Page 80 of The Words Beneath the Noise

The grin faltered. “Eddie. He was twenty-two. Wanted to be a teacher. Used to help me with my sums when we were kids.” Charlie's fingers tapped faster. “They sent us a telegram. Four sentences. Sorry to inform you. Eddie's dead. Thank you for your sacrifice. Sincerely, the bloody War Office.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Everyone's sorry. Doesn't bring him back.” Charlie drained his glass. “But that's war, isn't it? Takes the good ones and leaves the rest of us to figure out how to keep living.”

The conversation drifted after that, expanding to include others who wandered over. Michael, a merchant seaman with salt-weathered skin who spoke Polari with a sailor's fluency and told stories about ports around the world where men like us could exist more freely. Tangier, he said, was practically a holiday. Lisbon had its corners. Even New York, if you knew where to look.

James joined us next, a theatre performer before the war, now working in a munitions factory. His hands were rough with chemical burns, but his gestures remained theatrical, swooping and elaborate as he got drunker.

“I was in a production of As You Like It in '38,” he said, demonstrating Rosalind's walk across an imaginary stage. “The critics said I had 'unconventional presence.' Which is code for too queer, obviously, but I chose to take it as a compliment.”

“It is a compliment,” Michael said. “Conventional is boring. Conventional gets you a life like everyone else's. Who wants that?”

“People who don't get arrested for being unconventional,” Charlie muttered.

“Fair point.”

An older man named George had been listening from the next table. He pulled his chair over without asking, the privilege of age and experience.

“I've been coming to places like this since the twenties,” he said, voice rough from decades of cigarettes. “Back when the raids were more frequent. When the danger was sharper.”

“Sharper how?” I asked.

“The police knew where we were. Made it a sport, some of them. Waiting until we'd relaxed, until we'd let our guards down, then swooping in. I was arrested twice. Spent three months in Brixton the second time.” He said it matter-of-factly, the way you might mention a bout of bad weather. “Lost my job. Lost my flat. Lost most of my friends, the respectable ones who couldn't afford to know me anymore.”

“How did you survive?”

“Same way we all do. Found others who'd survived the same thing. Built something new.” He looked at me with eyes that had seen too much. “The thing about us is that we learn to hold two truths at once. We are criminals in the eyes of the law. We are also human beings deserving of love. Both things true. Neither cancels the other.”

“How do you live with it? The contradiction?”

“Same way you live with anything impossible. One day at a time. One moment of connection at a time.” He reached for his drink. “You find your people. You hold onto them. You build something real in the spaces between what's allowed.”

The whisky was warm in my stomach, and the conversation had unwound some of the tension I'd carried for weeks. Here, in this cramped pub full of smoke and secrets, I could breathe.

“Vada the dolly eek on this one,” Charlie said, nudging Malcolm. “All serious and thoughtful. Bet his omi doesn't know how lucky he is.”

“He's not my?—”

“Not yet.” Malcolm smiled. “But he could be. If you're brave enough.”

“Bravery's got nothing to do with it. It's about survival.”

“Sometimes surviving means taking risks.” He leaned forward. “I spent five years after Tommy died not letting anyone close. Told myself it was safer. Smarter. But all I did was make myself smaller and smaller until I barely existed. Then I met David.” He gestured toward the bar, where a grey-haired man was laughing at something the bartender said. “Twenty years now. Twenty years of building something real despite everything trying to tear it down.”

“How?”

“Carefully. Quietly. In the spaces where no one's looking.” He held my gaze. “Your man. Does he make you feel less alone?”

“Yes.” The word came out raw. “For the first time in... yes.”

“Then don't waste that. Whatever you have to risk, don't waste it.” He stood, patted my shoulder. “The night's getting old and so am I. But it was bona to meet you, Art. Come back sometime. We'll be here.”

The pub was thinningout when I finally left, men drifting away in ones and twos, disappearing back into a city that would pretend they didn't exist come morning. The whisky had mademe bold. Reckless, maybe. The conversations had loosened something inside me, made me feel connected to a history larger than my own small fears.

I knew I should go straight to the station. Catch the last train back. Return to the estate and the work and the careful distance I maintained from everything that could hurt me.

Instead, I found myself walking toward Leicester Square.