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‘You’ll have to manage with the hand towel,’ I said, showing him into the little staff shower room. ‘But if you look in the cupboard there, you’ll find some men’s clothes. They belong to Dave but he only keeps them for emergencies. Give me the clothes you have on when you come down and I’ll wash them for you tomorrow, then we’ll swap back on Monday. How does that sound? Dave won’t know a thing.’
He was standing there in the doorway, hands clasped in front of him. His hair was dirty blonde, thick, with a natural wave. He didn’t look like Kieron but he reminded me of him. Same build, perhaps. Same gentle way about him. Trusting.
‘I can’t take someone else’s clothes,’ he said.
‘You can. I said you can. I can handle Dave, don’t worry. I’ll wash the towel an’ all. Dave won’t know a thing – he’s not in till Monday afternoon.’ I smiled to show I meant it, but he still faltered. ‘Go on. I’ll warm us up a couple of steak pies, how does that sound? There’s some frozen oven chips knocking about and I’m sure Bill the chef left a baguette out and some cheese.’
Finally, smiling all the while, he went through and closed the door. As I made my way back down the stairs, I heard the shower run and imagined how good that must feel, to have the lovely clean warm water run over you when you were filthy and cold.
At the foot of the stairs, I stopped. He was singing a song I recognised though I couldn’t remember the words. He sang in tune; his voice was sweet. I had no idea where all this was leading. I’d acted on instinct and now here I was with a homeless boy in my work bathroom.
I put a steak pie in the microwave and shoved a tray of chips in the oven, which was still warm from a late order. While I waited, I cut a big chunk of baguette and made up a cheese and pickle sandwich, plenty of butter. I thought I could maybe put together a bag of supplies to tide him over. Until when, I didn’t know, although Kieron’s room was hovering at the edges of my mind.
The door upstairs opened – I heard the squeak of the hinge. Footsteps on the stairs and then Ian appeared in the doorway looking – and, I was sure, feeling – cleaner than anyone had ever felt. He looked a lot younger too. I’d put him in his twenties, but now he looked like a kid, possibly late teens. His face was pinker, his hair thinner, lighter with the dirt washed out.
‘I used a bit of that deodorant spray,’ he said, apology in his tone. ‘I hope that’s OK.’
‘I tell you what,’ I said, laughing a bit, ‘those clothes look a damned sight better on you than on Dave. Dave’s got a right gut on him.’
He looked down, patted his non-existent stomach. ‘Not much danger of a gut at the moment.’
I told him to go and sit at the bar and followed him out into the main lounge.
‘Drink?’
‘Are you sure?’
I raised my eyebrows at him. ‘You’re eighteen, yes?’
‘Nineteen actually,’ he said. ‘Would it be OK to get a pint of Stella?’
‘Coming up. What’s your full name, by the way?’
‘Ian Brown. You know, like the singer from the Stone Roses? My parents were massive Stone Roses fans.’
‘Oh, I used to love them. I went to see them at Spike Island back in the day.’
‘No way! My parents went to that gig!’
‘So if you’re our Katie’s age, you must have been born, what, 2000?’
A nod and another smile – how generous he was with them, like he knew they cost nothing to give. I put his pie and chips in front of him and he ate greedily, closing his eyes to the first mouthful of food. While he wolfed it down, he told me his tale. There wasn’t much in the way of surprises, to be honest. It certainly came as no surprise to learn that after his parents had split up, he’d run into problems with what sounded like a string of boyfriends his mother had welcomed a bit hastily into the family home. The last one had proved final.
‘I had to get out of there,’ he said. ‘Slept on a mate’s sofa for a bit but I couldn’t stay there forever. Things went OK, did a bit of building work cash in hand, found a room in a house, but I got into weed and next thing I couldn’t afford the rent. It all went tits up basically. My own fault.’
‘How will you turn yourself around?’
He shrugged. ‘Not everyone’s as kind as you. People don’t see me. It’s like I’m—’
‘Invisible.’
He looked right at me. Something passed between us.
‘Exactly,’ he said.
He should be out with his friends, I thought, watching him eat first his meal, then the rest of mine. He was all alone, half dead from hunger, cold, loneliness. I thought back to Katie’s party, and to the last time I’d been in a pub with Kieron, the night we dropped him at uni. I remembered the deafening noise, how the kids had all stood in groups, how they’d all been checking their phones every five minutes. I could remember thinking that no one really spent time with one another anymore. I said as much to Kieron. These kids were talking to friends who weren’t there while the ones thatwerethere were talking to other friends who weren’t there either. They were living in a to-be-confirmed future and a photo-captioned past while the present and all it offered eluded them entirely. Now, I thought about those kids and realised they were all just like me: looking for connection elsewhere. Misplacing their love. If anger turned to misplaced hate, I thought then, so loneliness turned to this, this misplaced love.
I stood up to clear the plates. ‘Tell you what we’re going to do.’
