and gravelly but obviously gay.

The burp trapped in my stomach escaped, and the void it left behind was filled with butterflies. I suddenly needed to pee.

Ryan opened a side door and the noise within spilled through it. He went in, followed by Alfie and Tim – then me, keeping so close to Tim I was almost attached to him. His proximity was the only thing that got my nerves through the door.

The noise inside drowned out the scared voice in the back of my mind telling me to run. The room was full of energy, and heaving with people moving and mixing easily, not just sitting in tight groups like they do in straight pubs. I looked around warily. The instinct to not be seen eyeing other guys was so strong that even in this environment it ruled me. My eyes landed on an athletic guy in his early twenties standing chest to chest with a burly, bearded older man, their white t-shirts flat against each other as the younger guy kissed the bearded guy on the lips. The sight made my heart race and pine, but before I had time to understand how I was feeling, I made myself stop staring at what felt like a forbidden act.

Ryan and Alfie went through an arch that led to the main part of the bar, and the man on the mic said, ‘Look out fellas, the chickens are here! And where’s the chicken wrangler? Hiiii Timmm!’ As I followed Tim, the voice went on, ‘Ooh, you’ve got a new one in your flock. Would you look at yooou!’

The voice was now revealed to belong to a body, but voice and body didn’t match. It was clearly a man – narrow hips, a bony face that, under the caked-on make-up, was almost gaunt; a large, angular jaw – but he was wearing a wig that would make Dolly Parton jealous and a gown that had so many sequins it made him look like a human mirror ball. Outsize costume jewellery sent laser reflections through the cigarette smoke that hung in the air. He reminded me of Dame Edna Everage on TV, though everything about him seemed bigger and more outrageous. Maybe this was a tranny. I’d seen one in an advert at the back of one of Dad’s dirty magazines, which he kept hidden in his sock drawer.

The sparkling vision made its way towards me. Tim put his hands protectively on my shoulders and pushed me forward.

‘This is Richard. Be kind to him. This is his first night out.’

‘I don’t know where you find them, Tim, but go back to where you got this one and find one for me! I’m Eartha, young man. Eartha Tits.’ Eartha’s voice blared from the speakers. I felt like I was meant to recognise the name in some way.

‘Are you a tranny?’ I asked.

Eartha choked dramatically. ‘Oh god, baby. Am I a tranny?’ The rest of the pub started laughing as this boomed out of the speakers. ‘Kids say the funniest things, don’t they?’ He looked around at the audience. ‘No dear, and that’s a bad word. Don’t say it again or I’ll spank you.’ One set of tarantula-leg eyelashes winked at me. ‘No sweetie, I am a drag queen. I am not confused about my gender. I am not trapped in the wrong body. I, my dear, simply have too much fabulosity to present myself in the humdrum way the rest of these peasants do.’

Drag. A drag queen. This is what Mum didn’t want me to see on Gaytime TV. But why? He thrust a microphone smelling of cigarettes and cloying perfume into my face. ‘Tell us all about you dear, where have you been hiding?’

I mumbled into the mic, ‘Erm…Highworth?’

For some reason this made everyone laugh too. ‘Guess we’re all going to Highworth tomorrow to see if there’s more of him, am I right?’ Eartha said. ‘But we can’t have anyone being funnier than me, so that’s the last time you get my microphone, young man.’ He turned and made his way back to the stage. ‘Let’s all welcome the Highworth chicken on his virgin night out.’

My face burned. He’d called me a virgin in front of everyone! He saw my mortified expression. ‘Get this boy a drink, on me. Vodka tonic? You look like a vodka kind of boy. Goes down well, morning or night…’

‘Beer please,’ I shouted over the music and got a pretend slap round the back of my head from Tim.

‘He’ll have a Coke.’

‘Ooh, Daddy’s got this one on a short leash.’

Tim turned me around to face him. He was beaming with pride, though I couldn’t see why. ‘You did great. Did you hear them all laughing with you? Everyone likes you.’ He gave me a sudden kiss on the lips, which felt weird and too personal, but seemed to be what everyone did here. Air kissing, blowing kisses across the room, the cute guy and the older man near the door full-on snogging.