Chapter Eight

Stitches and hugs

SAARANSH

 

I wake up to the blaring sirens. There is a medic hovering over me. I move my hand, but the movement is painful.

“Lie still, lad,” a voice orders. An elderly paramedic appears near my head.

“Where am I? Where are you taking me? What happened?” The questions scramble out of my mouth.

The medic consoles me, “Calm down. Let me finish cleaning the wound. “

“What? Why?” The effort to raise my head increases the ache. The paramedic holds me down.

I slump on the stretcher, dazed, straining my brain to recall the last few hours. We were at the graveyard. Brendon and I were talking. In a park. Men. The four men attacked us. We fought them. In a flash, everything falls into place. Oh, god, Brendon had a piece of glass in his back. I need to find him. What happened to him? Why is he not here?

“Brendon?” I grab the paramedic’s arm. “Where is Brendon? Is he all right? Please, I need to know.” Tears roll down my cheeks. If something has happened to him, I will never forgive myself.

“Relax. Your friend is safe. You are in an ambulance. Your friend is in another one. We are taking you to the same hospital. You will meet him there.”

The daze turns the minutes of the ride into hours. The sirens stop blaring, and the doors open. The staff carry me out on a stretcher and rush me through the emergency. Things are hazy, but I give my name and my coach’s number. The nurse in the emergency department is an Indian. She recognizes me and asks the officers to contact the Olympic Village and the Indian High Commission.

After all the formalities and examination, they shift me to a room. There is still no sign of Brendon. No one will tell me a damn thing. The doctor who examines me is as infuriating as the medics in the ambulance. Everyone wants me to relax, but they can’t understand; the only thing which will calm me down is Brendon—talking and walking. I will not sit in this morose room and wait, hooked to an IV line, staring at the white ceiling. The intermittent beeps from the monitor irritate me further—time to take matters in my hand. I press the nurse’s call button.

A nurse in navy blue scrubs answers. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I need to go to the toilet.”

The nurse disconnects the IV line. “Call me when you are done. I will restart the infusion.”

Once the lady is out of the room, I wait for a few minutes and peep through the door. The corridor is empty, well lit, squeaky clean, and smells of disinfectants. All doors are closed. I sneak out, only to face a problem. Which way to go?

“Hey, what are you doing outside?” I turn to the voice and see a nurse rushing toward me, limiting my choices. I dart in the opposite direction.

“Wait, where are you going?” The nurse comes after me. I make a run, keeping an eye on her. She can’t keep up with my speed. I turn and smash into another nurse, scattering the charts in her hand.

She glares at me. “Should you be out of your room, young man?”

I help her gather her stuff. “Sorry, but I need your help. Can you tell me in which room I can find Mr. Brendon Marsh? We were brought in together a few minutes ago. He is a close friend, and I must meet him.”

The nurse eyes me from top to bottom and directs me to a corridor. “Go check room 314 around the next corner.”

I thank her and scramble toward room 314. In my rush, I forget to knock and push the door hard. The sight before me leaves me frozen at the threshold. Brendon is hugging a young woman. She is kissing him on the forehead.

Does Brendon have a girlfriend? Or is she his wife? They stare at me. I should get out of here, but jealousy is a rabid bitch. The bite digs deep into my heart. My world falls apart, shattered at the betrayal. My feet refuse to cooperate, but for once, my mouth moves at the right time.

“I am sorry. I should have knocked. I wanted to check on Brendon, but never mind. I will come later.” My eyes are burning as I turn and walk out, letting my tears fall. Brendon doesn’t belong to me. I am such an idiot, rushing to fill the emptiness in my life after a coincidental meeting. Barren, scorched, and cracked lands do not grow seeds. So, why this sense of loss? The sudden vacuum sucks.

I hear Brendon call out, but I don’t stop or turn. No point. I guess this serves me right. A lie begets a lie. The anxiety over his well-being and the excitement of finding him drains out, leaving me listless. At least he is all right. I limp toward my room. My walk of shame and regret weighs heavy on my legs.

A hand falls over my shoulder. “You must be Saaransh.”

I turn to find the girl in Bredon’s room standing before me. “I’m Sarah, Brendon’s sister. I am part of the Australian swimming contingent at the Olympics.”

Jealousy is so stupid. The short dark brown hair, high cheekbones, and the curve of Sarah’s eyes are so similar. With the pearl earrings, she is a female version of Brendon. Only slimmer and shorter than him. She offers her hand. When I don’t react, she frowns. “Go see Brendon.” Sarah glances toward room 314.

After the first few tentative steps, I break into a jog. I rush inside and slam my body against Brendon, pinning him to the bed. With my arms around his shoulders, I hug him tight. “I am so sorry, Blue. So sorry for all the trouble I caused you.” I release my hold to face him.

Brendon wipes the tears in my eyes. “Hey, everything is fine. We are alive. You don’t need to apologize for those scums.”

His words remind me of the broken bottle I pulled out from between his shoulder blades. Brendon is wearing some sort of gown with an open back. Light grey like my own button-down dress and pajama. I turn him and rub my hand over the bandage, planting a kiss over the area. “Does this make the soreness better?”

“Hm, kiss here, if you want to ease all my aches.” Brendon directs me to his lips with his fingers.

“Hmm, better now?” I indulge him, peppering his lips and face with kisses. He holds my neck to smother me with his lips. I scrape my fingers through the short brown hair on his neck leading to the thick trap muscle.

“Ouch.” Brendon grimaces and rubs his shoulder.

“Oh no. Did I hurt you? I am so sorry.” I check his shoulder for any signs of pain. “What did the doctors say?”

He reassures me. “No major damage. Only a minor cut. No deep slices on my muscles. Thick skin and all.” He rolls his eyes. “They will discharge me in a short while after observation.”

“I got a few too.” I take his hand and rub the bandage on my forehead. “No muscles here, so no damage done.” I tap my head with his fingers.

Brendon plants a kiss over my bandage as he holds my face in his hands. “We can’t be sure. Did they give you a thorough exam? Are the loose screws still inside?”

I swat his hands away even though both Gillu and Ele enjoyed the roughness of his callused hands.

“Aww, you two. Already married?” Sarah glares, voice laced with snark.

The door opens, and two police officers walk in. “Good, both of you are here. We need to get your statements.”

*

BRENDON

 

The reaction is immediate. Saaransh stiffens. His eyes dart between the officers and me. The police would want to talk to each of us alone. I pre-empt them.

“Sure, Officer, we can talk. The attack is a hate crime.” Saaransh turns to me. Eyes wide. I pat the side of the bed as a reassurance. To protect his sexual orientation, I give a different spin to our story.

“We were confronted by four drunk men. On seeing Saaransh, they shouted racial slurs. We tried to walk away, but they cut us off and attacked us. We had to fight to save our lives. One of them had a knife. You can find the blade somewhere in the cemetery.”

Saaransh relaxes and takes a seat near me on the bed. The woman officer points to him. “What were you doing outside the Olympic Village so late in the evening?”

“Brendon is a friend. We met at a pub. He wanted to visit the cemetery to pay respects to his grandfather.” Saaransh fidgets with the corner of his hospital dress. He pleads with his eyes to go along with his story. With a subtle nod, I reassure him. I am ready to answer any follow-up questions. Now, if only Sarah keeps her mouth shut. She stands near the door scowling at me.

The officer makes a note and glances at me. “Was there anyone else in the cemetery?”

“No, we did not see or hear anyone else.” I use this opportunity to attract Saaransh’s attention. I hope my fluttering eyelids help him to relax.

“How did you get in with the gates locked?” The officer faces me.

“The cemetery was open when we strolled inside. We were engrossed in talking to each other. We lost track of the time.”

The officer takes a moment to consider my statement. He makes another note. The officer informs us about the blood samples taken from both of us to check for drugs and alcohol. Which should not be an issue.

There is a knock on the door. Two Indian officials walk in. One is wearing the dark blue Indian Olympic Association blazer. The other introduces himself as an officer from the Indian High Commission. The IOA official requests Saaransh to accompany him. Saaransh is reluctant to leave, but he has no choice as the official glares at him. I hold his hand. “Hey, we are good. I will catch up with you later.” The official from the Indian High Commission engages the police officers, and everybody leaves the room.

The door closes, leaving me alone with Sarah. She stands with her hands on her hips. “Explain. Which grandfather of ours is buried halfway across the world?”

I managed the police, but Sarah is a tough test to pass. She knows me inside out. One glimpse, and she recognized Shy, bombarding me with questions when I requested her to go after him. I should try to divert her attention. “Aren’t you competing tomorrow?”

“Brendon, you have a knack for getting into trouble. What’s going on between you and this Indian player?” She holds my gaze.

Dammit, I am in a bind. “Nothing to worry about. Saaransh is an amazing guy.”

“Bollocks.” She calls my bluff. “What were you two doing alone in the cemetery? Why were you attacked?”

“The attackers were bigots, Sarah. Nothing else.”

“And him?” She cocks an eyebrow. When I don’t answer, she walks over and squeezes my hand. “Bree, we don’t want you hurt again.”

Hurt. Yeah. My life in a nutshell. I rub the bridge of my nose. Scott or Mike’s mention always set off the fidgeting. Sarah holds my hand. “Don’t, Bree.” Sarah wraps her arms around me. I settle my head on her shoulder. How can events so many years apart, involving two people in separate phases of my life, intertwine and lead to a lifetime of heartache?

Seven years ago, Scott and I traveled to Sydney for a practice game against another college team. We bunked together in the same room. He asked for money, which I refused. We had a fight. The spat pissed me off, and I stomped out of the dorm to cool off. I returned to campus only to walk out in handcuffs as the prime suspect in Scott’s death.

“Saaransh is not selfish or possessive.”

“And you know this from meeting him two days ago.” Sarah caresses the scar on my broken nose.

I shudder at the reminder. After coming out to my family, they became overprotective. But I needed my tribe, my identity. The professional rugby closet suffocated me, so I sneaked into Melbourne’s lesser-known pubs where queer folks were welcome without prejudice on random nights.

An exhilarating journey of self-discovery. While being discreet, I found a way to share in the experiences of other gay men. Watched and admired them as they led proud lives. I met Mike on one of those nights. A confident, proud gay man. Turned him into a role model. One date led to another. After a year, I moved in with him.

I ignored the first red flag in the form of broken china and many more in a series of tantrums, including the smashed bathroom mirror. None of the incidents happened in my presence. My worry over Mike’s physical injuries overrode the monsters plaguing his psyche. One day on returning home from a game, a magazine landed on my face. “Why the fuck were you dancing naked in the locker? Did you have an orgy?” he had spat, picked up the sports journal and shoved the picture in my face. In the photo I and the rugby lads were celebrating, drunk, without shirts and hugging. No explanation helped calm Mike’s fury. He jabbed and threw whatever came in his hand. I had balled my fists and refused to engage with Mike. Scott’s accident had my hands tied. Another incident linking me to violence and my career would burn to ashes.

Mike took my lack of reaction as my weakness. He grew wilder. Thank god for his lousy aim; only the arm of Hadrian’s statue scrapped my nose. The two-foot replica of the emperor in military garb smashed against the wall behind me, beheading him. My agent worked on spinning the injury as a freak accident during rugby training. I walked out and crashed at Sarah’s apartment.

“Honest to god, we were only talking when we ran into those jerks. I had to protect Saaransh. Should I have left him to fight alone?”

Sarah shakes her head, not pleased with my explanation. But I persist. “Saaransh did not run away. He refused to leave me to fight those thugs even when I asked him to escape. Mike or Scott would scoot at the first sign of trouble.”

Sarah crosses her arms. “Okay, but.” She raises a finger to stop me from speaking. “You and police are bad for each other.”

I swipe my face with my hand. Sarah and Rob sat with me through the long nights when the nightmares returned. They are the only two people with whom I shared what happened in those horrible six months after my arrest. Matt and Damian would lose their shit. Mom and Dad would be devastated.

Before Sarah says another word, I raise my hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’ll be careful.”