Blue Jay

by A Zukowski

  customers.

  “Hey, what would you like? They have ten

  different sorts of bagels. Look!” Chris sounds like

  he’s thirteen and just discovered a treasure cave.

  Alex has to smile at Chris’s enthusiasm, but he

  doesn’t want bagels. He surveys the sweet treats.

  When he was training, he had to be extremely

  careful with his diet. The occasional buns were fine

  since they all burnt up in the hard work. Now that

  he’s not boxing, he wants to indulge instead of

  counting his calories and worrying about his body

  shape.

  “Hmm, I’ll have an iced finger.”

  Chris gives him an eye-roll and hollers to the

  young staff behind the counter, his voice carrying

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  above the bustle of the bakery. “Can I have two

  onion bagels and two sesame seeds, and may I have

  cream cheese in one of the onion ones? And an iced

  bun, please. Thank you.”

  When Chris detaches his hand from Alex’s so he

  can pay, Alex misses the warmth and the connection

  straight away.

  They wind their way outside again. Chris gives

  Alex his iced finger and takes out his cream-cheese

  bagel and bites into it. He chews and swallows with

  glee.

  As they resume their walk, Chris glances at Alex

  and his bun. “Yuck!”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Alex speaks with his

  mouth full of sweet dough.

  “Mum used to feed me them. She said it was good

  for my figure. I swore never to have them again.”

  “How’s this good for your figure, though?” Alex

  devours the bun in three mouthfuls.

  Chris rolls his eyes again. “If you don’t eat

  anything else, that is.”

  Chris shares Alex’s experience of always thinking

  about food and what’s allowed or not. Their

  appearance suggests a certain polarity, but they

  have a lot in common and Alex is happy about the

  discovery.

  “Well, I’ll never eat another iced bun in front of

  you. I promise.” Alex holds up two fingers like a

  pledge.

  Chris giggles. “You don’t have to do that. As long

  as you don’t make me eat it, I don’t care!”

  As they walk along, Alex wishes Chris would hold

  his hand again, but he doesn’t. Chris marches

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  through the edge of the large public park and onto

  the footpath that was a railway track.

  “This used to be the train line to Crouch End,” he

  tells Alex as if giving information to a tourist.

  Alex stayed in London when he trained here, in

  between going to his Essex home and Sam, but

  they’d put him in soulless serviced apartments and

  hotels, usually in Central London. The only things

  to do were watching TV and porn in the room,

  which Alex didn’t care for. He couldn’t go out and

  get pissed if he was training, and he was too famous

  to wander around by himself too much. Alex’s

  training days were nothing but hard work and

  otherwise full of unfeeling, faceless encounters that

  left him cold. Remembering those days fuels his

  guilt like a burning fire inside of him.

  “Alex?” The way Chris says it sounds like he’s

  been calling out to him for a while.

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You look like you zoned out for a

  moment.” Chris hooks his arm around Alex’s and

  walks along as if they are a couple, making Alex feel

  content and relaxed. The sun is low now, leaving the

  late-afternoon air cool. They meet fewer and fewer

  people on the way. All Alex can hear is the

  crunching of fallen leaves underfoot and the distant

  hum of traffic. Along the disused railroad, a scent of

  musky decay fills the air, which he finds oddly

  soothing.

  A couple of graffiti artists are already out tagging

  under one of the railway bridges, and Alex and

  Chris stop to watch one of them. After a few

  minutes, she turns and smiles at Chris. “Hey.”

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  “Hi. How’s it going?” Chris replies.

  Her eyes run past Alex and focus on Chris again.

  “Wanna have a go?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He approaches.

  The artist has drawn letters with black lines. She

  holds out a can of silver paint to Chris. “You can fill

  that letter out with this if you want.”

  Chris takes the paint, and the two of them work

  together for ten minutes or so. The heady chemical

  smell surrounds them. Chris fills out a letter under

  the artist’s instruction and converses with her along

  the way as Alex watches from the sidelines.

  When they’re done, Chris says, “Thanks so much

  for letting me do that.”

  The young woman smiles. “You’re welcome.

  Thank you for doing a good job. You’d better go

  back to your man.”

  In the approaching dusk, Alex may have imagined

  Chris blushing.

  “Oh, my friend…yes.” Chris glances at Alex, then

  runs back to him. His genuine joy reminds Alex of a

  time of innocence. Chris’s broad grin is so bright it

  helps Alex to focus on the here-and-now, though.

  “That was such fun!” He winds his arm around

  Alex again and they walk on.

  “Do you know her?” Alex asks.

  Chris shrugs. “Sort of. I’ve seen her around a few

  times, and we’ve chatted. We don’t know much

  about each other—not even names.”

  Chris relates to people easily, perhaps as a result

  of his job, and Alex wonders if he’s reading too

  much into their budding friendship. Chris’s

  friendliness towards a new flatmate doesn’t mean

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  he’s interested in him. Why would the drop-dead

  gorgeous Chris want me, with my broken nose and

  complete lack of tact?

  They have walked half a mile or so along the

  disused railway line when Chris stops.

  “There you go. My favourite thing in the whole of

  North London.” He presents a lichen-covered wall

  to Alex with a flourish and a playful tilt of his lips.

  “Huh?” Alex looks around and can’t see anything

  other than the disused track and overgrown banks.

  Chris tightens his grip and tugs his arm a couple

  of times. “Look up!”

  Alex does. Under the rail arch, peering out from

  above, is a gargoyle, observing them with a

  mischievous grin. Its arms are outstretched as if to

  support itself on the wall, its only leg perched high.

  It’s covered in moss that issues a mysterious green

  hue. In an instant, the magical atmosphere envelops

  them in a timeless and eerie fashion.

  All sounds stop in a dramatic moment.

  “Wow!” Alex marvels.

  “I call him the green man. Very original.” Chris

  laughs.

  Alex wants to capture Chris’s laughter and put it

  in a can. When he feels blue, he can open it a little,

  like a music box.

  They stand there
, admiring the strange sculpture

  and sharing a fairy-tale moment. Chris nudges Alex,

  who reluctantly tears his eyes away from the statue

  and refocuses on Chris’s dreamy face. Chris glances

  away as if he’s too shy because of Alex’s interests.

  When they start walking again, Alex asks, “So,

  you come here often, Chris?”

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  “Cheesy chat-up line.” Chris pushes him. “You

  can walk all the way to Highgate Woods, then Ally

  Pally, but it’s too late today. It’ll be dark soon. Let

  me take you to the cemetery in Highgate another

  time.”

  The joy in Chris’s voice is infectious, so Alex

  giggles. “Okay, if you say so.”

  “Lots of famous people are buried there. It’s one

  of my favourite London places.” Chris takes out his

  phone. “Type in Highgate Cemetery and famous

  boxer.” He hands the mobile over.

  Alex does and gives Chris the search results.

  He squints to read the text slowly, the faint

  backlight illuminating his face. “See? Tom Sayers,

  famous boxer. Did you know him?”

  “Who?” Alex raises his eyebrow and grabs Chris’s

  hand to read the screen. “He died in 1865! Did I

  know him…” Alex can’t help but chuckle at Chris

  while their faces are close, hovering above the small

  text.

  Chris loads the Wiki page on Sayers and strains to

  read. “Look. He was only a small guy…bare…”

  Alex helps out. “Bare-knuckle prize fighter. He

  was a national hero…who won the first world

  championship. Okay. I’ll be sure to check the little

  guy out when you take me to the cemetery.” Alex’s

  shoulders go up and down as he tries to suppress

  his laughter. Chris joins him.

  After another few minutes, they come to the

  platforms of the old Crouch End station.

  Chris stops. “Well, we’d better head back.”

  Dusk has fully descended, so they turn around.

  Alex almost deflates with the end of their stroll.

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  Chris brings out a small torch.

  “You’re prepared,” Alex observes.

  Chris shrugs. “I’ve done this a lot.”

  Alex gazes at Chris’s profile. “Thank you.”

  He doesn’t only mean the walk. He’s grateful to

  Chris for making him laugh, for allowing him to

  forget what a sorry state he lives in and the pressure

  from his family.

  “You’re welcome.” Chris squeezes Alex’s arm as

  though he understands.

  ~~~

  Alex arrives at work—a drab and soulless modern

  building in Islington. He has been covering the late

  shift from eleven to six. Mike, his boss, is packing

  up to leave, so he must have swapped shifts with

  someone since the manager rarely works late.

  “Whale. Evenin’.” He looks behind Alex as if he’s

  expecting someone else. “Where’re the paps?”

  Alex wishes he could deck the guy like an

  opponent in the ring. Mike’s been doing the same

  joke every time he sees Alex, but there’s no point

  rising to the bait. Alex takes a deep breath. “Just

  me, Mike.”

  Mike puts a pile of papers away and locks them in

  the metal cabinet. As he passes Alex, he instructs

  him, “The control room’s a bit messy. Would you

  mind cleaning it up, ready for the daytime crew?

  And the toilets are a bit, you know, unsanitary.”

  “Yes?” I am not a fucking janitor. Alex hopes

  Mike isn’t serious about the staff bathroom and

  scowls as a kind of threat.

  Ignoring Alex’s displeasure, Mike crosses his

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  arms. He’s not a tall man, but he’s muscular and

  tattooed, and he’s likely been in security for a long

  time—one of those bouncer-turned-manager types

  who enjoys his ego-games far too much. “Well, the

  cleaner is off on holiday for a week. We have to

  muck in.”

  Then why didn’t you fucking do it?

  “Fine.” Alex’s reluctance drips off him.

  His line manager shoots another look his way and

  bids goodbye. Mike’s enjoying his power trip, and

  Alex has to give it to him. He can only escape this

  drudgery by getting a better job, and he promises

  himself he will do it soon.

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  CHAPTER 6

  BOXED

  CHRIS STEPS INTO the flat to face a hell of a shock.

  Their mother and Alex share the sofa. She clings

  onto Alex, pretty much sitting on his lap and

  smiling like an infatuated teenage fan, gazing at the

  boxer with her big blue eyes.

  Chris prises her away from Alex’s arm and face as

  though they are unsticking chewing gum from the

  furniture. “What the fuck are you doing here,

  Annette?”

  She looks up, but her eyes are glazed. Shit.

  Annette is in her early fifties. Chris looks like her, a

  fact that hits them every time they lay eyes on their

  own mother because Chris doesn’t want to end up

  like her in twenty years’ time. Her hair appears

  artificially ironed to a peak at the top and reminds

  Chris of a pile of dry straw. She has been crying, so

  her dark eye make-up has smeared. With the rather

  thick blusher and bright orangey-pink lipstick, she

  looks like a Barbie wannabe, trying to reach some

  kind of impossible beauty standard. Annette was

  once a beautiful young woman, and Chris has seen

  plenty of evidence in photographs and videos, but

  today their chest tightens watching her.

  Chris grabs hold of her arms and tries to drag her

  up. “It’s two in the fucking morning. Move.”

  Chris is embarrassed to let Alex see their family

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  like this—their sorry excuse of a mother. They’ve

  stuck with her all these years, even though they

  were the one earning money a lot of the time when

  they were growing up and should have been

  studying and being a kid. Chris never complained,

  though, not about the work, cooking and, later on,

  paying the damn bills in case Annette had forgotten.

  All Annette wanted was to find boyfriends or

  husbands who would take care of her and her child.

  Three times she’d married, and they’d all failed her

  and left. The bastards. Why would anyone want to

  be their meal ticket? At six years old, Chris learned

  they needed to rely on themself, and that is what

  they have done for twenty years. The young Chris

  never believed in fairy tales when the reality had

  always been grim.

  Chris doesn’t know any alternative ways to make

  a living, and when it comes down to it, they are used

  to having sex with strangers. Most of the time.

  Clearly, Annette’s latest conquest hasn’t worked

  out. Now, that’s a surprise.

  Alex shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, making a

  crinkly noise. Chris can see the pink lipstick marks

  on his cheek and neck like a child has been let loose

  w
ith a crayon on his person.

  Annette struggles against Chris’s grip and falls

  into the space between the coffee table and the sofa

  in a heap. “Oh, give us a hug and a kiss, Chris. I

  haven’t seen you in ages.”

  The longer the better. Chris puts money in her

  bank account every month. Not much—five

  hundred. Two fucks. They sometimes wonder why

  they’re still doing it and when this life as they know

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  it will ever stop. Do other people’s parents grow up?

  “I didn’t know you lived with Alex Whale!” Trust

  her to recognise Alex and know the celebrity gossip.

  She tries to stand up and reaches for the arm of the

  sofa for support.

  “Mrs…” Alex stretches his arms to support

  Annette.

  Alex helps Annette up, and as soon as he’s done

  that, she clings on to his strong arms again. Chris

  takes a good look at her now. She’s still in one

  stiletto, and the dress is so short and small it almost

  reveals her arse. Most of her breasts are visible

  under the flimsy red straps that are barely holding

  them up. Around her chest and neck, the skin has

  sagged so grooves gather, and her tan clearly comes

  from under the lamp rather than the natural sun.

  Even from a couple of feet away, Chris can smell

  the alcohol. They want to scream at her, but their

  anger bubbles and fizzles, as always. Twenty-odd

  years of rage turns into resignation. They had tears,

  wondering if it’d been their fault, if they’d deserved

  a childhood like theirs. After a while, the exploited

  and ignored child was all out of tears.

  Chris scowls at Annette, clenches their jaw and

  prises her away from Alex again. “Time to go home.

  Now!”

  Annette’s pupils dilate like a cat entering a dark

  room. “Oh, you see. I’m scared. Jimmy thinks I’ve

  got a job on, and he’s jealous. He chucked me out

  this afternoon. I can’t go back there until he’s

  calmed down.”

  Chris fails to keep up with Annette’s boyfriends,

  and they don’t want to. One thing they’re sure

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  about: Annette has no job on. She probably hasn’t

  had one for fifteen years, even though she fails to

  recognise that the career of a porn actress and adult

  model is extremely short. Their mother is delusional

  when she’s drunk or high…or both.

  “No. No.” Chris starts to drag her away from Alex

  again. Their eyes meet above Annette’s head, and an

  acknowledgement flickers between them. Annette is