Two Kings (History Plays, Book 4)

3: as confident as is the falcon's flight

Richard—thirteen years earlier

When I was twenty, I became homeless. The last night I spend in doors for three months is in my father's house. I don't even know why I go there. I just know I'm being pursued. And I can't stay even there. I have no sense of safety nor purpose. Everywhere eyes stare at me. And that tense feeling in my chest and back builds and builds day after day.
I could wax on about my lost days. Describe in horrid detail the nature of my illness. Illness. Such a pretty word for going mad. I was sure I was being hunted. My paranoia knew no balm. And I simply lived on in fear and distrust. My own men were surely plotting to kill me. Men with black eyes were on every street corner. I heard horrible, terrible sounds, voices chanting in the back of my head. I think I knew in the back of my mind that some of it wasn't real, or couldn't be real. I think I knew that I was losing my mind. But I also didn't have the strength to fight it. So I let it all go.
I was homeless, which is a dirty, cruel word for a man with many houses, let alone friends and relatives able to take him in. But in my mind I had no home. I had no escape from the torment of my own pattering thoughts. And so I ran.
One night I got up, and I left my flat. I took my few favorite shirts, and my ice skates, and I left. I locked the door and didn't look back. I drove a car to my father's house. I thought I could remain there. But I was sure there were cameras. People watching me. Forever, watching me. And so I left. I left the car there and from there I walked. In time my hair grew dirty, and I was poorly shaven, I was a mere fragment of the man I was. Hovering, hollow eyed, drifting on the edges of a society I was terrified to participate in. I told myself someday I would go back once everything was all right. I had no concept of what was and was not all right or how it could become so.
I didn't know how much time passed. I had no concept of that either. But in the end it was months. Months before the fateful night on a subway platform.
"You're one of them," I grab the black eyed man by the collar of his shirt, pushing him up against the graffiti covered cement wall of the train station. He was a bit shorter than me, and for whatever reason he did not immediately fight back. "Why are you following me?" I demand, shoving him harder.
"Someone's following you? That's really bad, mate, do you know who?"
"No—no, it's one of you, the men, the men with the black eyes you have black marks—you bear the mark of the beast," I say, though I let him go so I can pull a knife.
"Oh, wow, that's bad, I've heard about that, yeah," he says, turning around, slowly. Ink black hair draped across his forehead. Dark eyes but not fully black. Soft skin on his neck wrinkling as he bends his head to study me. "That's bad— they've been following you for a while?"
"Yes—yes a very long time," I admit, twisting the knife in my hands.
"Look, maybe I can help you get away from them? I've been trying to avoid those guys myself, they've never come by my apartment."
"Never? Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I try to keep a close watch. They got you running ragged, man, you aren't looking so good."
"No, no I'm not—I'm not doing very well lately," I am aware of my shoulders twitching.
"Why don't you come and have something to eat?"
"Maybe," I keep twitching, and then I start coughing. I'd been coughing badly lately and I didn't know why. Eventually it would be untreated respiratory infections from living on the street.
"My name's Robert Devere," he waves a little bit, "I ah—just got off of work. Like you said those guys are everywhere. Why don't you let me get you inside and have something to eat? There's gonna be a big storm tonight."
"I can kill you."
"I'm sure you can."
In the end I follow him back to his apartment. Blessedly, I follow him. I am hesitant to go in, but he lures me with promises of food. Inside there are yellow walls with peeling paint, boxes, and a worn sofa that looks chewed by a dog. There's just a tiny kitchen, with a little living area, and then a bedroom in the back. It's probably the smallest place I've seen in my life. The whole of it could fit inside my bedroom growing up.
I twitch and check the windows. He's right they are clear.
"Here, that's better huh?" He asks, giving me a cold coke and a box of crackers, "What's your name?"
"Richard Bordeaux."
"Do you have any family?"
"Couldn't trust them, couldn't trust—," I shake my head, studying a cracker, "I don't want to talk about it."
"Skates. You a hockey fan?"
"I play," I say, quietly, "My father taught me."
"I didn't have a dad," he nods, "Where's yours now?"
"He died when I was small. He'd know what to do about these guys who are following me."
"Oh yeah. I bet he would. Got any other family?"
"No, no, yes, my cousin, I have a cousin but, they probably got him by now. Harry," I say, quietly rolling the cold can between my hands then pressing it to my face, "I like the cold."
"Like ice, huh?"
"Yes," I am surprised he understands. "How did you get away from them?"
"Oh it's— it's not easy," he says, rubbing his neck, "Look, I have car. I'd love to drive you to a hospital, maybe do something about that cough."
"No—no—no hospitals. They track you. They put chips in your brain don't you know that?"
"I know but there are some hospitals that don't do that. They aren't all bad."
"Yes! Yes they are!"
"Okay," he nods, "How about a pharmacy then? You pick out something that'll help that cough."
"Stores are dangerous—too many cameras—-is that a camera?" I point out the window at a traffic cam.
"Yeah ah—I don't think it's worked for a while though."
"You're lying, you brought me here to trick me!" I draw a knife and level it with his throat.
"No, no, I just want to help you, Richard," he says, holding up his hands.
I'm not clear on what happens after that. I keep rambling. He keeps trying to talk me down. We wind up me barricaded in a corner, him calmly trying to talk me out. It does little good. Hours must pass, but I refuse to budge. I'm sure that if we leave or open the door even those that are chasing me will come in and kill me.
Anyway, that's how Harry finds us. Me, barricaded behind a sofa. Robert on an ottoman on his fourth red-bull trying to keep me level enough not to try to kill him.
Harry does not knock, which is fine because I already explained to Robert how nobody could be allowed in the door. So it works out that Harry just kicks the door down.
"Hey, Richie," Harry says, very calmly, walking in over the broken door. Large as life, healthy as ever, thick muscles bulging in his neck. "What is it you think you're doing?"
"You got away? How did you get past them—-block the door, they're outside!" I cry, jumping up.
"He's um—he's being pursued we're all gonna calm down," Robert stands up.
"Who do you think you are, a cop? This is my cousin I'm getting him," Harry said, disgustedly.
"Yes—actually, I am a cop."
"You're one of them, then," I point the knife back at him.
"He sure is, so we are gonna go, and sober you up," Harry says, pushing my hand down. I shove him.
"He's not—I don't think he's high," Robert says, backing away all the same.
"I'm not going with you. You could be working for them now. You could be trying to kill me too!" I cry.
"I don't know what you're on, but you can sleep it off at home. It's three in the morning, Rich," Harry sighs, rubbing his face, "Can we just go? It's not like there's no drugs at home."
"I think he needs a hospital," Robert says.
"I told you no hospitals!" I nearly cry.
"Wow, fuck, okay, come on," Harry says, taking my arm. That's a mistake. I immediately punch him and we are off, angry as dogs fighting for a scrap of meat. He has me on the floor I pull another knife. We roll and he takes my knife to punch me in the face, only for me to flip him off. We fly at each other in perfect harmony. We know the other's body as well as our own, the way he moves the way his breath comes in steady beats, I know it all and I use it to my advantage. I am the taller man, but at the moment far from the stronger. Months on the street did me no favors, and I'm skin and bones where he is healthy and warm, glowing from the nights of happy sleep in his marriage bed, a lover satisfying him, soft fingers massaging oil into tired muscles. He couldn't be stronger, and I couldn't be weaker.
"Hey, cop, you got any handcuffs?" Harry snaps his fingers before ducking as I launch a cast iron pan at his head. He flips over the sofa to kick me in the stomach.
"Yes, but I'm calling 911–,"
"No!" I dart to the phone, Harry ceases fighting me and joins me, which in retrospect is comical how quickly we both stop fighting each other to go cram against the wall to snatch the phone.
"You completely are not," Harry pulls it off the wall, then uses it to smash me in the face. And we fly at each other again. I can't even explain how good it feels to be locked in his arms, heavy in combat, familiar as my own name, trapped in his merciless blows.
"Look you can't—-you need help to get him to a hospital!" Robert cries.
"Thank you for the use of your apartment, we'll take it from here," Harry says, as he tackles me into the bedroom, no not through a door, just through a wall. A wall that isn't there anymore.
I crash into the bed and flip to my feet, trying to elbow him in the face, but he catches my arm and twists me to the ground.
"Handcuffs, cop?" Harry snaps his fingers again, pinning me down with a knee in my back.
"Fucking Jesus, Mary, Jospeh, and the cunt donkey," I spit, trying desperately to get free.
"Handcuffs, but I think you should—," Robert held out the cuffs while wincing at my predicament.
"Will you quit wiggling? Fuck, damn it, I give up," and his hand was on my neck and I was gone.
I wake up in the hospital. They have me drugged beyond belief and let me see no one. From the ER I am transferred to a psych ward. I'm locked up, told what meds to take and how many. It's not until they find the right cocktail that I being to understand half of what has transpired.
They keep me in there six months in total. I'm allowed phone calls occasionally and the odd visitor. But not much. I have attacked doctors and nurses they are taking no chances.
After that six months, I'm transferred to a better place. At my uncle's command, I guess. It's still a hospital but it's not locked down like the other. I'm given my daily mix of drugs, I have a little room to myself, clean soft clothes, and I'm allowed to walk outside. There are other, similarly wealthy, patients there too recovering and relaxing. It's a hospital thinly disguised as a resort but I'll take it. They have a salon, pool, lounge area, and fancy cafeteria. It's up on a mountain someplace and lots of people are there to make us walk outside, talk to us about our feelings, and guide us about.
I'm in a drugged out haze and each day fades into the other. It's only once I'm stable and reasonably content that they take me off the more powerful drugs. Then the thoughts of paranoia and fear come back, but they're softer. I ignore them in favor of being at all present in reality.
Harry and his father are both there to pick me up, on the day of my release. In retrospect one or the other was responsible for signing for me.
"How you doin' kid? Let me look at you," Harry's father hugs me before studying my face. Clean and calm and composed as ever, like he's never had a bad day in his life.
"Better," I shrug, looking over at Harry.
"That's the idea," is all Harry says, but in his eyes there's something different when he looks at me. Like he knows more than he wants to now.
"Come on, let's go," my uncle pats my back, urging me onward. I move in a daze, happily dizzy from drugs and having nothing to worry about but clean and feed myself.
I follow them out to an SUV, climbing in the back as is my custom. For no apparent reason, Harry pauses, then joins me. I don't have the energy to ask why so I don't, just staring down at the soft, no laces, shoes they let me have.
"You hungry, you want something to eat?" My uncle asks.
"No um—I ate earlier," to take the pills. I don't add that.
"What, we're not gonna talk about this?" Harry asks.
"There's nothing to talk about. Your cousin was sick and he's gonna do what the doctors say," my uncle says, a bit sternly. "We're glad he's better."
"He's fucking schizophrenic," Harry says.
"Don't," I say, quietly, shaking my head. And at that one word from me they cease.
We go to Harry's father's house, well, one of his houses. I don't have the mental presence to understand the route or where we are going till we get there. Harry fumes next to me the whole time. When we park, he fairly pulls me out of the car and his father just shakes his head and decides to let it happen. Harry drags me all the way out into the middle of the lawn, where he finally releases me to stare at me critically.
"What?" I shrug, looking up at the sky.
"You're schizophrenic. You hear voices in your head? Is that what happened?" He asks, folding his arms.
I nod.
"Why didn't you tell me? —You tried?" He realizes.
I nod again, tears on my face.
"Rich," he sighs, "You know I wouldn't let anyone get you."
"I do now."
"Is all that—all that shit those doctors did—-you are better now, right? You're okay again?" He asks, like he needs me to say yes.
"I ah—it's mostly gone. But with the drugs, even with the drugs it's still there. But instead of thinking what the voices or what my head, is telling me is true. I know it's not true, so I can put it away like—it's like looking through smudged glass. Now I know what I'm supposed to see on the other side," I roll my shoulders.
"Okay," he nods, "You can't fuckin' leave me like that."
"I know."
"No, you don't know! We thought you were dead!" He cries, shoving my shoulders, "What the hell?"
"I'm sorry. Believe me, I don't want to be like this," I begin sobbing then, and he stands there, unsure of what to do, then he hugs me tightly.
"It's okay, it's okay," he pats my back.
I slump against him, I had no idea how much I needed to be held until that moment. How much I needed him to tell me it was all right.
"You need to see my kids grow up, all right?" His voice is tight with tears, "Look at me, brother, we need you right here. Even if it's hard."
"I'm trying."
"Okay good," he holds me by the shoulders, "You're good. You're good. I'm not working today. I told them I'm not working, I was gonna take Harry skating, you come and do that all right? Try to get him to laugh? He's getting fucking big now, dude, he won't stop talking either, and he still doesn't sleep, as I say it he might not be a human baby. Anyway, come on, you gotta see him."
"You—she—what's the new baby's name?" I ask, quietly. I knew they'd had another child. His eldest, named for him Henry, or Harry of course.
"Thomas, Tommy, he sleeps all night it's fucking great almost like a real person," he laughs.
"Good um—I'm glad," I say.
"You don't look okay."
"It's the drugs I—and I feel terrible," I look around at the lush green grass, "I failed all of you."
"You're not, you're not failing, it's fine. You were sick that's all, now you're better or you're gonna be better."
"This might be as good as it gets."
"Then we'll take it."
"I do want to though—I want to be here. And I want to have a life. This life. Our life, kings of the world," I say, trying to hold onto his arms like that will hold me onto reality.
"Kings," he smiles at me, and then for a moment everything is all right.
I apologize to everyone so often that Harry's dad makes me swear to quit doing it. My Tourrettes is better, funnily enough, the drugs zone me out to the extent my tics are nearly non existent. And while Harry was cross with me for going he quickly is glad I'm back running things again, possibly only because I'm more lenient on him than the rest and more likely to pay him well for the horrible things he does.
He has two babies now, Harry and Tom, they're trouble together, but Tom has his mother's even temper. Little Harry is a scourge on the world, sleeping little and running everywhere he can. He drives his namesake mad, and I can't help but be jealous. At this point in my life I'd sell a limb for a pretty wife, and healthy child, even if he sleeps barely three hours a night and likes trying to take kitchen knives. Harry doesn't see his privilege, however, and is at his wits end with his eldest child and tells me of the boy's transgressions. In my longing for normalcy, I can't see it as a problem.
Fuck normal.
I have to be myself it would seem. Not that I'm doing it very well, but here we are. And while I've settled my affairs and come home to my family, there is one missing piece of the puzzle. One wrong I have to right. Not for anyone else, but myself, I know that.
I'm surprised I can find the miserable apartment after nearly a year. And I realize at the last moment I'm nothing like recognizable, in a blue and black silk shirt, black jeans, my hair trimmed, clean shaven, I look nothing like the man I was or the mess I am.
But I go anyway. Again, this is all for me.
"Hello?" Robert opens the door a bit, then more when he sees I'm just standing there.
"Robert, isn't it?" I ask, "I'm ah—Richard. You helped me out a while back um—my cousin came to get me and ah, did some damage to the apartment—,"
"Oh my god yes—of course—um, of course— you look good, you look great um—I'm glad you seem to be feeling better," he says, very nicely, opening the door more. He's wearing a thin t-shirt and worn jeans that have rips in the knees. He's barefoot, and in one hand he's holding a jug of coffee like he's been making himself stuff up for work or something.
"Yes um, I just—I came to um—just," I give up and lean forward and kiss him. He's reasonably surprised and takes a moment to react. But it's a good kiss, a really good kiss. I milk it through his mouth, teeth on his lower lip, a hand gentle, arched on his chest.
"Get in here," he tugs me in a bit and I kiss him against the door till we're both breathless.
"Isn't this what you wanted?" I breath.
"Yes—I mean that is not why I brought you back that night I was just worried you were gonna hurt yourself or someone but—yes," he says, weakly, a hand on my face, "I don't do this I don't—I'm not—nobody can know this. I've never done this."
"Do it right now. With me," I say, pressing my forehead against his, "I have a new life policy now, Robbie, it's called 'operation do not think about it'. I'm starting to really like it."
"Oh my god, you're gonna be so bad for me I can tell," he says, starting to rip his clothes off. I make that hard for him, kissing him across the room, and pinning him against the dirty carpet as I tear those faded jeans from his hips. I kiss my way down his chest and belly, savoring the sweet taste of his sweat.
"Somebody is going to hear us—come here," he hisses, as I crawl back up him, face and lips wet, hair sticking my own face. I'm sweating now.
He drags me into the bathroom, turning on the shower, "These walls are thin—the neighbors—,"
"Fuck 'em," I push him into the shower to kiss him under the hot stream. My shirt sticks to my chest so I peel it off. He kisses my neck then collarbone, rubbing his nose on my shoulder before sliding his hands down my sides to find zipper on my jeans.
"Don't you dare think," I whisper in his ear, before finally gets the soaking pants and silk shorts off of me.
Soaking and laughing I let him take me back to his bed, it's narrow, a single I suppose, with a white comforter and white sheets, he laughs as I tangle him up in the blankets, kissing him without any reservation. I'm making up for not losing my virginity sooner, and I plan on enjoying every minute of it, even as I know that this can't be forever.
I trace the tattoo of a star on his upper arm, kissing it. He doesn't explain it nor do I want a reason. He is a reason.
The shower is still running to cover our noise, though in retrospect I'm sure it does not. We should be talking or something other than giggling like teenagers and giving the other light headed permission to do as we both want.
Hours later I wind up lying with my face in his bare back. He worked all night and was trying to go to bed when I showed up. I am worn from everything plus the drugs, and have no will but to lie here pretending he'll go to work tomorrow and I'll be here waiting when he returns. Simple. Normal life. That isn't mine. I know this can't last forever it shouldn't have even happened today. But I like it all the same.
He rolls over, and I shift to let him, instead nestling my face into his soft belly. Soft warm skin, with just flab beneath it, not rock hard with muscles. I remember my father's body, strung and taught like it was made of wire, he might as well have been forged from steel, my grandfather was much the same. Harry of course is no different, if he hugs me his arms might as well be made of stone. I wonder hazily if this is what normal feels like. A man not born and bred to kill other men.
"Shh," he strokes the curls in my hair, almost absently with one hand, as if sensing my usual tumultuous thoughts.
"I know I'm okay," I say, softly. I know it, but thinking it is a different thing.
Because, of course, this time I really was followed to his apartment. I know damn well my men, and for good measure my uncle's men, tail me everywhere I go. If they didn't already see us through a slit in the shades, they'll have long since guessed what is going on. And I'm quite sure it's not going to be smiled upon. I don't truly care. But I know that by the time I get home every single person not only in my organization, but also my family, will know fully well where I've been and what I've done.
I'd like to think Harry takes it rather well.
"You fucked a cop!?!" Shining his flashlight in my face. We were due to be off doing this anyway so it gives us plenty of time to talk.
"Wow, did not expect you to go straight there. All right," I nod, as I grab the other end of the body bag he put down to shine a flashlight in my face.
"You fucked a cop?!? Do we need them to diagnose you with something else???" Still shining the light in my face.
"Put that down," I shine mine his face (we are very mature).
"What on earth is wrong with you? Is this like some schizophrenia thing do you like not remember doing it—? Do we need to get you more drugs—?" Harry asks (supportively?) as he finally picks up his end of the body bag. Yes, we're having this conversation while burying a body. Just move on. Yes, I know burying a body is a horrible way to dispose of it that's not why we're doing it. We're doing it to frame someone else. Anyway, the less you know the better that's really not the point right now.
"Fucking hell, Harry, I'm bisexual, I wanted to sleep with him, so I did, I like him, why is that so hard to understand?" I groan.
"He's a cop????"
"Wow, you're still there, I guess I'm glad you're not being homophobic, like dePole and everyone else I've talked to about this today," I sigh, walking on. Reader, I don't know if you've ever gotten laid then spent the next seventy two hours talking to all your coworkers and relatives about it, but I recommend jumping off of a cliff instead.
"I mean, we can move there later, I'm really not past the fact that you would, in as right a mind as we're gonna get you, fuck a cop," he snarls.
"Can you get through a sentence without saying the words 'fuck a cop', please?" I sigh.
"Probably not, why would you fuck a cop? There are lots of other people we could find for you to fuck, women for example. Who aren't cops."
"Oh there it is," I sigh.
"What's wrong with women? They're great. Fewer of them are cops."
"Nothing! Nothing's wrong with men either," I sigh.
"Fine, you're fucking weird."
"Wait—what are you going to do if one of your kids is gay, or bi, or whatever?" I ask, my turn to shine the light in his face.He's got two sons now, and another one on the way. The odds are increasing one of them will be queer. Harry is gonna be two and we found him washing his hands voluntarily so that doesn't bode well for heterosexuality.
"Nothing! Why would I want to know that? Jesus, Richard, what are you, stupid? Why would I want to know, or even think about, who they are fucking? They're my kids, that's messed up. I don't need that information, the less I know the better," he scoffs.
"Wow. You used the wrong formula, but got to the correct answer, this is copying off you in Algebra 1 all over again," I say, still shining the light on him.
"Cut that out. Why would you even bring that up? That's disgusting."
"What are you gonna think when Harry or Tommy comes tripping home with some girl or boy?"
"Nothing! I do not think about that! I do not care! I do not want to know!"
"We're gonna leave that," I nod.
"But if it's a cop then I'll beat their ass."
"There it is—he's not like that—,"
"Does he know who you are?" Shining a light in my face.
Quietly, "Not really."
"There it is," he moves the light and keeps walking.
"Please, why can't I have this one thing I want?"
"Because he's a cop!"
"Fine, you know what we're gonna do? We're gonna go and ask your wife what she thinks then because you married her you're gonna have to agree with her, okay?"
"Absolutely not, she thinks you're some kinda pet she always goes easy on you and I'm pissed off at you right now."
"Why?"
"You fucked a cop! Jesus Christ, Richard, keep up with the conversation. I think they need better pills for you."
"Robert wouldn't hurt me," I sigh, "He just—I like him all right? You're married, you have a family—your father has multiple families, why don't I get to have someone I want—-oh god please don't say it again, you fucking cunt—,"
"Because you fucked a cop!"
"I know that! But I still want him okay? Why is that so wrong? Just because he's—"
"A cop."
"You're the most insufferable man I've ever met," I snarl, "So goddamn fucking stupid."
"I will drop this dead body and let you drag it by yourself your legs are longer than mine it's fucking good for you after being in that damn hospital."
"IT'S YOUR DEAD BODY, HARRY."
"You said you wanted to come out in the field and do things with me!"
"So your immediate thought was 'oh I'm gonna kill someone later, Richard will enjoy hiking through a bog in the dead of night re-contracting walking pneumonia'."
"Yeah?"
"Gonna fucking sell you," I snarl.
"Aren't you too busy fucking that cop?"
"Really? I have a gun."
"Yeah and your hands shake all the time. I think we do need to get you better drugs. I think I should get to come with you and explain that you fucked a cop and then they'll understand how crazy you are."
"I hate you so much."