Hector Fitzsimmons sat on the edge of his double-poster bed, holding his mobile in a hand that was not quite steady.
It was dangerous doing this before a sermon, especially with his wife and children downstairs in their Sunday finest, but Fitzsimmons had no choice. As his wife had become more suspicious of his activities, he'd found less and less time to spend by himself. And it was only when he was by himself he could phone Carlos.
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"I won't be able to see you for a while." Hector said. He stared at the floor, picturing his lover. His face was a mixture of sadness and intense longing.
"She's not getting off my tail recently. Deb's signed us up to couples ballroom dancing, clay pottery and fucking horticulture lessons.
"You serious?" said Carlos, his voice coming out of the phone is crackling and grainy waves.
"Yeah, she says she just wants us to do more couple activities, whatever that means. She's bluffing, I know she's on to me."
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"Honey, are you ready?" Deborah Fitzsimmons yelled from the bottom of the stairwell.
"Just a minute!" he yelled back. "Carlos, I have to go. I'm expected at church for nine. I'll talk to you later, I promise."
"Sure thing. Oh and Hector?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
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Hector put the phone to his mouth, breathing fiercely and aware of his wife's footsteps up the stairs.
"I love you too."
He killed the connection and pocketed his phone just as the door swung open.
His red-faced wife rolled her eyes at him. "How long does it take you to tie one flipping dickie-bow, Hector?"
She winced. "Now you've made me cuss. I'd never use such base words as 'flipping' if you didn't provoke me, my darling."
Hector smiled, hoping his cheeks weren't as bright red as they felt. Had she caught the end of the conversation?
"So sorry, my dear. The last thing I want is to make us late for a morning in the house of the Lord Almighty!"
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His wife beamed at him. "Well, your bow looks fine, so you can stop fiddling with it now! Zach and Sharon are already in the car."
Hector got up, his face now coated in what he liked to call "Deborah-paint."
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Yes dearest, no dearest, never enough decorative pillows for the sofa, my darling. That was "Deborah-face."
Uttering words such as flip, flaming, crumbs and bummer when you stubbed your toe on the settee, forgot to feed the cat or got cut off on the road by an angry driver was "Deborah-voice."
But underneath the white kabuki mask of "Deborah-face" was "Hector-face."
Sure, na, decorative pillows are for pricks and I can't sit down on my own bloody sofa, you idiot.
He opened the door of the Kia and started it up.
As he drove down the sunny road, he thought about how much he preferred his real face, his real voice and how sad he felt that he could only share it with Carlos Riviera, who lived almost five thousand miles away.
Coincidentally, he had met Carlos on his honeymoon with Deborah when he stumbled upon a gay bar by accident.
Of course, an accident is not usually just that. But it's what he told Deb, and she swallowed the story just like the later ones that became larger and larger, with relative ease.
Deb had been drunk. It was her honeymoon after all, and she'd already worked her way down two bottles of white wine.
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When she hit the bed, back in their honeymooner's suite, Hector went back to Carlos's pad.
When he came home later at six in the morning, his bride was still fast asleep on the bed and snoring loudly.
He hid the number in the back of the suitcase, under a slight tear in the fabric.
A secret compartment for his secret life.
When they'd got home, Hector phoned Carlos weekly. Sometimes he professed his undying love for him, other times he just wanted to make sure he was okay and just checking up.
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He missed him. With a passion. Often, he'd explain to Carlos his plan to drop his nagging wife and that they'd live together. They talked of that plan for hours upon hours, the small little farm with cows to milk and hens to lay. An idyllic fantasy that Hector could see in the back of his mind as he reversed his Kia into a space in the parking lot of Harken Evangelical, a small little church in the corner of the village surrounded by a permeating mass of conifers and ivy.
As he pulled his key out of the ignition, he thought briefly of his childhood. The boys of the vicarage would play around the trees and woodland but he'd liked to stay home and play with his sister's doll house. Always.
The church was packed and the congregation even overspilled the front of the altar, a group of white robes under a gold cross that was polished thrice daily.
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"I'm sorry I'm late!" announced Hector, who'd been pulling on his vestments in the car, to the throng. He took his place behind the pulpit, flipped open The Holy Bible, waited for his people to seat themselves and began.
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Spain isn't usually known for the rain, but the first drizzle of what later became known as the worst typhoon in its history had already began.
Carlos went down from his porch into his back garden as the first drops fell on the arid backyard, a roasted golden patch of land with nothing but a few sparse shrubs and some patches of red carnations and bluebells in the furthest part of the yard near the tool shed. He took down his washing, thinking as he had all afternoon about Hector the American.
In truth, he'd been thinking about him for years. He picked up the washing basket and went inside, closing both the shuttered door to the porch and the backdoor. The wind seemed to be picking up.
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"What we're here to talk about today." Pastor Fitzsimmons began, his voice booming through the microphone poised like a cobra on the top of the lectern. "Is a disease that has spread throughout this fine country of America without any delay. You can see it on your TV sets, in your books, in your glossy magazines. They parade it out in front of you now, proud of their illness."
The parish were nodding their heads now, the bob and sway slow and concise. Their ears were hanging onto every single word that left his mouth.
"I'm talking, of course, about the homosexual sin."
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The rain picked up across foreign land, battering the roofs that were already soaked and groaning. Carlos pulled down the window blinds and sat down on the creaking rattan chair and turned on his mini TV. The image was hardly there, just a display of a fuzzed out image.
He heard a crashing coming from the garden and looked out to see the wishing line had detached and broken down the neighbours fence. The satellite swung horribly from the side of the house.
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"I need not tell you, what this can cause." Hector Fitzsimmons continued. He felt his voice naturally raise in his address, feeling sweat clot his eyebrows. "Natural disasters are at an all time high and his wrath is being felt across the planet."
Hector raised his right hand and crossed the open palm of the other across his chest, a display of humbleness and reverence that his congregation looked at with solemn admiration and praise. "I'm a family man, my friends and the church know this of me. But it's time to make sure we stamp this out!"
A few cheers erupted from around the church.
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"We must protect our children, make sure they do not come into contact with any homosexuals. For whilst some may mean no harm and no ill-will, it normalises the behaviour to our children and, before you know it, they will engage in sodomy as well."
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Carlos looked over from the rattan chair to see that water had raised to ten inches above his front doorway, sliding off of the gutters and collecting. It had only been a few hours but it hadn't died down. It had simply got worse, and worse, and worse still. He tried to push open the door, but it wouldn't budge. He tried hard not to panic.
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"And wherever we see it, we must try our hardest to discourage it. Stop buying newspapers bowing to the homosexual agenda and turning you toward Satan!" His flock of believers were on their feet. "Turn off the program! Cancel the magazine subscription!" They began to clap.
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The rain continued clapping frenziedly against the sides of the house and Carlos noticed it had already got halfway up the doorframe. He picked up a chair and, in fear that he'd be trapped in his flooded house, he smashed the window. Water began to pool in through the window. He tried climbing out, clambering against the tide and only finding the relentless waves pushing him back.
Spread eagled on the floor, the water poured over him. He tried to get up, but his flailing hand had got caught behind the table the mini television was sitting on.
As the waves rushed over him, he kept pulling. It wouldn't come free. The water just kept coming.
Soon, he couldn't breathe, his body becoming trapped under the torrent that ran through his room with an unrestrained anger.
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He saw him in his mind then, that beautiful man in the bar. So handsome and yet so shy, as if he'd never even been with a man before. As he gave up choking through the engulfing water and breathed deeply, he saw his face. He saw the flashing disco lights of Club Koko and held him in his arms. He breathed in, the water filling his lungs completely. But he could smell Hector's cologne and held him tighter. Carlos smiled. And then Carlos drowned.
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On the drive home, Deborah couldn't stop smiling. It was so heartwarming for her to see Hector back in command, in front of a loyal crowd, fighting the good fight.
In fact, as they pulled up to the driveway at twelve and the kids piled out of the car and up the driveway, she had the idea to treat him later when she'd put the kids to bed. After he'd finished his merciful plea, he'd been so brusque by telling his congregation that those afflicted with the homosexual disturbance were going straight to hell. So many. So strong. So male.
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The kids bustled through the house cheerily as Deborah latched up the door and sat down in front of the TV. It had been left on and as Sharon flipped over to the sunday morning cartoons, Hector caught a glimpse of a familiar place being displayed on CNN.
Thoughtlessly, he walked over and flicked the channel back. Ignoring his child's protestations, he watched the news anchor explain that a small little suburb in Spain had been flooded and that a man had drowned in his own living room.
A room he knew, because he'd been in there.
"Isn't that near the resort where we had our honeymoon?" Deborah asked.
Hector didn't reply.
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That night, Hector lay awake as his wife lay next to him. The farm would never happen. Nor the cows, nor the hens, nor the real face. He would spend the rest of his life with Deborah, who was smiling happily at him.
He smiled back, with his cracked and broken tragedy mask of a face.
As Deborah lay back on the duvet and fell asleep, Hector thought of Carlos and the sermon he gave that afternoon about natural disasters. He felt as if what he'd prophesied had come true. But had it?
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As he lay with his cheek on the pillow and a tear running gently down his face, he thought perhaps that it wasn't true. After all, he preached the Lord's good word every day and nobody else apart from Carlos had known that he was gay.
So then why was he the one condemned to a living hell?
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He felt an ugly sob coming and tried to hold it back, knowing it would wake his sleeping wife. His voice built in his throat but he only managed a single word, a word spoken in Hector's real mother tongue.
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"Fuck."
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