The shower in my hotel room was like some form of magic. Hot water just a few degrees from being able to melt flesh battered my head and neck like aqueous rivets. Just what the doctor ordered to banish the last of my hangover. I turned my back to the wall and let the water massage my shoulders. Excellent. On and on the water poured, cleansing, soothing. I almost felt ready to phone Anna. I opened my eyes. Anna. Shit, what will she say?
Something registered in my brain. A colour. The water pooling at my feet was stained pink. My eyes were then drawn to my groin.
‘Bastards,’ I yelled. While I was comatose someone had shaved my balls and painted them bright red. I prayed no one had taken a photo for the wall of shame behind the bar at the rugby club. It was then I heard the sniggers. Jumping from the shower I ran into the bedroom. Twenty barrel-chested men were in various stages of apoplectic laughter. When they spotted the dye running down the inside of my thighs like some bizarre menses, their guffaws reached new heights.
‘Who … how … what the?’ I could barely speak and they more they laughed, the angrier I got. The angrier I got, the more they laughed. Weak with impotent rage all I could do was stamp my feet and storm back into the bathroom. Well, as much of a storm as a naked man with fluorescent-pink balls could manage.
Back under the shower I examined my scrotum for razor cuts and then soaped off the last of the dye. Bastards. I managed a chuckle.
By the time I got out of the shower, my bedroom was empty. Drying and dressing quickly, I phoned Patricia’s mother.
‘You all right, Andy? The idiots haven’t damaged you in anyway, have they?’ She asked. We’d barely spoken since Pat died and unexpressed emotions lingered in the space between words. Assuring her I was fine, I asked to speak to Pat.
‘Daddy, I’m a good boy,’ his sweet soprano filled my ear.
‘Hey, buddy. Daddy misses you.’
‘Ganny got me a toy, Daddy.’ You’re not missing me too much then, my doting smile bounced off the mirror opposite me.
‘Remember you’re Daddy’s best boy, ok?’
‘Okay,’ he replied.
‘Right, I’ll have to go. You be a good boy, son.’
‘You be a good dad, Dad.’
I had less success with Anna. The answer machine came on straight away and I spoke to the recording, told it I was fine. In Edinburgh, but still in one piece.
The weekend quickly assumed the pattern of many previous trips, minus the usual rugby match. There was Guinness, Guinness and more Guinness. Throw in plenty of food, some women to chat up and you had your ideal stag weekend.
Thankfully the visit had been arranged with only two nights stay and soon we were on the train on the way back across to the west of the country. The sorry sight of once-healthy, strapping men, reduced by too much alcohol and not enough sleep, assaulted our fellow passengers. Vomit, beer, bad breath and BO vied for their nasal attentions. I doubted that anyone had used up any valuable drinking time to attend to such a chore as personal hygiene.
‘What a weekend.’ I said to Jim. We were propping each other up, shoulders and heads touching.
‘You’re welcome, brother.’ Jim sipped at a hair-of-the-dog, last can of beer.
‘You’re still a bastard.’ I sat up. Looked at him for the first time that morning. Properly looked. The right side of his face was a mess. Swollen and black and blue. ‘What the hell happened to your eye?’
‘Yeah,’ he tapped the side of his eye with care. ‘You should see the other guys.’
‘My brother the lightweight was in his scratcher, snoring. A few of us found one of those titty bars. The bouncers thought I was paying too much attention.’ He shrugged. ‘Nobody talks to me like that, mate.’
‘Oh for fucksake, Jim.’ I could see it all play out. It wasn’t like it was a rarity. Jim gets challenged. Jim takes offence. Jim goes in swinging. ‘Its guys like you that give testosterone a bad name.’
‘You’re just worried about the wedding photos.’
‘I am not.’
‘Yeah you are.’
I had another, closer look. ‘To be fair, worse could happen in a rugby match.’
Mum and Anna would be worried. They wouldn’t want the best man sporting a shiner in perpetuity in our photo album.
‘Wanker,’ I said and returned to my earlier position. My head was too sore to argue with him.
I could sense his answering grin. Then we slipped into silence, listening to the small group of guys on the benches across from us who were still going strong. Malcolm was right in the middle of it due to his unfeasible capacity for alcohol and an endless stream of jokes.
‘Andy?’ Jim spoke quietly. ‘I know you’re fond of the guy and all that, but…’
‘But what?’ I knew he was speaking about Malcolm.
‘Have you ever known him to have a girlfriend?’
I shrugged. ‘Can’t say I’ve given it much thought. He puts in a shift out on the rugby pitch. Gets his round in. That’s enough for me.’
‘Just wondered,’ Jim said as he looked across at Malcolm as if the thought had just occurred to him. ‘Quite camp, isn’t he?’
‘Doesn’t make him a bad person.’
‘Aye. Right enough. Just so long as he’s not trying to get near my arse.’
‘Conceited prick. What makes you think any self-respecting gay man would fancy you?’ I laughed and he grinned in response.
All energy used up, we were silent again, enjoying the jokes and laughter that wafted over on a fog of halitosis. Thoughts of Anna popped into my head. Anna and the wedding. Anna in a wedding dress.
Couldn’t come soon enough.