The Art Guy (18+) COMPLETE, FREE to READ

The Case for the Prosecution

Glasgow. July 1993

The second person Lillian rang was John. She wanted to talk to a grown-up, and one who was close by.

The instinct was right. John asked her questions in a lawyerly way, and made common-sense remarks that she'd have dismissed from anyone else.

"Yes, he's going to recover. He's in the right place. Time's the best healer. I don't think it will happen again."

Something bothered him, though. There was a familiarity to the name 'Jordan'. Where had he heard it before? He poked about his mind's recesses, and it emerged. The guy he'd helped out a few months ago, the one who'd told him he hoped he found the man he wanted.

John put the phone down and stared at it, wondering what had just happened. Fifteen minutes ago, his world had been the usual 'John' world. Law and order. Routine and habit.

On a Saturday morning, John allowed himself the luxury of a nine am lie-in. Then, he either went to the gym or took himself off for a run around the Kelvingrove Park. After that, he made himself a bacon roll instead of the weekday sugar-free muesli--wholemeal, bacon grilled not fried--and in the afternoon, he met friends for something cultural, a matinee, an exhibition or even the cinema. The evening was a dinner party at someone's nice west end house or flat, the couple straight or gay seeing as he appeared to have equal number of friends in both camps, and the club scene wasn't his thing these days.

Ye gods, it was dull as fuck.

The lawyer in him set up a mock courtroom. There was John, the case for the prosecution.

"You are thirty-six, young man, not fifty-six. Don't you think Artie had a point when he said routine and predictability had knocked the joy out of everything, and that's why he was leaving? If you want something, man, you've got reach out and grab it, and here's your opportunity now.

"And you do want it. That's why your heart and stomach seem to be bouncing around inside of you, roller-coastering their way all over your body."

The case for the defence.

"I put it to you, sir, that this young man is trouble with a capital 'T'. You thought that from the outset when you saw him for the first time. Young, just out, and about to become wildly promiscuous. And if that were not enough, he's just been assaulted by Glasgow hard men. Not his fault, admittedly, but people who land up in that kind of mess have shown poor judgement at the very least."

The case for the prosecution tutted at that. Harsh, very harsh. The procurator fiscal had another trick up his sleeve too. He replayed the film of the first time John had set eyes on Kippy at that party in glorious technicolour, every sight, smell and sound loud and clear.

The freckles had done it for him. Half Italian on his mother's side, John's skin was swarthy, its surfaces marked only by moles. The laughing guy in front of him had tiny dots of pigmentation all over his nose and cheeks. God, they were beautiful. He had the Celtic eyes too, large, blue and bright.

"D'ye want tae dance?" he said, pointing at the floor behind him.

John didn't dance. That was for exhibitionists, but the boy had grabbed his hands, pulling them back and forth. "Dance wi' me?"

Danny, the party host, had cliched tastes in music. It was almost always Abba or Kylie Minogue. This song, though, was the Erasure cover, Take a Chance on Me. Far, far superior to the original and fitting.

The boy sang the words at him, thick lips parted in a wide smile. Across the room, he saw Lillian give him a thumbs up. Trust her.

"You're gorgeous!"

No-one had ever said that to John, not even his doting Italian mamma. There was no reason to believe it now, but he savoured it anyway, a lovely balm to help repair the damage Artie had done to him.

Kippy—he told him his name at the end of the song, saying he was really called Alan Kirkpatrick, but known universally by the nickname—wanted another dance, and then a third.

John watched Kippy's eyes carefully. They'd started to cross slightly, and the dance movements had become clumsy. He must be spectacularly drunk.

"Can you take me to bed?" Kippy leaned in. Now, the eyes seemed to focus once more, their pupils dilating. "I think we'd be..."

Whatever he was going to say, he stopped abruptly, looking horrified.

"Shit. I dinnae feel right, I think I might..."

That was the thing about being the oldest, most boring guy at the party. You didn't cane it like the others and you especially didn't touch Danny's cocktails. There were five spirits in the Long Island Iced Tea. Kippy, John could tell, was a lager man most of the time.

He heaved an arm around him. He was wiry and thin, and just a bit taller than John. He got him outside just in time. Up came spectacular amounts of liquid mush. The poor guy's shoulders trembled beneath John's palms as he stroked his back. "There, there," seemed like a stupid thing to say, but he couldn't think of anything else.

When he'd finished, the guy put his hands over his eyes and pressed himself against the wall. "Fuckin' embarrassing. S'sorry, mate. Bet you've gone right off me. And I really like you!"

He must still be very drunk, coming out with raw words like that. Your normal filter wouldn't allow you to be that uncool.

John wasn't going to sleep with him, but he did need to get him to bed. The poor child was going to be horribly ill, and very red-faced tomorrow.

Getting him back to his own flat was a struggle. The first taxi refused to take them, and the second guy eyed them both warily and made John swear Kippy wasn't going to puke again and if he did, he'd pay the fifty quid cleaning costs and compensation for the amount of time the cab was off the road.

He didn't throw up again, his head lolling against John's shoulder instead. In the flat, John stripped him of his jeans, socks and shoes, and left the rest on.

Kippy smiled up at him as he laid on the bed. "S'my first time," he slurred. "Sleeping wi' a man."

John kissed his forehead. He couldn't stop himself, dusting lips quickly onto warm skin and allowing himself a quick feel of Kippy's hair.

Kippy had fallen asleep. His admittance was literal then.

"Good night, Trouble," John whispered, letting himself out of the room. Tomorrow was here already, his watch told him. He'd pack Kippy on his way, wish him the very best and summon up every single ounce of will power to refuse him.

The case for the prosecution stopped. The lawman in his gown and wig spread his hands wide, his garment bat-winging, and looked the men and women of the jury in the eye.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I urge you to put your reservations to one side. Throw caution to the wind!"

Take a chance on me.

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