“I remembered this while you were talking. Had to check the CCTV after we had a fight in here on New Year’s Eve.” He glances at us over his shoulder. “I do recall your boyfriend. Yes indeed, he made quite the impression. Just after midnight, main bar. And here – we – go!”
He clicks and a black-and-white image stutters into life. It’s you, El, bright and alive, on one of those nights over the Christmas holidays when you mysteriously disappeared on me. I stand and watch and the bottom drops out of my world.
“Woo-eeee!” Bradley chuckles. “I gotta admit, this is some steamy action. So, Dylan, I’m not sure you can hear me right now, but I want you to know that I’m doing this as a favour. You see, you can stop grieving now, because that boyfriend of yours? Well, he obviously didn’t give a crap about you, did he? So why not just let it all go and take me up on my generous offer?”
I stand and gaze through tears at the TV, watching you in the arms of a stranger, kissing, grinding, lost in him. What had I been doing on New Year’s Eve? Staring at my phone, praying that you would answer one of my texts, wondering what I’d done wrong.
I turn to Bradley. “Thank you, Mr Hinchcliffe,” I say, “you’re a gentleman. I’d like that drink now.”
I find El sitting on a plastic chair in A&E, twisting his pearls between his fingers.
“How is she?” I ask, dropping into the seat beside him.
He looks up at me, and at first I’m not sure he knows where he is.
“Oh, I don’t know. No one’s come out to tell me anything yet.”
I nod and slide my hands between my knees, clamping them there, because that’s my go-to when I don’t know what to do. After a minute or two, El rocks against me and I feel his head droop against my shoulder. His hair tickles my cheek, and I’m about to rest my head against his when I see this couple sitting opposite us.
They’re dressed in those gigantic coats that old people seem to wear in all weathers, and they’re giving us this sullen-eyed stare. It’s difficult to describe exactly, but it’s a bit like they’ve seen a gang of kids scraping dog shit off the pavement and are suspicious that said shit might be posted through their letter box. The old man curls his lip and his wife mouths something. I think it might be the F word.
“Tea,” I say, getting to my feet. “There’s a machine in the corridor.”
“Wow.” El nods. “These places are really cutting edge.”
He follows me to the vending machine and watches me feed coins into the slot.
“I was supposed to be making you tea, remember?”
“I do. White? Sugar?”
I punch in our order and the cabinet grumbles, then chucks out two plastic cups before vomiting liquid and powder into them. I pinch the scalding rims and hand El his cup. He sips and grimaces.
“This is awful.”
“I think it’s supposed to be. I mean, it has to be intentional, doesn’t it? You couldn’t accidentally come up with something this disgusting. I’m picturing a secret laboratory where retired PE teachers dream up the drinks that go into hospital vending machines. Sure it’s a far cry from the old days, but sadism’s sadism, right?”
He bursts out laughing. I love how El laughs, full and musical and like nobody’s in the room. I wish I could laugh like that. We wander back to our seats, where we grimace at our undrinkable tea. We’re quiet for a while, then El says –
“She saved me, you know.” He holds the steaming cup to his chest. “When my parents threw me out, she was the only one who showed me any kind of support or sympathy. Do you know what that’s like? To have just this one person who’s prepared to offer you some security? It’s like you’re attached to the world by a single thread, and if that thread snaps?” He looks at me with these huge eyes. “What’s going to happen to me then?”
He tells me his coming-out story, and it shatters my heart. I travel with him from closed door to closed door, the money in his pocket transforming from paper to coins, from silver to bronze, until he ends up cold and starving in Ferrivale, where his mum’s second cousin takes him in. She gives him food and a bed and, most important of all, wraps warm arms around him and tells him he’s wonderful just the way he is.
It was a week later that he first discovered her passed out in the kitchen.
El’s face turns dark. “Bradley Hinchcliffe. His boys have been dealing to her for years.”
“But everyone knows the guy,” I say. “He was in school last year talking about ethical investments and community spirit.”
“Oh, on the surface he’s Jesus reborn.” El smiles. “But if you look a little deeper…”
He crushes his cup and some of the tea spills onto his shirt. It’s only then that I remember he’s sitting in blood-stained clothes. I rummage in the bag I brought from the flat and take out a fresh T-shirt. He thanks me and we head to the bathroom. It’s a single toilet so I pass El the shirt through a crack in the door. Long seconds drag as I stand outside.
“Are you okay?” I ask at last.
“I can’t,” he murmurs. “My hands are shaking too much. Dylan, I’m sorry, can you help me?”
“Oh. Yeah. Course. No problem.”
I check the corridor for sullen eyes, then slip into the room. It’s a small space and the smell of industrial cleaner makes my eyes itch. El stands in front me, the T-shirt in his hands. It’s then that his gaze flicks to my own shirt.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I blush. “There was some blood on me and I—”
“It’s okay. More than okay. Yellow suits you. It brings out the gold in your hair and the little amber flecks in your eyes. I never noticed before…”
He touches a strand on my head and I feel that touch in every cell of my body. My heart drums, and when I look down a canary-yellow patch over my chest is fluttering in time.
El pulls off his stained George Ezra T in one smooth motion. I’m sorry, I can’t help but look. His body is a toned, honeyed brown, broad at the shoulders, tapering down to a narrow waist with those plunging hip lines you only really see in magazines. I watch as he turns, and my heart roars. I want to kiss that firm chest and flat stomach, explore each tight curve and sweeping plane, watch how the subtle shifts in pigmentation define his body. And at the same time I need to run and hide from this intimidating perfection.
I do neither. I hand him the shirt.
“Thank you.” He grins as he pulls it on. Is it a knowing grin? My blush reaches supernova.
“Bell?” A voice echoes through the door. “Ellis Bell?”
We exchange a look and duck out of the one-man bathroom. A doctor with a clipboard gives us a wry smile as we tumble into the corridor.
“Mr Bell?”
“Is she okay?” El cuts in.
The young doctor guides us into a side office and we take a seat.
“Your aunt is doing well. The cut from her fall was pretty serious, but I’m sure the wound will heal quite nicely. We’ve sedated her and we’re going to keep her in—”
“Why?”
The doctor makes a soothing gesture. “An overnight stay is pretty standard in these cases. We want to make sure she isn’t suffering any concussion. She should be released first thing tomorrow. However, there is the other matter. Do you know how long she’s been using?”
El shakes his head. “I only moved in a few months ago, and before that…I didn’t really know my aunt very well. I think she’s been on the stuff a while.”
“I see. Well, look, it’s important we get her some help. I’m going to talk to her tomorrow and see what kind of treatment will work best, but I won’t lie to you, she’s going to need a lot of support going forward.”
“She’ll get it,” El says firmly. “No question.”
The doctor makes a quick note and gets up to leave.
“Can I see her?” El asks.
We’re shown through to a curtained-off cubicle just past the nurses’ station. All at once El comes undone. He drops into a seat next to his sleeping aunt and covers his f
ace with his hands. A fresh bandage has been taped around her head, her face has been washed, and for the first time I can see the resemblance between aunt and nephew. She looks kind, even in sleep. I give El a moment, then fumble in my pocket and place a hand on his shoulder. He looks up, sees what I’m holding, and laughs through his tears.
“Starburst! You’re a mind-reader, Frecks.”
We spend the next few hours keeping watch. I pop out every so often for drinks and snacks. When a porter arrives to take Julia to a proper ward, El insists on going with her. That’s when the young doctor pokes his head into the cubicle.
“You boys still here? Look, nothing is going to happen to your aunt tonight, and if it does, we have your number. Go home. Get some rest. You’ll need it if you’re going to support her in the coming weeks.”
“Why don’t you stay at mine?” I say. “My family’s away for the night, and I heat up a mean frozen pizza.” He starts to shake his head but I put my foot down. “You owe me, remember? So I’m going to trade the cash for your company.” He immediately objects, digging in his pocket for the car-repair money. I take his wrist and draw him into a handshake. “You, Ellis Maximillian Bell, do hereby swear you will endure the close proximity of Dylan ‘Frecks’ McKee for one evening, in full and final payment for any and all outstanding debts. Plus, you will not request anything green to go with your pizza because, just no.”
El shakes. “If you’re sure? Okay then, deal.”
We’re heading back through A&E when he loops an arm around me. And it seems impossible, but sitting in the exact same spot are the old couple in their big coats. I don’t know, maybe they make an all-day outing of their hospital visits. Anyway, they see us and start radiating the stink-eye, and before I know it, I’m stink-eyeing them right back. Then I wrap my arm tight around him and, with my free hand, I flip them a glorious middle finger.
“Sorry,” I say, as we stand shivering in the hall, “heating’s gone off for some reason. Just be a minute.”
I leg it upstairs to the boiler cupboard and click a switch. Something roars somewhere, and I guess that means heat sometime soon. Skipping back into the hall, I find El looking for a place to hang his jacket. I take it from him and drape it over this weird alien sculpture my mum made in one of her night classes.
“You know, my mum’s an artist too.” I grin.
“I see that.”
“Yep… So, she sucks, doesn’t she?”
“There is potential,” he says, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. “But, yeah, sorry, mostly it’s suckage.”
The temperature is almost bearable by the time I take my pièce de résistance out of the oven. El looks from me to the pizza and back again.
“And we’re supposed to do what with this, exactly?”
“Dude. Do not dis the kebab-meat deep pan.”
“Is that what this curly grey stuff is on the top? I thought a dog might have sneaked in and rubbed his flaky balls all over the base.”
I shrug. “More for me.” I grab a greasy slice from the plate and stuff the whole thing in my mouth. “Ah, man, heavenly.”
“McKee D, you are all kinds of revolting.” El shakes his head, picks up a slice, and takes a nibble. He tries a few experimental chews, then begins to wolf it down like it’s the last morsel of food he’ll ever consume. Mid-gorging, he lifts an oily finger. “No one must ever hear of this. Promise me.”
I give him a scout’s salute, then rub my hands on my jeans.
“Crap, I forgot. Hold on a minute.”
I run out to Mum’s alien creation and grab El’s present from my coat pocket. I’m officially the world’s most inept wrapper of gifts, and I really tried with this one, but it still looks like random bits of silver paper sellotaped together in a darkened room by a poorly coordinated chimp. El gets a napkin from the sideboard and cleans his fingers.
“Wow. It’s a gift, right? I mean, you don’t hate me or anything?”
“Just open it, smart-arse.”
It takes him a minute to wrestle with the tape but eventually he’s holding a brand-new snow globe in his hand. He stares through the falling flakes at this grim little elf who appears to be guarding a sack of presents.
“Dylan, I think this guy is trying to steal Christmas. No, don’t laugh, just look at him. He’s clearly broken into Santa’s workshop and pinched St Nicholas’s magic sack.” I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle giggles. “Frecks, please don’t be a child. Yes, I said ‘pinched his magic sack’. He’s an elf on the run.”
“Okay.” I stroke my chin. “I can see that. He is kind of gangsta.”
El throws his arms around my neck. “I love it. Thank you. Gangsta-elf-on-the-run will take pride of place on my dashboard.”
“So,” I say, coughing as he releases me, “did the police figure out who trashed your car?”
“Nah. I didn’t report it.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. I sort of feel sorry for them, I suppose. You’ve got to be really unhappy to do something like that.”
He looks away, and I wonder then, just wonder, if he knows who it was.
“Hey, you want to see my room?”
I lead the way upstairs. The heating’s definitely kicking in now. I feel sort of flushed and sweaty anyway.
I open the door, and although my room is more than twice the size of his, I’m suddenly aware of all its lameness and inadequacy. Everything here – the superhero posters on the wall, the historical quotes and mottos painted over my bed, the old toys and action figures on my bookcase – it’s all the work of someone else. I have contributed absolutely nothing to this space. I think back to the individuality and sheer effort that made El’s room so special, and it’s like I’ve been stripped bare and found wanting.
He wanders around, picking stuff up, smiling. I want to tell him how I feel but I can’t put it into words. Then he notices the cards on my desk and stops short.
“Frecks, it’s your birthday? Today?”
I nod.
“And you got me a present?”
I shrug. “I’ve had my present.” I dig out the IOU from my wallet. “It’s the best thing anyone’s ever given me.”
He doesn’t tell me I’m crazy, just nods. And then he’s tearing out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “Hold on, I need something from my bag.”
I drop into my desk chair, swing around, count and recount my cards, get up, throw my dirty underwear into the laundry basket. Then El’s back and flourishing his journal.
“Moodles and Doodles.” I smile.
He takes my chair and pulls a black felt-tip pen from the journal’s elastic band.
“Can I see?” I ask, holding out my hand.
He shakes his head. “Everyone needs a secret corner all to themselves, Frecks.”
I go and sit on the bed. “Even from me?”
His eyes are serious but there’s a kind of laughter there too. “Even from you, sweetheart. You’ll have that corner too. It might not be a book, but there’s some place you keep all to yourself and I won’t be there. Now lean back against the wall and stay still.”
What follows is just about the best fifteen minutes of my life. I cross my legs and put on this stupidly serious expression, until El scolds me and asks for a natural smile. Every so often I steal a glance at him while he works. He’s even more beautiful in these moments. There’s this single deep furrow in his brow and a little twitch that leaps at the side of his mouth and his long dark lashes quiver while his eyes dart over the page. And his fingers sing. That’s the only way I know how to describe it. They sing like the fingers of a conductor stirring and then lulling an orchestra. At last he stands up and brings me my present.
“Sorry. I can never really capture what I want to.” He flops down beside me and scoots in close. “Do you hate it?”
I can’t speak. This isn’t me. It can’t be.
“Why…?” I swallow hard. “Why are you so obsessed with my freckles?”
He leans in close and kisses the speckles that run across my nose. “Because they’re yours.”
This is it. No more retreating. I take my chance before my courage fails.
“Ellis?”
“Yes, Dylan?”
“I’m gay.”
It’s the most obvious statement in the world, but he doesn’t tease. Because I think he knows I had to say it out loud. He kneels beside me and cups my chin, inviting me to look at him.
“Dylan?”
“Yeah?”
“I think I like you.”
“Yeah?”
“I like you very, very much.”
He kisses me again. On the lips this time, the lightest, most feathery kiss, and I kiss him back. He runs those brilliant dancing fingers through my hair, trails them down the back of my neck, lightly scratching my skin. He presses harder and I open my mouth and very softly feel the tip of his tongue against mine. And then he’s kissing my jaw and my chin and the nape of my neck, and his hand is inside my shirt, his shirt, grazing fingernails across my chest.
And then, because I’m Dylan, I say something stupid.
“So, you’ve ruined history for me.”
He pulls back, lips smudged, grinning. “What?”
“I know absolutely nothing about the French Revolution, and we’ve been studying it for a month. Basically because I can’t stop looking at you, and I just—”
El’s phone starts to buzz. We exchange a glance and I can see the panic in his eyes. Julia. Something’s wrong. He fumbles in his pocket, pulling out his second-hand Samsung with almost Dylan-levels of clumsiness, thumbing the screen and then dropping the phone on the floor. Leaning over the bed, we both stare down at Mr Denman, El’s hipster art teacher.
“Oh.” Denman blinks at us from the screen. “Hello, Ellis. And is that…Dylan McKee? Sorry, am I interrupting something?”
El shoots me a wicked side-eye. “Not at all, sir. Everything okay?”
“Yes, Ellis, no, everything’s fine. I just thought I’d call to say how impressed I am with the latest improvements to your sculpture. With this as your main project, I can’t imagine you’re going to have any trouble getting into the uni of your choice.” He moves to one side and I see that he’s standing in one of the school’s art studios. Behind him is this incredible model of a winged monster, its body a see-through string of wires, its insides veined with red ribbons. I’ve seen this sculpture slowly taking shape during my secret visits to the art block. It’s startling and it’s perfect. Of course it is. “However, I do think it needs just a few more touches,” Denman goes on. “Could we maybe get together after school one day to discuss?”
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