Lenny blanched, and with a dose of stomach-churning horror, Nero knew it was true.
“Fuck.” He swallowed and imagined the terror he’d seen so often in Lenny’s hypnotic gaze. “How bad?”
“Bad enough to drive me from Croydon to Camden, to squatting on your couch like a sparkly hobo.” Again, there was no humour in Lenny’s bleak tone. He looked down at his hands and twisted his fingers in a cruel tangle. “He’s everywhere, Nero. He’ll find me soon enough. He always does.”
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long has this been going on?”
“A year, give or take. The worst of it started last summer when I was working at Shades in Brent Cross.”
Nero nodded. The gay dance club was—thanks to some rowdy staff parties—one he knew reasonably well. “I’ve been there a few times. You worked the bar?”
“Nah, I was a podium dancer.”
Nero pictured the colourful dancers who lit up that particular club with their wild routines and flamboyant clothes—or lack of clothes, depending on the dancer—and tried to marry them with the Lenny who had pushed himself so hard against the brick wall behind him that he had to be scraping skin off his spine. It was tough, but Nero’s gut told him there was far more to Lenny than he’d seen so far. “Keep talking.”
Lenny crumbled a half-eaten custard tart between his fingers, showering the fire escape with pastry flakes. “I don’t know where to start, really. I guess it should be the first time I saw him, but that feels weird because it was a while after that before I realised something was wrong.”
“Has he hurt you?” Nero’s palms itched, his heart, as ever, making a bid to escape through his broken hands.
Lenny shook his head. “He’s never touched me, never got close enough, but that makes it worse. I can’t explain it, but I’d honestly rather he kicked the shit out of me than lurked in the shadows.”
The logic made an odd kind of sense to Nero. How often had he wished his finger was still attached to its stump so he could twist it off all over again? “So he harassed you at the club?”
“Yeah, in the beginning . . . little things like buying me drinks and waiting outside for me after work. It was nothing I couldn’t handle, but then I started seeing him other places too, like the shop by my flat, the pub, even the lobby of my building. I thought that we just lived in the same place, but then the letters came.”
“Letters?”
Lenny nodded. “Yup, full-on clichéd newspaper clippings at first, like some dodgy remake of The Bodyguard, then he got bolder and used his own hand, which was worse, you know? It felt more personal and invasive, and it didn’t matter what he’d written.”
Nero brushed the pastry crumbs from Lenny’s hands. Conscious, rational thought told him to leave it at that, but he wove his fingers between Lenny’s, twining them together. “What did he write?”
“All the things you’d expect . . . that he loved me and he wanted to be with me, and then later, when I started dodging him, that he wanted to cook me and eat my bones.”
“Jesus.” Nero swallowed. “And the coppers did nothing?”
Lenny shrugged. “They said they couldn’t, and I didn’t even go to them until just before I came here. I figured if I moved around enough, it would go away on its own. Stupid, eh?”
“Dunno about that. I gotta penchant for sticking my head in the sand.”
Lenny said nothing, his gaze fixed on his fingers so tightly tangled with Nero’s. He curled his ring finger around the stump. “Does this hurt?”
“No.”
“Really? I read a study on amputations that said the site of a missing limb or appendage can give lifelong pain.”
“It wasn’t amputated.”
More silence. Lenny sucked in a shaky breath, but didn’t release Nero’s hand. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“My shitty diplomacy.”
Nero forced himself to pull his hands away from Lenny. “I ain’t that diplomatic myself. So are you gonna finish your tale of woe or what?”
Lenny’s eyes glittered darkly. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Would it help?”
“Maybe. I can’t cry over it anymore, so we may as well laugh, but there isn’t much to add to my ‘tale of woe’ as you called it, nothing tangible, at least.”
“Go on, then,” Nero prompted. “How did you end up here?”
Lenny shrugged. “I sofa surfed until I wound up in Camden, and it stopped for a while. Then a couple of dubious profiles followed me on Twitter and Facebook, so I deleted my accounts. A few weeks later he started showing up outside Misfits, and in the block of flats opposite mine, staring through my bedroom window, leaving bags of chips on my doorstep, all kinds of weird shit. One time it was a dead rat, so I freaked out, decided to go the police on my day off, but the fucker must’ve read my mind because the very next morning the letters he’d sent me disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yeah. I used to leave my door open when I took the rubbish down to the bin. He must’ve slipped in and taken them.”
“Did you tell the coppers that?”
“I tried.”
Nero frowned. The old bill were his nemesis, but Lenny was the innocent here, the victim. Surely there was something—
Lenny tapped Nero’s temple. “Don’t frown like that. You’ll give yourself a migraine.”
“Don’t give a shit.”
“Suit yourself. Where was I?”
“At the part where that creep got into your flat.”
Lenny nodded slowly. “That fucked me up, more than him telling everyone at the club he was my boyfriend. I could quit the club and move on, and I did, but knowing he’d been in my place made my skin crawl. I went to the police, even though I had no evidence, but they pretty much gave me some leaflets and—”
“Told you to jog on?”
Lenny’s lips twitched. “I wasn’t going to be so polite, but yeah. It was harsh, and I lost my shit, especially when he turned up at Misfits the same day. I saw him out back and then the barman handed me an envelope with my own fucking toenail clipping inside. I was so done, I swear. If Cass hadn’t turned up . . .”
Nero didn’t need the end of that sentence to understand. “Cass is good like that, eh? Saved me from a meltdown or two.”
“Yeah?” Lenny cocked his head to one side. “You don’t strike me as the hysterical type.”
“Define hysteria. I break stuff. Hurt people. Cass finds me a reason not to.”
Lenny said nothing, and Nero had nothing left either. He tipped his head back and stared up at the sky as he lit a fag. Lenny’s story made him sick to his stomach, but merged with the horror came relief. Lenny’s terrors and fears were real, but knowing where they came from meant the source could be chased down and obliterated. “Do you know his name?”
“He told a couple of people it was Gareth. Don’t know if it’s his real name, though.”
“Has he been here?”
“Not that I know of. Cass brought me here because the signs don’t have the Urban Soul logos on. Reckoned it would take longer to track me down if I stayed indoors enough. I don’t know what my long-term plans are, though. I can’t kip on your couch forever.”
“It ain’t my couch.” Nero stubbed out his smoke and fought the urge to light another, unwilling to admit, even to himself—especially to himself—how much he would miss Lenny if he left. “But you can stay as long as you like. Told you already: ain’t no one gonna hurt you here.”
“I believe you, but I can’t stay indoors forever, Nero. I’m losing my mind.”
The anguish in Lenny’s voice didn’t get easier to bear. Nero slipped his arm around Lenny with little conscious thought and pulled him close. In return, Lenny tipped his head and rested it on Nero’s shoulder, and for a protracted moment that was equal parts bleak and blissful, silence enveloped them, dulling the city below to a low roar. Nero had no answers for Lenny, no
comfort or wisdom, and Lenny didn’t seem to want any. Perhaps sharing his secret was enough, at least for now.
“Nero?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you going to kiss me again?”
It was the last thing Nero had expected Lenny to say, but he went with it, stretched his legs out in front of him, and lit another fag. “Ask me tomorrow.”
“When did you last take a Sunday off?”
Nero cast an irritated glance over his shoulder. “What?”
“Sundays,” Steph repeated. “Cass told me not to let you work every hour under the sun.”
“Yeah? Well he didn’t tell me shit.” Nero wiped the rim of the three millionth plate of roast beef to cross his path that day and banged the counter for service. “And it ain’t your concern anyway. Kitchen rotas are mine.”
“I know. I’m just reminding you to take a break. You and Lenny have worked every day this week, which is great for Lenny because he’s paid by the hour, but you’re basically working for free right now.”
“So?” Nero turned away from Lenny’s questioning stare beside him. It had been a week or so since he’d learned the reason Lenny had wound up camped in his living room, and Nero had yet to come to terms with it. He clenched his fists, picturing the terror in Lenny’s eyes every time the outside world edged a little too close, feeling it, breathing it in like it was his own. A fucking stalker? Damn. Nero had seen some nasty shit, but this was brand-new.
“Nero . . .”
Fucking Steph. Nero supressed a sigh. His Urban Soul contract had the same forty-eight-hour clause as everyone else’s, but it wasn’t unusual for him to pull half as much again in a normal week. Never had been. “Is there a point to this?”
“Not really. I want you out of here by five, though, or I’m calling Cass.”
Steph disappeared back into the chaos of Sunday service. Perplexed, Nero watched her go but, with orders crawling out of his arse, had no time to dwell on her words until five o’clock rolled around and she came back with a face even Nero knew not to mess with.
“Out.”
Nero downed tools and pointed at Lenny. “I’m taking him too.”
Steph smirked. Nero spared her a glare before handing the kitchen to Debs. With that done, he went to the office, resisting the urge to follow Lenny, who’d gone straight to the staff room to change.
He sat at the computer and logged in to the company hub, clocking his hours and recording his wastage notes from the busy lunch service. Sunday evenings were typically the quietest shift of the weekend, but the less admin he left for Debs, the better.
It was gone six when he made it upstairs, and by then, Lenny was already stretched out on the couch, looking for all the world like he was out for the count.
Nero left him to it and took a shower, washing the day’s sweat and grime away, but he didn’t linger long, and on his way to the bedroom, couldn’t fight the compulsion to check Lenny was still safe on the couch.
He threw a pair of ratty trackies on and went to the window, scanning the building opposite and street below for anything untoward—spying eyes, strange faces—but nothing stood out. With a heavy sigh, he dropped the blinds, shutting out the evening sun. It left the bedroom dark and gloomy, but Nero didn’t mind; it suited his mood. A rare Sunday night off usually meant a solitary trip to a pub in Bethnal Green, the only place near his old stomping ground he could bear to go, but the call home was absent tonight, replaced by the restless need to watch over Lenny.
With little conscious thought, he drifted to the living room. Lenny’s eyes were closed, but he clearly wasn’t asleep—he was too still, his breathing too even. Besides, the slight frown pulling his groomed brows together gave him away. Nero slouched on the arm of the couch and shook Lenny’s foot. “Are you hungry?”
Lenny opened his eyes, his frown deepening to a scowl that made him look like a stroppy teenager. “No, I’m not bloody hungry. I’m sick of food. If I see one more roast potato today, I’ll fucking shoot myself.”
Nero laughed, even though Lenny’s obvious exhaustion troubled him. “Wait till you’ve worked every Sunday for a year, then tell me you’re sick of roast spuds.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just pass me a tabard and I’ll off myself right now.”
“A tabard?”
“And a hairnet. I’ve felt like a glorified dinner lady all day.”
“Not tomorrow, though, eh? Ain’t neither of us working.”
“Brilliant.” Lenny sat up and swiped his fags from the coffee table. Nero followed him to the fire escape, stepped around him, and lit his own smoke before regarding Lenny, who had stopped in the doorway to glance over the city in much the same way Nero had in the bedroom. I wish I knew who he was looking for . . .
Nero left the thought unfinished as Lenny finally stepped outside. No one was getting to Lenny through him, but Nero couldn’t always be around. Sooner or later, Lenny needed a new plan—a plan that didn’t involve counting on the fire escape for his vitamin D.
They smoked in silence. Lenny seemed lost in thought, and Nero was content to let him be. It had been a long day, and as much as it pained him to admit it, Steph had done him a favour by calling time on his working week. Distraction had its limits, and right now Nero could contemplate little more than guarding Lenny and stumbling into his bed. Shame he couldn’t think of a way to do both.
“You’re fucking impossible, you know that?”
Nero blinked. “Where did that come from?”
“Where do you think? You’re so bloody inscrutable I can’t think straight.” Lenny stubbed his cigarette out on the wall like it had killed his dog, and stormed back inside, slamming the door behind him.
Nero would’ve been less confused if Lenny had punched him in the face. He stared after him, piecing together the last few hours they’d spent together, searching for anything he might’ve done to piss Lenny off. But he found nothing in a day that had been spent mostly in a haze of Yorkshire puddings and fatigue. And what the fuck does inscrutable mean anyway?
Pride kept him from googling it. He finished his smoke and flicked the butt into the ashtray. Common sense told him to give Lenny some space to cool down, but the masochist in him opened the door and followed Lenny to the bathroom.
Lenny was perched on the edge of the bath, painting his toenails a startling shade of pink. He didn’t look up, even when Nero turned the light on.
“Can’t do that in the dark, eh?”
“Says who?” Lenny swapped feet. “Been doing it since I was twelve.”
Nero stored that snippet of information away for later. “Are you going to tell me what I’ve done to piss you off so much?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause you don’t get it.”
“Don’t mean you shouldn’t tell me. I might surprise you.”
Lenny snorted. “You do surprise me, every day. Doesn’t mean Clapham Junction exploding in my tiny brain will make any sense to you— Shit.”
Pink polish stained Lenny’s big toe. He swiped at it with cotton wool, hands trembling. Nero stepped forward and pried the brush from his stiff fingers. “You done with this foot?”
“It all needs a second coat.”
Nero sat on the closed toilet. “Give me your other foot.”
Lenny deposited his other foot into Nero’s lap with a heavy sigh. “Are you always this evasive?”
“You’re the one who won’t tell me what the problem is.”
“I did tell you what the problem was—a fucking week ago. You’ve hardly spoken to me since.”
Nero applied a dubious layer of nail polish to Lenny’s toe. “Bollocks. We talk every day.”
“Not about anything that matters. First thing you said to me this morning was about bloody fish.”
“What did you want me to say?” Nero painted the next nail. “You’re gonna have to help me here. I ain’t much of a talker at the best of times. Let alone when I got someone jumping in my face abou
t shit.”
“That’s what you think I’m doing?”
“I don’t know what you’re doing, or what you want from me. I just know I can’t handle you being so pissed off.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I like your smile,” Nero said almost absently.
“Fuck’s sake!” Lenny wrenched his foot away with a groan. “This is why I bloody hate you. How can you say stuff like that when you won’t let me see a fraction of what’s really going on?”
“I haven’t got a fucking clue what you’re on about.”
“And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Lenny stood and hobbled to the door on his heels. “You kiss me, you let me sleep in your bed, you pry my darkest secrets from me, but you won’t talk to me. What the actual fuck, Nero? Don’t you think I’m crazy enough without you screwing with me?”
“Screwing with you?” Nero stood too, though the slightly crazed glint in Lenny’s eyes warned him to stay still. “It ain’t me stalking you, mate.”
“This isn’t about that! I’m not about that, goddamn it.” Lenny’s shout rang out in the quiet flat.
His anger reverberated through Nero’s bones, but he welcomed it, though it was slowly dawning on him what Lenny was asking him for. “I know what brought you here doesn’t define you. Apart from wanting to deck the bloke, it don’t mean nothing to me.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No. You mean something to me. Not the cunt who’s been chasing you around London.”
Lenny shook his head. For a terrifying moment his eyes shone too bright for Nero to bear, then he sucked in a deep breath and seemed to steel himself. “You probably think I’m a fucking lunatic, but can I ask you one thing before I stick my head under a cushion and pretend this day never happened?”
Nero shrugged, knowing Lenny would ask him anyway.
“Do you know who I am?”
“What?”
“Consider it, Nero. Put aside the fact that I haven’t seen daylight for a month, and really think about it. Do you know who I am?”
By Lenny’s expression, Nero reckoned any response would likely be wrong, but he nodded anyway. He had much to learn, but the frighteningly beautiful man in front of him was far from a stranger. He had to be, or Nero’s heart was as crippled as his soul. “I know who you are.”
Strays Page 9
