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‘You don’t need to say sorry to me.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s for the warmth, really.’
He looked so damn sad it was all I could do not to cry.
‘I tell you what,’ I said. ‘I could do with some fresh air. Trouble with the no-smoking rule, you can smell the actual pub, can’t you?’
‘It’s stuffy. I’m not used to being indoors anymore.’ He swayed, leaned one tentative hand on the wall.
I helped him on with Dave’s fleece jacket and picked up my bag and the cloth bag with Ian’s dirty clothes inside. He seemed to have gone ever so quickly from tipsy to plastered.
‘My nephew needs a bit of fresh air,’ I said, winking at the bouncer on the door – again, advantage of age: no one thinks you’re coming on to them. People assume you’re winking the way their favourite auntie might when agreeing to a cheeky extra slice of Viennetta. Either that or you’ve got a lash on your eyeball. ‘Don’t mind if I bring my glass out, do you? Promise I won’t drop it.’ Twenty years ago, that would have been a saucy come-on. As it was, it barely registered.
‘Sorry, love, no glasses outside.’ He smiled at me, all indulgence and respect-your-elders. Cheeky get, he was no spring chicken himself. He couldn’t have been more than five years younger than me – receding hairline, belly straining the buttons on his shirt. And his front teeth were capped. But he was a man. And as in most things, when it comes to signs of wear and tear, men are forgiven.
I turned to apologise to Ian, but he was downing the rest of his pint.
‘There,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Let’s get some air.’
I sat him down on the little wall outside. The tables there were still packed, and that worried me slightly, although no one was taking any notice of us.
A bus rumbled up Boston Avenue. Beyond, the calling darkness of the town-hall park. The shape of the knife pressed against my ribs. I had to get him over that road.
Ian said nothing. Sadness came off him in waves, as if he was wondering what the hell his life had come to, hanging out with a middle-aged woman on a Saturday night. It was lower than sleeping rough.
‘I really liked Darren,’ he slurred. ‘Didn’t love me, though, unfortch… unforshh…’
‘Unfortunately.’ I sat down next to him on the wall. ‘Not easy, is it? Loving someone who doesn’t know you love them. Especially if they’re the same sex.’
He shook his head. ‘S’hard.’
‘You want to tell them, don’t you? You want to tell them so badly but at the same time you’re afraid to. Then you’re scared they might be able to tell just by looking at you, that everyone can see it written all over you and there’s nothing you can do to hide it.’
Basically, I was just reeling off what Kieron had told me the night he came out. He was fourteen, in tears. I hugged him to me while he told me what I’d known since he was three. When he’d finished, I told him I loved him exactly the same and always would; why on earth would that make any difference? It had felt good to hear his sobbing stop, to feel him go still in my arms. We sat in silence for ages afterwards, and when I asked him if he was all right, I realised he’d fallen asleep against me. He had his ups and downs after that, but he always had me and his dad on his side, and I think that counted a lot for him growing up.
‘S’fine,’ Ian slurred.
‘Ah. The F word. Yes, we’re all fine, aren’t we? Spend your life pretending it’s all fine, but it’s not really. It hurts. Love hurts – that’s why there are so many books and poems and songs about it. Oh sweetheart, I don’t envy you, I really don’t.’
‘You’re so nice.’ A weight fell against me. It was him, his head. This young boy, this lonely, vulnerable young boy. I knew he was fighting back tears because I was too.
I put my arm around him. ‘Come on, love. Everything will be all right, I promise. I know you don’t think it will be now, but it will, trust me. And one day you’ll be old like me and someone will say, oh, don’t you wish you were young,and you’ll think, no, no I bloody don’t. Because it’s hard, being young. You can’t get forward for tripping over your own stupid mistakes. You don’t know who you are, and even if you do, you don’t know that it’s OK to be who you are and that people love you for all the things you’re busy trying to change. Happiness takes practice, but I’m here to tell you it’s OK to be who you are – do you understand what I’m saying, love? That’s where happiness starts. And it’s OK to love someone even if they don’t or can’t love you back, though it’s the hardest thing in the world. But I tell you what, one day you’ll love someone and I promise they will love you right back. They’ll love you like you deserve to be loved and you’ll feel taller than a bloody skyscraper.’
The weight left my side. He wiped his eyes. ‘Need to get back on my feet.’
‘I know you do, love. And you will, I promise.’
It was time for a walk.
‘Come on,’ I said, jumping down from the wall. ‘I want to show you something.’
His eyes opened, closed, opened. He took my hands, stood, staggered to one side. I knew then that he’d had more to drink than what he’d shown me. ‘Where we goin’?’
‘A place. A special place where I go when things are looking bleak. Come on.’ I held out my hand. He took it.
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