Page 101 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes

“Sorry,” he mutters. “The pain comes and goes.”

“It’s alright, Jack.” I continue to hold his hand.

“I loved my dad,” Jack says solemnly. “But I also loved Bruce… and I knew I couldn’t have both.”

“Tell me about Bruce,” I say softly, my gaze once again deviating to the ghost standing over the bed and watching the dying man he’d once loved.

A small smile plays across his thin, colourless lips, his eyes distant as if he is remembering. “He was amazing. He was the first person in my life who knew the real me… who loved the real me. He was so happy and confident. He was everything I wished I was, everything I wanted to be.”

He’s struggling to breathe again, so I lift the mask back to his face and watch him take several breaths.

“It’s okay, take your time,” I murmur.

When he settles again, he weakly pushes the mask away and picks up the thread of his thoughts. “I wanted to be free, I wanted to openly acknowledge who I was and be proud. I wanted to take Bruce out on a date and hold his hand. I wanted so many things, but the little boy inside me couldn’t get past the fear of disappointing his father. Dad had such a big, overwhelming personality that it eclipsed everything in its path.”

He falls quiet for several long moments, closing his eyes, his panting breath shallow so I lift the mask back to his face. Finally, he opens his eyes again slowly.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“It’s okay,” I soothe him.

“I already had a problem with alcohol when I met Bruce,” he says. “I’d started really young, those afternoons back in the pub with Dad, sneaking sips of his pints when he wasn’t looking. In my teenage years it helped when I struggled with my confusion, realising I liked men. But then I met Bruce and for a while it was so good. I thought I could keep it a secret, but it was getting harder to hide. A few times we were almost caught. I was so torn, wanting him, wanting to be with him but so afraid to be found out, to risk the rejection of my friends and my family.”

I can see him struggle with his breathing, so I lift his mask and make him take several slow breaths. When he nods and pushes the mask away, Danny passes me the plastic cup on the table by his bed and I hold it to his lips, cradling the back of his head so he can take a sip.

“I was so drunk the day Bruce died,” he says as I gently lower his head back to his pillow, his eyes filled with regret. “I’d started drinking early, thought I could mask it, but by halfway through the match, it was clear I’d had too much. They benched me, my dad was furious, and I could see Bruce throwing concerned looks at me, but he had to play on. I left the pitch, walked right out and into my dad’s office, found the stash of cheap scotch he kept in there, and kept drinking. I hid in”—he breaks off and holds the mask back to his face to take a few breaths—“hid in one of the storage rooms, getting drunker, waiting for everyone to leave. When it was all quiet, I went back to the pitch and up into the stands with my almost empty bottle. There was a storm coming, and it matched my mood. I was sitting up in the stands when Bruce came looking for me.”

“He was worried about you,” I guess, and Jack gives that little half-nod.

“I was in so much pain, angry with myself. I hated myself but I loved him. I was no good for him. I started lashing out.”

“You told him it was over?” I guess.

He nods so slowly, like he’s trying to change the memory but can’t. “For my ‘sins’. I was really messed up at the time, suffering with depression, although I didn’t know it back then. Self-medicating with booze, or so my therapist told me years later. You have no idea how many times I’ve wished I could go back to that day. Take those words back. Change everything that came after.”

“What did come after?” I ask, looking up to find Bruce watching him with such a look of sadness.

“We argued, and I said some truly awful things to him,” he whispers in shame. “The skies opened and it began to pour. I told him it was no use, that it was over. He should find someone else. Someone worthy of him. I turned away and began to climb the stairs, clutching the seats to the side of me to keep my balance. I was a sloppy, drunken mess. I climbed higher up into the stands where I could sit out of the rain and drown my misery, but I heard a yell behind me. When I turned, I saw Bruce falling backwards. The rain had come down so fast and so heavy, it had drenched the smooth, concrete steps. It wasn’t the first time someone had taken a tumble on them. Bruce had started to climb the stairs after me but lost his footing and when he landed…”

Jack’s eyes fill with tears again and he reaches for the oxygen mask. I wait for him to breathe, my heart already aching as I hear Danny’s breath hitch next to me and I know he feels it too.

“I dropped the bottle I was clutching,” he continues. “I can still hear the sound of it smashing on the hard steps. I rushed down toward him, slipping myself and scraping the skin from my hands and the backs of my legs. When I hit the floor, I crawled over to him, pulling him into my arms, but it was too late. He was already gone. His neck was at a horrible angle and there was blood on the back of his head.”

“He broke his neck,” I reply. “That’s consistent with the damage we found to his remains.”

“I don’t know how long I sat there in the freezing rain on the hard concrete holding him. The world was spinning around me, and all I could feel was the heavy weight of him in my arms. Time stood still and I couldn’t breathe through the pain.”

I release a heavy breath, feeling my own eyes burning at the image of them both in the rain. I’m floored. I just naturally assumed Bruce had been murdered, but it had just been a tragic accident. The emotional upheaval Bruce suffered around his death had most likely stemmed from their argument, the whole situation, and his sudden demise. But it still doesn’t explain how he ended up buried under the pitch for nearly forty years.

“Jack, what happened after? How did he end up buried in the grounds?”

“I didn’t know, I swear,” he says, his breath becoming more laboured. “I was sitting, drunk, holding him, and the grief was crippling me. Everything around me was hazy and confused. Then my dad was there with my uncle. I have a vague recollection of one of them pulling me away. I was crying and screaming at them, but the world was tilting. I remember folding in half and vomiting on the ground, then everything went black. When I woke up, I was in my old room in my parents’ house and Dad had locked me in.”

“Jesus,” I heard Danny swear beside me.

“He kept me there for weeks. Only coming in to give me food and water or to let me use the bathroom. The withdrawals were hell, but they were nothing compared to the pain of knowing Bruce was gone.” He coughs and wheezes heavily before taking another inhale of oxygen.

“I kept expecting the police to show, to ask me questions, but no one ever came. Dad eventually came to me. He sat on my bed, his eyes haunted. He said I could leave the room, but I was never to speak of Bruce ever again to anyone. I asked him what he meant. He just said he’d taken care of it so I wouldn’t go to prison. He thought I’d killed Bruce. He saw the broken bottle, Bruce’s blood all over my rugby uniform, and his dead body in my arms, and instead of doing the right thing and calling the police, he and my uncle had hidden Bruce’s body and covered up what they thought was my crime. In some kind of stupid, messed-up way, they thought they were protecting me… Dad was never the same after that. Even with how much he’d loved the rugby grounds, he never set foot in there again.”