by Maria Goodin
And clearly I’m not the only one who suddenly feels this way.
“What the hell’s that?” I ask, as Michael welcomes me into his flat and closes the front door. I stare at the tattoo on his neck.
“Like it?”
“Sure,” I shrug. “Were you going for the just got out of prison look, or—”
“Jesus,” he moans, rolling his eyes, “give it a rest, Grandad.”
“I’m joking.”
I examine the ink on his skin. It’s very skilfully done. An angel ascending with wings open wide. It seems to counterbalance the weeping, tormented angel on his forearm which I’ve always found deeply depressing.
“I hate to tell you this,” I say, confused, “but a smart shirt isn’t going to cover that up when you’re summoned to dinner with your dad.”
“That’s the whole point of it. I met with him yesterday. And I told him… well, everything.”
He looks almost smug.
I raise an eyebrow sceptically. “Everything?”
“Everything,” he confirms. “And let’s just say me having a few tattoos, playing in a rock band and earning a pitiful wage actually weren’t his biggest disappointments.”
Right on cue, Rob walks out of the lounge in jogging bottoms and an Aertex T-shirt.
“Now he has a far bigger reason to be disappointed in you,” he growls in his Dutch accent, wrapping his arms around Michael from behind, squeezing him tight and kissing him hard on the side of the head.
“Ohh, yes,” smiles Michael, “well, if you’re gonna be a disappointment, why not go all out?”
“Exactly,” agrees Rob, releasing Michael and pulling on a pair of trainers that are by the front door.
“Wow,” I say, “that’s huge. What did he say?”
“Actually, he was surprisingly calm.”
“He had to be,” Rob adds, “you were in a five-star restaurant.”
“True. But that aside, I still think he took it well. He said unfortunately some people just aren’t made right, and that it wasn’t really surprising given that my mother had weak genes and—”
“Weak genes?!” I exclaim.
“Oh yes, he gave me a long and enlightening lecture about my mother’s weak genes,” says Michael, adopting a mock-serious tone. “And then he said that as I’m his only son he would tolerate my situation – very touching – on the understanding that it remains hidden from all friends and family, and that we never speak about it. Oh, and that he never wants to meet Rob as long as he lives.”
“Which hopefully won’t be too long,” Rob mutters, as he ties his shoelaces.
Michael tuts and shoots him a reprimanding look.
“So what did you say?” I ask.
“I told him,” says Michael with a smile that suggests he can barely believe his own audacity, “that unfortunately that was a situation that I could not tolerate, and that if he ever wants to review his terms and conditions, then he knows where to find me.”
“Whoa,” I say, amazed. “Go you. I mean, I don’t know where that suddenly came from, but still—”
“I’m thirty-two,” shrugs Michael, as if it suddenly all seems so obvious. “There’s only so long you can let fear rule your life, isn’t there?”
“Yeah,” I nod, although I don’t feel particularly convinced. I’m pretty sure I could easily let fear rule my life forever. “Well, good for you. I know that can’t have been easy.”
I pat him on the shoulder and he smiles appreciatively, but there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes. He looks tired, and I’m guessing he hasn’t slept since meeting with his father yesterday. He’s shown guts, but he’s also potentially lost the one person he’s spent his whole life trying to please. I can see that he knows this, that he realises the road ahead isn’t going to be easy. Still, I’m quietly thrilled he’s made a stand for himself after all these years.
“So,” says Rob, clapping his hands and turning to me. “Are you ready?”
I look down at my new running shoes.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Take it easy on him,” Michael warns Rob. “He hasn’t run in, like, over fifteen years.”
“Don’t worry, we’re going to build up slowly,” he replies, giving me a secret wink that makes me worry about what he has planned. “Go sleep,” he tells Michael, kissing him on the cheek.
“If he starts barking orders at you, just shove him in the canal,” Michael tells me as we head out the door.
“Gotcha,” I call, feeling trepidation creep in.
Interval training is the way it’s done now. Not like when I was at school when they just made you run as far and as fast as you could. But perhaps that was just St John’s. Results – no matter the cost. That would have been a far more fitting motto for the school than the pretentious Latin crap they hid behind.
We run, jog, walk, run, jog, walk, run – and suddenly I just don’t want to stop running.
“Okay, so slow it down now,” Rob tells me, dropping behind.
But I’m feeling it again, just like I did when I was a boy, before I lost the love of it, before I couldn’t bring myself to do it anymore. The repetitive thud of my trainers against the path, the rhythm of my breathing, the cool air filling my lungs, pushing them wide open.
“Slow down!” Rob calls behind me, but I don’t want to.
I feel strong and energised in a way I haven’t in years. I squint against the light, passing by the narrowboats, the dappled water steadily moving past on one side, thick shrub on the other.
I can hear Rob’s breathing just behind me. He’s caught up, but he’s no longer telling me what to do. He knows I’m working something out and his quiet presence reassures me.
I feel the breeze against my skin, the sweat cooling against my chest and back.
I love this. I could do this forever, making up for all the wasted years.
I run past the lock house, past the weir, past the entrance to the nature reserve. The dogs and their walkers disappear far behind us and the path ahead is open and empty. And just then I see the big concrete bridge approaching, the spot where Max died.
I speed up, the air rushing past me, my feet pounding the ground, faster, faster…
The bridge approaches and I feel a sense of dread set in, but there’s no question of me turning back or hiding away from what once happened here. I run full pelt, my legs powerful, my arms pumping, faster, faster, FASTER!
And suddenly I’m bursting through the finish line. The bridge is behind me and I’m out the other side.
I slow down, eventually grinding to a halt, bending over and gulping in air.
“Oh my God,” gasps Rob, pulling up beside me, panting. “That’s not taking it easy, man.”
I use the bottom of my T-shirt to wipe the sweat from my face. I glance back at the bridge, half expecting to see darkness, paramedics, four boys – one of them lying on the ground – Stan Finch and John Porter. But there’s nothing but shadow and a bit of weathered, indiscernible graffiti. It’s still and quiet, just the sound of Rob and I breathing heavily.
I wander slowly back towards the spot where Max died. I stare at the exact place where his lifeless body lay. There’s nothing there. Nothing happens. I don’t feel anxious or angry.
I just feel sad.
But it feels right, this aching sadness. I’m reminded of a game little children play, where you have to place the right-shaped block into the right-shaped hole. For too long I’ve been trying to plug a hole in my heart with notions and feelings that just wouldn’t fit, forcing them in until they became distorted and damaged. But this sadness finally feels like it’s where it’s supposed to be. It’s hard and it’s painful, but it’s home.
If Rob wasn’t already aware that this is the spot where Max died, then I’m pretty sure he’s aware now. He remains at a respectful distance, looking out at the water until I call over to him.
“Is it okay if we turn back now?”
Our plan was to go about half a mile
further than this, but I’m done. He starts to walk towards me.
“You’ve burned yourself out,” he tells me, with the tone of a gentle reprimand.
I shake my head. I don’t feel burned out. I feel like I could go for miles.
“I’m fine,” I reassure him, turning and starting to jog slowly back along the path. “I just suddenly thought of somewhere I need to go.”
“Hi again,” I say, “I bet you weren’t expecting to see me again so soon.”
Max is silent.
“I wanted to tell you something,” I say. “In fact, I wanted to tell you lots of things.”
I take a deep breath and crouch down in front of his grave. I’m freshly showered following my run, and the scent of my own shower gel and deodorant mingles with the smell of earth and grass.
“I miss you,” I say, a lump rising in my throat. “I miss your big belly laugh. I miss your gap-toothed smile. I miss laughing at you and the way you always took it in good humour. I miss playing football with you. I miss talking to you. I miss cycling with you, listening to music with you, taking the piss out of Tom with you… I miss… I just miss you.”
I gaze at the flowers by his headstone, drooping sadly. For a second I wish I’d brought fresh ones, but that’s not really me and he knows that. Plus, it won’t be long until they’re replaced.
“I’ve felt so bad for the ways things turned out that night. I’ve spent so long wishing I’d done things differently, wishing I could have made things turn out okay. I wanted to save you. I wish I could have saved you. But I couldn’t.”
For a long time I stare at his name on the headstone, my mind quiet and empty.
“Would it be okay if I let go of this now?” I whisper, without much awareness of what I’m even saying.
In the stillness, I hear the gentle breeze quietly rustling the leaves of the trees. I feel the early-autumn sunshine warming my back. A single white petal, curled and brown, drops to the ground. I stare at it lying there, wanting it to mean something, wanting it to be a sign.
But there’s no one who can answer my question.
No one but me.
Chapter 27
Forwards
For the last four years, at the start of November, Stu and Irena have held a charity fundraiser at the Canal House. It’s a ticket-only event, and the place is always packed. There’s live music from a variety of local bands, a barbecue, a raffle and, later on, fireworks. Unlike last year when the event had to be moved inside to shelter from the rain, this year the bands will play on a raised stage at the side of the terrace underneath a clear night sky.
Some of the regulars pitch in, selling raffle tickets, promoting the event and helping to get the party started. Michael and I fire up the barbecue, although he’s so high on excitement about playing with his band later that he almost sets fire to his own jeans. Then I take over door duty for a bit, checking tickets and turning away anybody without one, taking a bit of aggro from a group of lads who have clearly already been on the beers and didn’t read the Private Event signs at the car park entrance. Then, like each year, there’s a mini-crisis when the banner over the stage falls down, taking a string of lights with it and landing on top of a young female singer and her guitar. Fortunately, she’s not hurt, but it takes the shine off her debut at the Canal House, and she has to stop singing while Stu and I climb on stage to a cacophony of good-natured caterwauls and heckling to untangle the mess.
I keep seeing Libby weaving her way through the crowd, collecting glasses, tipping rubbish into black sacks, delivering boxes of hotdog buns to Leo, who’s doing a stint on the barbecue, comically squeezed into a striped apron which just about covers his huge chest. In the glow of the patio lamps and multicoloured lanterns she looks rosy-cheeked and slightly flustered, as if she’s struggling to keep up. We smile awkwardly at each other as we pass by, and each time I almost stop her.
Can I talk to you?
There’s something I need to say.
I need to tell you something.
But there’s no time. And on some level, I’m relieved, because I have no idea how to go about this.
I busy myself with anything Stu wants help with – lugging crates of beer, clearing up a broken glass, fetching more ice – until he stops me.
“Right, we’re all in order. You’re a star, mate. Now go chill out and enjoy yourself.”
“Are you sure? If you need me—”
“Go enjoy the party,” he orders.
I find things easier when I’m busy, I know that about myself now. When I’m stretched to the limit, being pulled in three directions at once, I might feel put upon and stressed out, but the truth is the busyness – all those commitments – gives me an excuse. An excuse not to get involved in a relationship, not to think about the things that aren’t working in my life. An excuse not to live fully.
But I don’t want to make excuses anymore.
My work setting up this event is done. I’m free. And, terrifyingly, just for a moment, so is Libby. Besides, how long does it really take to tell someone how you feel about them? There’s another thing you could probably do in sixty seconds, if you knew how.
I find her standing at the side of the packed terrace, watching the band from afar. Purple Sway are a local folk band; not my kind of thing, but they’ve made quite a name for themselves in this town of eclectic music lovers over the last couple of years. The crowd are jigging and foot-tapping in time to the music, drinks in hand. The night air smells of barbecue smoke, hotdogs and booze. The evening has all the right ingredients for a relaxed party, but I’m anything other than relaxed. I don’t know if this is the best time, or the best place, but I have to be honest with her. Because even if Irena was wrong, even if Libby doesn’t feel the same about me, I need to get it out there. I need to know if there’s a chance for us.
But just as I’m about to weave my way through the crowd, a warm hand touches me on the shoulder.
“Hello, stranger.”
I turn to see Rachel, her hair hanging in loose waves over her shoulders, an impossibly tiny denim skirt and high-heeled boots showing off her long legs.
“Hi,” I say, holding my breath, waiting for her to lay into me. We haven’t spoken since the night I went back to her flat and then walked out on her. I dropped her a brief text the following morning – a bumbling apology – but I never heard back.
She leans in close, her mouth next to my ear.
“I’m going home tomorrow,” she tells me above the blare of the music, “to Melbourne.”
I pull back and look at her in surprise.
“My friend’s offered me a job,” she explains dismissively, “she wants me to start straight away.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, leaning in to be heard above the noise, “about the last time—”
“Forget it,” she says, with a wave of her hand. “You had a ton of stuff going on. I shouldn’t have been such a diva. I guess I was just disappointed.”
She gives me one of her coquettish smiles.
“I think you and I could have had a lot of fun,” she says, “but I don’t think a bit of fun’s really what you’re looking for.”
I glance briefly over to where Libby was standing a moment ago, but she’s already gone. I quickly scan the crowd, but I can’t see her anywhere.
Rachel reaches out and squeezes my wrist. “Find whatever makes you happy, Jay,” she says into my ear, “you’re a good guy. You deserve it.”
She places a warm hand on the back of my neck, pulls me in and plants a kiss on my lips. And the first thing I see when she releases me is Libby passing behind her, squeezing her way through the crowd, meeting my eye for the briefest second and then quickly looking away.
I want to stop her, but in a flash she’s gone.
Rachel sees something in my eye and glances over her shoulder, just catching a glimpse of Libby’s back as she’s swallowed up in the crowd.
She smiles knowingly at me.
“Go,” she tells
me, pushing me away from her, and not for the first time I realise how transparent I must be. Does everyone know how I feel? Does Libby?
I guess if she does, then what have I got to lose by saying it out loud?
Do you have feelings for me?
I think there’s something between us…
Is there a chance…?
“Can we maybe… um… just talk for a minute?”
Later in the evening, when I finally come across her again, Libby doesn’t look busy. She’s leaning against the wall in the side alley, illuminated by the light from the kitchen window, sipping a glass of water and taking a break from the noise and the chaos. But at my approach she suddenly seems to remember she’s rushed off her feet.
“I was just… I really have to get back,” she fumbles, making as if to head straight past me.
“Please. Can we just—”
“I can’t, sorry, I have to—”
“Are you avoiding me?” I ask, stepping in front of her, thinking it takes one to know one.
“No, I’m not avoiding you, I’m working,” she says, sounding affronted.
Just then, the gate that leads from the car park opens and Irena walks into the alley.
“Why you two hiding down here for?” she asks brusquely, shutting the gate behind her.
“I was just getting back to work,” Libby says quickly, as if she’s been caught skiving.
Irena stops. She looks from me, to Libby and back again.
“Is fine. Take rest of the night off,” she orders with a wave of her hand.
“There’s too much to do,” Libby protests.
Irena checks her watch. “Is all fine. Plus, is already nine o’clock. I tell you only work till nine and then enjoy yourself. Why else I get in extra staff?”
“I don’t mind—”
“Don’t make me fire you,” says Irena, sharply, squeezing past us with her round belly. “No more work tonight.”
As she passes me, she jabs me hard in the back of my ribs, making me jolt. I assume this counts as encouragement in Irena’s world.
We watch her waddle down the alley to re-join the party. The music has temporarily stopped – a changeover of bands – and despite the hordes of people talking and laughing just around the corner, the air suddenly seems strangely quiet without the thudding of drums and the clanging of guitars.