Cool Blue

Chapter 1 Grasspatch was a town in the middle of nowhere. It was big enough to have a small school, but not quite large enough to have a separate news agency and post office. Alexander Monroe, a clean-shaven, boyish twenty-six year old, worked for Mr Wiggins, the post master. His main responsibility was to sort the mail then deliver it. On his trusty bicycle it took him no more than an hour to navigate the few streets of the town, and when he’d finished both his deliveries and his morning tea, he helped Mr Wiggins in the shop. Apart from the daily mail run, the remainder of his duties could never be thought of as either physically or mentally taxing. His list of mundane, though nonetheless important, tasks included selling newspapers, magazines and cigarettes, printing off Lotto tickets for hopeful punters, weighing parcels and finding the correct postage on a faded and tattered table of weights and costs, and assisting with the very occasional passport application. It was an adequate existence, yet on some days, particularly when he hadn’t slept well, or when his biorhythms were low, he’d stare out at the world from behind a shelf of Woman’s Weekly and Woman’s Day, and wonder if the future held anything exciting for him. One fine morning Mr Wiggins, his thin hair like a snowy mist around his pink, freckled scalp, looked over his half-glasses. “Mornin’,” he said before returning his attention to the accounts. “Got a parcel for you to deliver to The Mansion. Needs a signature.” Alexander’s cheery expression wavered. The Mansion was the name the townspeople had given to an enormous construction just outside the outskirts of town on the west road. It was an unusual building, not the least reason being that it easily eclipsed every other building in Grasspatch in both size and grandeur. It was single-storey in some parts, two-storey in others and there was even a section that was three-storeys. There were two large towers, the tops of which were permanently shrouded in cloud during the winter months, and a great dome which sat almost at the direct centre of the building. The surrounding grounds were enclosed by a fence with a sandstone base and sandstone columns equidistant from each other. Between the columns, spearing up from the stone, were black wrought-iron bars with pointed tops. There wasn’t much of a garden, just an immaculately kept lawn, some deciduous trees and bushy shrubs, and a small ornamental pond where wild ducks sometimes swam on their way through. All of this was owned by a man called Christian O’Neill, whose arrival in Grasspatch two years earlier had sparked much debate as to who he really was. Some thought he was a retired rock singer or actor wanting to get as far away from the limelight as possible. Those same people agreed he could find no better place than Grasspatch to accomplish such a goal. He was in his early to mid-thirties so it was entirely possible he was a man whose star had faded. Others, perhaps with a flair for the dramatic, felt certain he was part of the witness protection scheme. Why else would anyone move to Grasspatch? Yet the size of his house coupled with the assumption he had no means of income punched a hole in that story. It was a mystery and since Mr O’Neill rarely ventured out, there was no one to confirm or deny any of the many theories. “What is it?” asked Alexander, who was as curious as any other resident of Grasspatch would be. A look of annoyance shadowed Mr Wiggins’ face. “What’s what?” he asked gruffly. “The parcel?” “It’s over there,” Mr Wiggins replied, pointing in the direction with the pencil he was holding. “By the box of mail.” Alexander walked behind the counter and picked the parcel up. It was quite heavy. “No, I mean what’s inside?” Mr Wiggins looked up from his figures and held Alexander’s attention with an icy glare. Alexander put the parcel down. “It’s none of our Goddamn business what’s inside! Now get yourself together, get on your bike and deliver the mail. I want to finish these accounts today, so I need you back as soon as possible.” Alexander looked down at the mail he’d sorted the previous evening and shrugged. “Not much today.” “Goo-ood,” replied Mr Wiggins, without looking up. “Of course, it’ll probably take me the same amount of time as usual because of this parcel for Mr O’Neill.” “Goo-ood,” replied Mr Wiggins, his voice making it clear that he was focused on more important things. Alexander picked up the box of mail and took it outside to his bicycle. He placed the box inside the tray that was attached to the handlebars and returned inside. He took Mr O’Neill’s parcel, held it up to his ear and gave it a little shake. “I’ll see you, Mr Wiggins,” he said, leaving his employer to tackle the month’s accounts. He dropped the parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, into the tray. It sat precariously on top of the various letters, bills and catalogues, but there was nowhere else for it to go. Some days Alexander set off wondering how he was going to conjure up the expected smile for any of the townspeople he might encounter. Day after day he took the same route, gave the same half-hearted greetings to the same people. On those dark days he would vary his route, do it backwards or go up a street he normally went down, yet ultimately these tiny changes failed to inject any enthusiasm into him. Today was not one of those days. Today he was going to interact with Mr Christian O’Neill. He’d be able to get right up close, close enough for the man to sign the post office register. He might even get a look inside the house, a feat no one else in town had ever managed to accomplish. His heart felt as though it was radiating sunlight from inside his chest and nothing, not Mr Cherry’s mongrel dog, which never failed to try and attack him through the gaps in Mr Cherry’s picket fence, nor Mrs Taylor’s little brats, who were fond of booby trapping the mail box so that either something slimy jumped out at him or something slimy ended up on his fingers, could rattle him. There was also Lester Moore, who was in his sixties and who tried, as often as possible, to be at the mailbox when Alexander arrived with his mail. Happy were the days when Alexander could sail past and shout, “Nothing today, Mr Moore.” Yet he could see, from across the street, that Mr Moore, wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt with “I love Australia” emblazoned across the front, was waiting for him with a smile that could have put the Cheshire Cat out of work. With a deep inhalation he rode across the street, Mr Moore’s letters and bills in his hand, ready to deliver and run. “You’re looking as handsome as ever,” said Mr Moore. “Thank you, sir,” Alexander replied. “Are you thirsty? Would you like to come in for a drink?” It was just Alexander’s luck to have the only man interested in him be someone old enough to be his grandfather. Some might have suggested he thank his lucky stars that there was even another gay man in a town the size of Grasspatch. But those stars weren’t lucky at all. They were teasing, frustrating, and perhaps even mocking stars. And he certainly wasn’t going to thank them. “I’m sorry, Mr Moore. Got a job to do.” He handed Mr Moore his mail. “Mr Wiggins wants me back as soon as possible.” The smile on Mr Moore’s face didn’t even waver. “He’s a lucky man, working with you all day. Perhaps you might like to…” “Good bye, Mr Moore.” Alexander rode away. Alexander had always been one to save the best for last. Finally it was time to deliver Mr O’Neill’s package, which was sitting securely in the tray now all the rest of the mail had been delivered. He could feel his heart rate increase and he knew it wasn’t from the exertion of riding his bicycle. He rode up to the wrought iron gate and was surprised to find it unlocked. There was no real need to lock it, of course. The only crime ever committed in Grasspatch was the occasional drunk and disorderly. He dismounted and leant his bike against one of the sandstone pillars. He pushed the gate open and, in his eagerness to be at the door, he almost forgot to take the parcel and his clipboard with him. He walked up the paved path and climbed the single step to the front door. As he raised his hand to knock he realised he was trembling a little. He wanted more than anything to get a good look at Christian O’Neill and to see the inside of his magnificent home, if only to have a tale to tell when he returned to town. Yet there was something else at work, an anticipation of some kind. An inexplicable sense of destiny. He took a deep breath and knocked. The door opened almost immediately and he heard himself gasp. The man who answered the door was indeed in his mid-thirties, although thirty-six rather than thirty–four. He had a handsome face; the kind that Alexander knew would always be handsome. His chocolate brown eyes had heavy lids, and his mouth was wide and sensual with thick lips. He was clean shaven though his jaw was already shaded by the day’s growth. “Hello?” he said before his gaze found the neatly wrapped box in Alexander’s hands. “Ah, it’s arrived.” He reached out in readiness to receive his delivery. ”It’s quite heavy,” Alexander said. “I could bring it inside for you.” Christian smiled and shook his head as his hands made contact with the parcel. “No thanks. I can manage.” He took the parcel from Alexander. “I’ll also need your signature.” Christian bent down and placed the package on the floor just inside the door. As he did so Alexander peered into the dimly lit space behind. It was difficult to see anything apart from the fact the man obviously liked his indoor plants. The shadows were full of palm fronds and large leaves. “Where do I sign?” Christian asked, and for the first time Alexander noticed a slight accent. Alexander handed him the clipboard. “At the bottom near the X.” He watched as the man scrawled his signature across the bottom of the page, noticing he was left-handed. “Okay then,” said Christian. “Is that it?” Alexander felt a surge of adrenalin. “No,” he snapped, and then more calmly. “I mean, no. Could I…trouble you for a glass of water? I’d really appreciate it.” Christian took a moment to consider the request then nodded. Alexander took a step forward, a hopeful smile adorning his face. “Just wait here. I’ll get it,” said Christian closing the door. Alexander pulled a face. Christian soon returned with some water and Alexander took it, despite not really being thirsty. Still, to be polite, he swallowed the contents in one breath then wiped his mouth on the back of his arm. “Thank you,” he said handing the glass back to Christian. “Listen, I’ve been delivering your mail for quite a while now and I haven’t really got to know you. How would you like to come to my house one evening for a drink?” He could hardly believe the invitation had been spoken out loud, but it had and all he could do was await the reply. Christian smiled and glanced down at the empty glass in his hand. “That’s very kind,” he said, “but I don’t really like to go out much, as you’ve probably noticed.” Alexander laughed politely. “I have noticed.” He went to turn. “I just thought I’d ask.” “Wait,” said Christian. “Perhaps you could come here, to my place, for a drink. What do you drink?” Alexander’s eyes lit up. “Anything. Wine. I drink wine.” Christian nodded. “How about Friday? What time do you finish work?” Alexander was so excited he had to stop for a moment and think. “I finish at five. I can be here by about twenty past.” “See you then,” Christian said as he closed the door. Alexander bounded down the path. Wait till everyone hears about this! He rode back into town feeling as though he were riding a cloud rather than a bicycle. And Christian had been so handsome. He’s single and keeps to himself, thought Alexander. It didn’t necessarily mean he was gay, but then again… “You certainly took your time,” barked Mr Wiggins, who was looking harassed. “I told you to be quick. I’ve got hardly any of these accounts done. Help Mrs Parker over there, then re-stock the cigarettes.” “Yes, sir,” Alexander replied. Nothing was going to kill his high. As he filled the empty slots in the cigarette cabinet, he began to think. He had nothing to gain by telling people he was going to The Mansion. In fact, if Christian discovered his bragging, he might even cancel the invitation. He’d said quite clearly he didn’t get out much. He was a private person and Alexander knew he had to respect that. At half past four on Friday, Alexander asked Mr Wiggins if he could go home early. “No,” was the short, sharp answer. Alexander therefore had to spend the final half-hour of his working day plotting and planning the fastest way get to his house, shower, change and be at The Mansion looking as devilishly sexy as he could by twenty past. Why didn’t I say half past? Nevertheless, desire is a powerful motivator. At four-twenty he was knocking on Christian’s door. In one hand he held a bottle of wine he’d purchased at the Grasspatch pub the previous evening and with the back of his other hand he wiped the perspiration from his brow. The door opened, a crack at first, before opening wider to reveal his host. “Hello. Right on time. I’m impressed,” Christian said. He held out his hand. “Christian.” Alexander shook Christian’s hand. “I know,” he said. “I deliver your mail.” Christian laughed. “That’s true, but, you see, I don’t know your name.” It was Alexander’s turn to laugh. “Sorry, you must think I’m an i***t. It’s Alexander.” Christian bowed his head and stood to one side. “Please come in, Alexander.” Alexander’s stomach did a somersault as he stepped over the threshold into Christian’s home, only it didn’t look like a home. The interior of The Mansion was a jungle of trees, plants, and flowers. The floor near the door was tiled, black and white, but just a little further into the room it became a carpet of grass. Overhead, a brightly coloured parrot flew, with an ear-piercing screech, from a flowering hibiscus tree into a taller coconut palm. “Do you like it?” Christian asked. “It’s a jungle,” Alexander replied. “Where’s all the furniture? Where do you sit?” “But do you like it?” asked Christian more insistently. “I, ah, yes. I do love it. Very tropical.” He followed Christian along a narrow path, through ferns and palms. In the distance, he could see a small mountain which roughly corresponded to the largest of the towers on the outside of the house. The air was thick with the scent of exotic flowers and the cries and calls of unknown birds competed for Alexander’s attention. In the time it would take a host to show his guest from the front door to the kitchen, Alexander found himself atop a small cliff looking out over a vast sea of aqua marine, the beauty of which rendered him speechless for a full minute. Directly beneath them was a beach of clean, white sand with small waves lapping at the shore. Even from a distance, Alexander could see silvery shapes swimming about in the crystal clear water and he was overcome by a sudden desire to immerse himself in the cool blue of Christian’s indoor sea. “Shall we go down to the beach?” The question seemed odd when Alexander knew the nearest ocean was hundreds of kilometres away. Yet there, directly below him, was a body of water, so beautiful, so blue, and so inviting. How could he say no? Christian led him down a rocky path, strewn with pebbles and the occasional shell. A dozen questions formed in Alexander’s mind. How was this possible? How did it happen that there was a whole microcosm in the confines of a single house, albeit a house that could accommodate an army? “Be careful,” said Christian. “These steps can be a bit tricky.” “I bet,” Alexander replied. When they reached the bottom, Christian bent down and removed his shoes. Alexander, keen to go wading, did likewise and rolled the hems of his trousers up as high as they’d go. The sand felt powdery beneath his feet, almost as if he was walking on talcum. It dusted his skin and accumulated between his toes. “It’s so beautiful,” he said as he arrived at the water’s edge. The sea rushed over his feet, washing away the sand. It quickly retreated but came sweeping in again to crash gently against his ankles. He waded deeper into the water, feeling the salty liquid caress the muscles of his calves and anoint his knees. “How, I mean, how did you do this?” he asked when his curiosity could wait no longer for an explanation. “How can this be real?” Christian, who hadn’t ventured out as far as Alexander, smiled. “Later, my friend. Would you like a drink?” Alexander waded back and handed Christian the bottle of wine he’d brought, which had begun the journey chilled, but was now bordering on being room temperature. “Thank you,” Christian said. “You didn’t need to do that. I have a whole cellar of wine. But thank you for the thought. Let me get some glasses.” Alexander remained in the water, fascinated by the schools of tiny, silvery fish that swam through his legs. Only fleetingly did he take any notice of where Christian went, to a rocky outcrop at the base of the cliff. He marvelled at how fearless the fish were, swimming around his legs, examining them and occasionally even brushing up against them, tickling him so that his muscles twitched. When Christian returned he had a blanket folded over his arm, the wine bottle and two glasses. “Thirsty?” he asked. Alexander reluctantly left the water and joined Christian on the blanket. He sat down with a contented sigh. “This is wonderful,” he said. “But I’d really like to know how you did this. Is it some kind of optical illusion? A hologram?” Christian poured the wine. “There’s a secret involved,” he said. “But can I trust you?” Alexander nodded and took the glass proffered to him, but he was more eager for answers than alcohol. “I swear,” he said. “On your mother’s life?” Alexander paused. His mother had already gone to meet her maker. As had his father. They, along with five others, had been shot and killed while holidaying in Egypt. The incident had even been on the news. Nevertheless, the memory of his mother was still as sacred as the real person had been and he’d never swear on her, alive or dead, unless he knew without a doubt that he could abide by the oath. He shifted uncomfortably on the spot and took a sip of wine to buy a little time to consider his reply. He’d always thought of himself as a man of honour, but the house was so spectacular, so surreal, that he couldn’t be entirely certain that one drunken evening he wouldn’t let everything he’d seen spill from his mouth like lava from a volcano. “Alexander?” Alexander scanned the serene landscape. Seagulls wheeled overhead in the clear blue sky and a breeze blew in from the cool blue water to lead the palm fronds in a steady dance. He then realised he was chewing the inside of his mouth. He stopped. He swallowed. “I swear.” Christian held him with a gaze that showed he meant business. “Swear it on your mother’s life. Only then can I be open with you. Otherwise, there’s no point in continuing, is there?” Alexander silently agreed. If he hadn’t actually said the words ‘on my mother’s life’, then no harm would come to his mother’s spirit if ever he broke his word. But Christian was taking care of that little loophole. Christian was forcing him to say the words. He took a deep breath. “I swear on my mother’s life to keep all that you show me and tell me a secret.” There, he’d done it. From that point on, whenever he felt the urge to open his mouth about Christian O’Neill and his fantastic home, he’d have to think of his dear mother and shut it again. “Except my mother’s already dead.” Alexander felt better for the confession. Christian shook his head. “No matter. Your oath is on her soul and that’s eternal. But you’ve done it now, as I was hoping you would. So make yourself comfortable and I’ll begin. Alexander was already quite comfortable, but felt compelled to make an effort to look like he was being accommodating. He lay down on his side, propped himself up on an elbow, and took a sip of wine. “Ready?” Alexander nodded.