Darren or Darra

It took a quick double take in the mirror to cause him to squeak. A grey hair! He saw a grey hair! As he studied more carefully he saw that it wasn’t alone. Two… three …six. His world was suddenly going into free-fall. He pulled out his leather manicure pouch from his back pocket and produced a set of tweezers. The first one made him yelp, the second even louder. This was not the solution. Boots! He’d finish dressing and get down to Boots the Chemist in the High Street. He knew all the colour ranges they stocked and the ones that brought out the best in his complexion, but this was different! Before, it was a matter of choice: his choice. Now he had lost that prerogative forever. From now he’d have to colour, whether he liked it or not. A sudden and terrible thought occurred to him and he quickly turned his manicure set round to the small mirror on the back. He held as best he could over the crown of his head.

“Thank fuck!” Swearing was not something he did regularly but not seeing any sign of a bald patch was as good an excuse as any.
It was Sunday and not being in any form religious, he had placed no importance on this fact, but forgetting what day it was now meant a half hour wait in the cold for the shop to open.

There were others there waiting, some of whom were fidgeting and fretting even more than him. “Addicts,” he concluded, awaiting their ration of methadone. He tried not to catch their eyes. There was no point in drawing attention to himself here. Too many times he come to a very bad situation in places like this and now he was guarded; thankful for once that had decided on a less flamboyant outfit than was his normal.

Growing up where he had, had made him what he was. The different “him” now was no longer in constant fear; living with terror that was so much a part of his old self. It had taken one terrible beating, so much worse than the many before, to make him do something positive. He had six long weeks in hospital to decide that he was no longer going to be a victim. He had joined every martial arts club he could find within a ten mile radius, and was astonished when he found that boxing proved to be something he had a natural flair for. The most heterosexual sport of all!! He had hated the boxing gym, with all the posing and flexing and blatant homophobia, but from his first, very nervous outing in the ring, he loved the fight and what’s more he eventually gained, if not kinship with the regulars, a certain and obvious respect; they knew a good fighter. There was an added bonus: the exercise regime he had gone through had changed his body. He was muscular, which he had never been. He was fit, something that had never aspired to, but most important of all, he was confident. He never looked for trouble but no longer feared it.

He studied himself in the reflection of the plate glass shop window, which had the added bonus of giving an unobtrusive view of the street behind him. One figure did catch his attention. A tall male, well over six foot, was hanging back from the others. He seemed to be detached from everyone and everything around him. His hands were deep in his pockets, causing his massive shoulders to be rounded. It was his eyes that Darren noticed most, without fully understanding why. He often noticed peoples’ eyes: their colour, their shape and would boast to his friends that he could tell what a person was like, purely by studying their eyes. This was different. These eyes said nothing to Darren.

Emerging from the shop with his purchase, he looked but could see no saw no sign of the one with the “funny” eyes, so he shrugged and headed home.
Huge dark clouds sat on top of the hills behind his house, and he was thankful for the short run he would make before he was caught in the downpour that he knew was coming. Just as he reached the front door something made him look to his right. At the post box, some way down the road, he was sure he could see the guy from outside the chemist. He turned, opened the door and looked round again, but there was no one there.

Darren’s house had been left to him by his late mother, who had brought him up single-handedly from the age of six. His father was a distant and hazy memory; a man with a suitcase walking out of the very same house and never seen again. His mother, Hazel, had never said bad things about her husband, but eventually divorced him and dedicated her life to bringing up Darren, until she, also left him, when cancer finally defeated her.

Nostalgia held little importance to Darren and he gave away virtually everything that had belonged to Hazel, keeping a few photographs and letters they had exchanged when he was at university. He had totally remodelled the house and now it was, as he repeatedly told his friends, his little palace.
With his little bottle of magic, he strolled down the hall passing Darren’s room on the left and Darra’s room on the right.

With his hair still wet from the treatment, he came out of the bathroom and stood between the two bedrooms…decisions…who was going out tonight?
The bouncer at the club new the routine well. He stepped back and gave an elegant, if over-elaborate bow of welcome. It was a well-worn ritual and although the steward was straight, he enjoyed the banter between himself and the members.

Once inside the place, many familiar faces looked up, some waved, others simply smiled. A second home was how this place felt. Darra found her usual seat taken, but shrugged her over large shoulders and moved to a vacant one nearby; one with a good view of the club and its regulars.
Not everyone in the club was gay. A few were straight but had come along with friends who were, and found that they liked the atmosphere and had become members. One of whom had just come through the door and was looking for either Darren or Darra. His faced beamed when he saw it was Darra. “You look particularly stunning tonight Darra.” He said, shaking her hand but not offering even a fraternal kiss. Colin took his straightness seriously and had made it plain that no matter which version of his best friend turned up, there were lines that would not be crossed…ever.

“You’re just saying that ’cause it’s true.” joked Darra as she looked at herself in the mirror and sighed. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t hide Darren. There were others like her, whom she knew could very easily pass for a woman and some of the tales they told, of clinches in doorways with unsuspecting guys, could have a room into peals of laughter. Nature just would not be conquered and only someone with a guide dog would confuse her with her alter ego; even then he would have to be deaf!
As the evening wore on groups, couples and individuals came and went but, apart from a visiting the bar or the loo, Darra and Colin stayed right up until closing time.

“I’ve got a twelve year old in a cupboard at my place. Fancy a wee shot?”
Colin laughed and answered “One of these days someone’s goin’ tae overhear that and report you to the Polis!” It was an old joke but it made them both smile all the same.

They walked down the street; Colin keeping a chaste distance between them. Suddenly Darra stopped. Colin kept going for a few paces before he realised his friend was behind him. The look on Darra’s face concerned him he had seen it before and it usually meant trouble. “What’s the matter?” As he said this, he looked quickly up and down the street.
“It’s him again.” Darra whispered gruffly.
“Who? It’s who again?”
“That guy over there, the big one. I’m sure he’ followin’ me.”
Colin followed the direction of Darra’s pointing finger and saw a figure standing about hundred yards down the street. “Him? What makes you think he’s followin’ you? “
Without turning her head Darra replied, “He was at the chemist this morning; outside my house later on and now he’s here. I don’t think it’s coincidental. Hey you! Can I have a word?” with that Darra strode off, size nine high heels clacking on the pavement.
Colin, wearing trainers, caught up easily and grabbed his friend by the arm and turned her round. “Hold it. Take it easy. You don’t know he’s followin’ you. It might just well be a coincidence!”
Simultaneously they turned to look at the stranger, but saw no one. The street was completely empty.
“He’s done it again!” said Darra with more than a hint of frustration in her voice. “Is he some kind of magician or somethin’? That’s some disappearing act he’s got there!”
They both walked to where the only other person in the street had been, but could see no trace of him or work out how he had managed to leave so quickly and completely.

Darra woke early the next morning with a pounding headache and a raging thirst. They had sat up late and made their way through all but a few drams of the Glenfiddich. Colin had refused the offer of the spare bed and had headed home.

She crossed the hallway, entered Darren’s room and half an hour later he made his way to the kitchen dressed for work. Darra never went to his workplace. That was not an option.
Breakfasted with the paper read, Darren checked the weather from the front window and saw him. “Bastard!” he spat as he rushed to the door. With no heels to hinder him he flew out of the front door, only to see the back of his quarry disappear round the corner at the end of the street. When he got there he could still see the figure walking slowly away from him. “Got ye ya …..” Before he could finish speaking, two figures stepped out of a shop doorway right in front of him. He tried to go round them but they side-stepped and stopped him.

“Look Tam it’s that big poof that lives over there.”
“So it is Billy. I’ve seen him dressed up like a wummin! A right ugly wan at that!”
Darren recognised them. Two clowns who had made nuisances of themselves in the area, mainly the old folk, it has to be said.
“Look lads just let me passed. I’ve got somethin’ important on right now.” He tried to be calm and hoped, with little conviction that they would leave him to his business.
“Somethin’ important is it nancy-boy?” this was Billy “D’ye no’ think Tam an’ me are important?”
Looking beyond the two of them Darren saw that his stalker was gone, along with his best chance yet of speaking to him. “Thanks a bunch, twats!”
“Whit did you call us? Billy did the poof just call us twats?” as he said this, Tam began to edge his way behind Darren.
As he prepared himself Darren warned, “Look let’s no’ do this. Somebody’s goanna get hurt.”

“Aye you!” as Tam said this he swung a haymaker at Darren’s head, which he easily dodged. His first punch landed in Tam’s Solar plexus doubling him up, a huge whoosh of air emitting from his mouth. Darren spun round just in time to see Billy swinging a baton at his head, again he evaded this, and the weapon, failing to land on anything solid, carried its wielder round just far enough for Darren to land a punishing kidney punch. Both of his assailants, though hurt, were far from out of the fight, and it took several more body punches to disable them enough for Darren to walk away. He looked at his fists. It was just as well that his coaches had warned him from the beginning. “In a street fight avoid punching to the head; it can do as much harm to you as the other guy. Body shots are safer; not so much bone.”

At his desk that day, Darren was completely useless. His mind just wouldn’t focus on the job. His hands hurt, reminding him of how much protection gloves gave. What really kept him from working though, were the thoughts that raced through his mind concerning the Funny Guy. Why did he keep appearing and how did he manage to disappear so easily? His colleagues noticed the differences in him, as did his boss, but they all knew him so well, that they left him alone, all except Sandra. She was Darren’s closest female friend; indeed it was to her that he had first confided in about his sexuality and about Darra.

“Fancy a horrible coffee?” She asked him and he smiled and was about to refuse, but when he saw the determined look on her face and relented.
They sat at a table some way away from the others on their break. “Ok” she started “Out with it.”
“What?” He tried to put on a face that he hoped would deflect her curiosity. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
“Don’t do this. You know fine well I’m gaunae get the truth out of you sooner or later. Sooner is better. What’s wrong? You’ve been a complete waste of space today. That’s no’ like you. I’m no’ the only one to see it. Is it a guy? Are you in love again? Tell me!”

He admitted defeat “It’s no’ a guy…. Well it is, but no’ the way you mean.”
He went on to describe what had been happening, with frequent interruptions from Sandra who was becoming more and more animated by the second. Finishing with a much watered down version of the altercation with the two neds, he sat back and waited for her reaction. As he had predicted she was in awe of his new found fighting skills. Before they went back to the office she invited herself round for tea that evening, simultaneously asking if it would be Darren or Darra who would be her host.

“Darren. Just in case I get another visitation. I can’t run in heels.”
In Scotland darkness falls very early during the winter. By seven o’clock Colin was standing virtually invisible in a shop doorway opposite his friend’s house. He had not discussed this with Darren and wasn’t sure how he would take it if, or when, he found out. He blew on his gloved hands and then pulled the collar of his coat tighter round his neck. Sometime earlier he had watched Sandra arrive and knew that Darren would not leave the house that night. Although he would never admit it, he felt pangs of jealousy when he thought about their relationship; how easily they confided in one another and contrasting this with the awkwardness he felt sometimes when Darra was there. Doing this was something positive he could do for his friend.

Meanwhile Darren and his guest were on their second glass of wine. Their conversation was punctuated by his visits to the window and hers to the loo. “That, my confusing friend, is one more thing about a woman’s body you don’t have to worry about; my bladders the size of a mouse’s handbag!”
“I know, and I don’t menstruate and will never know the agony of childbirth. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the bits I can.”
They had gone over all of this on many occasions especially early on in his “Outing”. Even now, although she accepted the way he was, she never truly understood. “If I don’t understand it myself, how can you expect to?” he had asked her.

He kept further back this time; determined not to be seen. It amused him to see the one in the shop doorway trying very hard not to be seen and failing miserably. The girl from “his” work was still in the house, as was his target. The other “thing” wasn’t there and he knew it would not make an appearance tonight. How he could do that to himself? No man should wear lipstick and dress like a whore. The anger inside him boiled. Blackness poured over his eyes and he had to squeeze tightly to try and clear it away.

Anger Management they had called it. The judge had deferred the prison sentence to allow him to take the course. He had passed with flying colours! It was nothing to do with them and their group meeting or any of the techniques they hoped he would use. He had always been able to manage his anger. He controlled it and used it to suit himself. The conviction, his first and only, had been a piece of bad luck, and in the subsequent trial his lawyer had made much of this point in mitigation. “My lord the defendant freely admits that the assault was a serious one and he offers his apologies to the victim and the court. He will submit himself to any treatment the court requires in lieu of a custodial sentence.”

That was it, financial restitution to the “victim” and a promise to try not to get mad again! Bloody fools. There had been other victims of his anger but they were unknown and uncounted.

Weeks of tedious group therapy followed by months of staged innocence acted out for his probation officer. Her report had swayed the Hearing held to determine his fitness to lead a full and unfettered life in the community.
There had been other minor “incidents”, well away from his place of residence and were not serious enough to merit much police attention. The memory of these he replayed over and over in his head: the fear he could taste; the blood he smelled on his hands, but most of all the rush that came over his whole body. And now he was here… waiting.

This was different though; it was personal. He couldn’t understand how it had come to this, nor did he know how it would be when it happened. Would it feel the same as with the others? He doubted it.
Hazel got up from the sofa a little unsteadily and slurred,” It’s time my homosexual, transvestite friend, for me to go home. Work tomorrow.”
Hazel’s lack of staying power, when it came to alcohol, always amused him, particularly when he compared her to some of their friends, who like him had what Hazel called, “hollow legs”. He called a taxi for her and walked her to the door when it arrived. “You know how much I love you Darren….. aye and Darra too. You’re both my bestest friends in the world” She planted a huge wet kiss on Darren’s lips and tottered out of the door and into the waiting cab.
There was little for Darren to clear up; a few dishes of dips and the two wine glasses to be put away. He decided to deal with these rather than wake up to them in the morning. Once it was done he decided not to have a shower, making do with a quick face splash and brushing his teeth.
Despite being a heavy sleeper and the amount he had drunk, the noise woke him. Glass being broken. Not a bottle being smashed in the street, nor a windscreen. This was inside. He was out of the bed and on his feet in an instant.

Reaching the bedroom door he waited and listened. At first there was nothing, then a muffled sound, which he was convinced came from the other side of the door. He felt he could hear his pulse banging in his ears, but still he waited. The door handle gave the slightest of rattles as it turned the tiniest amount. Someone was trying it out! The old adage about attack and defence did not always hold true, but now Darren hoped on this occasion it would. Waiting for another attempt to be made on the handle, Darren gripped it tightly.
He did not have to wait long. Everything happened in quick time. The yank he gave the handle wrenched the intruder forward and off balance into the room. Unlike his previous assailants this one was a proper fighter, which Darren very quickly found out when his first punch was parried and he had to block a return. His attacker lunged at Darren, but the latter did not want to be involved in a wrestling bou,t so he inched backwards, whilst trying to land blows to stop his enemy’s momentum. It soon became obvious that whoever this was, he was intending to hurt Darren, no matter what the physical cost to himself; not even his best shots had any affect.
This could not continue; despite his fitness, Darren was tiring but his opponent did not appear to be. If there was to be a positive end for him he had to change tactics. “Who…. are…..you?” with each word Darren landed a punch. He retreated and once again, “What….do….. you…..want?” The questions only seemed to galvanise his opponent and rather than answering, he picked up a bedside lamp and threw it at Darren’s head. It missed and crashed through the window. Darren heard it land with clatter on the street below.

It was glaringly obvious that he was not about to find out who his attacker was any time soon and that protecting himself was his priority.
Soon it became clear that whoever he was, was slowing the attack just a little and Darren shouted breathlessly, “What’s this all about! Why’ve you been followin’ me? I don’t know you!”

As if the words were finally penetrating the fog that was his anger, he stopped. He had known that this would be different from the other times, but not how. His rage had been real, especially when he looked at what had once been his and was now so different. “How could this be? Why?”

They both stopped. The gap between them was enough to reassure them both that no surprises were likely. “You’re…… the one…… the one…. who’s been…. hangin’ around here.” This came out in short bursts as Darren desperately tried to catch his breath. “Tell me!..... Why?” “You’re a pervert! You disgust me! Doing it with other men!! Dressing like a slut!” the bile in his voice was intense.

“So that’s what it’s about? Gay Bashing! You’re a fuckin’ homophobe?” Darren said this with genuine surprise. He had met more than his fair share of bigots, but none had gone to such an extreme level to hurt him. “You bastard!” Darren had now lost all sense of self preservation. Revenge was now foremost. He moved forward, both hands raised. ”You’ve broken into my home! You’ve attacked me! For what? Because I’m no’ like you?” he started to rain blows left and right at the other’s head and body. He did not register the punches coming back. Slowly the returns were less frequent and effective. His attacker was against the wall and was no longer defending himself. The mist that had descended on Darren prevented him from seeing this and he continued until he felt strong hands on his shoulders. With lightning speed he turned round and threw a punch, knocking Collin flat on his back with blood spurting from his nose.

The fog cleared slowly and Darren slowly realised what he had done to his friend. Collin managed to get himself off the floor and they stood for a second or two looking at each other…. bewildered. Without saying anything they turned to see the third person in the room, slumped on the floor, his back against the wall and all but unconscious.
“Who de fu’!” It was the clearest Collin could manage through his now broken nose. “Christ mate I’m sorry. I just lost it!” As he said this Darren began to shake; his body was still pumping adrenalin. He managed to shuffle toward the figure on the floor and Collin, putting his arm round his friends shoulder, followed him. “Who is he?” Collin enquired of no one in particular.
“Fucked if I know. Just some low life homophobe with an acute aversion to me.” It was Collin who knelt down and started to go through the pockets of the still unconscious figure. He found a wallet.“Should we no’ phone the cops or somethin’?” Collin answered while searching the wallet “Already done. Soon as the lamp came oot the window. They should be here soon. Look a driving licence. At least we’ll be able to put a name to the bastard……..Put the light on Darren……… That’s funny.”“There can be nothin’ that’s funny about shite like him”Collin held up the licence, “No that kind of funny…. Look at his name!”
The headstone was in better condition than most and worse than others,
especially the ones most recently erected. Darren’s visits were less frequent than they were during the period immediately after the funeral, but he did try to keep it presentable. He reread the inscription for the umpteenth time, though he knew it by heart.

In Loving memory of
Hazel McGowan
A loving mother
Greatly missed
1950-2011

How much had she known about the dark side of his father? She had shown no emotion when he left and had made it clear that no questions about him would be considered. Was this her way of protecting her son or had his father developed his insanity after he had left home? Darren would never know.

 

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