Johnny Ruin

by Dan Dalton

  I hand him his Knight. He made it all the way here, I say. He smiles. I take his hand and step towards the fog, just to look. His hand is small, soft. Mine, callused, rough, wraps around his. He doesn’t seem to mind. Jon arrives, stands next to us, peers into the fog. Spooky, he says.

  Do you know how it ends yet.

  I think so, I say. We’ll see.

  Is it surprising, he says.

  I nod. And inevitable.

  The fog is like a thick cotton up close. Flat, uniform, as if pressed against an invisible glass. It looks more like a cloud, tired of floating, come to rest on the ground. I place my hand flat against it, without pushing. It’s cool to the touch. What do you think, I ask my younger self. He shrugs. You’re not scared. He shakes his head. I wasn’t scared of much back then.

  All you have to do is go through it, Jon says, standing beside me. I ask my younger self what he thinks. He considers it a moment, sizes it up. We don’t have to be home till dark, he says. It’s not dark yet. Jon laughs. He has a point. We can stay a little longer, I say.

  I have stretch marks where I grew too fast. Where the man I was going to be forced the boy I was to grow big, strong. To pretend to the world I am metal and stone. The scars, hidden out of sight on my hips, my back, show just how easily I break. Soft skin, easily torn.

  I ask ten-year-old me if he’s ever hunted for gold bears. He shakes his head, asks if they’re real. Oh, they’re real, I say. They only come out at dusk, hide right at the tops of the trees. I ask him to pick a tree. It’s a perfect night for gold bears, I say. He runs off, head full of possibility.

  I’m forty-two, reading with my daughter. She’s four, and it’s my turn to put her to bed. I suggest Not Now, Bernard. She screws up her face. Not now, Daddy, she says. Since we told her that Sara is pregnant again, her favourite book is one about being a big sister. We settle in, read it together.

  Jon and I, slow, tired from a long journey, follow behind. He hands me his hip flask. Last sip. I take it just to feel warm. It’s still twenty-two degrees but feels colder. Maybe it’s the wind. He asks how I’m feeling. I’m never sure how to answer that. Do people want to know. I figure he does.

  You ever feel like you’re wandering around with a wooden nose, I say. Hoping you’ll be a real boy one day. He stays silent, puts his arm around me. It’s what I needed. I thank him for having my back. He shakes his head, shrugs. I’m your Huckleberry. I let him have it.

  There is V-shaped scar underneath my bottom lip. From that first car crash. The one I don’t remember. I don’t have to. My skin remembers, carries the scar to prove it.

  Maybe that’s what depression is, a scar of the mind.

  Younger me leads us to an old oak whose branches hang low enough to climb. Where’s your brother, I say. I rarely climbed trees alone as a kid, even if that’s how I remember it. He points to where Jon is standing, only it’s not Jon. It’s Pete. Eleven years old. The coolest person I’ve ever known, even when we were kids. Race you, he says, sprinting towards the tree. I run with him, only I’m not me any more either. I’m smaller, lighter, happier.

  I’m forty-three, in the park with my family. Sara and I walk with our youngest daughter between us, each holding a hand. Her feet, unsteady, careful, step forward slowly. Her older sister rides her bike nearby. I look up to see Sophia, walking with her kids. We exchange a smile and a nod.

  There are a hundred lives I’ll never get chance to live. There are choices I’ve made I can’t undo. People I’ll never get to meet. Apologies I’ll never stumble through. Life is consequences.

  I’m ten, climbing a tree in my mind. My brother, a year older, a head taller, climbs next to me, spiralling up opposing sides until the branches become too thin to hold our weight. From here we can see the whole valley. Chimneys. A church spire. The clock tower at the old mill.

  The sun has set, the last embers of daylight glow behind distant hills. If we don’t leave we’ll be late for tea. We don’t move. Not yet. Then Pete stands, unzips his fly, urinates from the top of the tree, hot piss splashing off the branches we’ll have to climb later. He shouts down. Look out below. I stand up, unzip my jeans, join in. We are the lords of our domain, laughing like jesters.

  We’ll leave soon. Once we’re hungry. When we get home, when Mum asks where we’ve been, we’ll blame the night. We’ll say it arrived too soon. She won’t stay mad at us for long.

  We never speak, my brother and me. But I can always find him when I need him. In here.

  Out there, Pete still goes to the football every other week with Dad, still struggles to keep up with his pace, no doubt. Mum goes to see him for coffee on a Saturday morning, for a catch up, for gossip. They go for dinner, my parents, my brother and his wife. It’s not that they prefer him. It’s that I forced them to take sides. In absence. In abandonment. I chose for them.

  Dusk falls. Jon and I sit at the top of the tree, light fading. Above us, bursts of sadness explode like fireworks. Time to saddle up, he says. People to be, places to do. I take out my notebook, ask for a minute more. He leans back against the trunk, hat pulled over his eyes, a toothpick he whittled resting between his lips. Suits me, he says. Besides, I’ve no idea how we get down.

  That thing you read about how people can actually die of a broken heart. It’s caused by emotional stress. What happens is the ventricles rupture. Your heart literally breaks.

  I’ve had my heart broken five times. There’s no scar tissue. The muscle is thin, fragile. Each break bleeds like the first. They never heal, never get easier. The heart does not callus.

  A dog is barking in the distant dark. Closer, my heart beats softly, slowly. A choir of leaves rustle around me. It’s cold. The T-shirts I’m wearing, four of them, do little to keep me warm. I use the last of the light to make a note in my book. I roll it up, tuck my pen into my pocket. And I wait.

  More clouds now. Rain falls in the distance, we watch it move towards us, a swirling crystal column weaving between trees. Millions of droplets dancing on the breeze, shimmering in starlight. It’s quite beautiful. You can be profound about anything if you frame it right.

  Jon asks what I wrote. My eyes refocus, adjust to the dark.

  I’m happy, I say. I thought this was a good place to end.

  Thank You

  My brother, Robin, to whom this book is dedicated. Ta pal.

  My agent, Cathryn Summerhayes, for your belief in me and this book.

  My editor, Philip Connor, for your insight and wisdom, and to DeAndra Lupu, Charlotte Hutchinson and the team at Unbound for all your hard work.

  My parents, Gill and Richard, for your love and support, and for your tireless publicity efforts. My father, Michael, for your enthusiasm and encouragement.

  Maggy Van Eijk for the laughter and everything after.

  Richard Skinner for your kind words and guidance, and to Anjola Adedayo, Kelly Allen, Alison Feeney-Grant, Giles Fraser, Maria Ghibu, Daniel Grant, Sybil Joko-Smart, Adele Lawson, Alison Marlow, Trisha Sakhlecha, Helen Trevorrow, Kate Vick and Katie Khan for your council and friendship.

  All the patrons listed here who made this book possible.

  And finally, Jon, for the music.

  About the Author

  Dan Dalton is a writer and journalist. He lives in north London. Johnny Ruin is his first book.

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  This edition first published in 2018

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  © Dan Dalton, 2018

  The right of Dan Dalton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Quote from The Cocktail Party © T. S. Eliot, The Complete Poems and Plays of T. S. Eliot reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.

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  ISBN 978-1-78352-505-8 (trade hbk)

  ISBN 978-1-78352-506-5 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-78352-504-1 (limited edition)

  Printed in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK)