Wheelchair by Garrick Jones

Author:Garrick Jones [Jones, Garrick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION: LGBT / Gay; Thrillers / Psychological; Crime; Action & Adventure
Publisher: MoshPit Publishing
Published: 2020-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

13. SIMON

I woke feeling confused—although I recognised the particular ache that accompanied it.

Too bad Dixie was still away—it was three weeks now since he’d disappeared, sending me an old-fashioned letter to let me know it was “for work”. Could I be bothered to do anything about it now as I lay on my back, Burma curled up underneath my right armpit, and a cramp in my left arm? I decided if I still felt like it later on, I could take care of myself in the shower. I’d had a pull-down bench installed in the bathroom. I’d asked for it to be fitted on the wall beneath the showerhead, and it was long enough to stretch out on. The thing I particularly liked about it was you could sit underneath the stream of water from overhead, or next to it, while you soaped yourself up. Quick slither across on your bum and under the water and hey presto! Instant rinse off without having to stand up. Paul had talked me into it when we’d been scrubbing down after a workout at the gym. “Why don’t you get one of these at home? It’ll help while you’re washing yourself, and after you’re done it’s somewhere to sit if you want to get changed after your shower.”

I’d initially laughed at the idea, but the bathroom chair I’d hired as soon as I’d got back home was awkward. The bench had been installed in a few hours and Marvin loved it. He already spent an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom as it was, but after the arrival of the bench, I felt I needed an appointment to clean myself. I could hear him singing, and more than once, sick and tired of waiting, I’d barged in to shave while he was still under the water—well, sitting on the bench scrubbing his toes, or washing his hair, or lying on his back on the bench using the back brush as a make-do microphone while he crooned love songs into its bristles.

My confusion this morning was two-fold. The strange man in the black car with the fake Queensland plates. My mind kept saying to me, “The Bullets—the Queensland rival gang who’d shot Alan and Joe and tailgated Joe’s car while I was driving it.” Coming home last night, I’d kept turning in my seat while Marvin drove, checking we weren’t followed. However, the other reason for my feeling of disquiet had been Obadiah. I could sense him trying to get behind my armour. I kept showing him chinks, but he was unaware of them. I wasn’t good at obvious.

I was torn between wanting to get closer to him and keeping my distance. I couldn’t have been closer to Manny, or Marvin, or Gerald, and I could be intimate with Dixie and Joe, both personally and sexually, so what was wrong with me extending a closer hand of friendship to Obadiah?

I knew it was fear. Fear is the mind-killer; the quote from Frank Herbert’s Dune series always popped into my mind whenever I thought about fear.

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