Page 100 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes

I cross the room with Danny. He stops by the end of the bed and I walk around to Jack’s side.

Pale, faded blue eyes filled with pain and exhaustion meet mine. He’s hooked up to various drips of fluids and pain relief, and over his mouth sits an oxygen mask. His breaths are uneven, with a little catch at every other inhale.

“Jack Miller?” I smile gently. “My name is Tristan, and this is my boyfriend Danny.” I see Jack’s gaze follow my hand’s motion toward Danny. “May I sit?” I ask, indicating the chair beside me. He inclines his head a fraction and I take that as a yes. I lower myself into the seat.

He reaches up with a bony, bruised hand and pulls his mask down. Staring at me for a moment, he finally speaks in a low raspy voice. “You said you had a message from Bruce, but that’s not possible because–”

“Because you know he’s dead, don’t you?” I say softly. He watches me silently and then slowly inclines his head the barest fraction of an inch again, like each movement takes a great effort. My gaze catches Danny’s and he gives me a nod of encouragement, content to let me take the lead since Jack seems to want to talk to me. “We found him, Jack. His remains were unearthed a few weeks ago.”

“Where…” he whispers painfully, his voice barely audible, “where did you find him?”

“Beneath the pitch,” I say cautiously, assuming he already knew where Bruce was buried if he knew he was dead, but not knowing the full story yet.

His eyes fill with tears. “The pitch?” He swallows with some difficulty. “He was there this whole time?”

My confusion deepening, I watch as the tears spill down his hollow cheeks. How could he know Bruce was dead but not where he was buried? I turn my gaze to Danny, who is also studying Jack contemplatively. His eyes meet mine briefly and then he edges around the bed, coming to stand beside me.

“You didn’t know?” Danny asks Jack, and the weeping man shakes his head.

“I never knew what they did with him.” He tries to take a breath, but it stutters, and he panics. His breaths speed up, his eyes widening as he struggles, fumbling with his mask and unable to get a good grip on it.

“Hey, hey,” I say soothingly, taking the mask and placing it back over his nose and mouth. “Take a slow breath for me… in… and out… just listen to my voice…” I take his hand and stroke his thin hair, feeling the frail, paper-thin skin of his scalp. “Just breathe, it’s okay, shush.”

I sit with him, holding his hand and murmuring to him in a low voice, until his breathing slows, and he calms.

“There, better?” I ask softly and he nods weakly. “Jack,” I say gently, “we’re not here to point fingers or cast blame, we just came for the truth. His parents deserve that much. They’ve waited nearly forty years to find out what happened to their son.”

“I wanted to tell them.” He pulls the mask from his mouth again so I can hear his weak voice. “So many times, I wanted to tell the truth, but I didn’t know how.”

“Will you tell us now?” I say. “So you can die in peace.”

He closes his eyes and draws in a shuddery breath, becoming so quiet and still that for a moment I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. Then, finally, he opens those faded denim eyes and stares at me disconcertingly.

“We were lovers,” he admits.

I squeeze his hand in reassurance, and his eyes widen as if this is the first and only time he’s confessed those words aloud.

“I know,” I whisper.

“I loved him,” he murmurs. “I loved him so much. Well… as much as I was capable of back then. Maybe it wasn’t enough. Times were different back then.” I glance up and see Bruce’s gaze fixed on Jack’s face as he leans heavily on Dusty, who just looks sad for the both of them.

“My father…” he looks away from me, fixing his gaze on the wall behind me like he’s ashamed. “Dad… he didn’t like fairies, he’d call them… us,” he corrects. “I knew from an early age that I was gay, but I also knew my family, especially my dad, wouldn’t accept it...”

“Tell me about your dad,” I ask, giving his hand another little squeeze of comfort.

“My dad.” He lifts the mask back to his mouth and takes several shallow breaths while he appears to be thinking… or remembering. When he starts to talk again, it’s slow, like he’s pacing himself to get through it all. “My dad wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t a bad man. Suppose he was a product of his time, of the way he was raised. Born in the fifties, raised in the post-war years. He was never violent, just stuck in his ways like his parents before him. Didn’t think two men together like that was natural. He was raised to believe a man must be strong, be a provider while his woman stays at home having babies.”

“Like a lot of men of his generation, there was still a lot of prejudice, not just against the gay community, but women too,” I mutter.

Jack takes several more breaths from the mask as I wait patiently.

“When it came to work… to his business, he was a bit like Del Boy fromOnly Fools and Horses, you know.” A small smile tugs at his paper-thin lips and I nod. “He was always looking for a way to make a quick pound, even if it fell off the back of a lorry.” He chuckles and it’s a dry, almost hollow sound. “He loved the rugby pitch, it was the only thing he ever managed to buy and to keep, everything else slipped through his fingers like water.”

“You loved him? Your dad?”

“I did. I have good memories of him from when I was a small kid, even after my mum left. He always took me with him everywhere. I remember spending afternoons down the pub with him and his friends, back when they didn’t think twice about letting a kid in a pub.” He chuckles again as he lifts the mask to his face, the corners of his eyes creasing and his body stiffening in pain.

I wait for a few moments until he begins to relax again.