Текст книги "Ravages"

Автор книги: R.A. Padmos

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just as many bitches, or I’ll make sure none of you will ever see Chestnut Road Stadium from less

than two miles again?

He has to get away. No way is he staying there with a bunch of bigots, reeking of stale beer and

chips fried in oil that’s become syrupy. If simple English words are not enough, a modest use of

physical force might be the answer. Even with trees and bushes blocking one escape route and those

men the other, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. If he can dive between them, something he has

done countless times during equally countless matches and training sessions, he should be able to run

away. There isn’t a single cell in his brain doubting he can outrun any of this unfit lot without even

breaking a sweat.

A wall of muscle and fat is enough to stop any rational thought for a few precious seconds. If

this is a game to them, it is played by rules he isn’t familiar with. And there isn’t a referee in sight. If

this is a team sport, he’s still alone. He misses his team-mates. They would stick up for him, and only

later ask him how the hell he got into this bloody mess.

At first, the attack is indiscriminate. The men simply kick and punch and shove whatever they

can hit. There’s even some hesitation in their action, like they are still not 100 % sure of what they’re

doing. Perhaps it’s the remnants of human decency refusing to give up resistance this early. Six

against one can hardly be called fair. Even more than that, he is one of the men who helped in

changing their barely hanging on in the lowest regions of the Premier League club into something they

can proud of because there’s actually something to be proud of. He is a name on a shirt, a name called

by the announcer at their home games almost every match, a name in the Chronicle, a name they chant

because fuck, did you see how he took the ball and passed it so razor sharp to Kirkby it can only be

called pure science. Is it too much to hope for that? Recognition of a job well done?

Steve doggedly gets up every time he’s worked to the ground, tries to fight them off. It hurts,

but he’s had worse. He isn’t afraid to use his body; he’s not unfamiliar with its working and with the

discomfort that comes with using it in a way that’s perhaps ill-advised. If this doesn’t stop very soon,

he’s in risk of tearing several muscles. And at his age and in this line of work a position in the starting

Eleven is easily lost. But more than that, he doesn’t want to confront Daniël with bruises on his body

and face when they see each other again. How does a grown man manage to get in this kind of trouble

during a walk in a city that at worst shrugs off his existence as just one of the many, but mostly has

shown so much affection?

One of the men boots him hard enough at the back of his knees to make him hit the ground so

violently it knocks the wind out of him. His head whips so hard against the pavement it makes him

swoon. Even though a less trained man would fall even worse than he does, he soon realises this is the

point where he no longer is able to get up. He keeps trying though, because blind instinct goes on long

after the sane mind has drawn its conclusion.

He shouldn’t have forgotten his mobile phone. Daniël has teased him often enough that he

seems to prefer carrier pigeons instead of modern means of communication. If he hadn’t misplaced

the stupid thing... but, honestly, what does it matter now? The next match will be played without him,

no matter how many phones he might have been holding in his hand.

He tries to look them in the face. They have to know he’s human. They have to be reminded of

their own humanity. But the smile he sees on the faces of every single one of them makes him

strangely relieved, grateful even, that Daniël is at home, safely in bed, hopefully having a nice dream

about the next time they’ll see each other.

They now start to make serious work of venting their frustration about whatever is bothering

them about life in general and him in particular. Something inside him wishes that later, when he sits

in front of a nice and understanding (they have special training, he’s almost certain of that) police

officer (no man or woman these days, it’s called officer) he can say that it all went so fast, that he

hardly was aware of what happened. Or that he’s able to witness his own suffering from a safe

distance, like he once read in a magazine article during the flight to an away game. But his brain

refuses to work like that; it doesn’t subtract even one second from any of the agonizing minutes. The

pain isn’t lovingly covered up by endorphins.

“He shouldn’t have come here. Not to this park or this city or our club.”

Kick in his stomach.

“I hate it when they pretend to be normal.”

Kick at his left side.

“You guys think this piece of Irish shit is the only poof in our club?”

Kick against his right hipbone.

“Kirkby?”

Kick in his crotch.

“Hey, no one talks shite about the skipper.”

Kick in his back.

“Sorry.”

Kick against his left hipbone.

“Levee? Only joking, boys, only joking.”

Kick against his breastbone.

“Not funny. But, seriously: any of the other foreign lads, perhaps?”

Kick against his right shoulder.

“Can hardly believe that Moreschi really is a man.”

Kick at his lower back.

“He’s the best striker we had in ages. Would be a shame.”

Kick in his belly.

“Dominguez?”

Kick right in the middle of his spine.

“Don’t be daft.”

Kick against his left shoulder.

“Any of the French guys?”

Kick against his buttocks.

“Nah...”

Kick against his ribcage.

They must not say Daniël’s name. They must not even think his name.

Kick...

“Daniël Borghart?”

The sound he makes stops the kicking for a second. Even he hears how different it sounds from

the grunts and groans that follow every time one of their iron-nosed boots and his body make contact.

Don’t you dare touch him, he wants to say: not with your eyes, not with your words, not even

with your thoughts. Don’t you dare to make him as dirty as your vile hearts. Hearing them say

Daniël’s name hurt something inside him their boots hadn’t been able to touch. It is not theirs to

defile, not theirs to even know about. It should have been loving parents, a respected coach, close

friends. Not them.

“So you get it up for Borghart? And does he like the idea you’re a bleedin’ bumfucker?”

“I don’t think so, or else why are you here, getting touched up by fairies?”

“Nobody’s stupid enough to open his mouth about stuff like that to his mates. They can say

whatever they want about it being normal, but I don’t want any poofs even looking at me and I know

for sure that’s the same for the Kinbridge Town boys.”

“Did you come here to get sucked off? Would have thought Kinbridge pays enough to order a

rent boy. Keep it discreet and all. Did we spoil your fun?”

“It would make Borghart sick if he knew you think of him when you’re playing with your

bloody prick. I bet there’s going to be a photo in the Chronicle of that boy being spotted with a nice

local girl in less than a month.”

They are like one man in their resolve to save their Kinbridge Town Football Club, the club

they claim is as important to them as their mother and first born, from him. A misplaced kind of

affection that has just as much the power of its own conviction as any form of love. Had he been the

praying kind, he would pray for their indifference.

“Not sure about you, boys, but I don’t want to see him on the pitch ever again. Filth doesn’t

belong on Chestnut Road.”

The others mutter their agreement.

The tibia of his left leg snaps with a sound that’s not as dry as he thought it would be, and right

after that the fibula. Soon after the same bones in his right leg follow. He has forgotten about the

number of bones in his feet, and though he doesn’t hear them breaking, the sound of his own voice

tells him at least some of them are no longer whole. It’s no use to cry out his agony when two of them,

in an act of bizarre choreography, stamp their full, substantial weight at the same time on both his

ankles. He’s just helpless to stop it.

One heavy boot resting on his upper leg and one on his shin to make sure his left leg stays

motionless. His kneecap cracks. The same procedure happens for the right one. Steve hears it right

through his own screams and his attackers’ laboured breathing. Breaking down the body of a

sportsman who takes care of his health and condition proves to be more work than they likely

imagined.

He’s almost certain the femur of the fit, adult male, the strongest bone in the human body, and

protected by regularly used muscles in his case, can’t be broken by human force alone. He will never

again underestimate the power of love turned into hate.

They can stop now. If it’s the spilling of blood they’re after, they can rest in the knowledge to

have done a satisfactory job. There are enough broken bones in both his legs, enough torn muscle to

keep him in hospital and out of Chestnut Road Stadium, even as an spectator, for weeks, if not months

to come. If it’s about hurting him so much he’s forgetting what it feels not to hurt, then the sounds he

makes must be a reliable indication of their success. Likely he’ll never see the training pitch at The

Three Graces Park again. If he’ll ever be fit enough to do anything with a ball, it will be as a last

reserve of a low ranking non-league club when everybody is out with the flu. Miracles do happen, and

he has borne witness to them, but not with guys past a certain age. Not the goodbye he imagined for

himself. He’ll live, though.

It doesn’t stop. If there was a moment they could have walked away, happy with the result of

their intervention, they have missed it. If anything, they raise their effort. Their boots take turns, but

never rest at the same time. They appear to have found their rhythm.

He no longer wants to look into their eyes. And why would they want to look into his?

Fear grows stronger than pain, even if it’s for only a few seconds. He’s willing to beg, to

grovel at their feet. They want him to lick his own blood off their boots? No problem. Say out loud

that’s he’s a fucking queer and he deserves everything they did to him? Why not? He’d even try his

best to sound genuine, if so required. If it gives him the chance to see Daniël again, he will do it all.

Football is just a game. His life is reduced to a fast dwindling list of essential items, and dignity is no

longer among them.

“Please...”

He doesn’t trust they even hear him. But perhaps the way they silently, simultaneously use

their boots on him must be considered their answer. He starts to tremble, though he feels it’s not fear

as such, terrified as he might be, that’s causing his body to shake uncontrollably, but something

mainly physical. And still he tries to crawl away, the need to get to Daniël and be safe in his arms

greater than the logical conclusion that a wrecked body won’t get him very far. Something, hard and

heavy like a branch, hits him on the side of his head. He hopes it will be enough to be knocked out, if

only for a short moment, to give him some respite from the agony. It’s not. He does however hear a

strange murmur in his left ear and involuntarily he shakes his head.

“What? You don’t like it here, with us? We’re not good enough for you? Don’t fancy us, real

men? You want to be some place else? Perhaps getting fucked by that tall Dutchman? Does it hurt

your poor little heart that he doesn’t go for poofs?” The man uses his boot to stamp Steve’s left hand

into the ground. “Do you use this hand to wank when you‘re thinking ‘bout him?” He switches to

Steve’s right hand. “Or this one? Oops, I guess you’re not getting any action any time soon.”

He doesn’t understand why they are still talking. Do they think their words somehow add to the

hurt? That there’s some dignity left that can only be killed off by verbal abuse?

A thick branch is shoved under his nose. “You must have taken a peek when you’re under the

shower, after the match. He’s got a big one? Like this?”

Sometimes, when they’re totally sated with their lovemaking and still hovering a bit between

being awake and asleep, Steve oh-so-gently cradles Daniël’s spent cock in his hand and waits until

dreams find him. His attackers will never know this beauty. He doesn’t pity them for it.

He’s just as surprised as they are that he’s able to whisper a few words that are halfway

understandable. “You... will... never... have... him ....”

The toe of a boot makes his words taste like blood.

“Get his jeans off; I’m going to stick this thing so deep inside those rotten guts of his he can

bite on the other end with whatever teeth he’s got left.”

“He might even get off on it.”

Their laughter drowns out the rest of the words. Steve only knows both his ankles are taken

into iron grips and he’s dragged away. Pain, once again, gets a new meaning. He screams with wide

open mouth, the sound lost and small.

The tiring shivers finally stop, only to be replaced by violent, irregular convulsions.

His bladder and sphincter muscles give out.

He knows he’s dying. He feels rather than hears his own pitiful, soft whimpering. He’s a

hunted animal, offering its throat to the beast, unable to flee, past the will to fight.

His left hand is under my head.

His right hand embraces me.

He is no longer aware of the individual kicks. Muscles continue to tear, bones to break and

blood to mingle with blood. He stares blindly at something he’s no longer able to see. His ears still

pick up sounds, but are not able to give useful meaning to any of them. Pain blossoms into the fullness

of its potential. None of it matters.

My beloved is mine and I am his.

He just wishes he wasn’t so tired.

I adjure you, daughters of Jerusalem,

If you find my beloved

That you tell him that I am faint with love.

His collapsed lungs try their best against cracked ribs. His heart is as brave as ever, but

sometimes all the courage in the world isn’t enough. There’s so much love in every fibre of his being,

it lights the darkness of the deepest night and it is strong as life itself, but like all living things, it too

must bow its head for death. Hadn’t he kissed the words on his beloved’s upper arm? Smiling

because... god... so young his treasured boy... Mors vincit omnia – Death conquers all ...

I am my beloved’s.

His desire is toward me.

He’s grateful he said goodbye to Daniël with a smile and a kiss. Not a bad word between them.

He has been blessed with the joy of friendship and love.

This is my beloved, and this is my friend ...

A calm sadness is all that’s left.

Chapter 3

Everything is as usual and yet everything is somehow slightly off. The match is a match, with a

pitch and a referee and linesmen and the sound of fans, but he has no idea against which club they’re

playing. He’s acutely aware of them being there, and yet every time he thinks he’s able to take a

glimpse at one of them, they turn out to be as invisible as the saints and angels his nan told him about

when he was young enough to know he could actually see them if only he tried hard enough.

He’s absolutely everywhere. No sooner has he prevented a player of the rival team (A new guy

he never played against before? Why didn’t Degaré tell him?) from scoring or he’s at the other end

and he makes a goal that will be shown on TV over and over again. It’s such a beauty he knows Daniël

will be joining in with the others to make him disappear in a celebratory huddle. Before that happens

however he’s already somewhere else, assisting in the next goal. He hears the crowd.

Steve Gavan, he flies without wings,

Steve Gavan, defender of Kings.

But before he gets the chance to celebrate with his mates, with Danny, he’s right in the middle

of the next action. He plays like an angel, like the devil gone mad. He runs and takes the ball from

opponents he still doesn’t recognise. He knows Daniël and the others must be there. Someone plays

him the ball, so he can score and score again. And if he doesn’t kick the ball in the net, someone else

does from his passes that are so sharp and accurate there’s no way the net could have been missed. The

Kinbridge Kings have never been louder. No matter how fast he is, they follow him with their song.

Steve Gavan, he flies without wings,

Steve Gavan, defender of Kings.

He knows that some referees don’t like the players to make a full blown orgy out of a goal

celebration, but this one is extremely tight on the schedule. A chummy slap on his back from his

captain would be the least he deserves. Possibly a little hand-touching with Danny? Not even

Moreschi or Jensen or Kirkby make goals like this on a weekly basis, let alone a full back like him.

Perhaps this is just a friendly, merely something to use as practice for when it really matters.

But then, why doesn’t the crowd feel like it’s mainly for fun? He can always hear the difference

between being comfortably in the lead against an opponent they know through and through, and the

almost desperate faith they had in their team, during the relegation match the first season he played

for Kinbridge Town.

Steve Gavan, he flies without wings,

Steve Gavan, defender of Kings.

He keeps running, playing magic tricks with the ball. No one can touch him. He used to dream

as a little boy that one day he would play like this. This was when he was not yet aware that football is

team sport. That players remain in relatively fixed positions. That a lot of dull work is needed to make

those few brilliant moments even possible. That there’s a reason defenders seldom score. Or even that

he will become that quiet guy whose main role it is to stop a certain thing from happening.

He slides through the opponent’s defences. Alone. But he’s not alone. They’re all there. He

recites their names in his head. Kirkby, Moreschi, Levee... The ones who always play unless they’re

injured. Jensen, Jaworski, Dominguez...The ones who get a regular chance. Miller, Lain, Kowalski...

The ones who get at least as far as the bench. Portland, Celan... Even the ones who know they will be

in the transfer window at the next opportunity. Laporte, Devries... He knows they’re all there. They

must be all there. But he isn’t even sure who’s on the pitch with him, who’s on the bench and who’s

sitting on the terraces.

Steve Gavan, he flies without wings,

Steve Gavan, defender of Kings.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Daniël. He wants to jog in his direction, perhaps make a

little joke about the strictest referee in the history of football. But he’s already forced to make sure

their lead, although he has no idea about the score, stays as comfortable as it’s likely to be. Why this

frantic running for the ball? The first half surely is almost over and they can’t possibly lose unless

they walk out of the pitch, all eleven of them, and keep the goal open for whoever wants it. It must be

humiliating for the other team and their fans. Not that he even hears any of their singing and chanting.

Did they show up at all to support their team?

Steve Gavan, he flies without wings,

Steve Gavan, defender of Kings.

He’s getting tired. Forty-five, or even ninety minutes can’t be that long. The days when he was

twenty and could go on forever and ever have long gone. Games at this level, no matter how much he

loves to play, will soon cost more than he’s able to pay, as willing as he might be. The physical aspect

is not the most important element, even accounting for injuries and the fact that it takes more time to

recuperate from a match. Real decline goes much slower than that. No, the will to compete – to show

who’s the best, to prove beyond all doubt who’s worthy to lead, to mate, to become one of the stories

told around the fire during cold, dark winter’s nights – can only be the main driving force for a limited

amount of years.

Steve Gavan, he flies without wings,

He starts wondering why he’s running all over the place. Are there no mid-fielders to make the

game? No strikers to finish off the attack? No other defenders to keep the goalie from having to make

a dive for the ball? Some new tactic Degaré’s giving a try? The manager is known for his fondness of

experiments, for trying out unusual player combinations, to let them experience how it feels to play in

a different position. Nah, what’s happening here is not how this game is played.

Steve Gavan, defender of Kings.

Talking about the gaffer: why doesn’t he remind the ref time’s up? Or at least, why isn’t he

using any of the substitutes? It near to never happens that the starting Eleven is identical to the

finishing one, as far as Steve’s experience goes. Not at this level. Doesn’t the gaffer see he can’t go on

much longer? Are his team-mates blind? Can’t the skipper do something? Anything? He can’t believe

Daniël’s ignoring his desperate attempt to be taken out of the game, but why are the others ignoring

Daniël?

Steve Gavan, Gavan... without wings,

Gavan, Gavan ...

He no longer wants to be there. His body is aching, the wires in his brains are in overload, his

lungs are burning and his heart goes much too slow after having beaten much too fast. He’s reduced to

a machine shutting down. And still they sing and chant; for no one else but him.

*

All of a sudden, he knows where to look and he sees him. Sees it, more correctly. For Death is

neither man nor woman. Neither young nor old. Neither man nor beast. Neither angel nor devil.

“Take me with you,” Steve hears himself saying. “Take me from here, because I’m so tired. I

know you have stolen intensely wished for children from their mothers’ wombs as matter-of-factly as

you have ignored the prayers of old men until they had used up their bodies to bitter decline. You are

not impressed by kings and their armies. Money is of no help. Sometimes you pick up healthy men

during a match and you change everything for the ones around them. You make us wonder: am I next?

What makes me so different, so lucky, that I was not taken?

“You took my mother not long after I finally had the money to say to her, ‘Sit down, you’ve

worked long and hard enough. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.’ And I thank you for that, because

she welcomed you as her liberator, even if it broke my nan’s heart.”

Then insight dawns upon him. “I’m not on the pitch, am I? There is no referee, there are no

linesmen. No one is singing for me in the stands. There’s no other team. There’s no our team. It’s just

you and me. You have come to fulfil your task and show me your mercy. I’m at peace with that and I

surrender myself into your hands.”

Death doesn’t move.

“What’s keeping you? There’s so little left of me. I promise not to fight you.”

Death still doesn’t move. No, there is in fact a slight motion, but not in Steve’s direction.

Steve looks. Daniël is standing next to him. He doesn’t look back at his dying lover but stares

intently at Death, and he is a terrible sight to behold. The madness of a man gone berserk shines from

his bloodshot eyes. He’s baring his teeth like a ferocious animal. His face is distorted in rage. He’s

bloodlessly pale.

“Don’t you dare to take him from me. If you want him, you’ll have to go through me. You can

have me too, I don’t care. I know what’s inked in my skin. Not the one that says you have the last

word. The other one. The Heart or Death. I made my choice, now I shall live it. Even if it means I’ll

have to die by it. The two of us or the deal is off.” Daniël’s threatening whisper is the softest sound

Steve has ever heard and yet to him it’s easily distinguishable between the noises that have no

meaning to him. “He’s in unbearable pain and he’s beyond exhaustion. Some of the more serious

damage to his body, to his brain, may well be permanent. I know that. And I shield him from the only

thing that can free him from his suffering. What I do is cruel, I know that too. Consider me love’s ugly

face.

“You can try and scatter his bones all over this earth. Know that I will find them one by one. If

you take him to the underworld, I will come to reclaim him. And I will not look back, even if his

decaying flesh touches mine. Someday I will have to let him go, and I shall take his hand for the last

time in mine and say to him that, yes, he is going to leave me for you. Mors vincit omnia. But today is

not that day.

“I, Daniël Borghart, stake my claim on Steve Gavan.” He stands as tall as his body is able, his

head high and defiant. “Because he is my beloved and my friend.”

Death makes a move, swift as the hunter it can be. Daniël still moves faster. He dives on

Steve’s bed, covering him with his body. Shielding him.

“My sweet boy, you have to let me go.”

“No.”

“Your love weighs so heavy on me.”

“If love is weaker than death, if it’s as light as a feather, what’s its use?”

“There is no shame in bowing your head for the only true justice in this life.”

“If you’re no longer able to fight, I will defend you. As long as you’re in my arms, you’re safe.

I am yours and you are mine.”

“Together.”

Death crushes down on them with scorching fire, with the claws of the beast and the gentleness

of the welcoming earth.

Chapter 4

There is nothing, absolutely nothing. No light. No darkness. Not even time, because there is no

beginning and no end. There are no answers, because there’s not a single question left. And there is no

word for nothing. There are no words. No thoughts. Nothing.

Then, slowly, Nothingness makes place for the peaceful, instinctive knowledge that he’s

somewhere safe. No longer is he imprisoned inside the boundaries of his physical existence. He’s as

small as a single atom and as vast as the universe. Travelling among the stars is as easy as exploring

the depths of the deepest ocean. He remembers everything that is ever forgotten and foresees

everything that is yet unknown. He sees how all that is begins and there is no doubt in his mind how it

will all end. It’s nothing he hadn’t already known, because it’s ingrained knowledge to all that comes

from the same source: he just hadn’t been aware of it.

And yet, among this perfection there is the tender beginning of doubt. At first not more than a

small seed, an almost too easy to ignore feeling that he is not where he’s supposed to be. But it grows.

And with it time starts, however feebly. And memory that is his, and his alone, takes form. He’s

assumed to have words for everything so he can say what needs to be said to the one who needs to hear

those words from his mouth. He’s supposed to have hands to touch the one who needs to be touched by

him. To have eyes because there’s someone in need of being noticed by him. To have a body so his

beloved can hold him. He cannot be limitless, without fixed boundaries.

He has to return to his body. Even if it means losing the ability to touch the sun without

burning and witness how life moves forwards with death so close in its footsteps they are like lovers

unable to be without each other. His beloved needs him. It all comes down to this simple, unavoidable

truth. What’s the use of having all the knowledge in the world and being without any physical

boundaries when he’s unable to hold the one human being who truly matters in his arms, or when he

doesn’t even have the words to tell him that everything will be as it should be? He is at peace with

himself and with the end of his existence, he embraces Death as a liberator, a friend even, but he has

to go back to the all-too fragile flesh and bones. Time will no longer be without beginning or end. The

darkness will be no longer be absolute, the light not all-embracing. His brain will no longer allow him

to remember the terrible violent beauty of the birth of all life. His heart will mourn that loss bitterly.

He will have to give up his final wisdom for love. If love is the one thing that rules above everything

else, then it is at times a harsh and unforgiving monarch. But it has to be done.

So he looks and immediately looks away.

But already it’s too late.

This has to be a mistake. If this is a joke, then he isn’t laughing. How can he return to this

ruin? He hadn’t just lived inside this dwelling; it had always been far more than merely a vessel for

his mind, or his soul, if you like to call it that. He had lived by its laws and needs and talents. He had

learned by it. Discovered the world by it. His body’s ability to do something so many little boys dream

about and so few men see actually coming true, had granted him the rare privilege of earning a more

than comfortable living doing something he would do anyway, even if he’d have to pay for it out of

his own pocket and work some mind-numbing job in an office.

His had always been a good body, dutiful and functioning as it was supposed to, most of the

time. A source of many pleasures. Injuries had been part of the job, but everything healed fully with

adequate treatment and the right combination of rest and exercise.

Love, or perhaps he should be more blunt about it and call it sex, hadn’t been all that special,

but at least good enough to keep serious complaints, both his own and his partners, to a bare

minimum. He knew himself to be gentle and caring enough to at least try his best for whoever landed

in bed with him, but also too reserved to make a lasting impression.

When he no longer reckoned with it, love did found him in its most physical form. A tall boy,

bordering on skinny if it wasn’t for the muscles formed by hard work, a freckled face, blue-grey eyes,

and wise sayings tattooed on his arms that should have stayed mere words for many years to come,

had been introduced to him during training. Not much had happened then. The world hadn’t come to a

grinding halt. His life hadn’t changed all of a sudden. His body and soul hadn’t recognised their mate.

Or perhaps they had and it was he – or more precisely the rational, thinking part of his brain –

who had been too cautious, too weak in his faith.

Not that he had been a virgin when Daniël kissed him for the first time. Far from it. He’s old

enough to be able to genuinely smile at the memories of the awkward discovery of what it could mean

to be no longer an innocent child with an equally almost too young boy and the long self-forgiven