Love Hurts

"Do your folks know?"

"No, I've never plucked up the courage to tell them. They're good Catholics so I don't think they'd take it well."

"Guess I'm lucky not having anyone to answer to," I commented.

Two weeks later, Niamh moved in with me.

* * * * *

After the family life I'd had and abandoned, I'd become very much a loner. Niamh gave me something I'd never had before, a real sense of family even though there was just the two of us. For the first time in my life I felt truly loved.

And from deep within myself I reciprocated the love Niamh gave me. But to my regret and shame I could never bring myself to say those three little words: I love you. Oh, Niamh said them to me often enough but all I could respond with were platitudes such as: "I know." or "Same here." Each day I admonished myself: Tell her today. I never could. Be treated as shit often enough when you're young and I suppose you turn into shit. I don't know if Niamh noticed. I'm sure she did although she never mentioned it. I'll never forget it.

* * * * *

Somebody once said that life has a nasty habit of tripping up your hopes and dreams. Niamh was on a late shift at the hospital and it was my day off. I busied myself with some essential jobs, shopping, cleaning the flat, then slumped on the sofa with a newspaper and a cup of tea. After a while I found myself nodding off, not exactly asleep but comfortably adrift so the sudden sharp buzz! of the doorbell made me jump a little. Grumbling to myself, I went to open the door. There were two people there, neither of them a welcome sight—Paul Chadwick and Mickey, the youngest of my three brothers.

"Hello, Marti," smirked Paul, "Going to let us in?" Without a by-your-leave, he pushed his way past me, Mickey trailing along behind like a piece of rubbish caught in the wake of a powerboat. My brother looked unwashed and unwell, thin with clothes just hanging off him, hair long and unkempt, face pale with great black circles under his eyes. He didn't smell too good either.

"What do you want?" I demanded, addressing Paul Chadwick, "And how did you know where to find me? Oh, never mind that, just say whatever it is you want and then get out!"

"Now that's not a very friendly way to talk to your fiancé, Marti." Again he gave me that annoying smirk.

"My fiancé?" I laughed out loud. "What are you on, Paul?"

"Me? I'm not on anything, Marti. Now Mickey here, he's on plenty. If you can swallow it, smoke it, sniff it or inject it, then Mickey's on it. Isn't that right, Mickey boy? And Mickey's in hock to some very nasty people, owes them a bundle, don't you Mickey?" Paul Chadwick's weird, blank eyes met mine briefly and he started to snigger. "Want to know something else, Marti? If he doesn't pay them in full in three days' time, they're going to break both his arms and legs. Then when the plasters come off, he'll still owe them and if he can't pay, they'll do it all over again. Now isn't that something, Marti?"

I turned to my brother. "Is that right?" He refused to meet my eyes so I grabbed hold of his chin and forced him to look at me. His pupils were dilated. Gripping his wrist, I pushed his jacket and shirt sleeves up. Track-lines stood out on his arms, almost like tattoos. "You stupid little twat!" I yelled at him and slapped his face hard. Mickey staggered and raised a trembling hand to his cheek but still wouldn't meet my eyes and I heard Paul Chadwick's odd little snigger again. I whirled on him.

"And what do you expect me to do about it? I can't afford to pay some dealers off."

"But I can," Paul told me, "All you have to do is agree to marry me, Marti, and I'll pay Mickey's debts off before the heavies get to him. Is that a deal?"

"No, it's not a deal. The stupid sod got himself into this mess, let him get himself out of it."

Mickey spoke for the first time and he sounded really scared. "Please, sis, do this for me—I'll never forget it."

"Hah! Yes you will, you'll forget it the moment you're off the hook." I shook my head in disgust. "God, what a bloody family..."

Paul Chadwick gave another strange little snigger. "There's something else, Marti..."

"What?"

"You asked how I found you," Paul said with a mirthless grin, "I know this cheap private enquiry agent, got a gambling problem, do anything for a few quid. I've been following your career with interest for a while now, Marti. I know all sorts of things about you. For instance, there's that lovely redhead you're shacked up with... Niamh, isn't it?"

"You leave Niamh out of this."

Paul shook his head. "I always like to have an ace up my sleeve. She's from a good Irish Catholic family and there's quite a little Irish Catholic mafia at the City Hospital. As I understand it, the Catholic church doesn't think much of gays. A few whispers and rumours in the right ears and that little dyke's life could be ruined..."

"Discrimination is illegal," I said.

Paul shrugged. "So? There's not much the law can do about whispers and rumours. They just grow and grow. Who can tell where they start, Marti, and who's responsible. Who's going to prove anything? And how about anonymous letters to her parish priest. I hear Father Donovan has a real down on people who... shall we say, bat for the other side. He'd probably denounce her from the pulpit and excommunicate her. There's more, Marti."

"More? What more could there be?"

"Those nasty people I mentioned, the ones Mickey owes. Three of them come from a city where Catholics and Protestants don't mix well. As they would say, they hate fucking Papists. I'm sure they'd have a lot of fun gang-raping a redheaded Catholic gay girl. Trouble is, Marti, they're all real psychos, by the time they'd finished with little Niamh she'd probably be a mental and physical cripple. Think about it, your brother and girlfriend in adjoining wheelchairs, scared stiff of shadows, not even sure what day it was. And somebody could always let them know it was your fault they'd been hurt. But that's not necessary, Marti, it's up to you."

"Christ, but you're some piece of work, Paul." Feeling sick and defeated, I flopped down into a chair. "You win, you bastard. I'll marry you."

There was something false about the grin plastered on Paul Chadwick's face, almost as if he'd been told that that winners should look happy. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it Marti? I'll see that Mickey walks away in one piece, all debts cleared. Tell you what, I'll even give you a week or two to get rid of the redhead."

I nodded. "You'd better go now."

"Thanks, sis, I owe you big time," Mickey grovelled.

Leaping up, I grasped my brother's jacket collars and shook him hard. "If I ever see you again, you pathetic heap of shit, it won't be the bad guys breaking your legs," I snarled as I thrust him away.

Paul Chadwick sniggered again. "When I was a kid, I loved playing Happy Families—as long as I won, that is..."

* * * * *

I knew I'd have to finish with Niamh fairly quickly rather than prolong the agony but I couldn't force myself to do it that day. I'd try to summon up the necessary spirit the following day.

That night, Niamh and I made love twice and I had two of the most powerful orgasms I'd ever had. When I was sure that she was asleep, I crept from the bed and went to sit on the sofa. Some people might think that because I'm tough I'm unemotional. Not so. My emotions run as deep as any normal person's. I've just learned not to display them. I sat there for a good chunk of the night and wept. I wept silently so as not to wake Niamh. Apart from the obvious, my great regret was never having told Niamh that I loved her and now I never would.

I took the bullet between my teeth the next evening. I arrived home from work and turned my face away as Niamh came to kiss me. "I'm sorry, Niamh, but you'll have to go, find somewhere else to live."

Niamh gazed back at me, a half-smile on her face as if hoping I was making a bad joke. I swallowed hard, trying to hold back the tears I wanted to release. "You'll have to go Niamh. I'm getting married soon."

Shock replaced Niamh's half-smile. "But why, Marti? I thought we had something good here."

"I told you, I'm getting married. His name's Paul and we're to marry as soon as possible."

"But Marti, you're gay."

"No I'm not," I lied, "I'm straight really, just thought I'd like to see what the lesbian life had to offer. Well, it has nothing."

Silent tears started to roll down Niamh's cheeks and I turned away so as not to see them. It was heart-rending enough struggling with my own emotions. Niamh put a hand on my arm then let it fall away when I didn't respond. "I'll go and pack then..." she choked.

"You don't have to go immediately, when you find somewhere else or go home will do. You can have the bed, I'll sleep on the sofa."

"No need, I won't stay where I'm not wanted," Niamh said, her voice as even as her tears allowed. I had to admire her dignity, I'm not sure I could have handled such a kick in the teeth as well as she did. "A couple of nurses at the hospital have been advertising a spare room. I'll call them now."

She took out her mobile and rang a number. "Hello, Thorne Ward? Can I speak to Nurse Butler please... hello, Ruth?... it's Niamh, Niamh Cassidy... that's right, from Radiology... is your spare room still free... oh good, can I have it please... yes, I was but it hasn't worked out... can I come straight away...?"

Dignified to the end, when Niamh left she simply said: "Thank you, Marti, it was lovely while it lasted." Then: "I did love you. Goodbye." Her tears continued to stream as she went. She didn't even slam the door as most would have done.

I ran through to the bedroom and hurled myself, face down, on the bed. There was no silent weeping this time. I howled.

Years ago somebody wrote a song called 'Love Hurts'. Boy, did they ever get it right.

* * * * *

Paul took me to meet his parents, not at their home but in a pub/restaurant. It was an uncomfortable evening. Phyllis Chadwick might have been attractive at one time but now she was thin and brittle, face caked in makeup so that she looked like a marionette. She made it clear from the outset that she disapproved of me, me being from the wrong side of the tracks as it were. By contrast, Harry, Paul's father, was pleasant and friendly, treating me as if he was pleased that I was to be one of the family. Short and stocky with white hair, he appeared to be much older than his wife.

For much of the meal, Paul and Phyllis had their heads together, conversing almost in whispers, excluding Harry and me. There was something disturbing about this exhibition. Each time Harry and I started to start a conversation, we were frozen by glares from Paul and his mother. It seemed obvious that Harry was used to this behaviour for he looked at me and shrugged as if this was the norm.

When we left the pub, Paul barely gave me a nod. Mrs Chadwick didn't even say goodbye, pointedly turning her back on me and taking Paul's arm as they headed for the car park. Harry shook my hand, leaned forward and whispered: "I'll see you again, Marti."

It was two days later that he turned up at the hotel when I was on reception duty. The manager, Robert Asquith, saw him first and rushed to greet him. "Mr Chadwick, what a pleasant surprise. How can I help you?"

Harry gestured in my direction. "I'd like a word with Marti if I may."

Asquith glared. "If Miss Howard has done anything wrong, Mr Chadwick, I'll deal with her."

Harry winked at me. "She's done nothing wrong, I'm sure she's an exemplary employee. It's a personal matter—she's engaged to my son."

Asquith's manner changed and for the first time I noticed what a horrible shade of brown his nose was, God knows how many backsides he'd had it up. He damned near cringed before Harry, rubbing his hands together, very Uriah Heap. "Of course, Mr Chadwick, perhaps you'd care to use my office."

"What a creep," Harry laughed when the office door had closed behind us, "Phyllis loves that sort of behaviour, really lords it over people like him. Can't stand them myself. I'd sooner someone was honest enough to call me a prat than fawn over me." His expression became serious. "Anyway, we weren't given much of a chance to speak the other night. Even if we had, I'd have been careful. But as we're alone here... There's something odd about this marriage business. Do you know what you're getting yourself into, Marti?"

"Yes, I know."

"Do you love Paul?"

"I'm going to marry him."

I'm pretty sure that Harry noticed the evasion but he said nothing about it. Instead: "I've always been worried about Paul. There's something not right about him. He's intelligent and we made sure he had a decent education but he's somehow... detached is the right word, I suppose. Been that way since he was a small child. I've often wondered if he has a disorder like Asperger's Syndrome but Phyllis would never allow me to have him tested for a diagnosis. She seems to be the only person that he has any kind of feeling for and she's the same towards him. How many blokes would take their fiancée for a meal and spend the evening ignoring her? I wanted you to know, Marti, that it's not easy with either of them. I wouldn't think the less of you if you walked away from this."

"I'm going to marry him," I repeated.

Harry sighed. "Okay, Marti, but if you need any help, you know where I am."

* * * * *

The marriage lasted a little over two years and it was weird, I mean really king-sized weird. Perhaps the less said about it the better, so I'll give a brief account and leave it at that.

We were married in the City Register Office, the only guests being Paul's parents and two Register Office staff hauled in to act as witnesses. We had a 'celebration' meal afterwards, as before in a pub and as before Paul and his mother huddled together whispering, leaving me and Harry out in the cold. As a wedding present, Harry had bought us a house, fully furnished, although I suspect the décor was more Phyllis and Paul than Harry. Phyllis had given a snazzy little sports car but made it clear that it was for Paul, not me.

Consummation of the marriage, such as it was, lasted about one minute. After that, Paul pretty much ignored me, both in and out of bed. Sometimes, every two or three months, it occurred to him to have sex and like the wedding night, it was brief. I started to think that Harry was right, Paul suffered mental problems. He was certainly disturbed. It was as if his whole life was conducted by an imaginary life manual given to him when he was a teenager. Chapter One: When a Boy becomes a Man, he marries a Woman. I must have been the first female Paul saw when he had absorbed this and therefore I became the girl he was destined to marry. Chapter Two: A Couple have Sex on the Wedding Night. The box was ticked. Chapter Three: A Couple have Sex at Intervals. Another box ticked. Of course, this lack of sex suited me—even if Paul had been a skilled lover I'd probably have got nothing from it. I was just thankful he hadn't read any further in this hypothetical manual—just think, Chapter Four: A Couple have Children. I shudder to think what they might have been like.

In fact, Paul was out more often than he was at home. I know that he frequently went to see his mother but there were many times he just disappeared. When he returned from these unexplained trips he often stank of booze. After a while I moved into a spare bedroom and I don't think Paul even noticed.

Ostensibly Paul worked but it was a sinecure, probably demanded by Phyllis. He sat in an office by himself for a few hours a day, shuffling paper around, and was paid a huge salary by his father. I don't suppose Harry liked it but for peace and quiet in his own marriage he put up with it.

* * * * *

The end of the marriage was triggered by a visitor.

"You! what the hell do you want?"

"I must speak to you, sis. It's urgent and necessary," Mickey said. My anger must have been plain for he held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "I'm clean, sis, I really am."

I had to admit he certainly looked better. He didn't smell bad, his eyes were clear and his clothing was cared for even if it did look second-hand. I stood aside for him. "Come in, Mickey, but this had better be good."

"What's it been like, married to Paul?" He didn't wait for an answer: "Shitty, I'd reckon, especially with you being gay. Sorry if I'm wrong but you living with that redhead back then I just assumed you're gay. None of my business really, sis, but are you gay?"

I nodded. "You're right, it's none of your business. But yes, I am."

"Well, that's okay. We're all the way the good Lord made us."

Getting impatient, I almost snarled: "What do you want, Mickey?"

"To tell you the truth about what happened. It was all a con, Marti. The whole business of getting you to marry Paul was a trick." Mickey slumped down into a chair and held up a hand as I started to speak. "Hear me out, sis. Yes, I was a junkie and in a bad way. But I wasn't in hock to any heavies. Paul had been supplying my stuff for several years, likely to soften me up. God knows why but he had this fixation on marrying you. He's not right in the head, sis, not right at all.

"Anyhow, I was getting worse all the time and then Paul threatened to cut off my supplies unless I helped him to get you. So we concocted the story about me being in danger and as a back-up Paul thought he could use the redhead to put pressure on you. And it worked."

It was my turn to collapse into chair. "You bastards!"

"Sorry, sis, but I was in a terrible state. In the blood, I suppose, Mum and Dad being alkies, me being a user. Billy and Frank are boozers and they've both done time. You were the sensible one, Marti, getting out when you did. Unless you've been an addict you can't know what it's like to be cut off from your fix." Mickey really did look remorseful. "In the end I got lucky, I guess God was looking out for me—about a year ago, a Salvation Army team found me unconscious in the gutter. They got me into a rehab programme and worked like hell to make it successful. I had a couple of small relapses but things came right in the end. I go to Narcotics Anonymous meetings and now I'm in the Salvation Army. You should see me in my uniform, I'm quite smart. Got a decent job too, warehouseman in a supermarket."

"I'm pleased for you, Mickey," I said, "And thanks for telling me all this. Would you mind leaving now, I've got some thinking to do." At the door, I did something I would previously have thought unlikely. I gave my brother a sincere hug and kissed his cheek.

* * * * *

I was in the kitchen preparing a meal, for one, when Paul came home.

"I had a visitor today, Paul. Mickey came to see me. You know he's clean now?"

"Yes, I heard he got religion. How's that for strange behaviour?"

"He told me how the two of you conned me into this so-called marriage."

Paul started sniggering, an irritating sound which had become more wearing each time I heard it. "Yeah, we did, you were so gullible. That was a good joke, wasn't it? What a laugh!""

I kept my voice calm. "If that's a joke, Paul, I don't find it very funny. In fact, I find it so unfunny that I'm going to file for divorce tomorrow."

The sniggering continued. "No, you can't divorce me, Mother wouldn't like it. She doesn't like you but she thinks divorce is scandalous. No, Marti, no divorce."

"Fuck mother! This is my life. See you in court." I made a serious mistake then, one that Nick Jessop had warned me about all those years previously, one which had been reinforced during my army service. I turned my back on the enemy. Paul grabbed my neck and smashed my face two or three times into a wall cupboard then turned me round and punched me a couple of times. I could feel blood flowing as I slipped to the floor. Then came the true frightener, the sign that he really was unhinged. There was no indication of rage or even loss of temper. He spoke to me in that dull monotone of his, spoke to me as if everything was normal, as if nothing at all had happened.