by Lily Morton
“It can’t be. Can’t you call her back and…” I choke on the words, feeling the tears in the back of my throat.
I haven’t cried since she died, but suddenly I can’t keep it in anymore. I give a great sob, and then I’m crying hard. Sobs shake my whole body while he croons nonsense and holds me, and I find that it’s actually a relief.
The spot between his neck and his shoulder, although sharp with his bones, is actually the best place for me to hide my face from the world and mourn my lovely mum.
I don’t know how long I cry, but he stays with me, not saying anything, just stroking my hair and holding me in his arms. When the sobs eventually peter out, I stay with my head on his shoulder for a few minutes.
“I’ve soaked your shirt,” I say slowly, my voice thick and hoarse.
“I’ve got others. You know us millennials. We’re all about the clothes.”
“I am aware.”
He chuckles and sits back, pulling my head up to face him. He looks around, undoubtedly searching for a cloth, but his action when he can’t see one stuns me. He just shrugs and, lifting his fingers, he clears away the tears on my face. He’s tender and thorough and works with a concentrated look on his face while I stare at him.
I have shot my load over men’s faces before, had another man’s come on me, but I have never had anyone perform such an intimate act for me.
Blue seems oblivious, humming under his breath until I’m tidied up to his satisfaction. “How do you feel?” he finally asks.
I shrug awkwardly. “Hollow.”
He nods. “That’s good. It means the grief has gone.”
“For forever?”
He looks sad. “No, babe. It never goes. But it does get easier and the times in between the sadness get longer and longer. But you’ll always love and miss her.” He pauses. “Maybe that’s good. It’s certainly a fine way to honour someone.”
“When did you get so wise?” I ask.
He gives that impish grin. “Always. Everyone should know this but for some reason they resist the realization.”
“It’s scary,” I offer.
Blue laughs and eases from my lap. I instantly want to drag him back, and for a second I consider it. I think he’d let me even though he’s as prickly as a porcupine. But I know I won’t. Not yet.
“Come on,” he says, offering me his hand and pulling me up.
“Come on, where?”
“Out. I need to show you something.”
“Oh no,” I immediately protest. “I look like I’ve gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.”
“Ten rounds?” he asks, lifting one eyebrow. “Well, you’re certainly a confident sort of person. I’d have given you ten seconds max.”
I shake my head. “Thank you so much. What are we doing?”
“You are going to get dressed, splash some cold water on your face, put on those sexy glasses I saw you in last night, and get your coat. Chop chop,” he says as I hesitate.
I abruptly give up and do as he says, knowing it’ll be easier.
Before I leave the kitchen, I grab his hand. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“For what?” His face is a picture of surprise.
“For asking you to get her back. That was wrong.”
His face softens, and he lifts up one thin hand to cup my face. “If I could get her back for you, I would,” he says, not a trace of a smile on his earnest face. “I want you to know that. Don’t ever be sorry for wanting one more moment with your mum.”
“Would you like that?” I ask softly.
A complicated expression crosses his face. “Your mum and mine were very different,” he finally says. “It would take more than one moment with my mum.”
I open my mouth to question this, but he shakes his head. “Go and get ready,” he says.
Fifteen minutes later, I head downstairs to find Blue waiting by the door. I feel strangely shy. “How did you get in, anyway?” I ask, curiosity stirring. “I didn’t hear your key.”
His mouth twitches. “You were a little busy,” he murmurs and I flush. He smiles at me and pats my arm. “I didn’t need the key anyway. The door was wide open. You need to start being security conscious.”
“It was closed when I came downstairs.”
We exchange glances. Locking the door and testing it three times, I follow him out onto the street. He walks quickly, stealing occasional glances at me that I’m probably not meant to see.
“Can I ask you something, Blue?” I say.
He shoots me a bright glance. “Anything.”
“Why has my mum gone now?”
He stares at me in incomprehension.
“I mean,” I say, “according to Tom, the house is dangerous. Why wouldn’t my mum stay to protect me?”
He looks thoughtful. “I don’t know,” he finally says. He comes to a stop and pulls me to face him. “Maybe it’s because you’ve got help now with Tom and me. Maybe she hung around until you weren’t alone. Whatever it is, I think it takes a tremendous effort for spirits to resist moving on. She must have loved you very much, Levi.”
“She did.” It feels nice to acknowledge that without the huge weight of grief that’s usually behind it. I know he’s right. The grief will be back, but I don’t think it’ll ever be the same as that again.
We start walking again, and I wrinkle my nose as we start down Goodramgate past The White Swan pub.
“What are we supposed to be looking at?” I pause. “Is it the Tesco Express because I’ve actually seen that before.”
He shakes his head. “I’m saving that for a special occasion.”
As I laugh he stops on the street, coolly ignoring a couple’s curse as they have to abruptly steer around him.
He gestures theatrically, and I’m almost positive that he’s missing his hat at the moment. “Here we are. The Holy Trinity Church.”
He points at a set of ornately carved iron gates in a narrow opening. He waves me past him, and I walk down a little path that opens into a space with a small church and what was obviously once a graveyard but now looks a little bit like a garden. Lichen-covered gravestones lean drunkenly over planted areas like an irritating uncle at a wedding. A few hardy people are sitting and eating on the benches dotting the area.
Despite the bustle of the streets beyond, in this tiny corner I can only hear the sound of the leaves in the trees rustling in the cold wind.
“Another church?” I say as Blue comes up next to me. “What is it with York and all these churches?”
He shrugs. “People will say it’s because it was a rich area with wealthy merchants who wanted to secure a place in heaven despite being wealthier than Richard Branson.”
“And you’d say?” I prompt.
He shoots me a look before turning towards the church. “I’d say that maybe the people of York have always known that wickedness and evil are a lot closer to the surface than everyone thinks and having sanctified ground might come in handy occasionally.”
He disappears into the church, and I stir myself into following him.
The dimly lit church smells of damp and wood. It’s dark and so cold that I can see my breath, and the flagstones are uneven and worn beneath my feet.
Blue smiles, and I turn to see a man in a North Face fleece walking towards us.
“Morning, Simon,” Blue says.
The man smiles a greeting. “You okay, Blue?”
“Fine. Just showing my friend around.”
“I’ll let you get on with it, then. We’re meeting in the Hole in the Wall after work if you want to come by before the ghost walk.”
“Maybe,” he says, smiling warmly.
I wonder who this man is to him. Blue definitely isn’t the type to waste time on false pleasantries. My hackles rise. Is this an old lover?
I square my shoulders and move closer to Blue, but then I remember he’s my quirky and slightly wonderful friend, not a prospective boyfriend. I wonder when that feeling started to feel old and redundant.
Blu
e moves away and I follow him, whistling under my breath at the oak pews around us. They’re scratched and worn, probably by generations of children kicking their heels as the lengthy services droned on.
“These are box pews,” I mutter. “Wow! I’ve read about them but never thought I’d see them. They’re very rare.”
He smiles back at me and despite the mocking edge there’s a fondness there too. “You read about box pews? Levi, you have to get out more.”
“I can’t believe these are still here,” I say, ignoring him. “A congregation could damage them.”
“This isn’t a workable church anymore,” he says knowledgeably. “It closed its doors in the seventies when it was declared redundant. Like you said, too many churches. It stood empty for a bit and then the Churches Conservation Trust took it over. They keep churches open like this all over the country so they don’t get sold off so some rich person can put their Aga in the altar.”
I dodge a group of people clustering around a guide. “You seem to know a lot about it?”
“I should do. I volunteered here for a while.”
“You did?” I don’t know why it surprises me. I’m coming to learn that Blue is much more than sharp words and an eye to making money.
He winks. “I did. They give you free biscuits with your tea.”
“Oh, okay, that makes sense.”
He grins and punches me lightly on the arm. “I like old places,” he says, looking around the dank church as if it’s Buckingham Palace. “They’ve got character.” He comes to a stop at the side of the church. “Here it is.”
I look around. “Here what is?”
He shakes his head. “The window. Look at it.”
I stare at it. “It’s a stained-glass window,” I say cautiously, not wanting to offend him.
“Wait a minute,” he instructs me, and suddenly the sun pours through the window, bathing us and the flagstones with colour.
“So pretty,” I breathe.
Blue shakes his head. “Look at the figures.”
I look closer and then closer still. “There’s a woman’s face on a man’s body,” I say slowly. “And what looks like a griffin with chicken legs.”
He beams at me like I’m a prize student. “It’s actually Mary’s head on a bishop’s body.”
“Why is that? Was it a political commentary?”
He laughs. “Much more mundane. This window was originally in front of the altar and they took it down to move it. But once it was down they realized that they didn’t know how to put it back together, so they just did a bodge job.”
I laugh, staring at the window. “That’s brilliant.” When I turn, Blue is smiling at me. “Thank you for showing me.”
He grins. “You’re so polite. You can’t quite bring yourself to ask why I’m showing you this, can you?”
I exhale in relief. “Thank you.”
He laughs and then sobers. “I wanted you to see it because I think this is what grief is really like. After we lose someone, we’re like this window. We’re broken in pieces. Eventually we put ourselves back together, but it’s never the same as the original us. Instead, we’re a jumbled-up version with funny angles and new faces to show the world.” He turns to face the window. “Still beautiful and still whole. But just in a new way. Even if we’re a griffin with chicken legs.”
I study him, watching the rich reds and blues and greens gild his face and turn those sharp features wild and almost magical. “Thank you,” I say softly. “I needed this.”
“I know,” he says, and we stand together comfortably, neither of us quite ready to confront the subject of how close we’re now standing to each other and how he knows me better than anyone I’ve ever met after such a short time of friendship.
The next day I sit in my studio staring out of the window. It’s late afternoon and a miserable overcast day. I’m supposed to be drawing up the latest strip in my series for the magazine, but instead I’m doodling idly. I look down at the tiny figure of a blue-haired man fighting ghosts with a lively expression and a snark bubble. Not exactly idly doodling, then.
I grab a black pencil and quickly sketch a figure rising up behind the tiny Blue figure, his arms extended to grab him. A shiver runs down my spine. That is entirely too close to home, so I rub the monster out, and instead draw a ghost rattling his chains at Blue who has a sceptical expression on his tiny face. I brush my fingertip gently over the sharp features.
It’s too tender a gesture, and I shake my head and stand up to stretch, my bones creaking after sitting too long. It hasn’t been a productive day. It hasn’t been a productive week what with rushing around with Blue visiting psychic bookshop owners, having a mini breakdown, and kissing him.
I swallow hard at the thought of that kiss and fling myself onto the sofa. I can’t stop thinking about him and about how soft his lips were.
I toss my rubber-band ball up into the air and catch it. I could have him. I know without being conceited that he’s just as attracted to me as I am to him, but I can’t get his past out of my head. Nor can I forget the fact that he’s staying with me, and if I made a move, he might think that he had to reciprocate because of the roof over his head. The thought makes my balls shrivel up. And it’s this that’s given me the courage to keep everything on an even keel.
He’s like a cat, I think, throwing the ball again. At first he was scrawny, but already that’s changing with regular, healthy meals. He’s starting to look sleek, but there’s still a slight trace of feral—that hidden wildness in cats that waits for the right moment to show its face.
However, it’s his happiness and enthusiasm that gives me the strength to keep him at arm’s length. He goes off to work excitedly and comes back bubbling over with stories about what happened at the shop that day, how many customers Tom was rude to, and what he’s learnt.
Tom is good for him. They’re very alike, both of them self-sufficient and cynical, and the only thing that seems to separate their characters is their fifty-year age difference.
I like the things Tom’s told Blue to do. There’s an almost holistic approach to being psychic, it seems to me. Tom has encouraged Blue to eat properly and to start yoga and meditation for the breathing and spiritual awareness.
Blue went to a yoga class last night and came back laughing about it, but I saw the look of fascination on his face, so I know he’ll go back. I’m coming to know Blue very well.
The house has remained fairly quiet, although yesterday when we came back from the church it was to find every kitchen cupboard open and the contents strewn all over the floor. Blue looked worried, but there hasn’t been any reoccurrence of the big stuff.
I’m relieved, I tell myself as I toss the ball. Relieved and scared shitless that Blue will go if it turns out that there’s no need for him to stay anymore.
Perfume suddenly floods the air and a floorboard creaks in the corner. It happens every day, and the regularity of these “visits” keeps me from nearly shitting myself. Nothing else ever happens. Just the perfume and that strange creaking as if someone or something is standing on a loose board.
I throw the ball again. The front door slams loudly, and I miss catching the ball. It hits me in the face, and I hold my cheek. “Fuck. That bloody hurt.”
“Levi?” Blue shouts.
“In the studio,” I call out, getting up as his thundering footsteps come up the stairs. He bursts through the door, and my thoughts scatter as if I’ve tossed them over my shoulder.
“Oh my God,” I say. “When did you do that?”
He grins at me and runs a self-conscious hand over his hair. “This afternoon. Tom paid me, so I nipped to the hairdressers after work.”
I move closer almost unconsciously. “Is that your real colour?”
He nods. His hair gleams under the ceiling light. Where it was blue, it’s now a dirty-blond colour. It’s still long and shaggy, but now it’s shiny and a huge contrast with those big wolf eyes and dark eyebrows. Combine that with t
he healthy glow on his skin and the full lips and high cheekbones, and he looks edgy and cool.
My heart sinks. What on earth would this interesting and cool man want with me? I’m hardly party central.
The only thing I’ll ever be to him is a friend. My stomach twists. I should remember that.
His smile fades. “Don’t you like it?”
“Oh no,” I say quickly. “It’s lovely.” I realise my hand has drifted towards him only when I feel the silky coolness of his hair between my fingers. “Sorry,” I mutter, moving back. “I shouldn’t grab your hair like that. It’s a bit creepy.”
“No, don’t.” His hand jerks out and stops mine. “I like it,” he says huskily, coming closer.
We stay in some sort of stasis for a long moment, the room cloaking us in shadows. Me with my fingers in his hair, him looking up at me, his eyes dark. Then he moves. Grabbing the back of my skull gently, he pulls my head towards him and presses his lips against mine.
His mouth opens immediately, and he groans under his breath as I open my lips and our tongues tangle. I pull him close, feeling his lithe strength against me and inhaling the scent of shampoo that clings to him. Then I realise what I’m doing and pull back, ignoring his mutter of protest.
“No,” I gasp out, holding his wide shoulders in a loose grip and feeling the bones still too close to the skin. “We shouldn’t do this.”
He has flags of colour over those high cheekbones and his lips are full and red. At first his eyes are bleary but then they clear. “Why?” he asks baldly.
“Well, because you’re staying under my roof and I don’t want you to feel obligated to sleep with me because you’ve nowhere else to go and…” I falter at the what the fuck look on his face. “It wouldn’t be right,” I finish, and there’s more of a question than I’d like in my last statement.
He holds his hand up somewhat imperiously. “Levi, have we somehow slipped into the pages of a book written by Charlotte Bronte?”
I bite my lip. “No,” I say somewhat hesitantly.
“Then why are you acting like you should have a ruffled shirt and be holding me to your manly chest?”
My lips twitch, but I rally, thinking of how awful it would be if he did something he didn’t want to. “I just don’t want you to feel obligated. I mean, I know what you used to—”
