pleasantly surprised. But behind the guilt, there’s something so much worse. They are both still far too
brittle to face the stark truth that every human at some point has to come to terms with: knowing that
one is truly empty-handed when it matters most.
Daniël has spoken the words, has given him a terrible gift at a price that’s very nearly too
costly to himself. Now it’s his turn. Daniël didn’t ask for it and will not ask for it, but Steve knows it
cannot be avoided forever for reasons that go far beyond the need for justice.
So when the police officer asks him to talk with them to try and answer some of the questions
they have and thus give as much information as he’s able to, he nods his consent. If not for all the
reasons of justice and the need to both restore balance and prevent blind revenge – even though he
knows the guys are more than willing to skip the whole process of careful investigation and a fair and
honest judicial process – then because of Daniël. The why may never be answered, but at least he will
know how.
Steve knows he’s not ready yet for feelings of anger and blind revenge. He spares no thoughts
for the ones behind the monster. They are insignificant at this moment. He prefers to revel in the
knowledge that only yesterday a nurse finally took this tube from his prick and allowed him to piss
like a human being. Like a man. Hurt like a bitch the first few times, but God, give him pain like that
any time of the day. He spends precious minutes remembering words and saying them aloud so he has
proof he can actually say them. Other minutes are for moving his fingers until he’s able to form
something that looks like a grip and finally he can make an almost fist, be it a weak one. He even lifts
his arms a few centimetres and for a few short seconds. But it’s a start as good as any other.
Concentrating on wiggling his toes is endlessly more important than spending precious energy on
detailed and bloody fantasies about revenge. If only because of Daniël’s radiant smile when Steve
shows him what old, yet new, things he’s able to do almost every single day.
If the police officers had waited a week or so longer, he might have been able to shake their
hands. He doesn’t want to shake their hands. He doesn’t want them here, asking questions he doesn’t
need to hear because they force him to think about answers. He wants to lift his arms and wiggle his
toes and move his head from side to side and taste the strawberry ice cream the gaffer brought for
him. They want him to invite the monster, to describe it in such detail it will no longer be a monster
and return to its original, much more frightening form.
The shaking has stopped.
“Sir? You can interrupt us and stop this statement at any time when you’re tired or it’s too
much for you. We can continue at a later moment if so needed. We will record your words, so there
will be no misunderstanding in the future. Your partner is free to be with you at all times. It’s most
likely we will ask you very specific questions about details of your story in a later phase of the
investigation. For now, we only ask you to tell us as much as you are able to remember.” The male
officer nods to his colleague, who places a small audio recorder on the bedside table. “When you’re
ready?”
He hasn’t forgotten a thing. At least he remembers enough to be able to tell a coherent story.
But when it forms in his head, ready to be told, part of him refuses to believe. The facts are what they
are: he’s been in hospital for the past two months. He had very nearly died. Despite his perseverance,
he’s nowhere near the point where he’s able to do something like sit upright without aid, let alone
stand on his two feet, eat a full meal, be awake from morning until night, hold Danny in his arms. That
only proves that Daniël told the truth about how bad it was. But he would never doubt his lover’s
honesty and truthfulness anyway. That still doesn’t mean the words and pictures forming in his mind
are what actually happened. Perhaps he made it all up, while he was so far away he all but forgot how
to find his way home. His mind could have done some pretty weird imagining.
“Mr Gavan?” the female detective interrupts.
He looks at her, then at Daniël. He feels he has nothing to say of any importance.
“Even if you can’t believe the things you are about to tell us, we would still like to hear your
story.”
How does she know his thoughts? He studies her face for a moment. How often had she asked
questions that wanted answers like knives and fists? She must have been long enough in her line of
work to know that people sometimes are truly incapable of believing their own memories.
There’s still one thing he isn’t sure of. The police officer had used the word partner when
referring to Daniël. Do they know? Or just assume? It’s no longer their own sweet little secret, Dan’s
story made that sufficiently clear, but that’s still about family and team-mates, who proved to be as
good as family. The hospital hadn’t sent Daniël away and the staff treated him in no way different
than they would have done with a female common law spouse.
He had overheard, half groggy from painkillers, the two nurses happily blabbering while
swiftly working through the daily routine of caring for his still nowhere nearly-healed body.
“Don’t you think Mr Gavan’s boyfriend ...?” one started.
“We’re not supposed to talk about patients and especially not...”
“I wasn’t going to say anything nasty. Just that I think he’s a cute one and so devoted. I mean
every single day and night he’s here. He’s always so sweet and caring to Mr Gavan. Never a wrong
word to any of us either. I always thought people like him, I mean famous people with loads of money,
treat everybody, well, you know how.”
“I know. When Mr Gavan was still so poorly and we all thought he wouldn’t make it, Mr
Borghart sat right next to the bed and touched him somewhere it wouldn’t hurt and talked to him.
Can’t understand a word of Dutch, but it sounded all nice and sweet.”
“He said ‘I love you’ a lot. That he wouldn’t leave him. I had a bit of a fling with a guy from
Holland on a holiday in Amsterdam a couple of years ago.”
“I want a Mr Borghart all of my own.”
“Don’t we all, girl, don’t we all?”
Of course the police know. Naive of him to think they hadn’t already done a lot of work before
they even showed up at his bedside. They have previously talked with Daniël about his habits and
routines, about what had been different that day. About the fact that he has no close relatives, unless a
handful of cousins in Ireland he hasn’t seen in years count as such. About his status as a single man.
No wife or girlfriend, no children. He watches the crime serials, too. Just never thought he would be
part of one.
He’s trying to buy time; to spare his beloved and to give himself viable reasons to live with the
monster and forget the truth behind it.
With his right hand safely in both of Daniël’s hands, he starts to talk.
He keeps the words clean and neutral. He feels the dizziness of being in love and thus loving
everything in and on this world deep in the pit of his stomach, but what he says is: “After I’d shared
one or two pints with a couple of old football mates, I felt like taking a bit of a walk before heading
home.”
Daniël’s hands warm around his right hand. This isn’t what the boy deserves for his courage.
“Walking makes it easier for me to think. About the kind of job we do, about ...”
“The police know about us, we talked when you, well, you know. There’s this anti-hate-crime