The Story of Us

by Barbara Elsborg

  Though Glenn was right about one thing. The money would run out. Caspian had to find a job.

  He carried the dirty coffee cups and the plate of biscuits back to the kitchen. No one was around to ask him how he’d got on. Lachlan and his father were at work. Lachlan would be returning at the weekend with his wife. That should be fun. The Terrible Twins had gone shopping in London. His mother was meeting friends in Tunbridge Wells and it was Betsy’s day off. His mother must have forgotten she’d offered to take him to buy clothes.

  Caspian pocketed his marble, phone and wallet, locked the house and walked towards the village. He set off feeling reasonably happy. His PO and Glenn had warned him that freedom might be harder to deal with than prison, but Caspian couldn’t believe that was true. How could being out in the fresh air with views in every direction be harder to deal with than having to look at the same four walls for hours on end?

  Everything around him made his heart sing. The crops growing in the fields, the new leaves on the trees, birds, the colour of the sky, being able to walk without stopping, without needing to check behind him. That was maybe the best thing of all. Yesterday and today and maybe for many more days, he’d be rediscovering the world—how fast traffic moved, how food should taste, how insubstantial doors felt compared to those in prison, how much pleasure small things could bring him—switching the light on and off, clean cotton sheets, soft pillows, fluffy towels, an endless shower in safety. The awareness of what it was like to be alive would return.

  There was no point being angry about what had happened, he knew that. He’d been let down by his family and he’d let himself down too. He’d chosen to stay silent and thought he’d be treated like a…hero or something on his return. Instead his father was busy planning the rest of Caspian’s life. That wasn’t going to happen.

  Caspian didn’t think he’d ever be able to extinguish the rage that was on a slow simmer inside him, though he fucking hoped it eventually evaporated. Those moments when fury flared into his throat to choke him hadn’t diminished over his time inside, but he didn’t want to wreck the rest of his life seething with bitterness.

  The sooner he was living somewhere else, the better he’d feel. Wouldn’t he? Except along with that simmering anger at the unfairness of what had been done to him, at his weakness for letting it happen, lurked something that was almost more alarming—fear. It was like an octopus, its tentacles reaching out to strangle any pleasure. Even now, walking along a country lane with a blue sky overhead and no one waiting to stab him in the back, anxiety lurked like a raptor readying to pounce. A rustling bush and he’d freak out.

  Before all this he’d never been nervous or hesitant. He’d seen life as one big adventure. He’d thought he could do anything, go everywhere, see the world, that he’d invent something brilliant and his father would be…would be proud of him. Now things were a challenge when they shouldn’t be. The slightest thing made him jump or shake. The sudden flutter of a bird taking flight. The bang of a door. Sitting in a car. Choosing what to eat for breakfast. Trying to sleep in a comfortable bed. Trying to sleep when there was no one calling out or crying for their mother.

  This isn’t me.

  If he was to break free of what held him back, which included his family, he needed a job, but the last thing he wanted to do was work in a fucking clothes shop because that was a trap set by his father. He clenched his fists thinking of what his father had said about Poppy. He was sure Poppy wouldn’t want to marry him either. Their fathers were both dickheads.

  Caspian was full of thoughts about what he didn’t want to do. Not work in catering or carry materials around a building site or stack shelves in a supermarket. All considered suitable placements for an ex-offender like him who had mostly failed his GCSEs, read like a robot and whose handwriting looked like the trail of an epileptic snail. I’m fucking useless. His reading might have improved slightly, there was so little to do inside that when he couldn’t play the guitar, he’d had to read, but he was still bad at it. His poetry wasn’t bad, he didn’t think, but no one had read it other than him and it wasn’t as if there were loads of jobs for poets.

  His list of possible occupations was distressingly small and largely unrealistic. He’d pinned his hopes on having his father’s support to develop one of his ideas. Hope that had been destroyed. All those promises by his father and Lachlan about what they’d do for him had turned out to be lies. Caspian’s irritation started to climb. Even a threat to reveal the truth would have no effect. After all this time he definitely wouldn’t be believed.

  By the time he’d reached the village general store, depression had smothered his anger though not his anxiety. Another new thing to conquer. All he had to do was walk inside, pick up a bottle of water or a bar of chocolate, pay, say thank you and leave. Simple enough yet the thought of it freaked him out.

  Christ, do it! You’re not a fucking coward. He pushed open the door and walked up and down the three aisles of the shop distracted for a few moments by the things he’d missed eating. Scones, crumpets, crisps, chocolate cake, unusual fresh fruit, croissant, peanut butter…

  He picked up a Crunchie and a bottle of water and took them to the counter. He recognised the guy and saw in an instant that he’d been recognised too. A scowl replaced Don Dawson’s smile.

  Dawson picked up the chocolate bar and water and put them on a shelf behind him. “Get out. Don’t come back. I don’t want your custom.”

  Caspian returned his wallet to his pocket and walked out with his heart hammering. He passed a group of ramblers on their way in and kept his head down. Why hadn’t he thought to wear sunglasses? Why did I even fucking come out?

  While his heart was urging him to go home, instead he forced himself to push open the door of the post office. Of course it was the same woman behind the till in there as well and when she refused to serve him, his chest felt so tight he thought he might be having a heart attack. I am not going home without fucking buying something. But it seemed to him now that every person he saw knew exactly who he was and despised him. Logic told him that wasn’t possible, people would have moved out of and into Lower Barton, but anxiety overpowered his common sense, turned reality on its head.

  Christ. What if the families of those girls saw him wandering around? Why had he come back here? The pain deepened, a bit like indigestion except it didn’t stay in his chest but spread down his arms and legs, up his neck, into his skull, into his face. It filled his head with fluttering wings, blocked his throat with a crawling sensation that he was convinced was insects, until he couldn’t breathe. A complete system failure apart from his heart that pounded so fast and hard he could hear it, a frantic tribal drumbeat. He tried to move faster, get away, but everything wavered and wobbled. Things that should be still, like lampposts, were moving. Or was it just him? Caspian staggered as the ground rolled under his feet.

  Need to get somewhere safe. My bed. My pad. He forced his feet into a clumsy run and stumbled. The woods. Get to the woods. Hide. Oh fuck. I’m going to die. Oh God, I’m dying.

  He lurched a few more yards before he fell. Just about got his hands out to save himself, but still hit his head on the ground. Dazed by pain and shock, he tried and failed to get up. No one came to help him. He was pretty sure his eyes were open but he didn’t know where he was. He could have been on another fucking planet for all he knew.

  It’s a panic attack. That’s all. He’d seen guys have them inside. Calm down.

  Oh fuck. As if he could calm down. Everything was out of control. He was scared he was going to die. All he could think was that this was too much, too overwhelming, too fucking intense. Caspian pressed his arm to his mouth and bit down—hard.

  Pain jerked him back. He tasted blood in his mouth and realised he’d broken his skin. Luckily it didn’t look like teeth marks. His heart no longer hammered. His lungs weren’t struggling. His sense of doom was receding.

  Caspian had no idea how long it took him to get back to his feet, ho
w he even managed it, but he found himself walking down the road out of Lower Barton in the direction of Upper Barton. He’d take the long way home and cut across the fields on the other side of the next village rather than reverse his path. So much for the marble giving him courage. Zed had told him he was giving him the world but it was slipping through Caspian’s fingers.

  He had to stop a couple of times to pull himself together. He was safe. He wasn’t going to die. He repeated the words over and over in his head.

  By the time he reached the general store in Upper Barton, he was desperately thirsty. He went in to buy a bottle of water and thought he’d succeeded until a woman came out from the room at the back and stopped the girl serving him, pushing his money back across the counter. Caspian so very nearly left it lying there and walked out with the water but he didn’t.

  There was no panic attack this time just a deep-rooted hopelessness. But he made himself go into the pub and sighed with relief when he had a half pint of shandy in his hand. He scuttled outside to the seats in front and took several gulps of the cold liquid. But when he put the glass down on the table, a guy came up and spat in it.

  “Fuck off. You’re not wanted,” the man snarled.

  The temptation to throw the drink in his face was strong but even that might be enough to get him put back inside, so Caspian got up and walked away. He heard the splatter of liquid hitting the pavement behind him as he carried on down Middleham Road. One last shop to try. He might as well find out if he was barred from everywhere. It was a matter of pride now to face these demons at least.

  When he walked in, there was a customer standing at the counter. A tall, slim dark-haired guy. Caspian went to the chiller section on the far side of the shop. He’d try and buy a drink and a sandwich.

  “Six pounds fifty-two,” he heard a woman say.

  “Thanks. I’d like to put this help-wanted card in the window.”

  Caspian clung to the side of the refrigeration unit, his knuckles as white as bones. It couldn’t be Zed, but it sounded just like him.

  “Fifty pence a week.”

  “One week is fine. Shall I put it up on my way out?”

  Why would Zed be back in this village?

  “Please. There’s a space at the bottom. Just slip it into the holder.”

  Caspian had to know, had to move, but for a moment, it was as if he’d forgotten the mechanics of walking. But he reached the end of the aisle, caught a glimpse of the side of the guy’s face and gasped. Too loud. He pulled back out of sight. Zed! Oh fuck. It is him. Caspian peered over the top shelf and watched Zed slot a small white card into the plastic holder before he left the shop. Caspian took the card with him as he followed.

  He stood out of sight in the shop doorway and watched as Zed opened the door of a silver car and drove off in the direction of where he used to live. Caspian walked after him. Oh God, Jesus, fuck. What is he doing here? He looked at the card clasped in his hand.

  Help wanted

  To clear overgrown garden

  Larch Cottage

  Middleham Road

  £100 a day

  Est. three days’ work

  There was a telephone number at the bottom. But now he had it, he didn’t know what to do with it. Do nothing was probably the correct answer. But… Oh fuck. I’ll call him. No, I’ll just turn up at the house. He changed his mind. Then he changed it back again. Caspian stomped down the road furious with himself. This was a chance to put something right. To say he was sorry for being a prick.

  Quite an irony that self-disgust had shoved panic aside. Still… It took him ten minutes to reach the point of tapping the number into his phone.

  “Hello?”

  Caspian couldn’t speak.

  “Hello?” Zed repeated.

  “Hi there.” Caspian changed his voice, put on an accent. “Saw your ad. I need the work.” Oh fuck, I’m Australian? “Please.”

  “That was quick. You want to come and see what needs doing? The garden’s a bit of a mess.”

  “I’m local. I know your garden. I’m good at sorting out messes.” And making them. He knew next to nothing about gardening. He hadn’t even intended to go down that route with the call, but it had just happened.

  “When can you start?”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “I’ve got to go out now but you could make a start while I’ve gone. I’ll open the shed. Everything’s in there. Start with the lawn.”

  “No worries.” Did that sound Australian or South African?

  “See you later this afternoon.”

  No worries? Was he mad? Ten minutes later, from where he stood behind a tree, Caspian saw Zed pull out of the drive and head up the road away from him. What the fuck am I doing? For one childish moment he wished he could work a miracle on the garden and when Zed returned, he’d be so amazed, he’d smile and… Yeah, right.

  When he reached the house and saw another car in the driveway, he hesitated. That had definitely been Zed in that car, so who did this belong to? A boyfriend? No, his father, you idiot. Which brought back the question of what Zed was doing here. Maybe his dad was ill or had died.

  The state of the lawn and the garden made Caspian wince. It looked like an overgrown meadow. He’d jam up an ordinary mower. He’d have to cut the grass and weeds down first. Even as he pulled open the shed door he knew he didn’t need to do this work, but he’d removed the advert and it didn’t seem fair not to try. He wasn’t going to bother telling Glenn. No way was Caspian taking money for helping Zed out.

  There was an old pair of gardening gloves on a shelf in the shed and after shaking them in case anything had taken up residence inside, Caspian pulled them on. He left the lawnmower where it was but pushed out the wheelbarrow carrying a spade, rake, fork and a long-handled scythe. Keeping busy would stop him thinking what he was going to say when he was face to face with Zed.

  It took a few swings of the scythe before he got the hang of it, though it was hard work. Swinging the scythe in an arc in front of him, he cut a path right up the middle of the lawn. Then he curved around at the top and came down again. An erect cock. So he hadn’t lost his sense of humour, just mislaid it.

  Zed pulled into the first layby he came to, switched off the engine and let out a shaky laugh. Caspian was crap at Australian accents. Zed had spotted him as he left the shop. It felt as if a hundred questions now raced through his mind. Why hadn’t Caspian approached him? Why did I get in the car and drive off? Because he’d needed space to think and maybe that was what Caspian had needed too. Hence, the accent.

  Now what am I going to do? Zed hadn’t planned to go anywhere. He’d spent most of the morning sorting out the fridge. Things that he had no idea could dissolve, had dissolved or alternatively turned into rock. The glass shelves were still soaking in the sink. He’d been side-tracked by a smell from the dishwasher, then by out-of-date foodstuffs in the cupboards, flour milling with insects and hadn’t had chance to look through his father’s papers.

  Fuck it. Stop waffling. Fridges didn’t matter. His father’s papers didn’t matter. After all these years… Caspian… And I’ve run. Stupid. But Caspian didn’t want him to know it was him. Had he phoned him then panicked?

  Zed drove to Ashford. He went to the supermarket, and bought bread, butter, a couple of different cheeses and tomatoes for lunch. A jar of peanut butter. A punnet of strawberries. The ingredients for a chicken salad for dinner. Enough for two. A bottle of wine. Beer. Soft drinks. Then he drove back wondering if he’d be capable of eating anything. Would Caspian even be there?

  Coward that he was, he parked away from the house and walked a 100 yards with the shopping, managing to get inside without being seen. He put the bags down in the hall and went upstairs. His brother’s room, where he’d slept last night, had the best view of the garden. Zed snuck to the window and looked out from the edge of the curtains.

  Most of the lawn had been scythed down and raked. There was a pile of grass cuttings at the
bottom corner of the garden. Caspian was working with a strimmer, trimming the edge of the lawn. He looked the same and yet different. His jeans were low on his hips. They looked too big for him. His blue T-shirt was too tight. Zed still didn’t know what to say. He was hoping the right words would emerge when they stood in front of each other.

  Caspian switched off the strimmer and put it down. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them next to it before walking back toward the house. Does he know I’m here? He couldn’t. Zed watched as Caspian reached for the hose that lay coiled on the patio like an enormous yellow snake. He dragged it onto the lawn and pressed the trigger on the gun, squirting water into his hand. Most of it sprayed elsewhere but Caspian lifted his hand to his mouth, then spat the water out. I need to give him a drink. Go now.

  But then Caspian pulled off his T-shirt and nothing could have made Zed move. When Caspian’s jeans came off as well, Zed gulped. He was long and thin and pale…and still the most beautiful thing Zed had ever seen.

  Water went everywhere as Caspian removed the gun from the end of the hose. He held it directly over his head, let the flow cascade over him and Zed held his breath. Caspian’s wet hair glistened in the dappled sunlight and every part of Zed was still, apart from his cock, which was struggling for room in his jeans and pressing hard against his zip.

  Zed was mesmerised by the way Caspian’s muscles moved under his sleek skin. He was like an otter. Caspian tipped his face to the sky and arched his back. Zed groaned as the water fell over that pale, slender body, following the curves, dripping from his hair, soaking his tight cotton boxer shorts and outlining his—oh for Christ’s sake.

  “Shit, shit,” Caspian yelped and flung the hose away.