Barry wouldn't look at him. "I don't understand what you're talking about," he said.
'Sure you do. You're a faggot, Barry. So what were you fer when you went round Amanda's? And what did the old Bill nick you for?" He put a cigarette between his lips rolled it from side to side with the tip of his tongue. ."Know what I think? I think you got well worked up having a drink with me and Mike, and then went out to do some damage to the competition. I bet it really sticks in your gullet that he fancies Amanda more than he fancies you. Am I right or am I right?''
Barry reached forward to switch up the volume on the television. "I don't want to talk to you," he said.
"Stands to reason. You might hear something you don't want to hear, like Mike ain't so unavailable as he's making out." His lips thinned to a cruel line as he lit his cigarette. "He's pretty fucking keen on me, that's for sure."
Barry didn't say anything.
"How about you, then? You keen on me, too, are you? You were getting mighty close last night when we were going through them photos." He propped himself on one elbow and drank noisy mouthfuls of lager.
"You shouldn't be talking like this."
"Why not?" said the boy with a sneer. "It makes you excited, doesn't it?"
Barry doubted anything would excite him again. Fear was the only emotion he understood now. He should have trusted his first impression that Terry was a shaven-headed thug, then he could have saved himself this terrible disappointment. He took off his glasses and stared blindly at the screen. "If I were a different kind of man-a braver one," he said after a moment, "I'd stand up to you. Not for me, but for Mike. It doesn't matter what you say about me, I've had people talk about me behind my back all my life, but Mike deserves better. The sad thing is, he thinks you're a decent lad." He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his fingers as if trying to hold back tears. "But he couldn't be more wrong, could he?"
"Yeah, well, it ain't your place to lecture me about decency, being as how you most likely got arrested for indecency."
"Did you abuse Billy's friendship the way you're abusing Mike's?"
"If I knew what it meant, I might be able to tell you."
"Yes, I forgot. You're ignorant as well as despicable."
Terry grinned. "You want to be careful what you say to me, Barry. I ain't scared of no queer." He blew a stream of smoke disdainfully in Barry's direction.
"Don't do that," said the fat little man in a stifled voice. "I suffer from asthma."
"Jesus wept. If you weren't such a girl, you'd've hit me. Ain't you got no bottle at all?"
He was quite unprepared for the speed with which Barry launched himself at his throat, and equally unprepared for the little man's deceptive weight and strength. As his lungs started to struggle under the combined constriction of his throat and Barry's solid knee in the center of his chest, he realized he'd tried the rape scam on the wrong person. He looked despairingly into Barry's unseeing eyes and saw only madness.
"Where's Terry?" asked Deacon as he let himself back into the flat.
"In his room."
"Asleep?"
"Probably. He's been in there half an hour. Can I get you something, Mike? Coffee? A drink?"
Deacon looked around the room, noticed Terry's abandoned cigarettes on the floor and the stain on the carpet where his lager had fallen over. "What's been going on?"
Barry followed his gaze. "I'm sorry about that. He knocked the can over accidentally. He's tired, Mike. Don't forget he's only fourteen."
"Did he try something?"
"I'd rather you asked him."
"Okay. How about a coffee? I'll check on him while you're making it." He watched the other man go into the kitchen, then went down the side corridor and tapped lightly on the spare bedroom door.
"If that's you, you murdering bastard," said Terry's suspicious voice from the other side, "you can bog off. I ain't coming out till Mike gets back."
"It is Mike."
"Jesus," said the boy, pulling the door wide, "am I pleased to see you. Barry's round the fucking twist. He tried to kill me." He pointed to his throat. "Look at that. Fucking fingerprints."
"Nasty," said Deacon, looking at the red marks on the boy's neck. "Why did he do it?"
"Because he's a nutter, that's why." Terry poked his head nervously round the doorjamb. "By rights I should have the law on him. He's well dangerous, he is."
"What's stopping you?" Deacon's eyes narrowed. "You weren't so backward when Denning went mad."
"That were different."
"Meaning Denning didn't have a reason to attack Walt, but Barry had a damn good reason for attacking you? You're a fool, Terry. I warned you to behave while I was out. Frankly, if you're not prepared to treat Barry with respect, then you'd better leave now."
"How do you know it weren't him started it?"
"It's the law of the jungle. Rabbits never attack weasels unless they're cornered. Plus, you're still alive, which you wouldn't be if Barry was a nutter." He started to walk away. "You've got two choices, sunshine," he said over his shoulder. "Apologize or go."
"I ain't apologizing to no pervert. It's him tried to kill me."
Deacon turned round. "You didn't learn a damn thing from Billy, did you?" he said wearily. "He put his hand in the fire to teach you the dangers of uncontrollable anger, be it yours or anyone else's, but you were too stupid to understand the message. I think I'm wasting my time with you. just as he did. You'd better start packing."
It was a subdued Terry who joined them in the kitchen ten minutes later. There was a revealing redness about his eyes, and his walk was less cocky than usual. Deacon, who was reworking his chart, glanced up briefly, expression neutral, then returned to what he was doing. Terry thrust his bony hand at Barry. "Sorry, mate," he said. "I were well out of order. No hard feelings, eh?''
Barry, who had been sitting in an uncomfortable silence while Deacon ignored him, took the hand in surprise. "I think-" he looked at the marks on Terry's neck-"well, it's I who should apologize."
"Nah. Mike's right. It were me pushed you into it. You're braver than you think. You said you'd stand up, and you did. It were my fault."
Barry looked as if he was about to agree with him until he caught Deacon's gaze on him and changed his mind. The only thing Deacon had said to him since he'd returned to the kitchen was: "I don't care what he said to you, Barry, if you ever lift a hand against a child again, I'll take you apart at the seams."
Now Deacon pointed to an empty chair as he pushed the chart to one side. "Sit down," he invited, listening to the distant sound of bells ringing out for midnight mass. "Perhaps we should have gone to church," he said, nodding towards the window. "We always used to go to midnight mass when I was a child and it's the only time I can remember us functioning as a normal family."
Terry, accepting this for what it was-a truce-perked up again. "Did you go the night your dad shot himself?"
Deacon smiled slightly at Barry's horrified expression, but the horror was for Terry's insensitivity, he thought, and not his father's messy death. "No. If we had, he wouldn't have done it. We stopped going to church when he and Ma stopped talking."
"Billy said the family that prays together stays together."
Deacon didn't reply because he didn't want to disillusion the boy. He often thought it was the accruing disappointment of the thousand prayers that went unanswered that had led his family to disintegrate. Please God, let Pa be nice to my friends ... Please God, let Pa be ill so that he won't come to sports day ... Please God, let Pa die...
"My father was an atheist," said Barry apologetically, as if he, too, didn't want to disillusion the boy.