The Wild Heart (8 page)

     During the day the car parks were full of city workers. At night, unless there was a concert on at the arena, they were largely deserted and rather sad looking with only the clanking of trains up above on the elevated tracks lending any drama to proceedings. But all that was due to change over the next few months. There were blocks of new apartments going up on the other side of the car parks that would be great for those who wanted to train spot or enjoy a view out to Oldham and
Saddleworth from the upper floors. So many people had moved into the centre of Manchester and now they were spreading further into this far end of Salford that was so close to the heart of its more famous neighbour. He thought he might look into buying one himself. He had some equity in his place over at Denton but he felt the need to join in the rush to city living that so many before him had done.

     Emerging from the viaduct he turned left into Norton Street and located in the arches of the viaduct, stretching down for a mile or so, were yards used by various small businesses. There was a pizza takeaway place, a tyre fitting shop, and a builders yard that Stuart had been briefed to keep an eye on. It belonged to someone called Ian Taylor and the name rang a loud bell inside Stuart’s head but he couldn’t place it. As Stuart approached it was clear that there was someone inside. The door was large and painted white and there were metal bars to cover the door when it was locked. Stuart looked inside and called out.

     A man appeared from behind a shelving unit near the back. He looked startled, a little uncomfortable. Stuart could see that sweat was beginning to appear on the man’s forehead.

     ‘ Everything alright, Sir?’ said Stuart.

     ‘ Yes, officer, fine, fine. What’s the problem?’

     ‘ No problem as far as I’m concerned, Sir, just keeping an eye on the neighbourhood. And you
are?’

     ‘ Ian Taylor. I … own this place’.

     Stuart watched Ian Taylor wipe his hands down on his overall. He didn’t recognise him at all but the bells ringing in his head were getting louder.

     ‘ P.C Stuart Wheeler’ he said. ‘ Do you always work this late? It’s almost eight o’clock’.

     ‘ Only when I’ve got a lot on’ he said. ‘ Like now’.

     ‘ Business is good, then?’ asked Stuart as he looked around at the piles of pipes, cables, packets of cement powder.

     ‘ Yea, can’t complain’.

     ‘ And if you did nobody would listen, right?’.

     ‘ Well like I said, everything’s fine, officer’.

     Stuart’s policeman’s nose was sniffing. There was something about this whole scene that wasn’t right.

     ‘ I’ll be locking up and getting home soon. The wife has been nagging, you know how it is’.

     ‘ Right’ said Stuart ‘ Well I’ll be on my way then’.

     Stuart stepped back onto the street. The light was fading and there was nobody about. He was going to make his way round to Blackfriars, past the Renault showroom and then think about taking a break.

     Then it clicked. He had met someone called Ian Taylor before but it wasn’t the guy who’d just introduced himself in the yard.

    Stuart was fanatical about rugby league and when his team, Failsworth, had played a fixture against Worsley in the amateur league a couple of seasons ago, he’d had a long conversation with Ian Taylor in the bar after the match about how the England team was suffering without Jonny Wilkinson. Ian Taylor was a brilliant player and had scored two of the tries in Worsley’s 21-9 victory over Failsworth but, rugby being rugby, they were all friends afterwards. Stuart had even got him to give his parents a quote for an extension they were thinking of putting on their house and it was that part of the recollection that made Stuart’s nose finally sniff the bullshit he’d just been fed. The tall, thick-set builder who’d worked on his parents’ house in Whitefield wasn’t the same short, weedy man who’d introduced himself to Stuart in the yard and who’d commented about pleasing his wife. Stuart knew that Ian Taylor was gay, it was well known in local rugby circles, and that little detail clinched it for Stuart. He should’ve realised it before but there can’t be that many gay builders who play rugby even in these more enlightened times and it would be beyond all reason for there to be two with the name of Ian Taylor in the Greater Manchester area who both originated from Northern Ireland. So who was the guy in the yard?

     He should radio the station with his suspicions but he wanted to go back to the yard and check things out first. He was about to turn when he felt a heavy blow to the back of his head. He reached out his hands to steady himself but his legs were giving way and as he dropped to his knees he felt the second blow hit the back of his neck, sending him into unconsciousness.

     Mark put on his bathrobe and went downstairs to make some breakfast for him and Ian who’d just gone into the shower. He was just laying the table when his brother Simon and sister-in-law Anne turned up. Simon looked him up and down and tilted his head to one side coyly. ‘ You look a little … flushed little bro’. 

     ‘ Yea’ said Anne with a knowing smile. ‘ And I see you’ve prepared a table for two’.

     ‘ Is that the shower I can here going?’ asked Simon looking up at the ceiling.

     ‘ Well nothing gets past Mulder and Scully does it?’ said Mark. He was always pleased to see them. He and his brother Simon had a relationship that wasn’t just close but solid and tight. Simon was older than Mark by six years and Mark was close to Simon’s wife Anne too. They were mates. He sat down next to her and she placed her hand on his shoulder.

     ‘ His name is Ian’ said Mark. ‘ I’m glad you stopped by actually. I’d like you to meet him’.

     ‘ Is it serious then?’ Simon asked. He’d never had a problem with his brother’s sexuality but tended to be a little protective of him. They had no parents to rely on and he felt responsible even though he knew that Mark didn’t need him to. He was the strong one out of the two of them. ‘ You’ve got that look on your face’.

     ‘ What look would that be?’ Mark teased.

     Anne dug him in the ribs. ‘ That look!’ 

     When Ian came downstairs he put on a charm offensive that even Tony Blair would’ve been proud of. He had Simon and Anne eating out of his hand with his rugby stories and anecdotes about people he’d met in the building trade.

     ‘ He’s so hunky!’ Anne enthused when Ian went to the toilet.

     ‘ He’s so normal’ said Simon, more sagely. ‘ He’s just a normal bloke’.

     ‘ Well what did you expect?’ Mark asked ‘ I’ve never gone for the Antony Cotton type’.

     ‘ Yeah, I know’ said Simon ‘ But Ian just seems  … well more normal than usual. And I think he looks like Ross Kemp’.

     ‘ Yea, but with more hair’ said Anne. ‘ I agree the build is the same though’.

     ‘ And he sounds like that actor off Cold Feet’ Simon went on ‘ What’s his name? James Nesbitt’.

     ‘ Yea, he does’ Anne agreed.

     Mark laughed. ‘ So he looks like Ross Kemp and sounds like James Nesbitt. What more can I say?’

     Ian came back into the room and invited them all to the rugby match Worsley were playing that afternoon.

     ‘ We’d love to’ said Simon. ‘ I’m a Sale Sharks man myself though’.

     Ian grinned and waved his hand dismissively. ‘ Rugby union? Ah they’re a bunch of Nancy boys!’

     Simon, Mark, and Anne looked at each other and chorused ‘ James Nesbitt!’

     ‘ The guy off Cold Feet?’ Ian questioned ‘ You lot think I sound like him?’ He quite liked the idea. He’d always been a fan of James Nesbitt. ‘ How about that. Anyway, get yourselves down to the ground for about half one. I’ll have your tickets ready at the gate and you can see some real men’s rugby and not all that union nonsense. We usually have a few pints afterwards too so stick around for that’.

     ‘ And why don’t you come over to our place for dinner tonight, Ian?’ said Simon.

     ‘ Yea, you’d be very welcome’ said Anne.

     Ian looked at Mark who winked at him ‘ Yea’ he said ‘ I’d like that very much’.

.

     They were on a high as Ian drove them from the match. The team had beaten Buxton by twelve points and were only a heartbeat away from winning the amateur league title. The mood in the clubhouse afterwards had been tremendous and the team couldn’t wait for the final game of the season. Simon and Anne had stayed for just one drink before heading off and Mark and Ian had stayed for a couple more.

     ‘ Did you enjoy yourself then?’ Ian asked.

     ‘ Too right!’ Mark enthused. ‘ It was brilliant!’

     ‘ I’ve never taken anyone to a match before’ Ian admitted.

     ‘ Never?’

     ‘ No’ said Ian who liked the possibility of normal life that was opening up before him. He liked the way it was making him feel. ‘ It’s just not something I’ve done before’.

     ‘ Why not?’

     ‘ I’ve just never wanted to’.

     They were heading down the A6 through Salford. The ground was at the more suburban end of the city near the M60 orbital motorway whilst Ian’s flat at Trinity Riverside was at the other end, just inside the invisible border with Manchester. It was a journey of about four or five miles and Ian needed to change before heading off to Simon and Anne’s place.

     ‘ We’ll need to pick up some wine too’ said Ian. ‘ I’ve got a couple of bottles of good New Zealand red at home that we could take?’.

     ‘ Sounds great’ said Mark, who didn’t want to tease anymore out of the big man. What he’d already said was enough to put a smile on Mark’s face. ‘  Anne especially likes a good red. You’ll love their place. It’s at the top of a hill and the views across the Peaks are tremendous’.

     ‘ What do they do for a living?’

     ‘ Anne works for social services in Stockport as some kind of social worker. Simon is an engineer at the aerospace factory at Woodford. So where they live is handy for both of them’.

     ‘ Anne’s a bonny girl’ said Ian.

     ‘ She is and she’s a great person, you know. She’s often tried to fix me up with guys’.

     ‘ Well she can cut that out right now’. 

     Ian got stuck behind some idiot driver who clearly didn’t know where he was going but who almost forced him into the lane that would’ve taken them into the grey monolith that is the Salford Precinct shopping centre. He managed to correct himself just in time.

     ‘ Ian, did you have any Catholic friends when you were growing up?’

     Ian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘ Where did that come from?’

     ‘ I was just thinking about it the other day’ said Mark. ‘ There was something on the telly about reconciliation. It just made me wonder what it was like for you’.

     ‘ We lived in separate areas, went to separate schools, when we were older we went to separate pubs, clubs, so on’.

     ‘ Would it bother you if there was a United Ireland?’

     ‘ You don’t ask easy questions’ said Ian, who wasn’t at all comfortable talking about all this. He used to think of a united Ireland as the work of the devil but he didn’t know if he really cared less anymore.

     ‘ I went to school with Christians, Sikhs, Muslims, Hindus, Jews’ said Mark. ‘ I loved that side of it. The culture of different people is so interesting. People waste too much time playing up their differences instead of concentrating on what unites them. You know, when my parents were killed it was our Pakistani Muslim neighbours two doors down who showed me and Simon the greatest kindness and support. They invited us into their home and cooked us meals and I totally reject all this
Islamophobia bullshit that’s going around. I’m not going to fall in with the stupid idea that every Muslim is a potential terrorist just like I never believed that every Irish person was a potential bomber and IRA supporter. That kind of thinking is so unintelligent, so fucking lazy in the head’.

     ‘ I agree’ said Ian who really didn’t want to talk about all this stuff anymore. It was all getting way
too close to home. ‘ But it’s hard to go against what you feel in your heart’.

     ‘ That was very profound, Mr. Taylor’.

     ‘ Yeah, well, make the most of it. I don’t come out with that kind of shit very often’.

     They were just coming up to the Crescent with Salford University on the left. The centre of Manchester with its tall buildings was straight down the road in front of them and it filled Mark with enormous pride to know that this was his city. A city that was growing into something massive, something the rest of the world was sitting up and taking notice of.

     ‘ Have you ever had any relationships with any other rugby players?’ Mark asked.

     ‘ No’ said Ian. ‘ That’s not what I’m there for. It’s all about the rugby, the beautiful game of rugby and my passion for it. I can honestly tell you that other kinds of feelings just never cross my mind’.

     ‘ Never?’ Mark questioned sceptically.

     ‘ No’.

     ‘ All that testosterone and you’ve never been tempted?’