I write my own:Next year will be better, I promise.
I place the journal back under the floorboard. He’ll see my message soon enough. I feel a sudden wave of superstitious panic. Am I tempting fate by promising an even better year?
But the anxiety doesn’t last. I’m too happy. Too certain that the best is yet to come.
Oliver. London. December. 1980.
I wander the streets with Bram and Maud on the last afternoon of the year. We’re giddy with excitement. A new beginning starts tomorrow. We’re unafraid. Excited for what each new sunrise will bring. Charlie sees us as he approaches the squat he lives in. “You all going to the wrestling meet?”
“The what?” I ask.
Charlie blushes. “I know it’s macho bullshit. But it’s not all we do. We have a knitting circle too. And a sewing bee. And of course we all work onGay Noise. Do you have our latest issue?” Charlie pulls out the paper and hands it to me.
“Oliver’s a wrestler,” Bram says as I stare at the front page of the paper. The headline reads
When is a killer not a murderer? Answer: when he’s in the Special Air Service or the British Army.
The piece makes a connection between the brutal killings in Northern Ireland by British forces and the treatment of gay peopleby police. A cartoon on the next page shows police officers preparing for duty. The caption reads
Right, lads—before we start on the pickets, some practice on a few minority groups.
“You’re a wrestler?” Charlie asks. “You have to come in. You can join the meet!”
“No, Iwasa wrestler,” I say. “Those days are over.”
“Come on, please!” Maud begs.
“Absolutely not.” I turn my attention back to the newspaper. An ad for a new gay bookshop: “Haven’t You Hard? Gay’s the Word. London’s Gay Community Bookshop.”
“What if I join too?” Bram asks.
“I’ve already seen you wrestle,” I say. I flip to the last page. The classifieds. An ad that reads “BOOKS ARE WEAPONS!” from “Edinburgh’s comprehensive left / radical bookshop. Browsers welcome.”
“What if I join?” Maud asks. “Bet you can’t take me on, little brother.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Who are you calling little?”
She smiles. “You, baby boy.”
The way she calls mebaby boyreminds me of Jack. The Jackal. How I wish I didn’t have to read his name in international newspapers. He’s taken over his father’s empire, as planned. Whitman & Whitman has become the world’s biggest pharmaceutical company, and eighty-year-old Jack one of America’s richest men. Thinking of him awakens my competitive spirit. “Let’s go!”
In the basement of the squat, men wrestle. Some play up their masculinity in tight-fitting singlets that hug their hairy, muscular bodies. Others rebel against gender norms by wrestling in dresses and heels.
Charlie signs us up for the meet. They pit me and Maud againsteach other. We hop onto the dirty old mattress in the center of the basement floor. Men surround us, cheering loudly as we circle around each other. An aggressive song plays. Peter Straker’s “Real Natural Man.”
Maud pulls me into a tight hold. She pushes me down onto the mat. Pins me to the floor. Our audience hoots and hollers for her as Straker yelps about being a real natural man in a voice so high that it’s clear he’s not interested in being some masculine stereotype.
I wrap my legs around Maud and overpower her. I flip her over. Now I’m on top. She laughs happily. “You really are a wrestler.”
“Told you,” I say.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” she warns. She locks my head in a grip. Uses her knee to destabilize me. Boom. She’s on top again.
Bram cheers her on. “Come on, Maud!”
I turn to Bram, feigning dismay. “You’re rootingagainstme?”
He laughs. “It’s fun to see you pinned down,” he says impishly.
