by Alexis Hall
Alfie felt sick. Mainly at himself. “I never hated him. I was just young and stupid, and I didn’t know who I was or what I was doing.” No answer from Aidan, so he blundered on. “I’ve changed . . . I’ve changed a lot. I’m trying to be better. And Fen is more important to me than anything. I just want to make him happy.”
There was another awful silence. Alfie found himself staring hopefully at the flower pattern on the carpet, just on the off chance they decided to twist up his ankles and devour him.
“If that’s true,” said Aidan at last, very slowly, as if he didn’t quite believe it, “if you really do have feelings for my boy, why are you trying to keep him here?”
“Uh.” Alfie, once again, found himself reduced to monosyllables. And, having made the mistake of looking up, he couldn’t look away. There was something so fierce and so desperate (and so familiar) in the way Aidan’s eyes held his.
“Nora had a good life. A life she chose.” Now there was the faintest tremor in Aidan’s voice, and somehow that was even worse. “But it’s over. He can’t live it for her. Don’t make me lose both of them, Alfie Bell.”
Alfie could feel sweat gathering under his shirt. “But what can I do?”
“Make him give up that bloody shop. God knows I’ve tried. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”
“Um, I’m not sure he does a lot of listening to other people.”
Out of nowhere, Aidan smiled. Though it was for Fen, not for Alfie. “He gets that from Nora.”
Alfie tried not to visibly squirm. This was far worse than anything he could have imagined, up to and including the possibility that Fen’s dad had a small dog he could accidentally throw out of a second-storey window, like in that lager advert.
“Okay, but look,” he tried, “shouldn’t this be up to Fen? Isn’t Pansies all he’s got left like?”
The smile vanished, and Aidan was glaring at him again. Though Alfie saw the grief now, stark in his eyes like an unfading shadow. “Our Nora was not her things.”
“I know. But mebbe there’s more to it than that? He says he likes working with flowers cos it reminds him of her.”
“You haven’t had to watch him disappear.”
It felt like a bruise inside, thinking of Fen being so lost. But wasn’t he happier now? Hadn’t Alfie made him happy? “You don’t think he’s coming back a bit?”
“I think,” snapped Aidan, “that my son is throwing his life away. And I think you’re helping him do it.”
Alfie opened his mouth. Had nothing to say.
“This was never what he wanted.” Another of those sharp, too-shrewd looks. “But it’s what you want, isn’t it? Oh, you walk and talk like a big man these days, but you’ll always be a small-town boy, Alfie Bell.”
After a moment, he nodded. Because, well, yeah. It was true. This forgotten, cliff-edged corner of the North East was his heart. The sea had left salt in his blood. He belonged here.
“Nora was the same.” Aidan glanced away—his gaze falling on the flowers they’d brought. “But let Fen live his life. If you’ve really changed, do something good for him and let him go.”
And that was when Fen came bouncing out the kitchen, the dish towel still in his hands. “I’ve got the best idea,” he cried. “Let’s dig out my old SNES and play Mario Kart!”
Right now, Alfie wanted to go and sit in a hole somewhere, far away from Fen and his father, from their loss and their love.
“Sounds great,” he heard himself say. “Just got to nip to the netty first like.”
“Door at the top of the stairs.”
He fled. Blundered into the bathroom. Slammed the door and locked it. Slumped on the floor, gasping like he’d just run a mile. Then he pulled out his phone, fired up his browser, and googled Fen O’Donaghue.
Shit, Fen had a website. A really fancy one with all these amazing photos that streamed across the page with impossible brilliance. Beauty Is Light, it said. There was a portfolio too, of all the shows he’d worked on. He’d won awards. And there was a picture of him on his About page, so completely nerdy-hipster-gorgeous that Alfie wanted to cry with confused adoration. He was wearing his big black glasses and a bottle-green blazer that made his eyes ridiculously bright. Like at any minute he was going to laugh, and you’d wake up alone among the elf furrows or next to Hurle Stane, your memories full of magic and your hands full of dust. His hair was shorter too—he had this tousled undercut, wayward strands curling over his brow—and he looked so fucking happy.
And that was before Alfie hit social media. Then it was just an endless carousel of Happy Fen. Who, with different hair and different glasses and his dandy clothes, could almost have been a stranger sometimes. Alfie’s dad would probably have called him a reet bobby dazzler—with a faint undertone of censure. Fen certainly enjoyed his selfies. And this other bloke was everywhere. From everything Fen had said, Alfie’d been picturing David as this quiet, awkward sort of person, maybe a bit on the homely side. But, no, homely was way out. Honestly, Alfie had seen less attractive film stars.
Nothing had been updated for over a year, but it was pretty fucking obvious: Aidan was right. This was Fen. This was his life. These friends and these pictures, this job, that really ill-advised scarf-tie.
What he was doing in South Shields—what he was doing with Alfie—was . . . a mistake. A moment of grief that Alfie was trying to turn into something else. Something that said more about what Alfie needed than what Fen wanted.
And Alfie’d been hiding in here for far too long. They’d probably think he was taking an antisocially epic dump. He shoved his phone away, pissed even though he didn’t really need to, and held his hands under the cold water tap, trying to get a fucking grip. His face floated in the bathroom mirror, pale as a moon, and just as disconnected from the rest of him.
That was when he caught sight of the paper pinned to the wall. There was a message, handwritten, careful block caps, decorated here and there with flowers. It said: You are Nora Shaftoe. You have Alzheimer’s. This is your house. You live here with your partner, Aidan O’Donaghue. The young man is your son, Fen. They love you very much.
It made Alfie start. Glance over his shoulder. Of course, there was nothing behind him, the empty room already reflected in the mirror. But he could remember her so clearly suddenly, with her yellow braids, and the deep dimples that made her look always on the verge of smiling. He didn’t know her well enough to miss her or grieve her in any sense beyond the general, but just then, he felt the shape of her absence. The way the world had softly shifted around the people she had left behind.
In their place, he didn’t think he would have taken her note down either.
When he got back downstairs, he found Aidan and Fen on the floor by the television, trailing wires everywhere. Fen was laughing and teasing his dad about the SNES being the gateway drug to console gaming. Alfie had no idea how he was supposed to pretend to be normal now, but then Fen glanced up and beamed at him, and that was all it took. Alfie’s swirl of pain and worry and vicarious sorrow didn’t seem all that important in the face of such rare and uncomplicated joy. Besides, the second the game came on, with that ridiculously cheerful, bleepy music, Alfie was right back in the early nineties. Saturday afternoon at Kev’s house.
“Oh my God.” Fen seemed equally captivated by nostalgia and excitement. He was sitting cross-legged, now, and staring at the screen like a kid at story time. Except he didn’t look remotely like a kid. “O’Donaghue House Rules: winner stays on, no screen blocking or controller grabbing, though inducing distractionary laughter is permitted. And you can’t be Yoshi.”
Alfie wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself. If he started avoiding Fen for no apparent reason, it would look completely suss. Also he didn’t want to. So he stretched out next to him and began unwinding one of the controller wires. “Why not?”
“Because,” Aidan explained, “he’s Fen’s favourite. But you should be whoever you like.”
Fen lowered his eyes
, all contrition. “Yes, he’s right. You should play whoever you like. Just be aware, I’ll dump you if you choose to be Yoshi.”
“Why are you so into him?” Alfie gazed helplessly at the character-select screen, trying to remember who was who and if they were any good in a go-kart. “He’s just this weird dragon-dinosaur-turtle-hybrid thing.”
Fen gasped. “Are you kidding me? He’s a queer icon.”
“Yoshi? Yoshi’s gay?”
“I don’t think,” said Aidan dryly, “he’s a dragon-dinosaur-turtle-hybrid thing who chooses to be limited by labels.”
“Also,” added Fen, “I like his cute little boots.”
“Okay. Fine.” Alfie selected Princess Peach.
Aidan lifted a curious brow. “Interesting choice.”
“What?” Alfie bristled. “I just thought she might like to go for a spin in a go-kart instead of being kidnapped all the time.”
“No, I just meant it’ll be an interesting match. Both she and Yoshi have high acceleration and good handling, but low overall top speeds.”
“Oh.” Alfie blushed. Kev would have totally taken the piss out of him for choosing to play a girl. “And how the blummin’ heck do you remember that?”
Fen had of course gone for Yoshi. “I should have warned you. Dad has this eidetic-memory gaming thing going on. He can do all the special moves in Soulcalibur and everything.”
“I thought you just pressed all the buttons simultaneously as hard as you could.”
“Me too. Learning how to play is practically cheating.”
Yoshi and Princess Peach did, indeed, turn out to be evenly matched. Or perhaps Fen and Alfie were evenly matched in how much they’d forgotten how to play Mario Kart. They spent most of their time veering wildly off the track, getting rebuked by the angry cloud, and, when it became clear that neither of them had much chance of winning honestly, trying to run each other off the road.
It was just . . . fun. In the best possible way. And Fen was at his most adorable—the tip of his tongue prodding at the corner of his lips as he wrangled his go-kart round particularly tricky turns. It would have seemed impossible to Alfie less than ten minutes ago, but somehow both the past and the future seemed a long way away right away, and he was enjoying himself. Doing something silly with Fen.
“I’m so glad,” he muttered, as he dragged Princess Peach out of a death spin, “I’m wearing my tiara for this.”
Fen accidentally elbowed him, as he tried—and failed—to take a corner. “I do love Yoshi, but I wish he could keep his tongue in. I think it’s causing wind resistance and slowing me— Oh, you bastard!”
Alfie had remembered how to deploy a banana skin. And while Yoshi skidded helplessly in the wrong direction, Princess Peach veered drunkenly over the finish line.
“Yes!” The occasion definitely warranted an air punch.
Fen pouted. “Fuck you. You . . . overprivileged harlot.”
“Well, fuck you back . . . you sexually ambivalent green dude.”
“And both of you somehow have driving licences?” asked Aidan.
Fen laughed and passed the controller over his shoulder. “Come on, Dadaí, show us how it’s done.”
Alfie stuck with Princess Peach, just because he could, while Aidan deliberated.
“You know what I don’t get—” Fen tucked his head against Alfie’s shoulder “—all of them are specific characters except that poor koopa troopa. He’s just some random guy. What’s he even doing there?”
Stroking his fingers lightly up and down Fen’s arm, Alfie was quietly thrilled by the goose bumps that sprang up in his wake. “That’s Bill from reprographics. He’s a demon in a go-kart.”
“And his boss just came up to him one day and was like, ‘Hey, Bill, stop walking backwards and forwards across that ledge waiting for a plumber to jump on your head, I want you to join me in a spin-off game’?”
“Maybe he’s Bowser’s special friend.”
“But then why does Bowser spend all his time chasing a princess?”
“Oh man, she’s probably in on it. She’s probably like, ‘I’ve got this random plumber who won’t leave me alone, can you help?’ And Bowser is probably like, ‘Just tell him you’re not into him.’ And she’s like, ‘But he keeps saying he’s been friend-zoned, and I’m like, Hello, I’m a fucking princess, you’re a blue-collar worker, this really isn’t going to work.’”
Fen wriggled closer, laughing. And then, as his father chose Donkey Kong, let out a low whistle. “Looks like you’re fucked, sweetheart.”
Alfie was, indeed, fucked. Comprehensively and humiliatingly trounced by an enormous ape in a string vest. He joined forces with Fen after that in an effort to take Aidan down—and by the end of the evening they’d won only a scant handful of races against their simian nemesis. Not exactly respectable, but not utterly shameful either.
Of course, the moment the music fell silent and the TV turned dark, everything Aidan had said came crashing back down on Alfie. His brain got it. But his heart . . . his heart didn’t have a fucking clue. It had abandoned everyday duties like moving blood and oxygen around. And instead it was dancing. Dancing for Fen.
As they were leaving and Alfie was pulling his jacket on, Aidan caught his arm. “I shouldn’t have doubted you,” he whispered. “I can see how much you care.”
Alfie nodded, the words I think I’m in love with him teetering preciously on the tip of his tongue.
“So remember what I said. Think about Fen. And do the right thing.”
“O-okay.” Alfie’s voice came out so hoarse he had to clear his throat. “I will. I’ll do whatever it takes for him to be happy.”
“You’re a good lad, Alfie Bell.”
And then Aidan hugged him. Not the way Alfie thought men hugged, with brusque, slightly abashed affection, but warmly and without haste or hesitation. It kind of shocked him a little bit. But then he was hugging back, embarrassed by his own clumsy fervour, finding something he hadn’t even known he was looking for, the way a sapling aches for the sun.
“You’re quiet,” said Fen, on the drive home.
Alfie knew he should say something. He was supposed to be thinking about Fen and it was wrong to keep pretending.
But . . . would another night make all that much difference? Another night in Fen’s bed, in his body, maybe. Another day to hold his hand and see his smile. Make him laugh and bounce around and arch his brows and say Alfie Bell in that tone of pleased exasperation or exasperated pleasure. If he did the right thing tomorrow, maybe it was okay to be selfish now?
Well, no. Of course it wasn’t. It was never okay to be selfish. But right now, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to be good. He just wanted to be with Fen.
He tried to smile. “Naw. I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”
“Tell me about it. My dad’s exhausting with his leet Mario Kart skills. Let’s go to bed early—” Fen checked his phone “—okay, earlyish.”
“Sounds great.”
It seemed kind of a waste not to seize the opportunity for sex, but for some reason, the moment he was under the covers with Fen all curled around and draped over him, Alfie’s dick packed up for the night. Abandoned him to his feelings. This deep, scared sadness. And this absolute content. There was something weird and a bit unravelling about lying here with a man he fancied the fuck out of with no fucking on the horizon. But at the same time, he couldn’t think of anything he wanted more than this comfort—this care—that Fen didn’t know he was giving, his breath falling gently against the back of Alfie’s neck in the dark.
22
Dear Mum,
* * *
I’m happy. And I’m so sad. I don’t know how those things can coexist, but they do. And it doesn’t feel like betrayal at all.
It hurts, though, with this scab-flaking, bark-cracking, pins-and-needles itch, finding meaning in my days again. To laugh and feel and want. To make choices in the present and think about the future. I’ve become so used to grief,
I’m scared of what lies beneath it. My heart, I think, turned tender in the untouched dark. I’m full of small, gathered hopes that, if I let them, will fly away from me, as fragile as dandelion seeds.
The strangest thing is how close you feel right now. You really shouldn’t, because the shop is overrun by a goth teenager and her ludicrously camp boyfriend (who goes by the moniker of Straighty, by the way, which is short for Straightsteven—for he assures us, very sincerely, that he is all about the minge), and Alfie Bell is everywhere. With all his talk of local business and online presence and ethical markets. I’ve never seen this side of him before, so focused and confident—well, he’s always confident—but a little stern. And me, a little enchanted. He’s quite good, you see, at pretending to be ordinary. And he so desperately wants to be.
“An ordinary bloke”—such a strange aspiration if you ask me. But I like it when he allows himself to be more clever than he’s comfortable being. Or more gentle, more playful, more vulnerable. More the man I’m sure he is and always was. And, yes. It’s taken him less than a week and I’m probably as hopelessly, helplessly in love with him as ever. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe it’s sex or loneliness or sorrow or something else entirely. But I’m not going to question it. Not when he makes me feel so unequivocally good.
I’m not the man I was before you died. And I’m glad because I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be unchanged by the loss of you. I will carry it inside me like an oyster with a pearl until the day I die myself. But before Alfie came to South Shields I thought there was less of me. That maybe the best of me was you.
I know now that isn’t true. I’m still me. We’re all built of pieces really, the things that have happened to us and the people we love, and change is as inevitable as the tide, smoothing us into sea glass. It’s nothing to be feared. I have Alfie to thank for this as well. He found me, when I most needed to be found, and helped me find myself again.