Somewhere Close to Happy: The heart-warming, laugh-out-loud debut of the year

by Lia Louis

  We’re sitting in Hubble’s living room on the velvety two-seater that my late step-nan, Mimi, had hated, Hubble in the armchair, all watching Coronation Street, the heavy drapes keeping out the late winter draught, and only a lamp in the alcove lighting the room. All in silence. All eyes fixed on the wooden-framed TV in the corner.

  ‘Tell you something. That bloody Tyrone gets on my wick,’ Hubble grumbles. ‘Wet as they come, that one. Dumb as mashed potatoes.’

  Beside me, Roman laughs. Hubble turns at the sound, looks over his shoulder at him. He smiles ever so slightly and looks back at the screen.

  ‘Dunno why you’re laughing,’ he says. ‘He’s one of your mob.’

  Roman looks at me, drooping bag of thawing sweetcorn pressed to his knuckles. My stomach tugs at the sight. He won’t say what happened, he never does – just that he and Ethan got in a ‘scuffle’ with ‘some lads’ in the park. A scuffle. Ethan Sykes doesn’t strike me as being someone that has a ‘scuffle’, a word that sounds like a clumsy, accidental misunderstanding, all arms and legs and a kicked-up cloud of cartoon dirt. ‘Am I as wet as they come, then?’ Roman asks. ‘Am I as dumb as mash?’

  Hubble chuckles, not moving his eyes from the television. ‘No. I meant, a northerner. A Mancunian,’ he adds in a horrendously bad mock accent.

  Roman laughs, adjusting the bag on his hand, and says, ‘Not bad, Hubble,’ and I see Hubble smile. It’s his proper smile – the one that shows the straight bite of his dentures and turns his cheeks tight and pink. He really likes Roman. Dad doesn’t. Neither does Auntie Shall or Uncle Pete. Even Nathan doesn’t seem keen, and I don’t know why. But Hubble does. There’s something lovely about someone you love, liking someone else you love; seeing just what you see. It fills you up. Makes you feel proud. Validation that you found a good person in the world, all on your own.

  The room falls quiet. All of us gaze at the television, and every now and then, I steal glances to my left. Roman’s eyes squint when he concentrates like he is now. He chews his lip at the corner when he’s worried – something he does every time he looks down at his hand. I really wish he wouldn’t hang around with Ethan. He says they’re friends, but I can’t see how. Ethan is nothing like Roman. He isn’t kind. He doesn’t want good things for the world, or for himself. Maybe it’s the smoking they have in common, or the having nowhere to be at night. Both lonely. Both in need of a friend. ‘We hang out, have a chat, a joint,’ Roman had said, once. ‘Just, you know … only sometimes, when we’ve nowhere else to go.’

  The credits roll, and Hubble turns the shrill wail of the theme music down a few notches.

  ‘Nah,’ Hubble groans, almost as if to himself. ‘You’re not wet, my boy. A wally, sometimes, maybe.’ He gets up, pulling his trousers at the knee, straining as he does, the way someone does when they’re stretching first thing in the morning. ‘You know, messing about with idiots you have no business being around, staying out too late. That’s called being a wally.’

  Roman blushes and looks down to his lap.

  ‘But not wet, no. Not dumb,’ Hubble carries on. Then as he passes us on his way to the kitchen, he looks at us, and says, ‘You’re way too smart to be that. Both of you are.’

  Tingling heat pricks my heart, at those words, the way feeling slowly comes back to your hands after you’ve been sitting on them for too long. Roman ducks his head to the side and looks at me, his eyes glassy, the colour of the sea.

  ‘Now,’ calls Hubble from the doorway, ‘who wants something to eat? I’ve not seen either of you touch food in the last three hours so don’t even think about saying no. Just don’t ask for sweetcorn. We’ve sold out.’

  After we eat beans on granary toast while sat on stools at Hubble’s breakfast bar, Hubble and Roman in loud, back-and-forth conversation about aliens, politics and old record players, I stand at the porch door. Roman, who’s done up to the neck in a tatty black parka, stands opposite me in the dark on the driveway.

  I hold onto the door, the wind pricking icy needles into my skin with every gust.

  ‘Go on, J,’ Roman says, stuffing his hands in his pockets, his words making clouds in the air. ‘Go in. It’s absolutely freezing.’

  ‘I don’t want you to go home,’ I say, quietly, almost hoping my words get lost in the wind.

  The corner of Roman’s mouth twitches. ‘Me either,’ he says. ‘I never do when I come here. Or when I’m with you.’

  ‘Let me ask if you can stay again—’

  ‘No.’ Roman shakes his head. ‘It’s late.’

  ‘So?’

  He shrugs and looks at his feet. ‘I should see my mam.’

  Why? I want to ask. Why ? She doesn’t care. Not like I do. Not like me and Hubble do. He’ll be lucky if he can even get in his own front door. Last week when he left Hubble’s at this time, she’d put the latch on and he had to sleep in Sea Fog, on the driveway. In minus five. He was so cold, he was shivering when he knocked for me the next morning, his lips grey, and I made him detour with me to Hubble’s. Hubble made him take a hot shower, then drove us both to The Grove so we weren’t late, stopping at Greggs to buy Roman two bacon rolls for his breakfast. I hate the thought of that happening again. Seeing him like that, so pale, so cold, so vulnerable, but still showing up despite it all. If he’s here with us, he’s safe. He won’t freeze to death in the night or have to clear up his mum in the bath again. He won’t be pushed outside, to Ethan. To god knows what he does when he’s with him.

  A gust of wind whips through the air, and my shoulders fly up to my ears, my jaw clenching. ‘J, go in,’ insists Roman, stepping backwards and pulling his rucksack onto his back. ‘Go get warm. I’ll text you in the morning.’

  ‘When you get home,’ I say, teeth chattering. ‘Message me when you’re home, in bed, safe.’

  Roman smiles, embarrassment flashing in his eyes. ‘Course.’

  ‘If you need to, you can come back here and—’

  ‘I’ll message you,’ he says. ‘Thank Hubble again for me.’ Roman pulls the furry hood up over his wild curls. ‘Now, seriously, go in, Lizzie. I need to get moving. It’s so cold, I can’t feel my bollocks.’

  Roman doesn’t sign in on MSN, but twenty minutes later, my phone vibrates. A text. It just says, ‘Sweet dreams, J x’. Nothing else. When I turn over in bed and close my eyes, I imagine Roman warm, and safe, and in his bed, by lamp light, shut away from the freezing cold, from the darkness, from smoke and the echoing laughter in the black of the park, beyond the garden fence. Then I imagine he’s on the floor, beside me, on the blow-up mattress, blankets up to his chin. I imagine reaching out for his hand and holding it, tightly, across the bedroom floor. It’s the only way I manage to fall asleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Hey, Liz, it’s me, P, all the way from sunny Newport. Well. Actually, I have no idea where we are now. Me and Becks are on a train. Where are we? What— I think I keep breaking up. Am I bre— I have no idea. This is a voicemail, I keep forg— So, we’ve been there ten minutes, we’re all in this lovely restaurant and Graham orders two shots each for everyone and then throws a hissy fit when me and Becks are like, “it’s a fucking Saturday morning, dude, Jesus Christ.” So, we decided to leave them all to it and go shopping. Becks knows it ’round here, she grew up nearby. God knows what I’d do if she wasn’t here, I really shouldn’t have— I think my phone keeps cutting out. So yeah, we’re on the train, the both— and we’re going t— Yep! Can you believe it? Maybe I’ll even see her. I’ll look for an old dragon! That’s Becks giggling. I’ll see you Monday, but I’ll call— end of message.’

  104 Edgar Fields. It sounds nice, like a little country nook surrounded by sweeping green landscapes, the sound of tractors, cows and silence. It sounds romantic even; like it could well be the address of one of Mr Darcy’s holiday homes or something. But Edgar Fields is none of those things. It’s made of concrete and the sharpest lines. Most of the windows and doors are blocked up with sheets of brown metal, and from
up here, on the sixth and final floor, the ground below looks like a waste land; an almost-empty, pot-holed car park, and the grassy area at the entrance, a sea of rusting washing machines, split open bin liners, old scaffolding, and the ripped, filthy chairs of a car’s backseat. It’s nothing like the other blocks on this estate. They looked homely – lived in. This is practically barren.

  It isn’t the first time I tried to come here.

  I tried yesterday. I even got as far as leaving the flat, to go to Dad’s, to pick up Katie’s car, address in my pocket, postcode locked and loaded, but then I stopped dead on the corner as I turned to leave my street. Panic rose in my chest and my throat, and the smell of Saturday morning bacon sandwiches wafting from nearby houses made me sick to my stomach. I couldn’t go. Today felt different, though. It’s the sort of clean-slate, blue-sky of a late August morning that makes you want to tear open the curtains, throw open the windows, and be spontaneous. The perfect sort of weather for running away, Roman used to say. And I think that’s why I woke up and decided to go, before I’d even eaten breakfast and given myself a chance to talk myself out of it. Nothing under a sky as blue, a world as beautiful, can be frightening.

  The top floor, where I am now, looks very much like all the others, but it’s the loudest, most alive-feeling floor yet, despite the boxed-in doors and bars at the windows. It’s the booming music that does it. It’s the sort of music Hubble used to tut at, before saying, ‘I can’t understand a bloody word they’re saying.’

  ‘Why’s it matter?’ Nathan would say.

  ‘Why does it matter?’ he’d exclaim, pointing his knobbly finger. ‘You go and listen to some music in Taiwanese then, if understanding what they’re singing about isn’t important.’ Then when Nathan would look blankly, he’d say, ‘See.’

  Hubble. Lovely Hubble. Sometimes I find it hard to believe he’s not here anymore but at the same time, I can’t believe he ever was; until he was gone. Just like that. On that cold concrete, alone. Sometimes, I wish I still believed the lie Dad told me – that he had the heart attack in his own home, surrounded by his own things, in the warm. I believed that was the truth for two years, until Uncle Pete slipped up one day. I think Dad was too worried to tell me at the time – to tell me it was outside, in the freezing cold, Hubble still dressed in the suit he’d worn to the vow ceremony – in case it had undone everything, and I had spiralled even more.

  109. The numbers are descending. Just five more doors and I’m there, at Roman’s old address. 108 is numberless and boarded up with wood. The next flat is without a number, too. Both its window and door are blocked with metal sheeting. At the bottom of the door there are letters jutting out, stuffed there by an optimistic postman. I look over my shoulder, then bend and pull a letter free, to check the name, just in case. The envelope curls as I pull it. A burst of laughter comes from the stairwell and I jump back, almost falling on my arse. Am I doing the right thing? Roman doesn’t even live here anymore. Well, that’s just going by the light, almost could-be-accidental pencil strikethrough on Helen’s dad’s address book page. But say if he does? Say if this is where Roman – the boy I loved – made a life? Maybe he came back here after being thrown out by that nasty cow on the phone. Maybe this is where a family member of his lives? Or a friend I never knew. They might be able to tell me where to find him now.

  I stand up straight and look down at the Thames Water envelope in my hand. 107. Not his name. Two more doors. I keep on walking.

  106: a pair of muddy boots on a threadbare, green doormat.

  The music is louder now. Much louder. I’m getting closer to it.

  105: Boarded up. The music is booming.

  104.

  I’m here. Roman’s old address. The music is coming from inside. The brass numbers and knocker are blistered with rust. There is a white plastic doorbell with a grey button in the centre above the lock. It looks new.

  My hands are sweating now. It’s the music, I think. It’s harsh and computer-y, a mess of fast drums and sound effects. Well, going by the music alone, Roman definitely doesn’t live here now. If he did, it would be The Smiths blasting out or The Scorpions. And for some reason, the music is the thing putting me off knocking, above all else, and I know it’s stupid. As if listening to loud, brash music makes a person unsavoury.

  I raise my hand to the door. I glance left and right. There’s a man, at the top of the stairwell, just by the arched entrance to the sixth floor. He’s tall, black, handsome, with a record bag on his shoulder, open and full of papers. He’s on the phone. And he’s watching me. He’s the first person I’ve seen the whole time I’ve been here – ever since I pulled up. Clocking me looking, he hesitates, and smiles, quickly, just a glimmer of one, not breaking the conversation he’s having on the phone. He disappears out of sight.

  I raise my hand to the door again, seconds before it flies open in front of me. A man, pale with a ring in his nose, wrapped up in way too many layers for late summer, flies towards me.

  ‘Whoa!’ he shouts, halting. ‘Jesus, fuck—’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Sorry, sorry, it’s just … I was about to knock, I’m looking for some—’

  He’s gone; rushes straight past me, hands in pockets, head disappearing into his coat, right in the middle of my sentence. He takes a quick glance over his shoulder at me before he gets to the stairwell and disappears. Something deep down is telling me to forget this now. I can’t shake it. It’s a dread, creeping up my body. Nerves, maybe, or a gut instinct.

  But there is still someone inside. I saw someone, as the door flew open, for just a moment. A man. Tall, leaning against the wall, at the bottom of the hallway. Just a silhouette.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out. The door is ajar and it moves under my fingertips. ‘Anyone home?’

  I knock now, and as I do, the door opens a little more. There’s the man at the end of the hallway – I can only see his profile. He’s facing into another room. His hair … it’s shaggy and messy on his head. Like Roman’s. As daylight fills the smoggy hallway with daylight, he turns and begins walking towards me.

  He’s smirking when he gets to the door. ‘Alright?’

  He’s tall, but with a skinny, pointed face. His eyes are perfect circles, and underneath are yellowy bruised bags. He is nothing like Roman.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Sorry to disturb you—’

  He holds up a finger to stop me, and disappears. After a moment, the music is turned down, and he appears again. He’s scruffy, this bloke. The Adidas top he is wearing is creased and baggy, the tips of his fingernails are lined with dirt. Mum would say he needs a good scrub.

  ‘I dread to think how long it’s been since that back saw water,’ she’d whisper if she was here now. ‘And I suppose he has a poor girlfriend who has to touch him. I expect she can’t go down there without a bloody snorkel.’

  The guy smirks. ‘Sorry about that.’

  I really don’t like the way he’s looking at me.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ I try again. ‘I have this address. For an old friend and …’

  He nods, eyes drifting down across my body. I pull my cardigan tighter around myself.

  ‘I’m just wondering if you know him.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says the man, looking back up at me and chuckling. ‘I know him. I know anyone if it means you wanna come in.’ He steps towards me – a big stride, over the threshold. I step backwards. All I can think about now is could I run fast enough? Could I get down the steps before he caught me?

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Wrong flat.’

  I turn, but he steps in front of me, and says, hands up at his sides, ‘No, no, come on, love, I was joking. Joking. Shit joke. Who’re you looking for?’ His accent is strong. Scottish. He’s stopped smirking but he’s wearing the sort of expression where he looks as though he may burst into laughter at any second.

  ‘Roman,’ I say.

  ‘Roman who?’

  I hesitate. ‘Meyers.’

  He pauses, ey
es narrowing. He throws a look over his shoulder. ‘Mate. Come here!’ My heart lifts with hope. But as quick as it starts, it droops. A man with long hair and a short, ginger beard joins him at the doorstep. He nods at me. It isn’t Roman.

  ‘She’s looking for someone,’ says Smirky. ‘Roman.’ I hate the way he says his name. As if it’s amusing.

  ‘Hey, I can be Roman,’ says the guy with the beard, smiling. I can smell the alcohol from where I stand. ‘Come and have a drink, we’ll see if we can find him.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say, and I step back, a massive stride. I want to tell them to go fuck themselves. I want to rush off, run back to the car. But I’m almost worried they’ll run too. So I say, ‘Thanks for your time,’ and turn and walk away.

  But Smirky steps over the doorstep, and then his hand is on my shoulder. Then: another voice – a man’s bellow.

  ‘Hey! Craig!’

  Smirky drops his hand from my shoulder and holds his arms out at his side. ‘Heeeeey, it’s Munkers!’ he shouts. It’s the guy who was on the phone in the stairwell.

  ‘What’re you playing at?’ he says, walking at speed towards us.

  ‘Er, having a laugh?’ says Smirky.

  ‘Looked like it,’ growls the black guy – Munkers, as Smirky called him. ‘Run along back inside, eh? Go on. Sod off. Leave this woman alone.’

  Smirky – Craig – goes to open his mouth.

  ‘Do you wanna be a fucking nuisance to strangers? Do you? Or do you wanna be a decent human being? ’Cause I thought you’d already made that choice.’

  Craig’s smirk falls from his face. He pauses, staring at me, as if in shock that I exist at all, then shrugs and storms past us, into the flat. The guy with the beard has already gone.

  The black guy turns to me. ‘I’m Nick.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  I nod, my heart is hammering in my throat.

  ‘He was just trying to get a reaction,’ he says. ‘No excuse, I know, but between you and me the guy’s a massive twat. One poke and you’d have knocked him down like a sack of spuds.’