says”, and I was like, “No, Mother, the Bible doesn’t say that, that’s just your way of seeing it”, but you see her church had indoctrinated her to think like that, so I didn’t blame her. Mouthwash, Sasha.’
Vernon straightened up and out of the corner of his eye Biddle saw a tall brunette glide in. ‘No, no, no, Sasha,’ Vernon objected, his hands raised in a gesture of horror, ‘it’s green mouthwash for Ordinary time, we’re into Lent now.’ He turned back to Biddle. ‘She’s a complete atheist,’ he moaned, the word ‘complete’ warranting a particularly wide and pointy gesture with his hands.
‘Anyway, as I was saying, that’s what puts people off church, do you know what I mean? They think they’re going to go in there and be told what they can and can’t do. I mean, everyone’s got their own set of standards, haven’t they? And that’s how it should be. Think of bestiality – that’s it Sasha, the purple stuff, put it down on the side, would you? – everyone says bestiality’s wrong, but when you think about it, what is wrong with it, if it’s with a consenting animal?’
Biddle scarcely had time to wonder how one would know if an animal was consenting before Vernon started to tell him anyway. ‘You can tell if an animal’s consenting,’ Vernon said. ‘I know this because I spoke to a farmer once, years ago, when I went to Dorset with my flatmate. He said if a dog chases a sheep, its intestines fall out of its anus – they’re sensitive, you see, they get scared. So if it wasn’t consenting, it would get scared and its intestines would fall out of its anus.’
Biddle was feeling decidedly uncomfortable – even if he had chosen to engage in this conversation, he would have wanted to be in a position to contribute to it. He certainly wouldn’t have elected to listen to it while somebody was poking around in his mouth. ‘So this farmer said to us, you can tell if the sheep wants to have sex with you. We didn’t ask him to elaborate any further, mind you. But like I say, what’s wrong with that, if it’s giving you both pleasure? Why’s that any different from having sex with a consenting human being? I’m not saying I’m into bestiality, I think it’s disgusting myself, I’m just saying it makes you think – if you could just open a bit wider, that’s lovely – it makes you think, doesn’t it?
As Biddle drove up to his house, his tooth mended and his mind broadened to embrace a number of concepts he had never previously stopped to consider, he saw a small, hunched figure sitting on his doorstep.
He was a little disheartened by the sight. He hadn’t exactly expected Gerard Feehan to hit the gay bars as soon as their previous meeting had finished, but the vicarage was no place for young gay men to be hanging about.
Well – not his vicarage, at any rate.
On the plus side, he was now equipped to discuss in depth the pros and cons of bestiality, should it turn out to be one of the issues bothering Gerard this time round.
‘You’d better come in,’ he said as he stepped out of his car, greeting Gerard with an encouraging and now somewhat-expensive smile.
‘Right – stop,’ Biddle said in his calmest, kindliest voice. ‘Why exactly do you think God wants you to remain celibate?’
‘Well …’ Gerard shifted restlessly and hugged his mug of tea to his chest. ‘I … I’ve been thinking about – you know, when I – we were talking – what about yesterday, I was …’ His words were coming out in the wrong order again, but this was a subject he didn’t seem able to discuss without considerable verbal difficulty. ‘I know it’s not – being it – wrong – it isn’t – gay, I mean,’ Gerard hastily added, without making it altogether clear what he did mean, ‘it’s just that I start – whenever I think about – very empty and lonely, I feel – thinking about it, I mean – and I think that that there’s no, God telling me there’s no, that I should spend the rest of my life, I to, to … focussed on him.’
Biddle nodded, slowly digesting the words and reordering them to discover their hidden meaning. ‘I’m not sure that those are the conclusions I would have reached myself,’ he finally commented.
‘I’ve been about it an awful lot,’ Gerard earnestly insisted. ‘Praying, I mean,’ he clarified.
‘I’m sure you have,’ said Biddle, smiling. ‘But who’s been doing all the talking – you or God?’ (Biddle allowed himself a moment of inward satisfaction at having come up, quite spontaneously, with such a profound yet quotable aphorism. A little pithy, perhaps. Maybe a bit too evangelical in thrust. But these were minor worries when, as a statement, it fitted the situation so well. Definitely one to bear in mind and use again.)
Gerard stared awkwardly at his tea, saying nothing. He took one hand off his mug to remove his glasses and began listlessly fiddling with them. ‘Do you want to know what I think?’ Biddle asked. Gerard nodded, and fiddled with his glasses. ‘I think that the reason you feel empty and lonely is that you are lonely. I think that you’re putting words into God’s mouth because you’re afraid of going into areas you haven’t been in before.’ Gerard fiddled with his glasses. Biddle cleared his throat. ‘Gerard, God created us to have companions, human companions.’
‘I know …’ Gerard began, fiddling with his glasses.
‘You need to get out,’ Biddle insisted, ‘meet people your own age. Form some relationships, maybe even a special relationship.’ Biddle deliberately met Gerard’s eyes as the boy replaced his glasses – Gerard recoiled from the long, hard stare, looking as if he wished for all the world that the chair he was in would swallow him whole.
Gerard shifted in his seat; he wished for all the world that it would swallow him whole. ‘Just – not sure – I’m …’ he started, and fell silent again. Biddle wondered for a horrific moment if he was going to have to explain the basics of sexual relationships to the boy, doing diagrams on the small blackboard he had in his kitchen for writing memos on. Finally Gerard spoke again. ‘I don’t really – to form that – know how kind of relationship, I don’t, meet people, don’t, really.’
‘Okay,’ said Biddle, kindly, ‘have you thought about going to a – a gay club, perhaps?’
‘Um …’ Gerard coughed, nervously. ‘My mother …’
‘Your mother doesn’t come into this, Gerard. You wouldn’t be taking her with you.’
‘But …’
‘No, you really wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be her sort of thing at all.’
‘No, but …’ Gerard looked at Biddle questioningly. ‘I thought that … part of the point you were – with the omelette – was that in trying to find an place for itself in a hostile world, gay culture has kind of created an artificial sense of identity which actually … um … works against it, as far as the perception of gay … er … people is … er … concerned … and …’ He coughed again. ‘I thought you were probably saying that because of this it’s better not to in the … er … gay … er … scene – become involved.’
Andy Biddle had years of experience in keeping his happy, caring smile on his face in spite of all kinds of provocation. But it was a definite effort to remain smiling after this baffling yet uncharacteristically articulate speech. How had Feehan managed to read all of that into his omelette? How had he managed to say it all when as a rule he couldn’t even string a sentence together?
‘Well, Gerard …’ he began, wondering exactly what he was going to say. No more pithy aphorisms occurred to him, but he felt he ought to keep talking
