I stood there, confused, wondering why he’d left when he’d told me it was just me and him once Mum and Dad had gone. Me and him against the world. He’d lied. Gone. Left me standing there at twelve years old not knowing what the fuck to do or who to turn to. I knew all about Social Services. They’d visited us enough times over the years, telling me how lucky I was that John was old enough to look after me, that they didn’t have to take me away and place me in foster care.
One less unwanted brat in the system.
So what now? What did I tell them when they visited next?
At the time, it was all I could think of as I stared down at my dirty feet on a floor just as dirty. My toes didn’t sink into the pile—that had worn flat years ago—just sunk into bits of encrusted food, mud traipsed in from outside, and God knew what else.
I went into the kitchen, looking around at the mess in there. The table, I was surprised it never collapsed under the weight of newspapers, piled-up plates and glasses that were so old and used they weren’t transparent anymore. No, they were a dusty grey, scratched and chipped.
Very much like me.
Funny I thought like that from such a young age. Old head on young shoulders. Weird, because at the moment, sitting here with you, Christian, I don’t feel old. I’m back to being that kid again, uncertain, not knowing which way to fucking turn or what to do. Everything’s a mess again. A nasty bloody mess.
Shit.
I ate cereal. Drank tea. Wandered around with my head in the clouds, in denial. John would come back. He’d just gone on holiday, that was all. He’d gone back to the seaside, was eating ice cream and digging his toes in the sand.
He wouldn’t leave me.
John never came back.
I managed on my own for a while, you know? Had no choice, did I? John had stocked the cupboards, the fridge and freezer, and I know now he’d bought just enough to last me until the next Social visit was due. So he wasn’t all that bad, not really. I went to school, ate the free dinners at lunchtime, and because I was one of those kids no one wanted to make friends with—smelled of piss half the time, see—no one took much notice. I was see-through, there but not, and, used to it, I carried on in the same way I had before.
Before they all left me.
Don’t. You mustn’t feel sorry for me. Don’t look at me like that.
So, it wasn’t until a knock came on the door one Friday night that my life changed again. I swung the door open, smile as wide as a damn river because fuck, John was back. He might call me a cunt, kick me from time to time, and tell me nasty shit to make me do as I was told, but I’d missed him.
John didn’t stand on the doorstep.
“Hello, Alfie. Is John home?”
The woman—I think she’d only been to ours once before, wasn’t our usual Social worker—tilted her head and smiled.
“No, he just went out.” I crossed my fingers behind my back.
John said, if you lied and didn’t do that, you’d get caught out.
“Just?” She smiled wider, tilted her head some more.
“Yeah. He’s gone up the chippy for our tea.”
“What are you going to have then, Alfie?”
I thought about what I’d pick if I had the choice of everything off the menu. My stomach rumbled at the thought of all that food. “Chips, battered sausage, a big bit of cod and a chicken and mushroom pie. And sachets of tomato sauce. The ones with HP on the front.”
“Gosh, that’s a lot to fit in your tummy.”
“It’ll fit.” And it would. I was damn hungry.
“I’ll come in and wait for him then, Alfie, all right?”
It wasn’t all right, she couldn’t come in and wait, but shit, she walked through that doorway and perched herself on the edge of the sofa as though she lived there. I sat beside her, wanting contact, and slowly shifted my leg across so the side of my knee touched hers. I wanted a cuddle, her arms around me, her hand stroking my hair to let me know everything was going to be okay. That John would come home and everything was going to go back to normal.
I didn’t get what I wanted.
Instead, after Mrs Winters had waited with me for over an hour—it took me that long to remember her name—she said quietly, “Where’s John, Alfie?”
I could have lied. Could have told her he’d be back later, that he’d just gone out with his mates, but some voice whispered that was pointless. She’d known from the minute she’d knocked on the door that John had left. Maybe a neighbour reported it, I don’t know. Maybe the school had noticed something was up. I remember sucking in a deep breath and counting to ten, wondering if I’d bottle it at the last minute and lie to her again.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“How long has he been gone?”
“Ages.”
“How long is ages?”
“Weeks.”
She sighed, long and gusty, then stood.
I looked up at her, at a face full of sorrow and a dash of worry. “He took a suitcase. I had to sit on it because it was so full. But he’ll be back. He’s only gone on holiday. He wouldn’t leave me. He’s gone for ice cream. He’ll have nuts on it, raspberry sauce too.”
“Well,” she said, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet, “regardless of how long he’s been away and whether or not he’s coming back, he shouldn’t have left you alone like this, Alfie.”
“I’m twelve. I’ve done all right. I can take care of myself.”
“No, Alfie, you can’t.”
She took me then, out of our weathered front door and along the cracked path. I kept my head down, glancing sideways at the unkempt front garden, weeds strangling everything in sight. I clutched her hand, my palm sweaty, and sat on the back seat of her car after she’d opened the door so I could get in. I noticed how she locked the door once I had my seatbelt on. When she climbed inside and started the engine, I raised my head and looked at our house.
I knew I’d never live there again.
It isn’t that bad, Christian. Honestly. Not as bad as you think. It’s all right.
Foster care, now that was an experience. Jesus, I’d been told I was going to a place where life would be very different, but they lied. Everyone lies. It was the same as before, except Mr Tabbit called me a cunt instead of John, and his girlfriend, Marilyn Holmes, gave me mouldy toast for breakfast and burnt offerings for my tea. Mr Tabbit—I never did find out his first name—liked to trip me over as I walked past him lounging on the sofa, and man, he’d laugh so hard when I fell and hurt myself. Still, I’d be a trooper, stand like John taught me when Tabbit went on and on, telling me I’d done this or that when I hadn’t. It must have been one of the other kids—and there were quite a few—but none of them admitted it had been them. Stands to reason they wouldn’t. Tabbit was fond of using the stick. My arse felt the brunt of it many times, but hey, they say punishment makes you stronger.
That’s bullshit as well.
I stayed there four years. By the time I was sixteen, I’d grown into the size I am now, and when I walked out of that house for the last time after nutting Tabbit in the face, I didn’t look back. With only a backpack to my name and the prospect of going to college and living in a one-bedroom flat the Social had found for me, I had a choice. There was one hell of a lot of anger inside me, as well as hormones and the creeping knowledge that girls weren’t my thing, and at one point I thought I’d use it to fuel my days, going about pissing people off for the fun of it or making a nuisance of myself. But the burning need inside me to get the hell off that track, out of that life, was stronger.
Not all kids brought up like me turn bad. Mind you, that’s a lie, isn’t it? I’m bad. Keeping you here.
College kept me sane. I drifted from one relationship to another, every bloke leaving me, saying I was too clingy, didn’t give them space. That my need to show them I cared was the reason they were fucking off. I didn’t get it. Everyone wanted to be loved, didn’t they? Take me and you as an example. You’d
say if I was too much, wouldn’t you? I think you’d tell me, you seem that kind of bloke. I’ve never forced myself on you, have I? Always asked before I touched. And you’ve always said yes. I just want to make you feel good, to know how much I care.
Then maybe you won’t go away.
Jesus fucking Christ, I sound nuts.
In the end, with college and university behind me, I got a job in design, working in an office in the city. Big fuck-off place, lots of people. More relationships, more being left. It got so bad I started withdrawing, refusing to go for drinks after work, going home instead to sit alone. I earned good money, so home, the place I live in now, is nice and trendy. No fucking dirty kitchen table here. No damn way. Not that I’d be like Ted or anything. A bit of mess never hurt anyone. But it got to the point where every failed relationship chipped away at me, until one night I sat down and dragged all those memories out, picking them apart to see if I could find something, anything to help me understand what I’d been doing wrong.
I couldn’t see a damn thing.
Tell me. Tell me what I’ve been doing wrong.
So I went out, that night, determined to give it one last shot. To find someone, to connect and try a final time to make a go of it with a partner, if I even found one, that was. Told myself to take it steady, little steps, not pushing even though every bit of me wanted to push. I had to learn to be normal, take one day at a time. And you came walking in The Mason’s, a waif that I wanted to hold safe the minute I saw you. I wanted to take care of you, recognised that look in your eye because shit, I saw it in mine every time I looked in the fucking mirror. And we had fun, didn’t we? So much fucking fun that night. We fitted, we honestly fitted, and when we matched in the bedroom as well…shit, icing on the damn cake.
No, don’t touch me. Not until I’m finished. I have to get it out. Tell you everything. You did it, and you feel better for it, yeah?
The morning came, and when I saw you getting ready to leave, something snapped.
I couldn’t let you go. Leave. I just couldn’t do it. It was mental, what I did, and I knew it was the whole time I was doing it, but something in my head just wouldn’t shift so I could see the bigger picture. The longer the time went on, the worse it got. The more shit I was in.
Work? Well, my boss noticed I’d been looking peaky, said there wasn’t anything I worked on that couldn’t be done from home. That’s why I was always there for you, see, why I could come down and visit you whenever I wanted. I hated keeping you down there, tied up, but I couldn’t let you go.
Facing another person leaving me again… Fuck, I seriously need help. Therapy or whatever. This isn’t normal. People don’t go around doing this shit.
You won’t go, will you? Now I’ve told you everything? I need…I just want you to stay, all right? I know you’ve said you will, but John said that, and look what happened there. I want you to stay because you want to, need to, and after hearing your story I really think you will. I mustn’t put pressure on you, make you feel sorry for me. That isn’t right, and Christ, that would just be me following the same pattern I always follow. I should let you have the choice. If you leave, then I’ll just have to deal with it. Wait for the coppers to knock on the door. I’m trying not to say this, trying so hard but…
Please, don’t leave me, Christian. Please.
CHAPTER FIVE
I’m Not Fucking Going Anywhere
“Oh, Jesus. Oh my fucking God. Christ, come here, Alfie. Please, just come here.”
He crawls towards me, face wet, more tears streaming. This big man, this big, brawny man has a whole lot of hurt inside. And he’d said his story was stupid, giving me the impression mine was far worse. Jesus, mine’s nothing compared to his. I wasn’t fucked about until I became an adult. Yet Alfie, God, he hadn’t stood a chance from the minute he was born.
Alfie flops on top of me, his weight pushing me into the sofa, but that’s okay. He slides his hands under me, holding me close, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck. He smells so good. His hair tickles my nose, and I hold him just as tight. I was the wind, wasn’t I? The wind in his sails? I reckon he knows where he’s going now, so long as I’m with him. And I will be. No fucking way I’m leaving him.
As he sobs it out, wetting my shoulder with his tears, everything I’ve ever been through pales to insignificance. I have his affliction now, the need to make him feel good, to show him how it is to be loved, to have someone who wants to stay, who won’t leave him. So I reckon we’ll do all right. Everything happens for a reason. We need each other, Alfie and me, suit each other down to the ground regarding our wants and needs.
The sounds he’s making, shit, it tears me up inside, and part of me wants to join him. Cry until I’m all cried out. But I have to be strong for him, put my own hurts aside and help him cope with his. He’s got a greater need, and to be honest, thinking about someone else’s problems will help me forget mine. Me staying here, us growing together, getting over hurdles, means my problems will be gone anyway.
I stroke his back, my small hands seeming even smaller against the broad expanse. He must work out. His muscles, they feel hard and toned beneath my palms, and I stroke him, murmuring that everything will be okay, he has me now.
It’ll take years for him to trust me. I’m not stupid in thinking I can fix this in a matter of days or weeks, but this has been a huge step. We’ve both faced up to our pasts, brought the bogeymen out and looked them dead in the eye, and from here onwards I think we’ve got a pretty good chance of making a go of things.
They say time is a great healer, and I know in this case that’s true. I’ll stay home with Alfie, that’s what I’ll do, let him keep the doors locked and the keys hidden for a while. And when he trusts me enough to take me out, I’ll hold his hand the whole time, squeezing his fingers every so often to let him know I’m still there.
I can do this thing, take care of him, heal him.
I can make him believe.
After a while, he lifts his head and looks down at me. His eyes are bloodshot, his lashes wet and sticking together. I smile, move a soaked lock of hair, tucking it behind his ear. He studies me, for signs of deception, I’m sure of it, and it seems he finds none because he smiles back, relief bleeding into his features.
I did that. I made that happen.
“We’ll be all right,” I say, cupping his cheek. “Now we’ve got each other we can get through anything. I won’t leave, I promise. I’m not fucking going anywhere.”
“No,” he says, pulling one arm out from under me and stroking my eyebrow with the backs of his fingers. “I have to stop this shit. You can stay—if you really want—but I’m not locking the doors. Well, only at night. But they keys’ll be on the table in the hall, and you can use them whenever you want. I have to trust you.”
“But it’ll be too hard. I hate the thought of you worrying yourself stupid if I walk out to get something from the shop, you know? It won’t feel right, knowing you’re hurting.”
“But you’ll come back. I know that deep down. I just have to teach myself to cope. It’ll be all right, won’t it?”
I nod and shift beneath him. “Come on, get up. I’m getting squashed down here.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I—”
“Stop that. It’s okay.”
He lifts off me, watches with fright in his eyes as I walk over to the fire and place the guard in front of it. I look down at the rug, at the lush pile, and smile sadly that the fibres are fluffy and no dirt nestles between them. Poor bastard has a lot to deal with, but he’ll come through.
“Can I see the rest of the house?” I ask.
He nods, gets up off the sofa, and takes the lead out of the living room. He pauses, leaning on the frame, and looks across at the front door. I follow him out, watch him take the security chain and unlatch it. It swings, pendulum-like, before coming to a complete stop. He pushes off the frame and takes a key out of his pocket, twisting it in the bottom deadlock then placing i
t on the table. He sighs, his shoulders lifting with the intake of breath, then turns to face me.
“It’s okay,” he says.
To himself, I know.
“The kitchen?” I raise my eyebrows, acting as though this is totally normal behaviour. And it is, isn’t it? We just happened to do things arse about face. “I could kill for a cup of tea.”
He glances at me, the look asking whether that was just a random comment or whether I had plans to knife him in the back while he’s filling the kettle.
“I’ll make it,” I say. “Gives me a chance to find out where everything’s kept.”
He smiles, shoulders sagging, though he doesn’t fully relax them.
I get it. I do.
In the kitchen—all modern appliances; I hadn’t expected anything less—I turn the tap and fill the black-and-chrome kettle. Poke about in cupboards for the teabags because he’s gone for the minimalistic approach. No tea, coffee, or sugar caddies here. I find the spoons in the draw under the sink unit and stop myself from turning around to see what he’s doing. I need him to see me casually working away, no tension in my muscles, no jerky movements. If I turn, he’ll probably think I’m keeping tabs on him, waiting for him to let his guard down before I streak out of here as if my arse is on fire.
Tea’s made. Now I turn around, a steaming cup in each hand. He’s sitting, folded arms resting on the tabletop, cheek against them. He’s watching me. Damn, he looks so weary, like his tears have worn him the fuck out.
“Here,” I say, passing a cup to him, no idea whether he prefers his tea with milk and sugar but I’d added it all the same. I sit, smile, and have a sip of mine. It’s been ages since I did something for myself, and it didn’t feel weird doing it in someone else’s place either. It’s like I belong here, that this is home.
“Thanks.” He lifts his head as though it’s heavy and takes hold of his cup. “I…I’m sorry. So sorry.”
I Am The Wind Page 4
