Seconds and minutes - A Novel by R.J.O'Shea

Seconds and Minutes

‘They all had such lovely hair’ I part the blind with my fingers. Light pours in. The woman from the organic store is shouting at delivery men. They’ve dropped something, maybe a box of vegetarian jerky, or ginger beer. Music streams from my speakers, going in one ear and out the other. My door is open; but I know the lads are all out. It’s half ten. I lie down, trying hard to listen to the music, trying to block out the news. Wish I’d sacked off the appointment, wish I’d taken Sedge’s offer of a lift to campus. I stare at the plain wall above, and every now and then at the appointment card in my hand. This wasn’t in my plan for the year. Then, nothing about this summer has gone to plan. My wallet is sprawled open on the desk. I can see the eighteen year old on my student card. There’s a scrap of paper next to it, an ad for a t-shirt company in London. They’ll print anything you want, for thirty two pounds per shirt. Seems a rip off to me. There’s a young man with long, brown hair, wearing one of the t-shirts. It reads: ‘They all had such lovely hair’. I wonder where that comes from. The picture is black and white; but I can tell his hair’s brown. Where did I get that ad? Why can’t I remember anything before this morning? I get up, sit at the desk and stare at the ad, for ages, focussing on it till it’s like I’m looking through the desk. ‘They all had such lovely hair.’ I hide the appointment card underneath it. I move from the chair, to the bed, to the window, to the bed again, then the floor next to my cupboard, where I twist a Rubik’s cube for ten minutes. I got it last year, at a

careers' fair. I’d only gone for the free stuff. I got lots of sweets but I gave them all to India. My fingers, grappling, tightening around the squares as I try to get a hold on the news. They start to shake. My whole body, starts to shake. The silence is interrupted by a text message, which makes me jump. It’s Sedge.

‘You on campus, mate? Dirty Duck? Looks alright. Let me know.’ It’s the new pub on campus. I leave the flat. Walking down the stairs, I turn towards the chemists. I don’t know why. There’s an anti smoking ad in the window. I’m panicking. I find my baccy. I stoop against the wall. My fingers are shaking so much I can barely roll. I smoke quickly. I smoke down to the butt, before walking into the chemists. ‘Can I help you, love?’ says a yellow toothed assistant. There is something about her that should be comforting; but it isn’t. ‘No. I’m just looking.’ I know it sounds odd. No one just looks in chemists. I hope she doesn’t think I’m a junkie. I look through the shelves, at nothing. ‘Are you ok?’ asks another assistant. ‘Yes, thank you.’ I glance over at the condoms, and walk out. I can’t face the empty flat. And if the boys come home, I can’t face that either. I go to the park. I cross the blue bridge over the river. My thudding footsteps make a toddler laugh. His mother pulls him close. I walk into the park. I’ve always liked the

park but now I walk, aimlessly, erratically. I stand by the bank for what must be closer to an hour than half. I stand, wanting to scream but too numbed to do so. HIV. How could it be HIV? My breathing gets heavy. I take off my coat. Then I am cold. I put it back on but then I sweat. I leave it on. I look out to the river, holding the green bars between the grass and water. Some teens sit nearby, so I walk away. It’s not possible. It’s a mistake. I have a missed call from Sedge. He rings again but I don’t answer. I see people in my year nearby. They’re acquaintances. They will say hello, I have to run out of the park. I walk down the backstreets, walking, walking walking. I do this for hours but eventually, I need voices. I go to see the boys. We’ve just moved back for Third Year. Our flat’s on the second and third floors. The bottom floor has all our bedrooms and a little bathroom next to Stan’s room, with no windows. We’ve already learned that it sets the fire alarm off if you forget to put on the extractor. As you walk upstairs to the living room, there’s a second bathroom, all modern, with a skylight. There’s a power shower, which I think’s fucking awesome, because our shower last year was shite, and Dad’s been promising Mum for years we’ll get one but he’s never got round to it. The living room’s huge, with two skylights either side, and a big glass dining table the landlord shouldn’t have left in our care. At the end there is a door leading to a tiny kitchen, which is already in a state. Buggy, Sedge and Stan are in the living room. Stan sits on the couch nearest the door. Sedge sits on top of the middle couch, legs wide apart, cocky like. Buggy is beside him, sitting down properly. They’re watching Countdown.

‘Alright, mate,’ says Sedge, in his strong, Souse accent. No illusions though, Sedge is a proper private school boy. His Dad’s dad set up an industrial paints company years back and they’re minted. But he’s not a cock about it. His clothing speaks of his desire to hide his roots, well, to a point. Unless we’re going out proper, he’ll usually be seen wearing trackies and Reeboks; but then you’ll notice his polo shirts, invariably Lacoste or Fred Perry. For all the labels though, Sedge is intuitive, not much gets past him. He can read a person, alright. I must try very hard now. Very hard, lest I crack. ‘Where’ve you been? I called you earlier. Did you go campus?’ he says. ‘Nah, I sacked it off in the end. Couldn’t be bothered.’ ‘Mental,’ he giggles, the silvery setting sun shining through the skylight, onto his face. ‘They still haven’t finished the Union.’ ‘Is it?’ ‘Nope,’ says Buggy. ‘Money well spent there.’ ‘Marcus, Rachel or Carol?’ says Sedge, taking out a cigarette and sparking up. Stan looks annoyed. The rule is that we open the skylight, at the very least. ‘Eh?’ ‘Who’d you prefer, Rachel,’ he says, nodding towards the new Countdown girl on screen, ‘or Vorderman?’ I shudder. I sit on one of the ornate metal chairs that came with the dining table. I grab the curve of another, tightening my fingers around it. I think quick, I must think quick. ‘Er, Rachel,’ I say, hoping it’s what he wanted to hear. Buggy starts laughing, all smug like.

‘You lads are nuts,’ says Sedge. ‘Vorders is classic. This girl, this girl,’ he says, pointing, all angry, ‘she’s nobody. Vorderman, every time. She could take me to dictionary corner any day.’ ‘That’s Suzie, mate.’ ‘You what?’ ‘Dictionary corner is Suzie. Carol’s just the letters and numbers girl. So’s Rachel but she don’t get snitty about it. She knows her job, she does it well, and she’s fit as fuck.’ Sedge shakes his head. ‘Shameful.’ I leave them to argue over the Countdown girls. I walk downstairs and knock on Tim’s door. We met on the first day of Freshers Year; and I’d say he’s probably my best mate, even better than the boys I left back in London. ‘Alright?’ ‘Sound,’ I say, looking around at how he’s set up his room. It’s a shithole already. Typical. ‘I see you’ve settled in.’ ‘Yeah, reckon I’ve got it how I want to now.’ There are clothes on the floor, spilling out of his largely unpacked bag, and the now worn Debbie Harry poster I got him for Secret Santa clings to the wall with the lower right corner missing. ‘What you up to?’ I ask. ‘Just messing around on my laptop.’ His hamster starts biting its bars.

‘How’s Leona?’ I ask, scraping my fingers along the cage. As he wakes up, I withdraw. I remember Hammy, my own hamster from my youth and he was a right bastard. ‘Leona loves you mate,’ says Tim. ‘Needn’t worry.’ ‘I’ve never that thing,’ I say, trying to force a smile. This is Third Year. This is normal. Everything is normal. ‘He’s getting fat now.’ ‘Should have called him Buggy.’ ‘Where were you today?’ says Tim laughing, closing a page on his computer. ‘Had a doctor’s appointment at ten. Couldn’t be bothered after that.’ ‘Everything alright?’ he says, leaning backwards on his chair. Answer. Answer. Answer. ‘Yeah. Just needed some inhalers.’ ‘Fair enough. Campus was full of freshers anyway. And then all those dicks who’ve come back off internships or ‘charity’ jaunts to Tanzania and Ind-’ He pauses a little, ‘Onesia.’ There’s a short silence. I wish he had said India. India is normality, India is presummer, India is good. Please, say India. India is familiar. ‘Have you seen Adrian?’ ‘He’s at Gemma’s,’ says Tim. ‘He’ll be back for tonight though. Even he’s coming out.’ ‘What’s going on?’

Tim shoots me a shocked expression. His thin, sharp nose scrunches up with a look resembling disgust. What is going on tonight that I should know about? ‘Same thing we do every first night of term, boy. Get shitfaced.’ Of course. Just like always. I draw the blinds in my room. The woman in the organic store is closing now. There are leaflets from the doctors on the floor. I dropped them as soon as I walked in this morning. Peering out the window, I slide them under the bed with my foot. ‘Whamo!’ I hear Buggy shout upstairs. I can almost laugh. It is all so familiar. They’re playing Fifa. ‘Fockin offside! Fockin offside!’ Sedge screams at the Xbox’s infallible referee. Yes, I am back at Uni, back home. Yes, it’s another normal start to the year. Nothing so unusual. I’m not going to think about it now; it’s out of my head like the puffs of smoke floating out of Sedge’s mouth upstairs, as he and Buggy do battle. I better get ready in a bit. It’s the first night of term. Same as always. • ‘Don’t worry about it mate,’ says Tim, as we walk away from the Well. We’ve been there just fifteen minutes but India and her friends walked in while we smoked outside. She said nothing. I could tell she was making an effort not to look at me. Her housemate, Lydia, on the other hand, she gave me daggers and I guess I can’t blame her. ‘You guys don’t have to come with me, ya know. I’ll go home.’

‘It’s sound,’ says Buggy. He seems slightly irritated. ‘We’ll go Kelsey’s. Jug’s too busy.’ What happened with India? Who was she? Well, India was a girl in the kitchen beside mine at Uni. I met her on the first night. We got together pretty quick, and have been..... We were together until recently. She went to Tanzania for the summer. Yes, she’s one of those rich kids Tim was mocking. But Tim and her were good mates. Maybe they still are; but I think I took down their friendship with what I did, along with my relationship. I love India. So, I can’t really explain what happened that night, in Soho, when I met a girl named Clara and ended up in bed with her. I’d met Buggy and Tim for a night out. We did MDMA. I got smashed. I thought you couldn’t even get it up on MDMA but I was most definitely wrong. She dragged me back in a taxi to her flat in Camden. It was hard, fast and over all very quickly. I rolled over, fell asleep; and woke up the next day in hell. I left her sleeping there as I dragged Tim out onto the street and back to Edgware. I can’t explain how this all happened. Suffice to say, I must be a bit of a shit. I didn’t realise that before. India found out from Buggy. Word got to her while she was still in Tanzania. Well, he denied it, but he has a big mouth. I called him a prick. He told me I shouldn’t of done what I did but I know that, and it’s not the point. We don’t talk about it now. ‘Cheers mate. But don’t worry if you guys wanna stay.’ He turns to me; his polo shirt tight against his large belly, the shoulders tautened by his thick arms.

‘No point in staying home by yourself, jazzing off,’ he says, making a hand gesture to boot. I stop walking. They don’t seem to realise it. I clench my fist. Walk on. I tell myself to walk on and my legs somehow listen. We pass a takeaway. I bought India pizza there once. She hates olives but I fucked up and got them anyway. I made a heart out of them, which was pretty gross. She thought it sweet though and drunkenly, happily ate her pizza, while I had the olives. • We go to Kelsey’s. The boys leer at the new wave of Second Years living in Leamington. They talk about tits and they talk about shagging and eventually I make some excuse and go home. They think I’m hung up on India. I go to my room and drink half a bottle of whiskey. I don’t like whiskey but Dad gave it to me. I wake up in the morning with vague memories. First night of term. Same as always.

‘ JK really is a prick. Wait, hold on, they’re about to bring out the real Dad, this’ll be jokes.’ ‘What happened to you last night, fella?’ says Sedge as I walk into the living room. He is sitting in his boxers on the far sofa, topless, with the little tuft of ginger chest hair on show. Buggy’s lying across the one facing the TV, watching Jeremy Kyle. Stan and his girlfriend Becky are on the sofa, against the wall nearest the door. ‘Just sacked it,’ I say, walking through to the kitchen, ‘I was smashed.’ I fill a tumbler full of water and stand looking out of the window. ‘I know,’ he says, his voice slightly elevated. ‘How’d you get that wankered so early?’ I shrug, though they can’t see me. I mumble something along the lines of dunno. ‘Gettin’ old, Marcus,’ he says as I return to the kitchen. There is a lot of booing and clapping and shouting emanating from the TV. Staring at the screen, I don’t respond. ‘Thought you might’ve been chirsping outside.’ Last night, there was a blonde, a netball player. I noticed her noticing me because we kissed once in first year and yes, I suppose I could have been chirpsing when I walked outside. I shut my eyes, gripping the leather sofa. I shake my head and paint on a smile. ‘No. Just sacked it.’

‘Buggy, let Marcus sit down,’ says Sedge. I think he has registered something in my voice. I try and think of a joke or a quip. I remember Stan being bad at pool and could use that as ammo. Stan is our whipping boy. But nothing comes out of my mouth. Buggy slides over, keeping his eyes on the screen the whole time. ‘JK really is a prick,’ he says. ‘Wait, hold on, they’re about to bring out the real Dad, this’ll be jokes.’ ‘Where’s Tim?’ I ask. ‘Went back to Fran Clarke’s for a smoke and a poke,’ says Sedge. ‘Lucky Tim.’ ‘You got with her in Fresher’s didn’t ya?’ he asks and I can feel a trembling sensation in my belly. I am not Marcus. I am not Marcus Stone now. That was another boy. That was someone else. ‘Buggy that guy looks like you,’ he added, pointing to the fat step dad on TV,’ says Sedge, pointing to the TV. I hope the interruption will interrupt the recollection but she’s painted in my mind, her bottle blond body staring at me, in front of my eyes, where Jeremy Kyle should be spewing his special brand of hate. Masking him, it should be a blessing; but she’s there, tits, mouth, the lot. She is the past, I tell myself, she is the past. ‘Piss off,’ says Buggy. I hope the conversation is done with but Sedge keeps looking at me. ‘You gonna be on that gravy train this year?’ he says, ‘she’s tidy.’ ‘Sedge, please,’ says Becky and a little silence descends on the room for which I am grateful. I don’t know if it’s the way he’s saying it she doesn’t like, or because it’s me and because she’s good mates with India. I’m tensing. I get up. ‘Where you going?’ asks Sedge. ‘Bathroom.’

‘Feeling a bit precious today, flower?’ he says, grinning as always. ‘You were half cut when I last saw you.’ I flick a finger because I must be me and that’s how I would have reacted last year. But my stomach is in knots. I walk downstairs calmly. I turn the bathroom handle but either Adrian or Gemma are inside. I run to my room and try to reach the bin. I don’t make it. My sheets are now covered in vomit. This isn’t good. It’s just a hangover, I say, maybe out loud, as I’m gasping for air. Fran Clarke, Freshers, First Year. Fran Clarke, Freshers, First Year, Fran Clarke, Freshers, First Year. • I throw out the duvet. I’ll buy another from Argos. I flip the mattress and sit, facing my desk, with the ad I picked up in London. Beneath it is the appointment card. I look away, out the window. I get up and roll one, smoking into the Leamington air. I hear the front door open and about fifteen seconds later, there’s a cheer upstairs. It’s Tim. The hero has returned. Why won’t my hand stop shaking? I stub out the cigarette and immediately get to rolling another so’s the fingers on both my hands are kept busy.

I go out with everyone over the next few nights. When I’m alone I think. When I enter a bar I feel surrounded. Closeness terrifies me. I want to get smashed, constantly. It helps. Luckily, Buggy outdoes me a couple of times and no one notices quite had hammered I get.

I can’t remember getting home and I awake several times, scared of what I might’ve said or done. I was talking to a girl in Moons on Tuesday. I might’ve slipped it. I could’ve ended up going to her place. I walk into the kitchen today with what has become a familiar headache and a feeling of grogginess. ‘You looked like you were on the bugle, last night?’ says Tim, as I sat down in the living room. He’s shoulder length brown hair is tousled and all over the place. He’s wearing just jogging bottoms and his hair free chest looks cold. Before I answer, he asks me if I was, seriously, on the bugle. ‘Course not,’ I say, laughing it off, hoping he’ll not snuff me out. I got some in the afternoon yesterday, while the others were at campus. I snorted a bit when I thought everyone’d be too mangled to notice. ‘He’s right man, your eyes were fucked,’ says Buggy. ‘You were fucked all over,’ I say. Tim laughs, gets up, and ruffles my hair as he walks towards the kitchen. I watch as he picks up the kettle, not with the hand he touched my hair. But then he opens the cupboard. He moves condiments, he finds his tea bags. He picks up a tea towel and wipes crumbs onto the floor. He turns on the tap and it must be that hand because he’s the kettle in the other. He grabs a mug, throws it in. Everywhere. He’s touching everywhere with that hand. I get up and walk downstairs. An hour later; and they’re all up there, shouting and screaming as they knock about on Fifa. ‘Marcus!’ Sedge calls.

I don’t move. ‘Marcus!’ I do nothing. He rings my phone. Eventually I answer. ‘What you doing? Come play Feefs, Stan’s shite.’ ‘I’m working, man.’ ‘He says he’s working,’ says Sedge, to the others. ‘Bollocks is he,’ says Tim, ‘think he means wanking.’ ‘C’mon, fella, get out the wank chariot and get up here.’ ‘I’ll be up in a bit,’ I say, hanging up. I go to the park again, shouting up that I’m going to Costcutters. I get out the door before anyone can shout back down. I grab some cans and drink them in Jephson Gardens. For about two hours I think I can’t face the boys. But being on my own, the thoughts swirl in my head and I need their distraction. ‘Where’d you go?’ says Sedge when I get back. They’re still playing Fifa. Sedge is Brazil, Buggy is England and Sedge is winning 4-2. ‘Bought some baccy,’ I said, ‘then went up to HMV.’ About five minutes pass with little conversation before Sedge pipes up again. ‘Marcus, we were discussing earlier, what’s the better site Red tube or YouPorn? I shrug. ‘Come on fella, don’t be like Stan, pretending you don’t watch it.’ Stan’s sitting on the other sofa. ‘He doesn’t,’ says Tim, ‘scared he might see one of us with Becky.’

Stan shakes his head. ‘When’s it my go?’ ‘That’s what she said.’ Sedge laughed aloud. ‘I like Youjizz,’ says Tim. ‘Great name,’ says Sedge, ‘slow videos though. Xvideos is good, cos of the index. Thoughtful. You still ain’t answered, Marcus. Where do you get your fix?’ ‘Redtube,’ I say, rushing from the room. • ‘Back already? You boys are having fun,’ says the dealer. ‘Yeah,’ I say, quietly. ‘Alright, bruv, here’s good.’ He turns a car, slows and applies the handbrake. I take out my fifty without him needing to ask. ‘Cheers, son,’ he says. He doesn’t look that much older than me but he looks like a proper grown man. He’s got workman like hands though I don’t know how because he’s a dealer. I pass the notes over and he slips the coke into my hand, careful eyes scanning the surroundings. He clenches his fist, holds it up, waiting for me to touch punch it with my own. I hesitate. But I do it. ‘See you soon, yeah?’ ‘Cool,’ I say, undoing my belt. ‘Cheers mate.’ I undid my seat belt. ‘Mate, if you see any of the lads, don’t tell ‘em you seen me, yeah?’ I say ‘Sure thing, bruv.’

He winks. I close the door and he drives away at a respectable, inconspicuous, citizen like speed. My plans to stay in alone have gone wrong tonight. Sedge orders me to join them for a curry with the St. Mary’s boys. I don’t bother arguing. It is the inaugural group curry of the year and it is mandatory. ‘What do you mean you’re just having naan?’ says Buggy. We’d ordered our food. Patrick’s gone for a Korma with naan, no rice. Patrick, the quiet stoner who tries to keep to himself and is liked by everyone for his calm, quiet nature. ‘I can’t eat that much.’ ‘Battyman.’ ‘No one can eat as much as you Buggy,’ says Sedge. ‘Ha, ha, fatty, fatty, fatty,’ says Barnaby, the polar opposite of Patrick whose bellowing voice owns the Bengal Bay. ‘Do one, son,’ said Buggy, his knobbly elbows on the table. ‘Marcus, tell Patrick,’ he says, nudging me. I look up from the beer bottle label I’ve been reading. ‘If he doesn’t want rice, what’s the big deal?’ ‘What you talking about?’ says Tim, in his velvet jacket, which seems like a bad idea for a curry. ‘I got a veggie burger last term and you rinsed me for it.’ I eke out a smile. ‘Don’t get me started on the Korma,’ says Buggy, ‘I ain’t happy about that, Patrick, especially as it’s a veggie Korma. It’s a girls’ curry, man. You can’t come to a curry house and get a Korma. It’s an insult to their culture. And to men, everywhere.’ ‘Poor Patrick, fella just wants to have his curry, have a few beers, go home, skin up a zoot. In’t it Pat?’ says Tim.

Pat smiles and nods. ‘I just want everyone to have a good time,’ says Buggy, lifting his palms in the air, ‘that’s my problem. I care too much.’ ‘What are you having, Buggy?’ Tim asks. ‘Thank you for asking. I’m having a lamb Jalfrezi. A curry, Patrick, with naan and rice.’ ‘Crazy horse,’ says Sedge. ‘What about you, fella?’ Buggy asks Sweet Chris, an altogether more talkative member of the St. Mary’s than Patrick; but just as placid. ‘Lamb Bhuna. Naan. Think I might order some rice.’ Sedge bursts out laughing. ‘Leave ‘im be Buggy.’ ‘Gay boys.’ ‘What you getting, Marcus?’ My appetite gone. I think on my feet. What would I usually have? ‘Chicken Jalfrezi. Rice. And Naan.’ ‘Top boy,’ says Buggy. I down my Kingfisher and tell the lads I’m taking a piss. I walk up to the bar and order another one. I start walking to the toilets but turn and face the waiter again. ‘Oh, sorry, dunno if it’s too late, but could I add some plain rice to my order.’ ‘Of course.’ I leave the curry early. I recognise differences in myself. I have been acting more like Patrick and Sweet Chris. This time last year I was King Curry, King Banter, for want of a better word. I led the drinking games, I led the piss takes. All in good nature like, nothing serious. But I’ve just sat for an hour and a half with barely a word leaving my lips. I think Tim noticed. I’m surprised Sedge didn’t. Lucky Bugs was there, because Sedge loves

ripping him but loves the boy in equal measure and that’s the only reason he does it. TGFB. Thank God For Buggy. I’ve told the boys I’ve a dodgy stomach and I’m walking home. I get to the flat, I go upstairs. I snort a couple, I drink a few. I climb into bed.

‘ The Lacrosstitutes are having a party’ I think about going home, then I realise there’s not a chance in hell I’m going back to tell Mum and Dad. They’ve their own problems to deal with. I could speak to one of the lads but no, no I can’t, I must not tell any of the lads. I can’t tell anyone. I registered my modules this week; and missed all but one lecture. Eventually though, I go stir fucking crazy in the flat, wandering around Jepson’s, walking up and down streets I never knew existed before. I go to campus to distract myself. The car journey is awful. I end up squeezed between Buggy and Tim. Tim pulls out his usual car trick, whacking his legs in and out, so we’ve no room ourselves. He laughs sinister like every time and I just about manage to laugh myself though with every thumping whack I see the hairs of our legs touching and I feel like I’m doing something wrong, something awful. We get to campus. I tell the lads I’m making a call and wait ten minutes until the usual ten minute rush between lectures dies down. I enter my Ethnic Conflict lecture. ‘Morning, Marcus,’ says Malcolm. ‘You’re early.’ I like Malcolm, he taught me last year. He’s a sort of well travelled look to him. Not like wisdom, more like wandering. He’s got a thin brown beard but not the eccentric sort you get in some of the older fellas who’ve barely left a campus since they first set foot on one. I get the feeling Malcolm’s seen a few things, that he's travelled a bit, that he ended back in academia because he didn’t fancy the traditional life, the suit and tie, that sort of thing. He’s friendly but he’s not pally. ‘Sorry,’ I say. The sarcasm in his words gives me a warm feeling of Second Year.

‘Good night?’ he says. The class laughs. I sit down and try to concentrate as he says what topics we’ll cover this year. I know it is interesting, I know it is just the things I wanted to look at when I leafed through the module brochure near the end of last year. Yet, hard as I try, my minds all the way up near the moon. ‘That alright with you, Marcus?’ Shit, what’s he just asked? ‘Sorry, what?’ He shakes his head, smiling sardonically. ‘Week three, you, Charlie and Anja to do the presentation on Sri Lanka?’ ‘Yeah, yeah, sound,’ I say. ‘Feeling tender today?’ The class laugh again. I say yeah and I’m glad for his humour. Maybe I’ll work hard this year, hard work takes a man’s mind off things. ‘Yeah.’ I’m outside; and Anja asks me and Charlie if we can meet in the library later. She seems a bit keen, given it’s the start of year and all. I know it might do me good working hard; but still, bit keen. I’ve not the energy to argue though and we both agree to meet her. The library has barriers. You need your card to get through. I tap in, the card in my wallet. I stand with my back to a wall, watching the queue of people waiting to get to the cafe counter. People flurry in and out. I take out my phone and pretend to use it, staring at the motionless screen, pretending like I’m making a text or something.

The noise draws my eyes up. People rush to the lift, people flurry back and forth with textbooks, others looking for computers or heading up stairs to study. Everyone, or almost everyone, is flying about with that start-of-term-I’ll-be-goodthis year urgency. There are even Freshers, you can tell them a mile off. They’re already hitting the books. They’ve not quite realised this is piss easy compared to A-Levels. Don’t tell The Mail though. I was really keen on this module. I wanted to study Northern Ireland. I hoped I’d understand what it was that made Granddad tick, what it was that made him hate fellas who seem pretty much the same to me. Never could get that, never could understand what could make that sweet man swear that way. But Malcolm gave me Sri Lanka to cover. Fuck it, I’ll do Sri Lanka. Pretty sure they’ll turn out to be killing similar fellas as well. I’m feeling pessimistic today. Two students run up to each other. They hug so hard one nearly falls back on me. I lunge out of the way. I’m saved by the beeping of my phone. It’s Tim, telling me to come down to Varsity. Glad for the excuse, I decide to sack off the meeting and leave the library when it quiets down. When I reach Varsity, my housemates, sans Adrian, are sitting in the beer garden with the St. Mary’s boys. Sweet Chris totters inside to get a round, having been hounded by Sedge. I ask the boys why they haven’t got lectures and they say they can’t be asked and I say pretty much the same thing as it fits. ‘You smoking Marlborough’s?’ Sedge asks me as I take out a twenty deck.’ ‘Yes,’ I say, and I’m surprised by how many of them find this strange. Then again, I’ve smoked rollies since I was about seventeen and only ever straights when I’m flat out and usually hammered.

‘Fancied a change,’ I say fatuously, like it’s exciting stuff. The fingers’ve been shaking a little more over the last few days, especially in the morning. I don’t know why, because it’s far from cold; but in the morning, I guess when I’m properly awake and go for that first one, something hits. ‘I can’t smoke straights,’ says Patrick, sticking his tongue out in a disgusted expression. ‘They taste funny.’ With a shrug, Sedge goes back to ribbing on one of the boys, I can’t really tell who. I’m looking into my pint now, Sweet Chris got me one. The conversation filters around me and there’s a general chit chatter that I’m able to meld into silently until I hear a familiar, jarring word. Lacrosstitutes. ‘What’s that,’ I ask. ‘The Lacrosstitutes are having a party,’ says Tim, ‘Should be a biggun.’ Two of India’s housemates are on the Lacrosse team. I want to see her. I shouldn’t, I can’t really; but I would like to see India. ‘Hi mate,’ I say, standing next to Patrick at the urinal. ‘Alright, Marcus.’ There’s a long pause. It would be unnatural in any other environment; but this is two men standing side by side at a urinal and it’s just that little bit more comfortable to be silent than to speak. Eventually, it’s me who breaks it. ‘Pat, can I get some weed from you?’ ‘Yeah,’ he says, zipping up, washing his hands and taking a couple of towels from the dispenser. ‘How much do you want?’ ‘An eighth.’

There’s a vague look of surprise in his small, shrewd eyes. He does well to envelope it quickly, regaining his usual thoughtful stare. He nods. ‘Sure, come round later if you want.’ The party is busy. We arrive early because Becky’s tired of watching us play Fifa. People are sitting all the way up the stairs as we arrive. I go outside and drink a tin with Tim and Buggy. They’re talking about football, which is safe ground with me. We’re smoking. I alternate tugs between Marlborough’s and the spliff I’m sharing with them. But then I see a brownish blur through the window, in the hallway. I’m not sure; but I think it’s her. I shouldn’t go to her, it isn’t fair. I did this to myself; and to us. We were good. I did this. If I go, it will ruin her night. I look over to the wall at the back of the garden. There is an alleyway between it and the houses the other side. I should disappear. But she knows me better than anyone. My legs speak for me.

I start walking towards the house. She is talking to Lydia and two other girls I don’t know. Her hair, shoulder length brown. Her eyes hazel, quiet, sympathetic. Is that why I’m walking inside? Her mouth speaks calm, the slight mouth careful in its choice of words, thoughtful. I want to go to her. I delude myself into thinking she wants me to, that there’s something in her that misses me despite what I did after all our time together. She isn’t smiling. She is letting the conversation go on around her. But then she laughs. She is simply letting the conversation flow. She is not speaking but it is because she is happy not to speak. She may be enjoying herself.

Fuck, Marcus, you fool, why did you come? You’re going to ruin her night, for god’s sake. I turn to make my way to the back of the garden. But she catches my eye in the doorway to the kitchen. She catches my eye and turns to stone. And then she turns, shifting her body quicker than Lydia or the two strangers can say a thing. She walks out the door. I follow. Lydia says something to me as I pass but I either don’t hear or block it out. ‘India, wait,’ I say, following her down the road. Her heels click loudly against the pavement as she tries to walk faster with every step. ‘Leave me alone, Marcus.’ ‘India, wait, I-’ ‘Save it,’ she says, turning.’ I try to think of something to say but I’m lost for words. I realise I didn’t come because the boys would’ve said something. I came to see her. I came because I might be able to voice this, though seeing her now, I know I can’t. ‘Marcus, all my friends are here. You must have known I’d be coming. Couldn’t you have not gone to this one party?’ ‘I didn’t know you’d be here,’ I blurt out and she can see through me all too easy. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, resigned, guilty like. ‘It was thoughtless.’ She narrows her eyes, tilting her head slightly to the side. People are coming and going to the party and down to Costcutters, passing us on their way. But when she speaks it’s like all the sounds of the cars and the people and the wind and anything else in between stops short, just for a second. Because she shakes her head and she says, ‘you’re never thoughtless, Marcus.’ She walks off then and I’ve no idea what she means by it but I know there’s something important in that. Right now, I’m pretty sure I’m thoughtless. It’s something I learned recently. I was always a bit selfish, knew that; but the thing with Clara was

thoughtless as fuck, below thoughtless. It was proper cuntish. Sort of thing I used to grill my mates for back in the day. Thought I was above that. I go home. Tim gives me a call. Fair play to him, when I explain what’s happened, he comes home. He drinks with me until late. We play Fifa, we don’t talk anymore about it. • Tim’s rolling a cigarette. It’s a few days after the party and we haven’t gone in for lectures. The party comes up again in conversation. ‘Don’t worry about it, mate,’ he says, gliding his tongue along the Rizla, his triangular jaw tight as he concentrates. ‘I figured you’d gone home. Ignore Lydia, she’s a nosy bitch.’ ‘Can’t even remember what she said really.’ He looks around himself, for something in particular; and I realise it’s the dreaded, all too familiar scenario of a filterless man. ‘Fuck, I ain’t got any left. We need a roach.’ We search the room. We get desperate, pulling the sofas out and the cushions and everything. It’s comical the desperation in us. Tim’s even worse than me. ‘Hold on,’ I say, eventually, realising I’ve a solution to two of my problems. I go downstairs, to my room. The pamphlets are still under my bed. I pull them out. I rip them to pieces. Now I won’t be tempted to look at them. I don’t want to learn anything. I just want to be in Third Year. I want to search for filters under the sofa, I want that as my key worry in life. Despite tearing them to shreds, I only take up remnants of the leaflet which are in Arabic. ‘What’s this?’ asks Tim, when I come back upstairs. ‘Just some Swine Flu leaflet.’

‘Oink, oink, you might need that.’ He finishes rolling and hands it to me. ‘Here, spark it up.’ ‘Let’s go to the window,’ I say, ‘We don’t want the bloodhound finding out.’ Adrian’ll go nuts if he knows we’ve sparked up a spliff in the living room. He’s a fitness freak. It’s fair enough though. I don’t like the smell of the stuff myself. Or the taste. Just the feeling. The intercom goes off. Check us, roughing it, student style, with four skylights and an intercom. ‘Who is it?’ Tim asks, as I answer. ‘Jason.’ ‘Ooh, the Reverend.’ ‘Alright mate, come in.’ Jason’s good fun, even with God staring over his shoulder. He’s always up for coming out, when he’s not giving out free hot chocolate in front of the Union on Monday nights or heading to some CU meeting. ‘Hi mate,’ I say, when he comes in; and I’m generally glad to see him for the first time since the end of last year, ‘How you doing?’ ‘Good mate,’ he says, clasping my hand. ‘How was the summer?’ ‘Bit shitty?’ He pauses thoughtfully. His blonde curls and angelic look betray a filthy sense of humour; but he’s considerate when it counts. ‘Sorry to hear what happened mate,’ he says, neutral. ‘It was my fault.’ ‘Yeah but, still, sorry mate.’ ‘Come up,’ I say, leading him upstairs.

‘This is nice,’ he says, taking the place in. I haven’t really had a chance to appreciate the apartment. We’ve landed on our feet with this place. ‘Easy, Reverend. How’s the holy Father?’ ‘Not bad Tim, not bad,’ he says, throwing his coat on the sofa and sitting down. Tim passes me the spliff. I take another drag. If the Reverend’s not going to judge us I couldn’t care less what Adrian says. We’ll just Febreeze the fuck out of it before he got home. I get Jason a can. It sighs as he slowly pulls the ring pull. ‘What you doing in the CU this year?’ Tim asks, as Jason sucks in a wave of foam that emerges from the tinny. ‘I don’t wanna talk politics,’ he says, wiping his mouth. ‘I’m done with politics. Last year, Jason lost the election to become CU president. He’s bitter. He’s got a bit of a grudge. He’s not Catholic but he does a good impression of the put upon, down beaten Taig. Granddad would’ve loved him. ‘Treasurer’s still a good job mate,’ I say. ‘It’s a fucking joke,’ he says, lifting his hands in the air, a splash of beer falling out. ‘Christopher Ogunleye only got elected because of that whole Obama bandwagon. The CU couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery. They think installing a black man’s going to make them hip, cool. Fools.’ ‘The times are changing mate,’ I say. ‘Fuck that. I don’t wanna sound like my Dad, but it’s political correctness gone mad.’ Tim sniggers. ‘Stop fucking laughing,’ says Jason. ‘Sorry mate, it’s the weed. Try some, it’ll relax you.’ ‘Don’t tempt me. That’s what I should’ve done. Should’ve discredited the fucker. Should’ve dug up some shit about his past.’ ‘Does he have anything dodgy in his past?’ said Tim.

‘How the fuck would I know?’ says Jason. I feel kind of light headed. Watching Jason get into one of his rages is always fun. I let a flume of smoke from my nose and smile. ‘Christianity’s not meant to be sexy,’ he goes on. ‘It’s not meant to be modern, that’s the brilliance of it. I organised four barbecues last year, and a fucking cake sale. And who stood outside Top Banana every week giving out hot chocolate to pissheads like you two? Me. No one ever turned up to the lunches he organised. They were always on a Wednesday, when the sports teams play, or everyone’s too hung-over from Smack.’ He seems to enjoy his rage, gesticulating with his big hands every time he swears. He sits back, shaking his head, the blonde curly hair flopping from side to side. ‘Anyway, Reverend,’ says Tim. ‘Are you going Smack?’ ‘Of course. He can’t take that from me.’ ‘How come you guys don’t do your hot chocolate stands there?’ Jason gives Tim a look akin to that a father gives to a naive child, when they must learn something vital for the first Tim. ‘Tim, even us Christians need a night off. Besides, there’s nothing holy about Smack.’ • The dance floor is, people dancing to the irregular beat of house music. I stand at the edge, with Adrian. I have been dreading Smack. That menagerie of sweating bodies, that constant hypnotic beat. It is home to me. It was home to me. I stand, pouring with sweat despite not dancing. It would’ve looked weird if I’d said I wasn’t going to the first Smack of term. It’s a ritual, just like most things in Warwick. Thursday night in Evolve is a ritual, Wednesday in the Union is a ritual. Pizza from Vialli's is a ritual, the Well is a ritual when there are no other rituals going on. I’m in a cult I can’t get out of.

Adrian watches on as his girlfriend dances. Since he got together with her, he just wants to stay at home, in bed, watch a film; but the ritual dictates that they continue to behave like Freshers, out as often as possible, dancing, dancing, dancing away even when life has changed your priorities and wants. I’m sweating profusely, though I’m standing still. I watch the floor as if my beads of sweat are seeping from me, onto the ground, for anyone to soak up. Toxic beads. I came here nearly every night last year. Of course, I’d dance with India but we would still do that old sexy dance, as if pretending like we weren’t a couple. We would always go home together, perhaps the excitement of Smack enlivened passion. Because Smack isn’t designed for couples. It is designed for cheap and easy sex. Girls who you see walking around campus with five textbooks in their hands will be found here, like doppelgangers, skimpy out fits and loose limbs, searching for someone, searching for strangers, waiting to lure or to be lured. I watch the dance, dance, dancing, I feel like it is a hundred miles off one second; and all too close the next, approaching me, entreating me to join. Before I know it, there is a girl in front of me. Beads of sweat cling to her chest. It glistens, I can see the dipping curve leading down to her breast. She wears a pink bra and a blue top. I look around. I look back. She is still there. Not looking at me but certainly dancing my way. I look around again. Tim has found, or been found. His lips are busy. Buggy is dancing erratically. He’s a virgin, he doesn’t get lured and he’s too scared to lure. He gets smashed, he dances like mad. I know he doesn’t like it this way but the ritual dictates that he must get annihilated so’s to put up the front of enjoyment. I feel boxed in. This collective of sexual energy, once so welcome, so pleasant, even, it is alien, it is something to be feared.

She dances fast, swaying her hair gently, from side to side. If I want, I can go to her. I can kiss her. She won’t stop me, i know this. Dances, lips, bodies, they are to be shared here. I can picture her on campus, like one of those girls. She’s the poster student, demure yet pretty, naughty but nice. In here she is freed, from the stinging normality of the outside world. She can be different. I have come here not to be different; but in the hope of being the same, of seeking out some sense of normality. But there is none. I can’t reach out. I mustn’t. I yearn to pull her towards me; but I must not. I run. Pushing through the crowd, I head down the stairs, past the cloakroom and out onto the street. I run home, thinking of that girl and the sweat running down her chest. I think about how I’d stood there watching, how she took no notice and yet how certain I was I could have her. Running past Wetherspoons, down towards the park, I wonder whether anyone saw me, in the middle of the floor. In the middle of that carefree crowd. I lie in bed. I can’t trust myself and I clearly can’t be trusted. If I’d got slightly more pissed, what then? Would I have retained control? What if she’d caught my eye, would she have led, would she have lured? I’m clearly not strong enough to result luring. What if we’d kissed? What if I’d acted like what I’ve learned is me? Taking what I want. I could’ve done anything. I get a text off Sedge, about ten minutes later. ‘Where are you, mate?’ ‘Hey, I went home, was feeling a bit sick.’ The response is almost instantaneous. ‘Shit, you alright? Think, think think. I fire off the first thing that comes to mind. ‘Bit ill. Alright though. Tell Buggy his pillows are fucked :)’ •

‘I was fucking worried man,’ says Buggy. ‘What, about Marcus?’ says Stan. ‘No, not that cunt, about my pillows.’ Buggy is in a foul mood today. Last night, he got mangled, went to get cash and took out one hundred and fifty quid. He lost it in Smack. We’re sitting in a cafe, round the corner from our house. They do bad fry ups; but, they do fry ups, so we end up in their often. ‘How did you take out that much?’ asks Adrian, shaking his head. ‘I pressed cancel like twenty times, but it wouldn’t do it. So I put it in my wallet and said, Buggy, make sure you don’t lose that money,’ he says, waving his stubby finger in the air.

Marcus, don’t forget it’s your brother’s birthday next week. Have you found him anything yet? I read Mum’s text on the sly. Adrian’s been hounded for texting Gemma at the dinner table, so I don’t want any grief. ‘And what happened?’ ‘You know what fucking happened. One hundred and fifty squid,’ he says, sinking his big cheeks into his hands. ‘What you gonna do?’ He lets out a big sigh. ‘All you can do is laugh,’ he says, separating his fingers so his big, sad eyes are just about visible. ‘You could cry,’ says Tim.

Yeah, I know, I’ve bought him a couple of DVD’s that he’ll like.

Mum’ reply is quick and motherly.

What kind of films? Fergal is only fifteen and even then, Mum is more protective of him. There’s an innocence to my brother. We’re polar opposite. He is quiet, shy, a computer game fanatic. He loves films and hates school in a way I never did, because each day is a battle for him. He’s not bullied but he is vulnerable to the odd insult or chip stealing from rudeboys. Part of me wishes I was a little younger, so I was still at school, so I could keep an eye out for him and spark any prick who gives him grief.

I got him the first Batman film and a comedy with Will Ferrell. I have bought him these films, but I’ve also got him Kill Bill and The Proposition. I’ll tell him not to show Mum.

We’re still waiting for our food. There’s a table of netball girls who came in after us but there’s has just arrived. For the first time in days I am hungry. I’m ravenously hungry. I need something in me. ‘Buggy, you are amazing,’ says Barnaby, his booming voice filling the cafe. ‘What’s that, vodka red bull, one pound? No,no,no,no, no! You must have got it wrong, have fifty pounds,’ he says, pretending to hand a note over. The netball girls look around with curiosity and amusement. Barnaby is completely unaware of anyone around him, completely at ease with his deep, booming voice, a voice which owns any room he enters. Buggy tries not to laugh but there’s something innately endearing about Barnaby, something which never fails to raise a smile.

Good man yourself. Any chance you might be able to make it down? I know you’re busy, love, so don’t worry if you’ve too much work. ‘Five vodka red bulls please? What, five pounds? No, no, no, you must be new. Have fifty pounds, my dear. Here take them,’ he says throwing over imaginary notes, ‘take them.’ Buggy sighs again, resigned but somewhat alleviated of his woe. ‘I guess it all goes back into the economy,’ he says with a level of enthusiasm reserved only for those resigned to the folly of their actions. ‘Yeah,’ Tim says, ‘but, it would all go back into the economy if you spent it.’ Buggy thinks long and hard, searching for an upside to his misfortune. I think long and hard about my text. ‘Let’s be realistic though, lads. What am I gonna spunk my money on? Fags, booze.’ ‘Cake,’ says a voice and I’m not even sure who it is. ‘Exactly. Just more money needed for the ‘ealth service then,’ says Buggy in a mockney accent which is just slightly extended from his usual voice. ‘Someone else though, they’ll put it to good use. Buy something decent, like a pie. Or a kitten.’ Sedge has to put down his can of coke. He nearly chokes on his last sip. He starts to cough and splutter, his face turns red. ‘Fockin idiot,’ he says, laughing through his coughs.

I’ll try; but I’ve a lot of essays. I’ll have a look though and see if I can free up some time.

Eventually, we all get our food, except Buggy. He turns to me and says. ‘At least I lasted the night, unlike Sleepy Simon here.’

Ok, darling; but don’t worry, I’m sure Fergal will be happy enough with the DVD’s. Love you. I take my first forkful of food. The sausages are dry, the bacon is too crispy. The beans are cheap. Mum makes a great fry up, traditional Irish with black and white pudding. I wish I could see her. But I can’t see her, not like this. • When I go to my next ethnic conflict class, it is with a mixture of teasing and annoyance that Malcolm hands me the class register. ‘No worries Marcus, I’ve been filling it in for you. Though a couple of the girls wanted to add you on Facebook,’ he says, looking around, ‘and I had to tell them that Marcus Stone in abstentium wasn’t your full surname.’ I laugh. It is deserved, I make no excuses. Malcolm doesn’t linger on the subject and we begin talking about today’s theme, which is Sri Lanka. I have to do my presentation. I’ve done none of the work. I should’ve been more interested in the subject. There’s a fair bit of gang violence back home between Sri Lankans, it’d be nice to see what sets them off, as if a ten minute presentation in a middle class university in the midlands might bring us closer to the answer. Anja and Charlie have done all the work but they don’t seem to mind to much that I’ve done none. Speaking in front of people has never bothered me. I rattle through the bullet points which Anja has prepared for me but it is self evident that it’s not my own work. You can hear in the inflection of my voice that I’m reading the words for the first time. I’m fairly sure I see a look of quiet disapproval on Malcolm’s discerning face. The lesson goes on. We look at photos. I think of Dad. The fighters on each side, they don’t look so different. Dad’d probably call them Indians if he saw them. I can never decide if he’s backwards or forwards. He doesn’t distinguish between races

properly but he also doesn’t seem to give a fuck where someone’s from. I’ve tried explaining to him but he’s a bit old school. Still, I’ve never heard him say anything all that bad. And then I think of Mum. She rings once a week. We have banal conversations. I like to just listen to her voice. I’m selfish. I realise now, last year, I would listen, hoping the conversation would end so I could get on with drinking or seeing India or something fun. Mum would, and does, tell me about everything going on back in Edgware, which usually amounts to some story about an old lady I should know who she’s visited in the week. I like to listen now though. I like to listen to her voice and feel the comfort in her voice. Because I know I can’t go there. I can’t look them in the eye. She will be able to read me instantly, she will see through me.

‘ You were at ‘em Like Smarties’ ‘He was a dick to girls last year. Now he’s with Gemma he’s got right self righteous,’ says Sedge. He’s in a huff because Adrian’s not coming to God’s kitchen. We’re on the train, making our way to Brum. It’s true, Adrian was a right wild rover back in the day. He’d a different girl most nights. I wasn’t jealous. I think about the way I was never jealous of that ol’ wild oats sowing malarkey and then I’m distracted by Patrick putting a pill into his mouth. Tim notices it too. ‘Pat, what are you doing?’ ‘Just one for the journey.’ ‘You fucking melon,’ says Tim, ‘you won’t get in if you’re beaned to the gills before you arrive.’ ‘I’ll be fine. Everyone does pills in God’s Kitchen. The bouncers don’t give a fuck.’ ‘Yeah, inside. Not before hand. Numpty.’ I decide going to Brum’s a sound idea because there’s no way I’ll bump into India, no more damage I can do to her enjoyment of Third Year. And I won’t think about her. I kid myself that I won’t think about her, though the if I hads and if I hadn’t’s are whirring around in that mixed up head of mine, refusing to let me get on with the business of annihilation and forgetting. The queue is huge. I’m freezing. We wait for about forty minutes and eventually Patrick’s high as a kite. Thanks be to god, there’s a messed up squaddy behind us and the bouncers usher us in so they can have a quiet word with him. I look at Pat’s eyes as we wait at the bar to get water. That’s an idea. Pat’s happily on the moon. That’s what I should do. Dance on the moon, tonight, leave the earth.

I drop two in succession. It isn’t long before they kick in. We dance in the main room. There are green lights shooting from the DJ booth, swirling hypnotically. I stare into them and try and forget everything and everyone around me. My feet and hands tingle, I feel a grin forming on my face. This is beautiful. The music climaxes, everyone cheers. It lulls, passing into a constant, thumping beat. The crowd surges. I can’t quite ignore the people around me but they are as one. They surge, back and forth and as they are as one I feel like I am part of them. Sedge is dancing with the squaddy. I laugh, real belly laughs. I dance. The toilets are filthy. I stand at the urinal. Four men come and go but I can’t get a drop out. The pills stop me. I begin to worry because I’m thinking again, there is a grain of consciousness seeping into my mind and I want rid of it. I can hear the music and want to be inside it again. ‘Syndrome?’ the guy next to me asks. It takes a second to register what he means but I nod. ‘Relax. Just relax and it’ll come,’ he says, like an oracle, the oracle of Digbeth. He’s shaking his fella while he says it and I nearly laugh again, nearly laugh a real laugh again; but there’s a sincerity in his voice and I don’t. ‘Good luck, son,’ he says, slapping me on the arse as he leaves. Surprisingly, it does the trick, I’m able to go. I barely feel it. A thought seeps in, another unwelcome musing. If I’d been a little closer to this back on that night in Soho this would never..... I step back. I pull the pack from my bag and drop two. No ifs and no hads tonight Marcus, I forbid it. The crowd looks rough. There’s skinheads and guys with tats all up their neck who look like they’d deck you just for the long hair dangling down to your shoulders. But the atmosphere’s friendly, no ones in an aggy mood.

I stand at the bar to get water and anyone who catches my eye waves, smiles. I am welcome here. A guy in a Superdry shirt and muscles up to his gills beckons me to join him. I do, it feels good. He hugs me and it feels fine. There is no sexuality here. Women are dressed to the nines, kinky like. Devils, nurses, the lot, suspenders and short skirts. But everyone is inside the music, they are the music they are here for it they are a part of it. I find Tim. He sees me, he hugs me, like we’ve been apart years. I climb, I feel fine. I make to ask him where he got the pills but I stop in case I think. I drop another. I feel excellent. • Where am I? I am shirtless, I am freezing, rubbing my chest is doing nothing. I don’t remember leaving the club, last thing I remember is talking to Tim. My battery’s dead, I don’t know what time it is. I start to shiver. I rub my arms and my chest again but it’s doing nothing. I’m scared. What is this place? It looks like some sort of industrial estate. I wonder back and forth, round and around but I keep finding myself on the same corner. My trousers are loose, they begin to slip. My teeth are chattering. Eventually, I find a church. Perhaps the door is unlocked. I try it, it’s locked. I slump against a cold brick wall, goosebumped to shit and teeth on the verge of cracking, such is the chattering. ‘Marcus!’ I try to locate the cry. I recognise the voice but I can’t see a soul.

‘Marcus!’ goes a different voice. I still can’t find it. ‘There you are.’ I turn. Buggy is standing above me, with Sedge, Stan and Sweet Chris not far behind. ‘Mate, where’ve you been?’ I make to speak but I can’t get a word out. I feel sober but my mouth won’t emit a sound. There is a buzzy feeling. They speak to me but the words echo over and over and over. ‘You’ve been missing for ages, says Buggy. ‘Thank God he didn’t go far,’ says Sedge. ‘Let’s get him home.’ In the cab back, the boys are silent. Buggy turns to look at me every now and then. Sedge holds my shoulders as I shiver. They look afraid. In the morning, I am told that I’d wondered off after downing too many. ‘You were at ‘em like Smarties,’ says Sedge, saying they got worried after I’d been missing for so long. They’d wandered around for ages calling out my name. Tim’d stayed in the club with Barnaby, sure I was alright. Today I will spend the day wondering where I’d been and what I got up. • The Social Studies building is empty. The undergraduate office doesn’t open for another hour. I’m not sure why I came in so early, given I should know this; but I don’t want to stall, don’t want to have second thoughts. I read the notice board. Someone is selling a shed loads of text books. No use to me now.

Saturday was too much. I dropped seven pills. I haven’t doing any Uni work. There will be countless more nights like this. Malcolm’s emailed me recently, saying he’s worried ‘more than usual,’ by my lack of attendance, and my uncharacteristic quietness when I did. Bit twattish, using italics like that in an email. It’s time to call it a day. I’ve never exactly been an honours student. The department’ll barely register my absence. I am a drop in the ocean. They’ll cross my name off a few lists, and that’ll be it. The fees are paid. But what do I tell Mum and Dad. Dad’ll go fucking nuts, give me the usual ‘you don’t think about the consequences’ talk, or the ‘you give up when things get hard.’ Mum’ll clock that something proper serious is up, she’ll know right off. Of course, she’d be right. Something is really wrong and I have to think of a different reason why I’m dropping out in my final year. An excuse will come. It always does. Telling the boys is another matter. Stan asked me if everything was alright after Saturday. By and large though, they don’t think it’s all that odd to go missing from God’s Kitchen. It could’ve been any of us, Buggy said. I don’t need a degree. I’ll get by. It’ll set me back a few years; but I’ll find a quiet place, where I can work in relative solitude, a place where I will never have to talk about

it. I’ve an hour to wait. I look out onto the empty courtyard, at the stone sculpture. I’ve never been able to work it out. I remember the confused look Dad had when he saw it, back when I was in sixth form, on that open day. I sit down to read my book, but the words flow over me.

I wonder if India will contact me when I go. She’ll have to, surely. She’ll wanna know what’s going on. I haven’t bumped into her since the party. She works at TJ’s just around the corner from our flat but I’ve never seen her enter or leave. She must be taking the long way around. But surely she’ll want to know what’s up if I leave. I realise dropping out is big; but what choice do I have? When I awake, I think of it, when I shower, I think of it, when I take a piss, I’m thinking of it. I spend all my time trying to think of something else but I’ve always got that fucking acronym banging around inside. What’ll the guys say? I know they’ve been wondering why I’ve been getting drunk so much lately; but it’s not that unusual. I lost my girlfriend, through my own folly. But then, everyone levels off mid-term, everyone starts to work less, to drink more, to realise they’ll scrape through without too much bother. I mean, Buggy lost one hundred and fifty quid a few weeks back. Stanley came home last Thursday legless and he’d a meeting in the morning. Tim threw ice cubes at a barman because he was so drunk and thought he was trying to swindle him. Lucky for Tim, the guy new him and told me to take him home. Even Sedge needed to be carried back to the flat recently; and he’s usually the last man standing. But all this descent, it means nothing, it’s irrelevant, it’s unreal. Mine is not laziness, my descent is into madness. I am going mad and I have to get out of here. But where to, I don’t know. I look at my phone. I still have twenty minutes before the office opens. It was shit luck that my battery ran out in God’s Kitchen. I had my charger in my hand when Barnaby rang me to go for a few pints. Odd how his night turned out fine, given that he’d drunk two bottles of wine. He somehow made it back into God’s Kitchen after being chucked out; but he survived the night and got the first train home. I know I’m

being pitiful but I’m starting to feel like some people get all the luck. And some of us don’t realise it until we’ve used it all up. Ten minutes to go. The water cooler in the common room gurgles, bubbles of air floating up to the top. People are walking in the courtyard, towards the library. I sit down and started rolling a cigarette. I add a few buds of weed to it. What’s the worst that can happen now? I won’t even need an excuse. But no one comes and I finish rolling. Five minutes to go. Three minutes. What will I do? How do people just cut all their ties? Two minutes. A lecturer walks in. He’s cold, unfriendly, solipsistic. I’m getting that way, I avoid conversation and I look down most of the time. I am not me. He checks his pigeon hole, and walks out. I think of my modules, about how I could change myself, become a model student and at the very least make something of this last year. But it only makes it worse. I’ve let Malcolm down in class this term; and I’ve barely been to any others. US Foreign Policy is interesting, but I’ve fallen behind. When I walk into that tiny classroom, it is like a cage. It feels like the walls are closing in, like Star Wars without the princess or the robot or the camp charm. Then there’s the Iraq module. Depressing enough already, Monique spends more time playing us underground Iraqi music and referring to the Americans as the oppressors. Objective, it ain’t. I haven’t the energy to argue and I haven’t the energy to listen to blind followers of this creed or that creed. There’s no creed in my life. There’s just the acronym. One minute. I walk back to the office, the secretary has arrived. I look at the pale wooden door. I try my best to prepare some words but they’re as jumbled up as I am. Still, I knock on the door.

‘Yes?’ Go inside. Go inside. I stand, hand just above the handle. Go inside. I go to clasp it but then my phone goes off. ‘Yes?’ says the secretary again. For a moment, I think I will ignore the call. But something makes me pick it up.

‘Where are you, you badger? You can’t be on campus this early. We’re going Zebs. Can’t be harrised today. Fuck Monday! Woohoo!’ I reread the text three times. I don’t reply to Buggy. But for some reason, I don’t go into the office. I leave the building, I walk past the shop, towards our old halls. I look at them for a few minutes. I make my way to the lake where Buggy earned his name. He mightn’t be able to get a girl; but fair fucks to him, he was the only fella brave enough to be pushed into the lake in a shopping trolley. Trolley didn’t seem to fit; but Buggy, sweet ol’ foul mouthed Buggy, boy, it was perfect. What innocent fools we were. A group of ducklings waddle past, led by their mother. I try to remember what a family of ducks was called. A flock? A swarm? They follow her without question, to the big dark lake. They show no fear, jumping into the water after her. She keeps them safe. Like a little boy, I want to see my Mum. But I can’t look at her, she’ll read me like a book. Strange, how they always know. I’m a man now, or I thought I was, till recently. But she could still scan my face and she’d see the toddler in me crying out to her. I look at the ducks again. They are more like a group of friends, all huddled together. How we used to stroll into the town, brave and confident and kings amongst men. A pang of anger shoots through me. Buggy and Tim took all the MDMA that night. They got too high and too selfish and I didn’t take enough to stop what happened from happening. They could’ve stopped all this.

What do I do now? Go back to Edgware? Tell the truth. I light my spliff. I’m smoking a lot these days. I like it that way. Waking up, drowning out the acronym, spreading the letters and full stops wide, so wide so it’s almost like they can come out my ears and drift off into the sky. I’ve stopped buying coke. It doesn’t help me not to think, in fact, it intensifies it. There are over six months left of the year. How do I go on acting for that long? However much I’ve tried denying it, I’ve thought of only one thing all these months. I’ve been acting, in front of the boys and I’ve been acting to myself, putting up a front of denial. It’ll be my first Christmas with HIV. Just saying the words to myself sends a jolt up my spine. It’ll be my first New Years Eve, first New Years day. Everyday will be a first of some sort and I’m not sure I can do that. There’s something in Buggy’s text though. Something that pushes its way into my mind, around the letters, forcing itself to be recognised. I can do this shit at home, or I can do it here. I tried to explain the Sky Plus box to Dad a while back. Fuck that, I can’t go home to him and explain this. ‘Alright mate?’ I say, after calling Buggy. ‘Easy bruvva, where are you?’ ‘Just on campus.’ ‘Now? He’s on campus,’ he says with surprise. ‘What’s he doing there?’ I hear Sedge say in the background. ‘What you doing there?’ says Buggy. I had to think of something quickly. ‘I went and took out a short loan on Friday didn’t I? Fines massive already.’ Buggy burst out laughing.

‘Badger, you try and bullshit an excuse?’ ‘No.’ I hear him tell the others and I hear Tim call me a tit, even though I remember him doing the same last year. I laugh ‘Well, we’re eating now, but we’ll stick around if you wanna come. Sedge is still cooling his tea. Pussy.’ ‘Fock off, sonshine.’ ‘Yes,’ I see, picturing them in their hangover gear, in the cafe. ‘I’ll be back soon, keep a space for me.’ ‘Will do babes,’ he says. He hangs up. I walk back to the bus stop. I walked back to the bus stop, staring at the still unfinished Union. I’d had many good nights in the old one. We’d spent most of our first year in there, playing pool for hours before crowding into the tiny dance floor, cheering on the shite DJ as he played the same set over and over. It was fun. The new building looked like it’d be better than the old. But it would never be a better Union. Everything was changing. Another pink, U1 bus pulled up. I wasn’t leaving Warwick. I didn’t wanna stay, but the alternative was worse. Sitting in a cafe with the lads would be hell, trying to act the same when I was different now. But it was better than facing my parents, and admitting how much I’d fucked up my life. I got on the pink bus, and went home, to Leamington Spa, to what’d be my purgatory for the next seven months.

4. ‘ ..And you know he’s well into all that yoga stuff.’ I’m fuming. Absolutely fuming. I walk all the way up to the parade, to Wetherspoons. I book a table for our Christmas meal. My hoody is pulled tight around my head. I walk angry, fast, pacing through the streets like there’s no one around me. Sedge called me lazy this morning. Like he works his bollocks off. Yes, he goes in most days; but he spends most of his time pissing about on the couches in library, talking to the lads or people he knows from the sports teams. He’d said, ‘if you’re staying home again, book the fockin’ table. It’s up the road.’ I wouldn’t have got so annoyed if he hadn’t had a go about the bills as well. Sedge always pays them; then we paid him. I know I’m not the only one who hasn’t given him the money yet. Perhaps I shouldn’t have thrown the cheque at him though. I stand outside Subway, smoking quickly, shaking my head. A passer gives me a confused look. The guy in Subway recognises me and I get a full twelve inch meatball marinara. My appetite has been much smaller these last few months but it seems the anger I have fuels my hunger. Calm yourself, calm yourself. I’ve always had a short fuse, I hear Mum’s words in my head, telling myself to be calm, that it’s nothing major. But he doesn’t understand. As a dollop of sauce falls onto my napkin, I think about why he’s so angry and I realise it’s because his grandfather’s ill; and he’s having a rough time. He’s just finding his outlet. I think about the cold beers in the fridge that I’ll tuck into when I get in, even though it’s only one o’clock. But I need my outlet too.

I spend most of the afternoon at Reverend Richards’, but after a while I realise he’s hoping for me to go. When I return, Tim, Sedge and Stan are watching TV. ‘They’re breathing exercises. They build up the muscles, so you last longer,’ says Sedge. ‘You really do these?’ says Stan, his beady little eyes squinting, trying to measure whether he’s being had again. ‘Yeah, of course. Most fellas do ’em now. You wanna satisfy Becky don’t you?’ ‘I do,’ he says, ‘I think.’ ‘Mate, you’d know if you did.’ ‘I’ve been miles better since I started doing them,’ says Tim, ‘I always thought I was pretty good; but you can just tell, if you know what I mean.’ Stan looks to me hopelessly, then back at the boys. ‘You think she’s faking?’ I light comes on in Tim’s head. You can see he’s on to something here, he knows Stan’s for the taking. He flicks a strand of hair from his face. His dark eyes, deep inside the sockets, are large, dark, at once sinister and innocently mischievous. ‘Maybe.’ Sedge stands up. ‘Listen, trust us. You just find the muscle,’ he says, pointing to his groin. ‘It’ll take a while but you’ll get it. It feels weird at first but, trust me, it’s worth it.’ He looks at me as he says this, his smile more aware of the ridiculousness of it all than Tim’s. Stan is all too easy. ‘You tighten, hold for around ten seconds and then let go. Easy.’ ‘Do you guys really do these?’ Stan says, again, looking around at all of us. Tim and Sedge look to me for back up. ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘Of Course.’

‘You’re taking the piss.’ ‘Russell Brand swears by ’em,’ says Tim. ‘Yeah?’ ‘Yeah, they’re on the Yoga spectrum, and you know he’s well into all that yoga stuff.’ ‘Oh yeah,’ says Stan, trying to hide his ignorance of the made up fact. He is all too easy. ‘And Becky proper fancies Russell Brand,’ says Tim, poking his tongue out slightly underneath his upper teeth, when Stan’s not looking. When Stan leaves, they explain the prank. His blind’s fallen down. He’s put it back, but it’s not secure. His window looks out onto the street. The lads reckon throwing a ball or something at the window will make it fall again. They’ve got him all paranoid and worried now, so it’s fairly certain he’ll take their advice. ‘You up for it?’ says Sedge, our argument seemingly lost, disappearing as we grab the opportunity for bigger, better, more entertaining things. It’s true though. We haven’t got Stan in a long time and it is a great laugh. We haven’t got him good since last year when he let us use his card to buy laughing gas. We sent the products to his home in Oxford. Listening to the phone call with his parents was highly entertaining. ‘Yes,’ I say. Perhaps it’ll be fun. Over the next few days, focussing on the prank gives me something to do. I talk to the boys about it, I talk to them more than I have all term. I get lost in it. It’s a project. A cruel, mean project but it helps. For some reason no one asks Sedge how he’s heard of these exercises and it strikes me as strange how much he knows. Perhaps he does them himself. Supposedly they strengthen the kegel muscles, which help give you stamina and endurance in the trouser department.

I sit in my room, imagining poor old Stan trying to get to grips with them. I stand up, and make sure my own blind is secure. I pull down my jeans, and realise I’m wearing the same pair of pants I worn to my appointment. I remember the embarrassment as I dropped my kecks, the nurse looking at the thirty hearts in front of her, then going back to getting the umbrella test ready, like it’s the sort of thing she sees every day. I remember how I nearly laughed, thinking how stupid it was of me wearing those novelty boxers. I remember how I thought it would all seem a novelty. I shut my eyes. I breath, in, out, trying to find this muscle. I’m not going to start doing these exercises, of course. But I want some feeling, down there. I haven’t masturbated since I found out. At first, there’s nothing. But then, a flicker. I look down. I keep tensing and releasing, tensing, releasing. It becomes stiff, erect. There’s something, finally. I have avoided thinking of sex as much as possible. I feel stifled. I picture India naked and the guilt forces me to rid her from my mind. Fran Clarke comes out of nowhere, almost dancing in front of my eyes like a siren. It reminds me of a past me and again, I force her away. I scan the recesses of my memory and settle on a girl I don’t know who passed me in the street yesterday. A stranger, it’s perfect, a stranger brings no recollection of my life before this hell. I watch as it tries to push through the hearts. I slide my hand under my boxers, holding it with my hand. I slide my hand up and down for a couple of seconds, but stop. I haven’t done this since September. September. If I told the boys, they’d react like I’d killed someone. It was hard at first. Well, not right at first, because my mind was all over the place; but after a couple of weeks I did notice something missing from my day to day life. I remembered. But I didn’t do it. And after I while, you get used to it. You get used to not being that way anymore, like when old couples realise they’ve had a good run and sex just isn’t on the cards anymore. Perhaps I should get into Solitaire.

I stand, looking down, looking at it as if it is a separate entity. I want to out the poison in me. But that makes me stop. I’ve venom down there. I yearn to do it; but I can’t, I can’t realise that into the world, I must keep it contained, I mustn’t be part of this sexual world anymore. I pull up my trousers, put my shirt back on, and open the blind. The restaurant opposite was open. There’s a young couple sharing dinner. Looking down, I see my top button undone. I do it up, to hide the hair on my chest. There’s not many; but the ones that are, are the hairs of a man long since departed. ‘I hope this works,’ says Sedge. It’s two days later and we’re standing on the pavement outside the flat. I’ve heard Stan breathing oddly in his room and the time is ripe. ‘Who wants to do it?’ ‘Let me, it was my idea,’ says Sedge. ‘It’s my football,’ said Tim. ‘It was my idea.’ ‘Fucks sake lads, he’ll last longer than Ron Jeremy if you cunts don’t hurry up.’ ‘Go on,’ says Sedge, sensing the urgency. I pass the ball to Tim. Tim does a little run up, concentrating fully on the window. He throws. It hits. ‘Fuck, oh fuck!’ Sedge is laughing ear to ear. We’re inside now. Stan is slumped on the couch with his head in his hands. ‘You guys are dicks.’ ‘Yoga spectrum. You are fockin’ gullible son.’

Stan doesn’t see the funny side. I am smiling, I am laughing; but I’m not sure I do either. He has been exposed. It’s just harmless fun, I tell myself; but Stan doesn’t look like he’ll take it in his stride. I realise I’ve taken part because exposing him lessens the fear of being exposed myself. I don’t know how, I don’t know why. But the transference has made me forget things. And I don’t like myself for that. Stanny boy cradles his head in his hands and for the first time I worry less about that thing swimming inside of me and more about who I am as a man. Or a boy. It is not easy to decide. I go to my room. I run my finger along the back of the blind. Poor Stan, I think. I wonder how I’d feel if they did it to me. Somehow it feels like it would all become apparent. I’m sure I’d crack, I’m sure my reaction would not be in keeping with my personality. I’d flip, I’d let it all out. This scares me. I go to the bathroom to take a piss. Just before pulling up my trousers, I stand a moment, tensing the muscle again. Breathing in, releasing, hoping it’ll harden again. I’m distracted by a loud clatter next door. ‘Fock!’ ‘What happened?’ I say, running into Sedge’s room. It’s limp, by the way. I felt nothing. ‘He fell.’ ‘I think it’s broken,’ says Sedge. • The paramedic tells us to hurry up and decide who’s going in the ambulance with Sedge. I refuse, I actually say no and they all look at me like a dick. So like a little boy, I get affronted and insist on going. I’m in an ambulance. Sedge winces every now and then. Himself and Buggy don’t even look at me.

The ambulance is like a cell. I knew it would feel this way. As Sedge winces again and again I wonder what it’ll be like, years from now, when I’m back in one of these. ‘Proper banter though, with Stan?’ says Buggy. The two of them laugh. I try to join in but they look annoyed. ‘Sorry, Sedge,’ I say. He looks at his leg, scoffs, and peers back up at me, squinting his baby blues. ‘What’s with you? You were the first in the ambulance when Stan got his drink spiked in first year. Your Mum’s a nurse. I spent half my fucking childhood in hospitals with my brother, what’s the deal?’ ‘Sorry,’ I say, looking at the bed, feeling the bumps as the ambulance shuttles along. ‘I don’t know what got into me.’ Buggy looks at me cold, authoritative like, in a way I’ve never seen before. ‘Get it out of you,’ he says. We’re waiting in the hospital. I think back to September. I am anxious; but relieved. Whatever I’ve got, at least I haven’t given it to India. How Clara got my address, I don’t know. The NHS card arrived in the post. Thanks be to Christ Mum and Dad were out when it came through the letter box. I don’t get tested at home. I wait until I get back to Leamington and head to Warwick, to this very same hospital I am sitting in now with my best and irked friends. I am walking home from the clinic. I am sure it’s just Chlamydia, or Gonorrhoea. Few tablets; and I’m sorted. I’m just glad India found out. Perverse, but even with Chlamydia or Gonorrhoea, I’m glad to have eliminated the chances, or to have had them eliminated for me.

I sit, watching Sedge, who lets me get him a coffee. I look around. I desperately want shot of this hospital; but I must play the good nurse. There are bigger things than me. The day of our Christmas meal arrives. We walk slowly up the parade. Sedge is on crutches; but is his usually chirpy self. We’ve just done the crackers. Sedge makes everyone wear their paper hats. Tim’s wearing his at an angle, constantly trying to push his fringe out of his face. Buggy looks every bit the Christmas uncle, with his stomach nearly popping out his shirt. A barmaid flies past with three plates carefully balanced in her hands and up her arms. She rushes back to the kitchen. The pub is packed with students having Christmas meals. ‘What you looking at?’ say Tim. ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘He’s checking out the barman,’ says Sedge. One of his crutches falls. ‘Fuck.’ He picks it up, rearranging the tinsel he’s wrapped around it. ‘He’s not bad mate, but it’s not been that long. I wouldn’t give up just yet before turning.’ ‘How those crutches working out for you?’ I ask. ‘Got any?’ ‘It was weird, ya know, I was in the doctor’s the other day. And your Mum was there. I thought it was weird, I mean, I know she’s a nurse, but I didn’t think she’d come all this way just to look after me.’ ‘Do one.’ ‘I didn’t even ask for the sponge bath, but she insisted.’ ‘Your Mum’s a nurse in’t she? I got a blozzer off her last week, and my ankles fucking dandy.’ Sedge blows a kiss at me. It feels good when I can give as good as I get. My talents receding; but I’ve still got it every now and then.

Our exchange is interrupted by Buggy, who once again pounces on Stan for his vegetarianism. ‘How can you eat that for Christmas dinner?’ ‘It’s not Christmas yet,’ says Patrick. ‘What does the hat say?’ says Buggy, pointing at his red crown. ‘He’s a vegetarian’ says Stan. ‘And a fag.’ Sedge giggles. For him the ridiculous is sublime. ‘Look, it’s Lad’s Christmas. You can’t have Lads Christmas with Judas there eating a fucking nut roast. I’m ashamed of you Patrick. You’re a disgrace. A disgrace to your family.’ Patrick looks up with glazed eyes, and shrugs indolently. ‘Go easy, Buggy,’ says Sedge. He takes a swig of Guinness and licks the head off his lips in an unsightly fashion. ‘Pat knows I’m just tugging his balls, don’t you mate?’ Patrick nods. He doesn’t seem to care all that much for whatever drivel comes out of Buggy’s mouth from day to day. ‘But you have to admit, Patman, nut roast even sounds a bit gay.’ Though it’s all light hearted and I know Buggy’s just having a laugh, for some reason I pipe up, seeing as Pat isn’t gonna be doing any defending for himself. ‘You’re drinking a cider and black,’ I say, ‘that’s kinda gay.’ ‘Fuck off is it.’ ‘How’s a bunch of heated up nuts gayer than a purple, fruity drink?’ ‘It’s just cider with cordial.’ ‘Real men don’t know the meaning of the word cordial,’ says Sedge, ‘now shut the fuck up.’

Buggy giggles. Sedge blows him a kiss. Everyone seems relaxed amidst the shit storm of abuse. It is our way. We are all so immature, still, we are all so young. We rib each other over the smallest things, we use the word gay as a pejorative. AT least I know the word pejorative. As they spit out gay invectives, I can’t help but think of the illness. The gays’ disease. I’m not the poster boy patient, I don’t fit the expected profile. I hate myself for it; but I wish the world had turned the way I thought it did before all this.. I wish it had been just another gay man. I wish I could have been left out of the HIV narrative, wish I could be as immature and ignorant as these lads all around me. The waitress comes to our table. Sedge stares at her arse as she bends over him, to pass Buggy his food. He pretends to smack it with his hand. I see the manager behind the bar, clocking it. He must be about thirty odd. He looks stern for a second but then laughs, even bringing it to another member of staff’s attention. Such innocent, infantile pleasures. ‘Thank you,’ he says, smiling innocently, when she turns around to go back to get the other meals. She smiles, and walks off. ‘I’d love to give her my nut roast.’ ‘I bet you would’ says Buggy, ‘you’d have to hobble over there first.’ ‘You’ve got your meat now batty boy. Eat up, and shut up.’ ‘Love you.’ ‘Love you too.’ We’re pulling crackers. Everyone’s finished eating and Sedge’s brought out a box of crackers he got from Marks and Sparks. After the raucousness before the meal, everyone is in fairly placid mood, satiated, full, tired.

Cat got your tongue?

It’s ten minutes after Sedge’s asked me, not for the first time this year, why I’m being so quiet. I say I’m just full and he seems to take it as reason enough or gets that I don’t want to elaborate. The meal goes on but the cat is still in the room and I want to know where, I want my tongue back. Buggy and Sedge argue light heartedly, almost light heartedly, over a set of tweezers, it being open to debate who won the greater part of the cracker. I pull a cracker quickly with Sweet Chris because there’ll be little conversation and I can go back to my quietness with relatively little interference in between. I don’t like this new Marcus. And yet, I want to be left alone with him. I want to be left with my silence and solipsism, to live in desolation and be undisturbed. I crave attention and at once I shy away from it. I’ve never realised before how much I need it. But upon being given attention, I want only to crawl back inside my shell, where it is safe. The Christmas dinner goes on, the world continues to turn. Though I’m told my body will one day change, that it will rot and decay sooner than I’d like, it feels as if I’m standing still. I watch the gentle smiles of Sweet Chris and Patrick in perfect harmony with the cackles of Tim and Buggy. I realise this is their last hurrah, their final year at university and they are making the most of it. They are in motion, I am static. I can watch them as if like statues. I can paint their features into the forefront of my memory and I can read these boys, my friends, like books. I can see their futures ahead, more or less. They will enjoy this year and then they will enter the real world. They will contribute, they will get jobs, they will settle down. Even Buggy’ll find a girl sometime. They will adhere to the rules of the game. I’ve never wanted to go down the beaten path. But this other, this one that has found me, well, I sure didn’t see that coming. Conformity sure as fuck would be nice right now.

‘What’s up mate?’ says Sedge. He says it quiet. I’m drawn from my reverie. He is looking at me with genuine eyes. I must have been even more silent than usual. There is a pleading in his voice. His baby blues, deep in the sockets, though small and shrewd, have on an entreating aspect to them today. I look him square in the eyes. I wait a long time. ‘I have HIV.’ I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’ve said it now, here, to him. But I have. I get up and I leave the restaurant.

‘ Oh, he’s a work horse, but they’ll knacker him out if they keep him going like that.’ My phone vibrates throughout the sudden journey back to London. I grabbed whatever was vital from the flat and rushed to the station before any of the lads had a chance to get back. I switch it off. I stare out of the window. I’ll tell Mum and Dad I’m back early to do my essays. There’s no one in when I arrive. I lie down, thinking back to the summer, thinking in if’s and if not’s and had’s and had nots till the world just doesn’t seem like it’s sane anymore. I walk out into the hallway. My brother has a poster on the front of his door, two in fact, though at first I only notice the one. The one which passes me by is Aaron Lennon, the Spurs midfielder. Below is a large poster of Master Chief, the protagonist and hero from the Halo series. I look at my brothers heroes. My brother has always looked up to me. I slump against Master Chief and cry. ‘It’s a lovely surprise, love,’ says Mum, as she wipes the cabinet in the living room. I’m playing Fergal at one of his games. ‘How are the boys?’ she says, lifting a photo of her and my uncle. ‘They’re good. Sedge’s ankle’s getting better.’ ‘Poor lad, how did he do it?’ ‘Football.’ ‘Poor creature. You’ll have to have them round again,’ she says, before wondering out of the room. My phone vibrates. I switch it off without checking the name.

‘I’m getting tired, last game,’ I say to Fergal, bored of beating him every time. ‘What do you want for Christmas?’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Dunno. CD or something.’ ‘A CD? Atomic Kitten?’ ‘Stop it.’ He got one of their albums one Christmas, about ten years ago. ‘I thought you’d want a game.’ ‘Mum says I need to get other stuff. She says I can have one game from her and Dad, because I play too much. ‘Well, I smoke too much,’ I say. If I can’t be an influence, a good influence, I may as well be a fun brother. ‘Don’t worry about her. If you want one, let me know.’ ‘Thanks, Marcus.’ I fire a rocket at his character. The numpty’s standing in the middle of the arena looking around. ‘Make it one you’re not too shit at.’ Dad can’t understand why they don’t get substitute lecturers when he’s paying thousands of pounds for my education. I’ve told him my last lecture was cancelled. He’s been grumbling the arse off since I got back, but he’s happy as Larry too because he can put me to work around the house. ‘No, higher,’ he says, ‘higher.’ I tell him the shelf is in place but he insists he I haven’t got it quite right. I push it further. I’m standing at an awkward angle, whilst trying to get the screw in position. Just as I think I’ve got it, I nick my finger. ‘Ow!’ I drop the shelf but Dad’s there to catch it. He looks half concerned and half bemused.

‘Youse alright?’ ‘Christ,’ I say holding my finger, ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ Blood starts trickling from the small cut. I stare at it. The flow is irregular, not fast; but the trickle is making its way down my finger. ‘Suck it out,’ said Dad. I register what he says but at the same time ignore. I stare at it. It’s the first time I’ve seen it, out in the open, out of its natural habitat. I am both terrified and mesmerised. I don’t want to put my lips around the finger. ‘Jesus, Malcolm, what you playing at?’ says Dad, as I stare at the thin crimson river. ‘I’ll do it You’ll get it on the carpet.’ Dad walks towards me. ‘No!’ I shout, clicking back into life. I grab the finger with my other hand, shielding it from Dad. ‘Jesus, what’s up with you?’ he says, laughing. ‘Nothing,’ I say, ‘It’s just gross, Dad.’ ‘Well, what you standing there for, ya daft fairy? Go clean it up.’ I’ve been home a week. I’ve done no Uni work, despite telling Mum that’s why I’m holing myself up in my room. She pesters less that way. I rarely check my phone or even keep it on but there is a reason I check every now and then and I know deep down what it is, even though I try and deny it to myself. I hope for something from India. The phone always beeps and I want it to be her. It never is. It’s always one of the boys. I am grateful for their concern but I hate myself because I can’t and won’t check their messages. I want to hear from her. I sit at my desk, facing the window, staring out for hours at a time. The had and had nots and ifs and buts and if onlys spin like a whirlpool.

But this is a manmade disaster. I have brought upon myself disaster. The only thing nature did was bring me the wanting of a screw that I should’ve had the self control to stop. Guess I’m weaker than I ever realised. Silvery tears muddy my view of the outside, not that there is much to see except the house opposite and memories of childhood. Memories of football with Fergal in the garden. I can’t remember him every beating me, yet, to this day, my little brother will jump at the chance for a kick around. I walk to the window and watch myself playing in the garden. Christmas arrives. ‘Thank you, darling,’ says Mum, unwrapping her present. It’s a picture of her and her Fergal is over the moon with his game. Mum says I shouldn’t have spent all the money; but I know she’s happy deep down. It makes it seem like I’m looking out for him. I haven’t been able to think what I want, so Mum and Dad have given me money. But they also surprise me and Fergal with tickets to see Spurs on the twenty eighth. This morning, as to be expected, I didn’t wake up with Christmas joy. But I’d a stocking in the corner of my room, as I have had every year. Despite being twenty one now, there are some things from childhood I cherish and will fight to the death to retain. Such as my Christmas stocking. If there’s one Christmas tradition that I both loath and know will go forever uninterrupted, it is the Christmas cleaning. Mum’s gone to mass, to keep up appearances. Dad’s gone to the pub with the Protestants, which he’s allowed to do on Christmas Day because of all those years we had Granny over from Ireland, who, though nice enough to him, had a habit of making snide remarks about him being from ‘the other side’. So, even though we have the same relatives around each year, me and Fergal are forced to clean the house from top to bottom.

‘Five more minutes, then we’ll blitz it. You polish, I’ll mop the floor,’ I say. ‘It won’t be long before she’s back. Drink up.’ Fergal looks happy. I’ve given him a beer while Mum and Dad are out. Dad looked right smug when he left the house earlier. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, just got to check something,’ I say. I go upstairs, and turn on my phone. A minute passes, until it beeps. Her name doesn’t come up. There are texts from Adrian and Buggy. For once, I check them. The first says, ‘Merry Christmas mate. Hope you have a nice one. Speak soon.’ Buggy’s says, ‘Merry Christmas fella. Please get in touch.’ I think of replying. My hand hovers of the reply button but then I hear a shit your pants loud voice from downstairs. ‘Marcus!’ I run downstairs. ‘You’re back early.’ ‘Ay, Donald’s missus keeps him on a short leash these days. What are you doing giving your brother beer?’ I look at Fergal. He’s bricking it, holding his can in his hand childishly. ‘Sorry, Dad. It’s Christmas.’ ‘Your Mum’ll go ape.’ ‘Yeah, but, she’s not here.’ Dad smiles. ‘Ay, she’s not.’ He walks past Fergal, laughing and ruffling his hair. ‘Finish that one up son. She’ll kill me twice before she kills either of you if she comes home to see that.’ I’m drinking with Dad and Ray, Mum’s brother, while dinner’s on the way. Fergal sits with us, drinking coke now. He observes the conversation quietly, like picking up tips on how to behave when his time comes. Ray’s two daughters are his age. But they

are haughty, high strung and indifferent to his presence, instead choosing to fuck around on their new mobile phones. ‘They need to replace Ronaldo,’ says Ray, bemoaning his beloved United, ‘Rooney’s left doing too much on his own.’ ‘He’s doing a good job of it though,’ I say. ‘Oh, he’s a work horse, but they’ll knacker him out if they keep him going like that.’ Christmas dinner is the same as always. Old stories are rehashed, but told as if new; Uncle Ray and Dad get overly competitive during the family board game and the words knacker, paddy, Prod and blue nose tend to get bandied around, just about in good jest. The girls treat my little brother like a chief and with as much indifference as they can muster. I try, therefore, to embarrass them as much as is feasibly possible. I pull out the usual boy questions, the ‘rumours’ I’ve heard/made up, that whole thing. I have to be some sort of brother to Ferg. ‘Do you remember when Marcus got his head stuck in the banisters back home?’ says Ray. I shovel a sliver of chicken into my mouth. I know the story word for word, like everyone else at the table. But he’ll tell it, in its entirety because that is how a Stone/Laugherty family Christmas works. ‘Oh Raymond, stop, you know he hates that.’ I sit silently, listening to the story. ‘He just wanted to see if he could do it like in the cartoons,’ says Dad. ‘Then he couldn’t get it out,’ roars Ray, the ruddy skin of his neck growing taut, his Adam’s apple poking out. ‘Do you remember what Annie said when you asked if she’d any butter?’ says Mum, now laughing herself. I smile, thinking back to myself as a nipper, looking up hopefully at Aunty Annie, desperate for her to come up with a solution.

‘No,’ says Dad, tears in his eyes, ‘But I’ve got margarine.’ Ray roars. His eyes glisten. The girls look embarrassed. I’m the little boy with his head between the banisters again. I can see it in front of me, like Fran Clarke. But this vision is a blessing. I listen to Ray and Dad screaming with laughter and I see myself looking up at Aunty Eileen in hope. I remember squealing as she smeared margarine around the side of my neck, like something awful was about to happen. I remember, I remember, I remember. That’s all I fucking do. I remember. I want just once to be able to forget. I spoon some cranberry sauce onto my plate, and laugh as Dad looks over at me, playing my part as the gracious whipping boy. The conversation turns more serious and he chooses now to bug me about my post university plans. Ray joins in. I make vague references to graduate programmes I’ve just made up and when pressed for details, Mum tells them to shut up about work at the dinner table, the Christmas dinner table no less. I’m saved, for now at least. I sneak up to my room after dinner while Mum’s preparing puddings with Aunty Anita. I check my phone. I wait for that beeping noise. She must’ve found out by now. The lads must’ve told her to contact me. It goes off a few times, but her name doesn’t show. Mum calls from the landing. I switch off the phone and march back down. ‘Fergal, don’t try and kill me until your shield’s recharged. If you just run at me when it’s down, it’s easy to kill you.’ He’s as bad at his new game as the others, but doesn’t seem bothered. Mum and Dad are lying on the sofa behind us. It doesn’t take me long to beat Fergal. We wait for a new game to load. I pick up some wrapping paper from Mum’s present to Ray.

‘Don’t worry about that, love,’ says Mum, with a sherry slur, ‘we’ll do it tomorrow.’ ‘We can live like pigs again lads,’ says Dad. ‘Now Ray’s gone.’ The sound of Mum slapping Dad in the chest clashes with the gentle bleeps of the computer. ‘It’s okay. I’m just clearing it away.’ I scrunch the piece of paper hard, balling it inside my fist, so that it hurts my hand. ‘Marcus?’ I look up, the game’s begun. I drop the paper, and start playing. Fergal’s performance doesn’t improve. I kill his character often and quickly. Each time, the screen blackens. I see my parents behind. She has fallen asleep on his chest. My father has his hefty, strong arm around her. He sips his beer gently. His face is free of emotion. But I believe it to be the face of a contented man. Three games after I say, ‘last one,’ I go to bed. I wonder what the boys’ Christmas’s are like. Adrian will’ve spent at least an hour on the phone to Gemma. Stan will’ve done a similar thing with Becky, but for much less time. Tim’s parents are divorced, but they spend every Christmas together, the only day of the year they do. Poor Tim. I think of Buggy and I can’t help but get mad. I try and picture him having a nice Christmas with the family and I wanna be happy for him because I know he gets down at Uni. He never voices it but it’s getting to be near graduation time and he hasn’t got any. Ever. He won’t say it, we won’t say it, but we all know. But when I think of him, I find a way to blame. I think of that MDMA and the way he and Tim shovelled it all. Why I don’t get as angry with Tim I don’t know. Perhaps because Buggy’s an easier target, perhaps it’s just a popularity contest but fuck it, nothing’s fair. I’m angry as hell. I’m angry at the world and I’m angry at myself. Not just for doing what I did and getting what I’ve got.

I’m angry for the kind of man I turned out to be. Stupid, selfish mother fucker who thought with his dick first and not even his head second, third, fourth or fifth. The old head was nowhere to be seen. Mum and Dad never put a foot wrong with me, far as I can tell. No, I’m my own undoing. I might be angry at Buggy and life and the universe but I’m angry with myself and it’s the lion’s share of my anger. Fucks sake Marcus. I think of Sedge, in his big house in the Wirral. I think about his poor parents, with their dead son; and I tell myself to quit my moaning. I tell myself there’s people worse off, tell myself to shut the fuck up and that gets me all angry because I flit between telling myself don’t you dare pity yourself and then falling into the trap nonetheless. People worse off. I lie, waiting for the phone to vibrate. It does so, four times. I check the names and turn it off.

‘ Can we get a tea?’ ‘Marcus, get up,’ says Dad. I awake, bleary, unresponsive. I don’t want to go to the game. ‘I don’t feel well.’ He draws the curtains. ‘I didn’t spend my bonus so you could be ill,’ he says. ‘I’ve driven a train with laryngitis.’ Bollocks has he. He’s a fucking fairy when he gets a cold. But it’s never a cold to Dad. It needs a more manly name to it, like bronchitis or laryngitis or some sort of fucking –itis that won’t make him look like a pussy. ‘Ok, I’m getting up.’ I toss the cover to one side and swing both legs out onto the floor in a display of deference. ‘What’s got into you?’ he says, ‘Your brother’s not missing this game so youse can doss about.’ The stadium’s packed. It’s the Christmas period, games sell out quickly. People cling to the festive mood, shivering in the stands with Santa hats and the like, doing their best to keep warm. The fuckers on the field won’t know how easy they’ve got it. Ethnic Conflict pops into my head by a chain of sequence. My toes are freezing. I have my grandfather’s circulation, supposedly. Granddad, Ireland, Ethnic Conflict. I read the team sheets on the big screen, thinking of everything but up there, where I left in a hurry.

I catch Fergal eyeing up two girls in Santa hats. Their Spurs shirts hang tightly around their chests. Both are slim and attractive, one a blonde, the other a brunette. I can just about see the lining of a bra on the blonde. It’s either pink or purple. The brunette is wearing the dark away shirt. I can’t see hers. Why am I looking when I know it frustrates me? I can’t help it. She’s got darker skin, olive like. I imagine her underwear, black, lacy. Peeling it off to reveal dark nipples, hardening them with the slow dance of my tongue. Gliding my hands between her leg, she moans as run my fingers beneath the cotton, downwards, inwards, out and in. Fat guy. There’s a fat guy beside them. I focus all my attention on him. His replica shirt is as tight as those girls. He’s holding a hamburger. He takes a bite, a dollop of ketchup falls onto his shirt and a piece of onion dangles from his lips. I’m so disgusted I can’t look. I let nature take its course and I avert my eyes back to the girls. The blonde’s jeans cling to her hips but fit perfectly around her trim waste. From here I can still make out her eyes, deep in the sockets but wide and piercing. Confident looking, like. She’s fit but my god, don’t she just know it. Fergal flicks through his programme. I stare at her hips. I watch those legs, picturing them bare, beneath the jeans. The smooth skin, leading up to her crotch, the trim v of hair, the pierced belly button not for above, my tongue kissing it. I make up details of her body I’ve no idea to be the truth. I don’t want the truth. I don’t need truth. She is lying down now, in front of me, or below me. She takes off the shirt. No, I tell her. I demand that she leave it on. I can’t decide about the Santa hat. Not sexy, but festive and funny. Fuck festive, fuck funny. I want animal.

I take the hat off, strands of blonde hair try to pull away with it, but lay gently on the pillow. I hold her thighs, confidently surging in, out, in, out. She goes all Essex porno on me, saying more more and harder harder. I do as she says. I dig my fingers into her flesh as I near climax. Hers nearly rip into the skin of my chest but it’s all good it’s all good. ‘Can we get a tea?’ I look around. Fergal looks cold. I look back at her. She’s counting out change, passing it to the olive skin one. I’m brought back down to earth. ‘Sure. Let’s go before kick off.’ Fergal hands me a score. ‘Forgot to say, Dad gave me this for both of us.’ Little fucker’s got a twenty in his hands. Why wasn’t I put in charge of it? ‘Keep hold of it for later. I’ll grab these.’ The guy on the sound system has been announcing the teams. The music is back on. The blonde is swaying her hips to Love Machine, moving her mouth in time to the lyrics. I start imaging the mouth and it’s capabilities. I look down, reading the number of every row as I make my way inside, to the food stands.

We win 2-1. It’s a decent match. Defoe gets the winner. I’ve never rated him but the fucker always pipes up with a goal when you’ve just said he’s shite. We trudge towards the station, which must be about a twenty minute walk from the ground. We board the train. We have to stand because it’s packed. An attractive blonde, not dissimilar to that one at the game, is pressed into me through crowding. After all that

stuff in my head earlier, that safe distance fantasy, the closeness of her makes me want to run a mile. I retreat into my thoughts. I think of the game, whether we’ll get fourth, whether we’ll keep our best players. I try to ignore her rubbing against me. My cock can’t remain focused on the possibility of pipping Arsenal to third spot. It rises like the moon, a bad moon rising. I think of music, or, I try to think of music and just anything that doesn’t involve her or the one from the stadium beneath my imaginary, goliath like grip, surge, grip. • ‘He hasn’t been out with his friends since he came home. He’s usually out the door like a flash,’ says Mum. She’s talking to Brede Maloney, a family friend who’s dropped round for a cuppa. ‘You’re getting old, Marcus,’ says Brede. ‘I’ve just got loads of work,’ I say, which in theory should be true. ‘I’ll see the lads before I go,’ I glare at Mum, hoping to high heaven she’ll give it a rest. ‘Are you still with that girl? What was her name? She’d an odd name didn’t she?’ Breda asks Mum. ‘India,’ I say, ‘No, not anymore.’ ‘Oh, that’s a shame, she was gorgeous. What happened?’ Mum shakes her head, ‘I haven’t a clue Brede, he’ll not talk about it.’ She breaks for a moment, as if for one second deliberating on her next offering. ‘She’s a stunning girl.’ I grit my teeth. I say it was just time, I try to limit my syllables because there’s fucks and fuck offs and please will you fucking leave its on my tongue so the best I can do is limit what emerges from my mouth.

‘Is that really all she said?’ asks Mum, shaking her head. ‘Yes, Mum. For God’s sake, there ain’t nothing more to say, will you just leave it?’ I’ve snapped but, rest assured I’ve always had a short temper and the last few months haven’t quite tempered it. This is tame compared to what I’d have liked to have said. Still, I await Mum to rip me to pieces. But, she does something much worse, something she only does when she knows I’m wrong, I’ve overreacting or, worst of all, raised my voice in the company of guests, even if Brede has been in this house more times than any of my grandparents and stumbled out of it ungraciously enough a fair few times herself. ‘Isn’t,’ says Mum. It shuts me right up. Brede smiles. Mum eyeballs me before saying, ‘Well, I won’t embarrass you Marcus. But I just can’t understand her ringing from Tanzania like that. After two years.’ Yes, I fucking lied about the break up. I walk into the living room. Dad’s flicking idly through the channels. He settles for a moment on one of the sports stations. ‘Marcus, what do you call this game?’ he asks, blue light reflecting in his eyeballs. ‘Lacrosse, Dad. What channel’s this?’ ‘Don’t know, just trying to find something. There’s shag all on TV at Christmas,’ he says, all scrooge like. ‘What they waving those sticks around for?’ ‘That’s the game, Dad. It’s Canadian. It’s like hockey, but you lump the ball through the air. Actually, it’s a bit like hurling.’ ‘Christ,’ he says, lifting his eyes to mine for the first time. ‘Your uncles’ talk about that shite all the time.’

‘It’s not too bad,’ I say, knowing he doesn’t really hate hurling. He just likes to feel put upon by Mum’s harem of Irish brothers. I was never all that good at it. Gave it a go; but the coordination required to hold a stick and connect it to a ball hurtling a hundred miles through the air was beyond me. ‘Dad, did you ever feel out of place,’ I say, ‘you know, marrying into an Irish family?’ He turns the volume down a little, places the remote beside him; and gives me his full attention. ‘You joking, son? I’m a Prod from Glasgow called Duncan. ‘snot ideal, is it? You should’ve seen your uncles’ faces the first time I walked in.’ ‘What were they like?’ He pauses a moment, a light smile dancing on his lips. ‘Ay, they weren’t so bad after a while. Just a bit nervous, worried for your Mum. Guess I was a little exotic, a little dangerous,’ he says, chuckling to himself. ‘But, was it difficult?’ ‘Ay, a little at first. They didn’t give much beyond a handshake. But it was worse for her. I was lucky. Catholics are sneaky, lying bastards,’ he says with a laugh, ‘but it means they’ll still give you a smile, even if they hate you. Us lot are the honest sort. My parents’ weren’t so nice to your Mum. Don’t you remember when Granny lost her marbles?’ ‘Yeah,’ I say, laughing, remembering the way Dad’s mum got towards the end. ‘She kept telling your Mum that Catholic girl he’d married was never good enough for her boy Duncan. And your Mum just laughed.’ ‘Yeah, I remember.’ He pauses thoughtfully. ‘Always been that way, your Mum. Takes everything in her stride. That’s how I knew.’

His eyes fixate on the screen, as he thinks to himself, contented looking, happy. He turns back to me. ‘Something up, Son?’ ‘No, was just interested, that’s all.’ ‘Ay, find a woman who’ll put up with all your shite, that’s the best advice I can give. No one comes with a clean plate.’ He looks up from the screen. ‘When’s dinner? ‘Mum said seven thirty, so probably eight or nine.’ ‘Ay, well, I didn’t marry her for her timekeeping. What are these Lacoste players doing now?’ ‘Lacrosse, Dad. I’ve no idea. It’s shit, to be honest with you.’ I have to go back to Leam soon. The boys’ll be angry, what with me running off like that and not saying a thing over Christmas. I’ve got to warn them to, that I’ve said nothing to my parents. What’ll they think of me now? I’ve been difficult all year, keeping my secret, getting angry with them over things I shouldn’t have, snapping more than ever before. Will they want me around? Things get worse when Mum says she’s going to drop me up to Leamington. She likes it there, she says we can go for lunch. I’m packed and ready to go on Wednesday. It’s not like I’d brought a whole lot back with me. I spend about an hour picking up and replacing my phone, trying to decide whether or not to tell someone I’m coming back and if so, who. Sedge or Tim are the obvious choices. I look through the messages again. Other than the day I ran off, there’s been nothing from Tim. I don’t want to ring Sedge. I feel awful for running off like that and not asking about his Granddad over Christmas. He was pretty much on his last legs, I should’ve said something. I ponder over what to do when my issue is solved in the worst way possible.

‘Hello, lads!’ says Mum, as I hear her open the front door. ‘Marcus,’ she calls up the stairs. I walk down. Buggy and Sedge are standing there. Fergal’s poking his head out from the living room. ‘Come in, lads. Marcus, you didn’t say the boys were coming.’ I open my mouth, but Buggy jumps in. ‘He didn’t know. Me and Sedge got bored in Leam so we came down for the night. Feeling rotten,’ he says, holding his hand to his head. I know hungover Buggy and can tell his faking it. ‘You’re from London aren’t you, Edward?’ ‘Putney,’ says Buggy. It’s news to me. ‘We tried ringing Marcus, to see if he wanted to come, but couldn’t get through.’ ‘My battery was dead. I forgot to turn it back on last night.’ ‘Silly boy,’ says Mum, scolding me. ‘You could’ve had a night out. He’s been working constantly, lads.’ They look unconvinced but try not to show it. We sit down in the living room, Mum rushes off to make tea and arrange more biscuits than anyone could possibly want. ‘Marcus.’ I poke my head out of the door, towards the kitchen. ‘Do the boys take sugar?’ ‘Sedge none, Buggy takes three.’ I turn back, Buggy has three fingers up. ‘What you doing here?’ I say in an urgent whisper, when she’s safely out of earshot.

‘Marcus, we’re fockin worried sick,’ says Sedge. ‘You’re not answering anyone. You just told us,’ he pauses. ‘Then ran off. You know how hard we tried to contact you?’ ‘Is Marcus moaning boys?’ says Mum bringing in the tray. Buggy laughs. ‘Yeah, he’s complaining we didn’t message him earlier before his battery ran out.’ Mum hits me on the thigh, ‘Well, you should keep your phone charged shouldn’t you? It’s not like you were out gallivanting. He’s become a hermit this Christmas, lads. He’s like a new Marcus.’ Sedge laughs nervously. ‘Simon, how’s your leg?’ says Mum. He’s still milking the tinsel. ‘Not bad, thank you. Should only be a couple more weeks. Teach me to fall off chairs.’ ‘Chairs? Marcus said you did it playing football.’ Sedge glances over at me. ‘Yeah, well, I injured it a few weeks before playing football. It were brittle, like, but the real damage got done when I fell off the chair.’ ‘I see,’ says Mum. She scans him with her nurses’ eyes. ‘You don’t do law, do you, Simon?’ ‘No.’ ‘Good,’ she says, laughing, haughty, throaty. ‘You’re a terrible liar.’ Sedge smiles bashfully and she leaves us to it. ‘She’ll suspect something,’ I say, when Mum’s safely out of earshot. ‘Fergal’s already acting weird.’ ‘Why?’ I pause for a moment. I have to delve back into the past, into the cause of all this and the failing which led me to this place I’m in now. I have to go back, not just to the

event; but to the lies that I told, those sweet little, plentiful lies which I thought might somehow protect me. ‘I told him you lived in Bermondsey.’ ‘Why’d you do that?’ says Buggy, with an annoyed look, scrunching his face together so his cheeks puff out. ‘I dunno. Because you never said Putney before. Me and Tim were on the couch the next day after it happened and I said I’d stayed at yours. It was the first place in South London that came to mind.’ ‘If you listened,’ says Buggy, ‘if any of you ever listened to a word I say, you’d know I came from Putney. I’ve said it often enough.’ There’s acid in his voice, bitterness and jealousy. The jealousy of the forgotten and overlooked. Buggy composes himself and turns back to face me. ‘So, is that how...?’ ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘it was her. From that night.’ ‘Told anyone else?’ ‘No,’ I say, my head hanging, my eyes on the carpet. Mum’ll have it cleaned after Christmas. She hates bacteria, uncleanliness. ‘Just you guys at the meal. You told anyone?’ ‘Course we ain’t,’ says Buggy ‘It’s no our place.’ He lifts his mug, cooling his tea, his pointy red elbow showing. ‘If you were so worried,’ I say; and I don’t want to seem the unsympathetic prick but I can’t think of a better way to word it. ‘Why’d you not ring my house number?’ Sedge’s eyes widen his near translucent eyebrows arching skywards. ‘None of us have it.’

I peer out into the hallway again, looking up the stairs. I can hear Mum moving about. ‘We tried getting it off India.’ ‘Yeah?’ I say, turning back, my interest piqued, my attention for the first time directed at his eyes and what they might tell me. ‘Yeah,’ says Sedge, ‘she didn’t reply to any of us, so I asked Lydia. Which weren’t fun. That girls a bitch.’ He lowers his voice all too late but I imagine even Mum’s hearing won’t catch that last bit. ‘She wouldn’t help. But she did say India’s in Switzerland.’ ‘They have a cabin,’ I said, ‘there’s no internet there.’ I it up. ‘You didn’t tell Lydia why you were trying to get my number?’ I ask, worried they might’ve slipped it. ‘Course we didn’t fella. We told no one.’ I remember the cabin. It was the kind you only see in brochures, the kind you never see with your own eyes. But I was seeing it. I was seeing it in the real and couldn’t believe my luck. India was loaded. I wasn’t with her for that but, it was something else to see how the other side lived. Now the other side doesn’t seem so complicated, so alien, just, everyone who’s not me. Normal people. God, I’d kill for that again. I don’t speak for a long time. The boys seem to understand my desire for silence. Eventually, Sedge opens his mouth, pausing for a good while, as if wary to utter his next words. ‘Mate, we, I, need to ask. Do you need to tell India? About, you know.’ I look up, not affronted but urgent. I have to make him understand I’m telling the truth, that there’s no need. ‘No, god no,’ I say. No, we never, not after that girl. Fuck, guys if I thought it was possible I’d..’

‘I know,’ says Sedge, calm, his hand in the air. ‘Just had to check, like.’ I look at Buggy. ‘You know she found out soon after that night?’ ‘She didn’t find out from me mate, I’ve told you a million times,’ says Buggy. I shake my head in disbelief. Big mouth Buggy couldn’t help himself, the gossip cat. ‘Honest,’ he says but I can’t bring myself to believe it. ‘Jesus,’ sighs Sedge. ‘It weren’t Buggy Marcus. India found out from Tim.’ • How could it of been Tim? I had such a go at Buggy. He’s a babbler; it makes sense. I never even considered that Tim might’ve said something. He’s my best mate. Why would he tell India? As we drive down the A40, I think about the two of them. He was definitely attracted to her. Maybe he was jealous I’d got in there first. Maybe he wanted this all along. For all I know, he’s fucked her behind my back, now she’s had the chance. And I bet she’d love the thought of getting back at me like that. I sit in the car, still, enraged inside. The road ahead disappears as I see Tim ahead, surging back and forth, fucking India. She laughs, she laughs the revenge laugh. She’s at it with him more to get back at me than anything else. Tim’s laughing now, he’s just laughing because he can’t believe his luck. They laugh, they grunt, they sweat, they fuck and I nearly punch the dashboard. Then I remember Mum driving beside me; and the boys in the back. Mum persuaded them to stay the night. Why didn’t Buggy just tell me it was Tim? •

‘Here we are, now,’ says Mum as we pull up, opposite my flat. I don’t want to walk up the stairs. I don’t want to go back up there. The others are waiting. ‘Mate, are you alright?’ says Stan as I walk into the kitchen, rising from the leather sofa and walking towards me. Mum’s in front of me. I can see the look in Stan’s eyes that says either Buggy or Sedge have given him a ‘cut it’ sign. ‘Yeah, it’s only a cold mate,’ I say, looking at Mum. ‘I told him I had the flu.’ ‘He’s a hypochondriac, Stan, just like his father.’ Stan sits again as Mum passes into the kitchen to put some milk and other basics in the fridge for me. ‘Alright, Tim?’ I say. I stand above him. I stand still, I keep my voice calm. ‘Hi mate, good Christmas?’ The air is already tight. There’s something in those deep brown eyes of his which suggests knowing. Somehow Tim knows I know, he can hear it in my voice. His is weak, crackly. The sound of Mum rustling shopping bags fails to detract from the icy atmosphere in the room. ‘Fantastic. Yours?’ ‘Er, good thanks. You alright?’ ‘Great.’ I walk towards the kitchen. I see Tim look towards Buggy and Sedge for answers. ‘Why didn’t you lads come to London?’ Mum asks Tim and Stan. ‘Oh, I’ve got loads of work to do,’ says Stan. ‘Yeah, Sedge tried to twist my arm,’ says Tim ‘but I had to resist. Took all my willpower.’ ‘What willpower?’ I say. I smile at him, baring as many teeth possible, a rictus grin, a forewarning. I turn to Mum. ‘Shall we go to lunch?’

Mum says I look silly with my hood on, but it’s a cold day. Lucky Dad’s not here or he’d think me a right ‘daft fairy’ she says, imitating him. I grimace. ‘Oh, ignore your Dad, Marcus, he doesn’t mean it.’ We stand on the corner, undecided as to where to eat. Eventually, I realise we’re right behind Pizza Express and there’s really no other choice. ‘Are you alright darling,’ says Mum, after we’ve been seated a little while, with little conversation going back and forth. ‘You’ve been very quiet all Christmas?’ ‘I’m fine. I’ve just had loads of work.’ ‘I know, but you’ve had work before, and never been so quiet.’ ‘I thought you’d be happy,’ I say. I regret it immediately. My words are barbed, intended to deflect, to make me less vulnerable. But they invite guilt, confusion, discomfort. I must work on this. Perhaps I’d better stop opening my mouth. She smiles, a smile betraying frustration; a frustration held at bay by her stunning adaptability, her ability to rephrase appropriately. ‘Of course I am. I just wanted to be sure it’s the work keeping you in, that’s all, sweetheart.’ I pause for thought, so’s to ensure I don’t say anything out of order or unfair. A woman walks past the window opposite me with a pram. She yells at an elder daughter lagging behind her but I don’t hear because the windows thick. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just lots of work this year, you know?; I ask Mum about our relatives in Ireland. It’s not that I’m overly interested but it always gets her going on one, distracting her from me and all that comes with it. She speaks of cousins I’m meant to remember; but couldn’t in a million years, she talks of villages the names of which are at most bell ringers for me.

I look around the restaurant, looking, or checking, for familiar faces. I shouldn’t have sat facing the window, there’s a constant need in me to scan the faces outside. ‘Looking for someone, darling?’ ‘No,’ I say, forcing a laugh. ‘I keep seeing people I think I know.’ She gives me the Morgan smirk, the sardonic, self-confident look I picked up but have since lost. ‘The curse of popularity, Son.’ I look out the window once more, swathes of unfamiliar people swarming past. But my eyes hover over their walking forms, just to be sure. My ‘Mum?’ I say. My eyes remain on the passers-by. I’m contemplating; and I know it. I’m weighing up a decision. ‘Yes?’ I pause. I’ve nearly the balls for it. I look into her loving eyes, her eyes like Bambi’s Mum, her eyes, like love drawn, love put to paper, in front of me, in the flesh, in the real. ‘What, darling?’ Can’t do it. Can’t do it to her. ‘Was Margaret O’Brian the one who lived alone in that little house in Cools?’

‘ Great. Gayboy here took me to see Les Miserables’ I sit on the bottom step. Mum’s making a complete hames of getting out of her parking space. I can’t see her. I’ve closed the large green door. I’m sitting at the bottom of the stairs. She’s taken so long, the light’s gone off and I leave it that way. After much revving and gear changing, I hear her drive off. I hear a door open above and leave the building. I’ve never been down to the canal before, but I don’t wanna go back to the flat. Even on a cold day like today, the park mightn’t be quiet enough. I see a playground, on the back of a small estate. A group of kids are playing. Two kids fuck around on a see saw, they’re much too old to be enjoying it for what it is. They’re denying the younger kids the actual fun of it, they’re playing the arsehole card. Another child swings on a tree branch. I figure he must be about ten or eleven. Another was swinging on the branch of a tree. He’s pretty strong for his age. I wonder how much weight those branches can take. • It’s amazing how you can avoid people if you put your mind to it. More amazing how you can’t help but seek them out in the end. How no matter how little you want human contact, that creeping desire, that need forces its way inside you. I’ve been avoiding the boys for days. After the canal, I spoke to them briefly. I was terse, combative, cuntish, to put it in a nutshell. I know it’s not their fault, I know they want to help.

But I know they can’t understand because I’m barely getting my head around it. And it makes me a tosser. Tosser with a reason; but a tosser nonetheless. And that’s why I have to separate myself from them. I spend hours walking around town, usually near the canal. For food I hit the Chinese and Kebabs hidden away on the backstreets until I run out of shrapnel and need to brave the busy roads for a cashpoint. On Friday, Sedge texts me, asking if I fancy a curry in the evening. I say I’m in the library till late which as bold faced a lie as you can get and I know he knows it but he’s done his bit, he’s checked up on me, checked my pulse as it were. I can’t blame the boys if they don’t want to be around me. Christ, I don’t want to be around me. It’s just, I can’t be any other way. This anger within me, it’s the only thing which finds an outlet, it’s the only way to deal with it. Only anger can make me think of something else. When you think of anger, you don’t think of HIV. You don’t think of breakups or love or life. Anger is the opiate of the needle wary. Anger masks feeling, anger acts as a cloak, a shield from reality. When you’re angry, you’re invincible. Monday comes. I get restless. ‘So, what are we doing?’ says the hairdresser, as I seat myself. She’s attractive. She’s bleached hair. It’s dyed brown on one side of the fringe. It could look tacky but she’s had it styled, it’s nice, it’s sexy even. I’ve an overall covering my crotch and I’m glad for it. I’m properly looking at her too much as she talks to me. I look her up and down and I’m sure it’s blatant as fuck. ‘Just a trim. I don’t want too much off but it’s getting a bit long. And could you thin it a bit?’ ‘Sure. Do you want it washed?’

Her hand is gripped around my scalp. I can feel the warm softness of her palm on my head. ‘Please.’ When I sit at the basin, I’m disappointed. The hairdresser wanders off, replaced by a short, tubby assistant. She’s sweet looking, but not attractive. As she goes to get shampoo and towels, I crane my neck; but I can’t get a peep of the hairdresser, she’s out of view. I readjust my head. I clock her. She’s got on trousers which hang nice around her hips, like the girl at the Spurs game. Is she sexier? I don’t know. Maybe the days and nights are just making her that way. I’ve not busted a load since I found out. Perhaps the up build is making every woman more attractive by the day. She struts over to a mirror to pick up some clippers. Or perhaps she walks as normally as could be; but in my head she’s strutting like you wouldn’t believe. I imagine her underneath, shaven, smooth. I have to separate my feet slightly. The assistant returns. She starts rinsing my hair. I look up. She doesn’t notice, or pretends not to. Her hands, too, are warm and soft. I close my eyes, focusing on the feeling. Fucking pathetic, it is; but it’s arousing. I know it, this is the most intimacy I’ve had all these months. I don’t want her to stop. It’s the first time a girl’s touched me since that night, and she’s no idea what it feels like When I open my eyes, I look up. She’s different, she doesn’t look so bad after all. She starts to lather shampoo into my hair, digging her fingers in aggressively, back and forth, back and forth. Rinsing, she repeats the whole thing. I part my feet. I readjust as slyly as I can.

I’m caught in a bind. If I could, if it were at all possible, would I fuck her now? Or would I just have her stand there, caressing, gently caressing, gently strong my hair? I don’t know what it is I miss more. • I’m lying on my bed, breathless. I clench tissues in my hand. I ran back from the hairdressers. When I was reaching climax, I couldn’t decide between the assistant and the stylist, couldn’t decide whose body I wanted in front of me, after all this time. It’s been so long, it felt like it was someone else’s hand. I run my fingers through my hair. It’s thinner now, it’s easier to glide them through. Relieved, released, I stand, with my keks at my ankles, the limp thing in front of me, the tissues still in my hand. There’s something instinctual in what I’ve just done, something almost uncontrollable. It’s as if it was predetermined, that I’d no control over it. It reminds me of that night, yet I can’t help but be satisfied, aroused by the uncontrollability of my urges, by how natural it all seems. The feeling of relief is short lived. I pull up my trousers, throwing the tissue in the bin. This is all I have now, this is my escape, my release, my frustration and my pain. I tie the bag, walk downstairs, around the corner, and throw it in the big green skip. Back inside, I wash my hands, thoroughly, and go back to my room to lie down. When I fall asleep, I think my final image is of that assistant, gently, gently, stroking my hair. •

Sedge is eating cereal, staring at his Reebok’s through the glass table. The loud crunching noise makes the silence more awkward. He’s said good morning, he’s even asked me I’m up to today. I know this is my fault, I wish I wasn’t causing all this discomfort. I wish I could just disappear and let them get on with their lives. It’s become impossible to avoid my housemates completely. Breakfast is the worst, there’s always someone around. I’ve tried not eating it at all, but I can’t do anything if I’ve not eaten. Even if I’m doing shag all, my stomach starts to hurt if I’m on an empty stomach. Sedge spoons a mouthful of Crunchy Nut. He strokes his cheek, as if troubled by stubble; but he’s only a few blonde whiskers. He rises to leave. ‘Have a good day, mate,’ he says in a resigned tone. I search for something to say but my throat is a lump. I carry on with my toast. I am left with silence, pure uninterrupted silence. And, alone with my thoughts, the dark thoughts I’m having more and more of, it is deafening, most deafening. I stay in the kitchen a long time. I stare at the blank screen of the off TV. A voice from behind, a voice with unfamiliar alacrity, draws me from my stupor. ‘Hi, Marcus.’ I turn. It’s Becky. ‘Hi,’ I say. I look into her eyes. They are at peace, they are not wary, worried or burdened. She doesn’t know. ‘How are you? You didn’t reply to my Facebook messages,’ she says, prodding me jokingly. ‘Sorry, I was shit with replies over Christmas. How was yours?’

‘Great. Gayboy here took me to see Les Miserables,’ she says, pulling Stan’s arms around her. ‘Stan loves his musicals,’ I smile. ‘What you doing today?’ ‘We’re gonna get the bus in a minute. Are you going to campus?’ ‘Not sure, I’ve got an essay, might work from home.’ ‘I haven’t seen you on campus all term.’ Stan looks out of the skylight. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ he says, tugging both her hands with his. They walk into the kitchen, Stan gets his sandwich from the fridge and they walk back towards the stairs. ‘You’ve got to go on sometime hermit man,’ says Becky, poking my nose. Stan looks like he’s mouthing ‘sorry’ as they leave. When I’m sure they’re gone, I switch on Stan’s Xbox. I while away hours shouting abuse at strangers online, who can’t do a fucking thing and don’t know shit about who and what I am. The keyboard’s fucked. Thank God no one’s in. I stare at the broken keys on the floor. My knuckles are sore. I look them over and over, to make sure there’s no blood. Why won’t India reply to me? I’ve told her everything. I’ve made it clear she’s clean, there’s no way she could’ve got it. I need to hear her. I just want to talk. I know I don’t deserve it; but, Christ, I need to see her. I need some familiarity with that man who was me, some remembrance of that life which was mine. Five days have passed since I sent the message. Nothing. I stared at the screen two whole minutes like if I wait long enough something’ll happen. Then I erupted. What’ll it take for her to see me?

I miss her. I miss the routine of being with her. When she was away in Tanzania I missed her. Had a funny way of showing it but I did. The worst thing about losing her was knowing all those routines were gone, irreplaceably gone, those unique things that made us us. Shitty disease aside, I’d miss those things., the patterns, the normalities that might not seem so normal from the outside. I miss the things she did to piss me off. Like the way she’d put her finger in my year, pull it out and tell me they were filthy and needed cleaning. The woman never seemed to get that it was because she’d dug her finger right in. It drove me nuts and I miss it like fuck. I miss watching programmes I hate. I miss watching repeats of comedies I like and comedies I don’t but she did. Hot, salty tears run down my cheek. What have I done? Why? Suddenly, I hear movement in the next room. It’s Tim. I freeze. How loud have I been? I wipe my cheeks, waiting for him to come in. But he doesn’t. He walks down the corridor, to the bathroom. A couple minutes later, I hear him return and close his door behind him. Thinking he might be avoiding me, I’m distracted by my phone, vibrating in my pocket. I look down. There’s three vowels and two consonants I haven’t seen for ages. • India sits opposite me. She’s wearing a red cardigan I got her one Christmas, and a blue top I don’t recognise. Seeing her in the flesh after all this time is at once strange and comforting. She looks just the same. I guess it hasn’t been that long; but it feels like years. ‘I can’t believe this,’ she says. ‘I know.’

‘HIV?’ She presses her fingers into her temples, before brushing her thin brown hair behind her ears. ‘Please, not too loud,’ I say. ‘I can’t believe this,’ she repeats. ‘I know.’ Something strange happens. She looks at me with her dark, unrelenting eyes, a look that tells me I’ve got the wrong end of the stick, that I’ve misunderstood what she’s been saying. ‘No, you don’t.’ The affront, the affront of someone else telling me, of all people, that I don’t understand, that I don’t know. It’s jarring, it’s strange. I’m the outsider, I’m the one whom no one understands. It interests me, this kernel of possibility, this potential, that I might have missed something, that I might be normal like the others, sometimes. Oblivious, like. I ask her what she means. A woman passes us, struggling to push a buggy through the gaps in the tables. She looks up. ‘Marcus, I mean, I’m terrified for you, I’m worried but-’ she pauses. ‘You could have given it to me.’ ‘India,’ I say, looking at the table, trying not to catch her gaze. ‘I know, I feel awful, but-’ ‘If I didn’t find out about you cheating, we would definitely have, oh, I can’t even think-‘ I look up, only to find her looking down at the table. But her inward gaze is altogether different from that which I had moments earlier. It speaks of unease, of repulsion, even. ‘I never thought, in a million years,’ I say.

There’s a long silence. I hear baristas in the background, asking customers how their day’s going in that scripted, empty way. ‘Arsehole.’ Hearing that’s not so odd. It’s come out those pretty, thin lips plenty of times. But there’s an acid in the words I’ve not heard before. I look down again, in keeping with the guilt I’ve learned I’m meant to feel. I work the tip of my finger around the rim of my coffee cup. ‘India, I know you’re angry, but please.’ She doesn’t seem to hear me. ‘You said nothing, and if I hadn’t found out….’ She trails off. I can feel her eyes on me. I remain silent. ‘Christ, Marcus. Did you bring me here to forgive you?’ ‘No,’ I say, almost believing it myself. ‘I just wanted to meet.’ ‘No, you want forgiveness. You want to be told that everything’s okay between us, because people aren’t allowed to be angry with you anymore.’ ‘It’s not like that.’ ‘Fuck, Marcus.’ I could tell the baristas were watching us. ‘It’s exactly like that.’ Hate to say it; but she’s right. I wanted to see India more than anything, just to be near her again, to have that familiarity. But when she says it, I realise, deep down, I’ve been hoping for forgiveness. For forgiveness or damnation. That way I can forgive or loathe myself. And it’s working, she’s validating the loathing I’ve felt for myself all these months. And it’s much of a muchness. ‘I was your girlfriend.’

She stops speaking. She looks around the room. Tears well in her eyes. I sit, hunched, hands under the table. I’m not aiming for weak and pathetic but I’m sure I’m looking it. A long time passes and I realise that, more than anything she is to angry to say anything else. I sit up and ask her, ‘What did you mean, when you said I was never thoughtless? Surely, what I did was thoughtless.’ She takes a long, deep, theatrical breath, like a mother who has to explain something to a child for the umpteenth time. ‘You always think, Marcus. It wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t know what you were like. You’re so, fucking, calculative. That’s what hurts about what happened. Knowing it didn’t just happen.’ ‘India, I was so drunk that night. I-’ ‘Stop it. Look at me. Tell me that when you were with her, I didn’t enter your mind, not once. If you can tell me in all honesty that you somehow forgot about me, I’ll believe you.’ I don’t move my mouth. I don’t, I can’t, I’ve no need and she knows it. ‘Exactly. I’ve seen you off your head. But you’re always in control, always a little bit at least. You only forget the unimportant, the details. You never lose that little power called decision making. ‘You didn’t forget me that night, Marcus. You remembered me. You thought about what you wanted, what it meant, and you did it anyway.’ She stares towards the counter. She doesn’t seem to notice the customers and staff watching us.

‘That’s what hurts,’ she mumbles weakly, trying hard not to let her voice crack. I look at my coffee cup. The green logo offers no respite, no refuge. ‘I was so fucking in love with you. For weeks after I found out, I tried to convince myself there was some way we could get past this. Even with all your fucking, selfish ways, sometimes you really cared, and I wasn’t just the stupid girlfriend who put up with all your crap. But you just couldn’t be bothered that night.’ ‘I know.’ ‘Stop saying that.’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘Stop saying that too.’ ‘Well, what?’ ‘So stupid,’ she goes on, ‘I was so stupid. You know, when I was in Tanzania, I had the best time. But even after an amazing day, or night, I’d go to bed, thinking that I missed you. It was so childish of me to expect the same of you but-’ She stops again. The barista watches nervously, before realising all too late she’s been clocked. ‘You fooled me, Marcus. You got me thinking I was important enough that you wouldn’t do that.’ I hold my coffee cup, unable to speak. India rubs her eyes, smudging her mascara. It reminds me of her drunk and teary. Sniffing, she sits up, alert, poised. ‘Do you remember how you used to tease me about my name?’ ‘What?’ I ask, confused. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ ‘My name? You used to tease me about being called India.’ ‘Yeah,’ I know, say, unsure why this is coming into the list of my all time greatest failings. ‘Sorry.’ ‘You used to call me by my middle name. Why was that?’

Though I know exactly what she’s referring to, I wait a moment. I pause, I think and I know I have to say it to her because she wants it from my mouth. ‘Because people named after countries sound like cunts.’ She laughs. ‘Yeah, because people named after countries sound like cunts.’ ‘You’re a cunt, Marcus. What’s your excuse?’ I sit in silence. She stares at me a moment before getting up and walking out of the coffee shop, leaving me with just an empty coffee mug and the eyes of just about every customer and barista in the place. • I’ve told my housemates and I’ve told India, and it hasn’t helped one bit. The boys look at me different, and India’ll never speak to me again. She’s right. I’m not thoughtless. I can be really thoughtful, I can be kind and have been and it makes it all works. Because when I am thoughtless, or what would be taken for thoughtless, I’m just making a choice. Kindness, consideration, selflessness, I put them all to one side because it’s of no benefit to me and it’s all the worse. Drunk as I was that night, drunk, I made a choice, a choice little influenced by alcohol. I sit, thinking that I’ve made a choice to screw up my life, and the lives of those around me. I don’t realise it at first; but I’m starting to make a plan, starting to calculate, starting to think how I’ll go about doing it. When I enter a room, it quietens. The lads say hello; but I know they’re not chatting freely, I know they’re uncomfortable and I’m in the way. I walk by the canal

nearly every day now and I can’t help but look at the branches, thinking how strong they are, if they’ll take my weight. I actually let out a laugh when I think that maybe, in a few years, if I give it enough time, I’ll have lost enough weight to hang off a sapling. I laugh dirty dark loud. But I realise I don’t want go out like that, like a husk, like a corpse hanging on. I feel almost as alone in the company of others as I do when alone. I’ve lost. I’ve always seen life as a game, nothing more, nothing less; and I was fine with that. But I’ve lost and I’m man enough to admit I’ve lost. As I start planning my exit, I begin to feel a little thing called control for the first time in a long time. I go through my cupboard, trying to decide what I’ll go out wearing, which belt to use. There’s a fancy white one that goes well with my black skinny jeans, but I decide I’ll look kind of gay, dangling from a branch like that, from a studded white belt. I laugh, realising I’m picking out a belt that goes with a pair of jeans even though the belt’ll be around my neck. I laugh, hard and dirty and dark. My laughs are getting dark, my humour black. Eventually, I go off the hanging idea. It’s too public, the image will haunt whoever found me. Not that it was going to be good whatever way it happened. When Sedge is out, I sneak into his room and steal the codeine he’s been given for his leg. There’s more than enough to do me in. After a couple of days I realise I’ve been thinking less and less about HIV. My focus is so strong. I feel a freedom.

I’ve heard this method might hurt a lot if I get it wrong. So, I decide, I’d better make sure I’m well and truly cunted off my bonce. Not my words. Those belong to Micky Clarke, an old friend from home. I try to think of the good old days. Drinking in Harrow, early Uni days, that kind of thing. I want out with good memories and good times swimming through my consciousness. I’m in Costcutters. I pick up four different bottles: an American, a Japanese, a Belgian and an Indian. My shopping basket’s either a fucking Benetton ad or a Bernard Manning joke. But beer’s not going to do the trick. I need a good going out spirit, something that’ll knock me right out and let me sleep while the pills do their nastiness. I look at the cheap ciders. God no, they’ll just get me really fucked, and taste horrible. I look at the White Lightning. It brings back memories of Edward Cider Hands. We’ve not done one this year. Great game. You have to tape two bottles of cider to your hands, and can’t take them off until each one’s finished. Trying to take a piss is hard. I smile at the memory of Buggy trying to pull his trousers down with his knobbly Popeye elbows, mangled. Looking up, I realise I want one last taste of wine as well. Something cheap, and not too strong. A red. I pick a three quid bottle and put it in the basket. I throw a couple of packs of Haribo in but take them out. I’ll only throw up with those expanding in my stomach. The guy behind the counter keeps looking behind him as I scan the spirits, as if I’m searching for something in particular. I can’t decide. Vodka, whiskey, tequila? They’re all rough after a while.

I don’t want to go out on vodka, I don’t know why. I guess I don’t associate vodka with fun and yes, it’s perverse I know; but in suicide I want to be thinking of the good drinking, the fun times, the ones where we smiled. I decide against whiskey. Mum gave me my first taste of whiskey and if I go down that road she’ll never forgive herself. I plump for tequila. Country singers top themselves all the time on tequila, and I’ll be out of it by the time the pills kick in. ‘And a pack of Golden Virginia,’ I say as I hand over the cash. I don’t bother putting any of the drinks in the fridge. They’re cold enough, and I just want the taste, it doesn’t need to be perfect. I line them up on my shelf with the wine and tequila. I roll a cigarette. I nearly add weed but change my mind. I don’t want to feel hazy, I need some ability to concentrate. I decide to leave the boys my weed. I scrawl a note. I scrunch it and write another, leaving out Tim’s name, because of anger; and Adrian’s name, because he’s not smoked weed in his life. I read the note. I scrunch this one up too. I’m not going out a pedantic arsehole. I just leave the weed on the table and hope they’ll cane it when the time comes, Tim included, if that’s the way it turns out. I write to my family. I say I’m sorry. I apologise to them for how they have to find out. I tell them I’ve let them down, tell them I love them, love them very much. I read the words back. Tears don’t come. I don’t want to lose focus. I hate myself. I hate what I’ve become. I hope one day Fergal will understand my reasons for what I’m about to do. I know I am going to ruin my parents’ lives. I can’t think of an upshot. I just hope they’ll one day understand why I can’t go on like this.

I take another piece of paper to write to India, but put the pen down. Brown Sugar comes onto iTunes. Too upbeat, too out of place. It’s not like I want to go out listening to Morrissey but there’s a sense of propriety about the whole thing which I’ve got to think of. I change the song and thing of words for India. Propriety. There’s nothing, is there? I leave it. I’m her past, words will only drag her further back in. I throw the piece of paper in the bin and pick up the bottle. This is where I want to be, with my music, with my drinks. I’ve left my bottle opener upstairs. I place the bottle against the edge of the desk and try to flick it down. The cap comes off; but the beer fizzes. I put it to my mouth. It reminds me of first year, when we’d go to the Colly. The beers were a pound, so we made a game of knocking each other’s bottles so you’d have to neck it if you didn’t want to lose too much beer. I light up, taking a deep, first drag. After finishing the cigarette, I stub it out. The ashtray is overflowing. I empty it into the bin. I take the bin outside and as I’m returning, Adrian pokes his head around the door. ‘You alright, mate?’ ‘Yeah, sound thanks.’ ‘Marcus,’ he says, ‘are you smoking in your room?’ He squints his eyes slightly, like he’s aware it comes across arsy. ‘Yeah, sorry.’ ‘Is it alright if you do it out the window? It’s wafting through.’ He pauses. ‘Sorry to be a prick about it.’ ‘No, sure,’ I say, a little surprised. It’s jolting to have someone ask me to do something, to treat me normally, to tell me when I’m being unreasonable. He laughs.

‘Just keep it open if you’re smoking. I don’t expect you to stand there wanking like Stan.’ I giggle and walk back to my room. His joke reminds me. I wish I could have sex again. It’s not like I’m a fuck hungry animal, that night aside; but the knowing of it, the knowing that you can’t makes you want it all the more. I drop my trousers, facing the window, blind firmly down. I think of all the living I’ve done in my short time on this earth. I’m grateful. I’ve had fun. It’s more than many people can say, people who’ve outlived me by years. I take another big swig. as I near climax. It’s risky and I like it. I imagine the blind shooting up and it excites me. I think of all the sex I’ve had, even with Clara. I think of what I remember of us doing it because although it’s bad and it’s led me here it was good, it was very good. I reach for a tissue, sucking down beer, coming just as she enters my mind. Thinking, thinking of Clara, oh I try. But at that final moment, when I gasp for air, it’s her there, it’s India, no matter how hard I try, it’s her in front of me. I stand for several minutes, holding the tissue against myself; my mood flattening as it goes limp and lifeless. Pulling up my kecks, I throw the tissue in the bin, and tie the bag. I make sure all the notes are out of view, plus the codeine and bottles. I stood outside after putting the bin bag away. I see one of those metal fish Christians put on their cars. Sighing, I realise it wouldn’t be fair to go out without seeing Jason once more. I ignored him all Christmas. I’m not a believer; but I still hope he’ll pray for me when I’m gone. •

100

‘Hey mate, where’ve you been all my life?’ he says, opening his door. ‘Sorry, I was pretty shoddy at replying over Christmas weren’t I?’ ‘Nothing new. You’re an elusive chap.’ He invites me in, gives me a beer and without any provocation, starts on a rant about One World Week, which will begin soon. ‘They’re a bunch of CV fluffing cunts,’ he says, his curly blonde hair shaking all over the place amidst his fury. ‘All these charity events, just so they can say they did this and that when it comes to job applications.’ ‘So what do you put on your CV?’ ‘That I’m awesome. All I need to say.’ ‘Yeah?’ I ask, smiling. ‘Yeah.’ ‘What about all your societies? Don’t you say you’re CU treasurer?’ ‘No,’ he says, neutrally, annoyed sounding. ‘Publishers don’t want a God squaddy.’ ‘Would you put it if you were CU president? ‘Fuck you, Marcus. Fuck you.’ I laugh. I’ve missed Jason. ‘You know Ogunleye’s one of that One World Week lot.’ ‘They’re not all like that.’ He doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Did you hear about the Haiti thing?’ ‘The earthquake?’ ‘Not that,’ he says, irritated that I’m not keeping up. ‘Some people were collecting for it, just to help, you know? And the One World lot said they had to do it under their name, because they own all the official collection buckets.’

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‘Official collection buckets?’ ‘You know what Warwick’s like. You need to be sponsored by a set of golden fucking arches before you can do anything on campus. They only did it so the head honcho can see, look at me, look at all the good deeds I did at Uni.’ He signals for a smoke. I throw him one. He lights up. ‘Fuckers.’ ‘It’s a sick world.’ ‘That it is.’ He sits back, his small mouth pursed and thoughtful. He swigs his beer and smokes his fag and we’re silent a while. He twists the bottle in his hand. I’ve always been able to talk to him. ‘Did the guys tell you why I went home so early?’ ‘No,’ he says, his azure eyes meeting mine, hawking in, like. ‘I didn’t speak to any of them over Christmas.’ I’ve always been poor at getting back to people. Maybe it doesn’t seem that out of the ordinary that I didn’t reply to him all through the holidays. He flicks some ash into his St. Thomas’ mug as he awaits my answer. I part my lips, struggling as so often I have with words ever since that day in September. But this time, this time, I do it. ‘I’ve got HIV, Jason.’ He tightens his grip on his bottle. He looks confused and tensed, his bother seems to stiffen, like on the verge of anaphylactic shock. ‘Found out in September. Told the lads before Christmas and pegged it back to London.’ ‘What? How? When did you-’

102

‘September,’ I repeat, standing up, looking out onto the street, ‘the girl I cheated on India with.’ There is a long silence, yet it is not foreboding or uncomfortable or difficult. For some reason; and I can’t put my finger on it, there is a calmness in the room, though I know Jason is trying to digest this and whirring away like a steam train inside. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asks, as I face the window, trying to make out what’s on the other side of the net curtain. ‘I couldn’t.’ The silence is like wind now, though I know there can’t be any. We’re inside, it’s not even windy out. But it feels like there’s wind. Once again, I’m lost for words, or, perhaps, those two words sum it all up perfectly. I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I couldn’t. His face softens. He looks almost angelic there, looking up at me, forlorn and lost. The cigarette in his hand and the amount of times I’ve heard him say cunt kill the illusion; but right now he’s an angelic look and it’s odd. It feels like I need to protect him, like he’s the one who needs help. I guess in some way I’ve adjusted. And if I’ve adjusted…..

‘I could’ve been there for you.’ The tears flow down my cheeks, slow but uncontrollable nonetheless. ‘I couldn’t tell you, Jason, of all people. You must think I’ve got myself into a right state. Drugged off my nut, fucking a random girl behind India’s back.’ I look out the window again, ashamed to have him look at me. He lets out a laugh. It fills the room. Shocked, I turn around.

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‘Sometimes I wish I could do that,’ he says. ‘What?’ He waves his hands in the air, he sits forward. ‘Sometimes I wonder about all this CU stuff. Not God, I’m sure of him, he’s the nuts. But-’ He thinks, pausing purposefully like he wants to nail it, nail the explanation the way I never can when trying to explain all this. Because I can’t put it quite accurately in words and I haven’t tried, not even to myself. There is no way. You can try; but when you’ve got it, it’s different. Words aren’t quite good enough, words, words which are all I’ve ever held dear, they don’t do it justice. And that hurts. When your faith in words is gone, that’s when you start thinking of things like codeine and tequila. ‘I don’t really think I’m gonna get fried for having a shag without some metal on my finger,’ says Jason after what seems like an impossibly long time. ‘It weren’t just a shag though. I cheated on India.’ ‘Christ, if I break my rules, even with a girlfriend, I’m still cheating on God. He’s always fucking watching.’ Jason stands up. ‘You think this is your fault?’ I was silent. He walks over, standing close to me. ‘Punishment never quite fits the glove, Marcus. You lost India. That’s your comeuppance. But don’t be thinking what’s happened since has anything to do with it. Don’t even dream. It’s shit luck, that’s all. Shit luck.’ ‘I wish India saw it that way.’ ‘You told her?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘And there’s no chance you-’ ‘No, she broke up with me when she found out about that girl.’ ‘Yeah, but, you never know, thought you might have, one more time for old times’ sake.’

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‘No.’ ‘Then stop blaming yourself. You’ve done nothing wrong. You been to a doctor since you found out?’ I stare at the ground, feeling foolish for ignoring it all this time. ‘No.’ I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look up. His piercing blues are locked on my eyes. He is genuine, he is real, he is Jason, he is my friend. ‘Go to one. You need to look after yourself. I’ll go with you if you want.’ ‘Thank you,’ is all I can say. ‘Thank you, Jason.’

105

8. ‘ No, St. Mary’s in Woolton. It’s well nice. He got a nice quiet spot off the main road, nice and quiet.’ I throw away the note I’d written to the boys. There is another note which I didn’t mention; because I was and am too ashamed. I wrote to Clara. I don’t know her address, I don’t even know her surname. But I just had to write to her because I can’t scream it, I can scream the hatred I feel for that girl. I read it over a couple of times and have to scrunch it up. Whatever I think of her, I can’t believe the putrid, menacing words that have spewed from my hand. I hold the note up and watch it burn, lighting the edge with a match. I stare intently and notice all too late when the flame reaches my hand. I drop it on the floor. ‘Shit!’ I stamp it out with my foot. There’s a burn on the carpet. Fuck, that’ll come out of my deposit. I sit on the floor, laughing my head off. Deposits. I’m worrying about deposits now, deposits for Christ’s sake. Not really suicidal thinking, is it? There’s a knock on the door. ‘Yeah?’ Sedge walks in. ‘Alright fella? What you doing on the floor?’ He looks at the ground. ‘What you burning paper for? Ah, look, there’s a mark, mate,’ he says, kneeling down in front of me, talking to me like a child. He inspects the burn mark. ‘Don’t worry about it fella.’ ‘No,’ I say, ‘It’s weird, isn’t it, Sedge? It’s weird this?’

106

‘A little bit mate, but-’ ‘I was being dumb. Sorry.’ He has a forgiving look in his eyes, like I’ve licence to act a little nutty now and then. I don’t really want that licence though. ‘Pass us that towel will you?’ I ask, hinting towards the radiator. He turns and I quickly knock his codeine down the back of my desk. I feel awful. I’ve been so intent on ending it, that I didn’t think of how Sedge’d feel after I did it, with his pills. The towel is damp. It won’t do shit for the burn; but we both seem happier having it covered up. ‘Mate, I’m sorry we haven’t been more helpful. We just-’ ‘Don’t know what to do?’ I say. ‘No.’ ‘Me neither.’ There was a time once, back when we were on holiday in Ireland. My Mum’s uncle was in tears, bawling in a cold, dark farmhouse living room. Aunty Eileen had just died. I’d never seen a man cry, never remembered it at least. He bawled, like a baby. Mum wasn’t doing anything and I couldn’t understand why, because she’d always had an answer, always had a way to make the rivers stop flowing. I think I understand now. Sedge eyes the booze behind me. Lucky for me, the tequila’s hidden and it just looks like I’ve got a rake of beers in. ‘Drinking in?’ I look around, at the Benetton beers, and the wine. ‘Thought I’d have a drink with dinner,’ I say. He doesn’t look so surprised.

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‘That mean you’re gonna eat dinner upstairs?’ ‘Yeah. Sorry I’ve holed myself up here recently.’ ‘It’s ok.’ A wave of sorrow dawns on his narrow, pale face, always so full of life and laughter. ‘We’re all a bit shit with this, mate, I’m sorry.’ He nods a few times, pursing his lips, struggling with what to say. ‘It must be hell.’ I realise I’ll never quite nail it, the whole explanation thing. Even to me, it seems an illusion, like something that’s been happening to someone else, like I’m just above, watching it all, waiting to come back and be Marcus. I’ll feel like I’m imagining it. And then I remember. ‘Well,’ I say. I scan the room while I scan my mind, thinking of a way to bring him in. I can’t. ‘Well,’ I repeat, and I guess maybe it says what I need to say. I wipe a tear from my eye. He pulls me close to him. ‘Sedge, how’s your granddad?’ ‘He died mate.’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘Yeah, well, he waited till just after Christmas. Actually, stubborn fuck waited till New Years eve, ruining everyone’s party as always.’ I pull away from him. ‘I’m sorry I ignored you over Christmas. Sorry to hear about your Granddad.’ ‘Don’t sweat it mate,’ says Sedge, smiling. ‘He’s in a better place.’ ‘Heaven?’ I ask, frowning. Sedge’s is a dye in the wool atheist. ‘No, St. Mary’s in Woolton. It’s well nice. He got a nice quiet spot off the main road, nice and quiet.’ ‘Tidy.’ He hugs me again.

108

‘Come on, I think it’s time for a drink.’ • We go to the Well tonight. We sit in a corner, playing drinking games. Stan gets twattered. We all do but he gets really trolleyed. Just like always. It gets dark. The dim red glow of the Well doesn’t depress me, probably because I’m not there in the middle of the day, for a change. Stan gets drunker and drunker, unable to get the hang of the drinking games. I find I’ve not lost any of my talent. I drink even when not failing in the games. I know I’m drinking to forget; but I’m doing it with other people and for a change it doesn’t feel so bad, so pathetic, so weak. It feels necessary, feels perversely healthy, even. After all, I’m not doing what I planned to at the start of the day. We play Angles in the Dangles, a mixture of singing and gestures, where each player has their own name. Mine’s Korma Korma. Barnaby gave it to me after I hooked up with India. You can’t change a name once you’re given it. So be it. ‘Korma, Korma, Scouser, Scouser,’ I say. ‘Scouser Scouser, Whipped Whipped,’ says Sedge. ‘Whipped, Whipped, Dellboy, Dellboy,’ Stan just about manages. ‘Dellboy, Dellboy,’ says Buggy. ‘Korma, Korma.’ ‘Korma, Korma, Whipped, Whipped.’ ‘Whipped, whipped-’ Stan stalls. He sinks his head into the table, having to drink again. We laugh. I laugh, long, hard, real laughter. ‘Right, once more Stan, start us off,’ says Sedge. With Stan losing every time. I’m not sure if Korma Korma’ll have to drink again tonight. He does.

109

We leave the Well around one. I think. Stan can barely stand. We’ve all taken a fair amount of damage though, I know I’m steaming. I wouldn’t remember this walk home, were it not for what happens next. ‘Night, Stan,’ says Sedge, opening his bedroom door and pushing him into his room. ‘Keep doing your exercises. Woopah,’ he says, cracking an imaginary whip, stumbling as he closes the door. I have to catch him, he’s still on one crutch. ‘Cheers son.’ He leans against the wall, ‘I’m focked.’ Adrian appears from his room. ‘Sorry mate,’ I say, ‘are we making too much noise?’ ‘Summon the police! Whoop whoop woo!’ shouts Sedge, laughing into his stupor. ‘No, it’s fine. Marcus. Someone’s here to see you.’ I blink repeatedly. ‘To see me, now?’ ‘Yup.’ I go to my room. ‘Hi,’ says India. I blink again and again ‘What you doing here?’ ‘I came to talk. Adrian didn’t know where you were, so I thought I’d wait. Have you been to the pub?’ ‘Yeah, that alright?’ I say, suddenly remembering everything she said last time. ‘Yeah, it’s fine, Marcus, I just didn’t know where you were.’ ‘Yup. Stan got really drunk. What do you want?’ I stumble to my bed. I believe I pass out.

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When something bad happens, there’s those precious few seconds in the morning, when you wake up, and you don’t remember everything that’s going on in your life, when you don’t even know who or what you are, when you’re just an animal waking up. And then reality hits. A hangover’s a little like that. Over the months, those few moments have grown shorter and shorter, as I remember my illness, and the kind of day which lies ahead. I have a few moments this morning, when I think I’m not so hungover. Then it hits. My mouth, dry to hell, the top lined with the acrid taste of tequila.. The smoky throat, and the horrible, deceptive headache which doesn’t come into play until I move. ‘Water,’ I say. ‘Just a sec.’ ‘Wait, what?’ I’ve forgotten India was here. I thought I’d have to get up and go to the kitchen. She returns a couple of minutes later, handing me a jug. I drink, slow, huge gulps. I put the jug down, gasp, and still feel like hell. But not such a dry hell. ‘You stayed?’ I say, just about remembering that I’d seen her when I walked in last night. ‘Yes. You passed out.’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘It’s alright, I should have told you I was coming. But, I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me if I’d said. After what happened before.’ ‘What do you mean?’ I say, looking around for my twenty deck. It must still be here somewhere. I’m certain I didn’t smoke them all. I find it halfway down my bed. ‘It was wrong, Marcus, for me to shout at you like that.’ ‘Seemed fair enough to me,’ I say, lighting a cigarette. She takes it from my mouth.

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‘You’ll dehydrate.’ She looks for an ashtray, but can’t find it. She stubs the cigarette out delicately on the desk. ‘Don’t look at me like that, this place is a shithole.’ I shrug. She has a point. ‘It wasn’t fair, Marcus. I was in shock. But, you couldn’t have known you’d get this. And it’s not what you need to hear now anyway.’ ‘What made you change your mind?’ ‘I was just in shock, when you told me. I’m sorry. I needed to think. Plus, Jason called me.’ I laugh. ‘Say anything nice?’ ‘Let’s just say when the president of the Christian Union calls you a rabid cunt, you know you’ve made a mistake,’ she says, the c-word drifting uncomfortably from her mouth. ‘He’s only treasurer,’ I say, ‘you didn’t mention that did you?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then you got off lightly.’ ‘You need to start looking after yourself, Marcus.’ ‘I just had some drinks with the boys.’ ‘I know. That’s fine, it’s good. Jason said you’d been quiet since term one. That’s not like you. I could never shut you up. But you need to think long term.’ She brushes hair off her cardigan, letting a strand fall to the floor. I should hoover; but I won’t want to now. She sniffs, her pretty little nose lifting slightly. ‘India, I’m sorry I hurt you.’ ‘Let’s not talk about that now,’ she says, shifting her eyes to the floor.

112

I pick up the fags and try to light another. She stops me again. I glare. We sit in silence a while. Zebs is always the same. There’s something nice about the familiar, static feel to the place. Groups of students sit, rubbing their hung over eyes., holding their heads in their hands, hoping the fat and salt of a fried breakfast will perk them up. A few builders do the same, not hungover, but tired still from the yesterday’s work, tired, thinking of the day ahead. There’s a fella opposite me in a Warwick Hockey hoody. It’s tightened around his head, his eyes are red, he’s trying to keep the sun out. ‘Lydia would kill me if she saw me here,’ said India. ‘Yeah well, Lydia can go fuck herself.’ ‘Marcus!’ ‘Sorry.’ She half opens a menu propped against the wall, to look like she’s doing something other than thinking whether to say what she does next. ‘It’s alright. She’s pissing me off at the moment. She’d go nuts if she saw this. She’d think I’d of cracked.’ ‘Cracked?’ ‘There were times, early on, when I wanted to see you.’ ‘Yeah?’ The waitress arrives with my food. I thank her. India has a bacon sandwich. She shuffles it around her plate, as if guilty. ‘Only sometimes,’ she reminds me, with unforgiving eyes. ‘I was lost at the start of the year. Lydia was right, but sometimes I wished she wasn’t.’ I slice some sausage with my knife, scoop up some ketchup, and put it into my mouth, chewing as an excuse not to talk.

113

‘Hi,’ India says to a passing acquaintance. She suddenly looks furtive and uncomfortable. ‘You don’t have to stay. I understand.’ ‘No. It’s ok. How’s your hangover?’ ‘Getting better,’ I say, taking another bite, ‘tricking me, before it inevitably gets much worse.’ ‘How much did you boys’ drink?’ ‘Not enough. We left before closing time. Stan couldn’t stand anymore. Literally.’ She laughs. ‘He’s such a lightweight.’ ‘Yeah. Gotta love Stan. The tequila really killed him. Angles.’ ‘He’s not good at that game.’ ‘It was good though,’ I say, ‘we’ve barely drunk like that all year. I mean, at the start, I went out with them. Got shitfaced a lot, but we haven’t sat around drinking, talking. Well, I ain’t.’ ‘Haven’t,’ she says. I laugh. ‘What?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘Didn’t they think something was up?’ ‘I dunno. Now I think about it, they did wonder at times. I guess they thought it was just what happened between me and you. I went missing one night in Birmingham, I thought about dropping out afterwards,’ I say, indulgently.

She looks worried. She makes to speak but I jump in.

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‘I changed my mind. I figured it wouldn’t do any good being at home. I wasn’t thinking straight,’ I say, trying to calm her. She’s that worried look on her face that she used to have when I was skipping lectures. ‘How did your parents take it?’ I look down at my food, pick up the pepper and pour a little out. I put the pepper down, and hold on to the shaker. ‘I haven’t told them.’ I look up, waiting for her to shout or look all worried again. She shuts her eyes, revealing pretty turquoise eyeliner. ‘Marcus. How are they gonna support you if they don’t know?’ ‘They don’t need to.’ ‘Really? When I stayed at your house with a cold, your Mum wouldn’t stop fussing over me. You don’t want that?’ ‘No,’ I say. I smile. ‘Well, I would, if it wasn’t my Mum. It’s too serious. She couldn’t be herself with this. ‘You’ve not seen her when she’s worried. No, she’s totally different. Whenever we got sick she took us to the doctor, even though half the time it was nothing, something she could treat herself.’ ‘But, don’t you feel like telling her when you speak?’ says India. ‘Every time,’ I say. My voice starts to crack. ‘But I can’t, India. She’ll be midsentence, I just wanna say it, but, no. When I was back at Christmas, it was nice, as nice as it could be. I don’t wanna worry them. Not yet.’ ‘Ok,’ she says. She pulls a face I hate, that face that says you’re wrong. ‘The boys said they tried to contact you?’ ‘Yeah, when I got back, there were loads of messages. I rang Tim, but he said they’d already got through to you.’ ‘Why’d you contact Tim?’ ‘Because he’s your best friend. Why?’

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‘Nothing,’ I say. The guy opposite’s perking up now he had his fry up. He looks like an idiot in his hoody and board shorts. But he looks carefree, unconcerned other than the pounding in his temples and the sweat on his brow. ‘You don’t have to tell your parents yet. But, I think it’d help,’ she says. ‘India-’ ‘Alright, alright, I’ll stop. I guess I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through.’ ‘Hell. I must have put you through some of that.’ India does something then which comes as a complete shock, something she never did once when we were going out. She slaps me. My fork clatters. The students behind perk up; the fella in his hoody pursing his lips in sympathy, the girls smiling, assuming I’m deserving of it. ‘Don’t say that,’ she says. She picks up her sandwich, taking a big, frustrated bite. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to-’ ‘This has nothing to do with what you did.’ I twist my head in disbelief. ‘Not in that way. Don’t be an arsehole, Marcus.’ I smirk ‘I promise I’ll be there for you. But I won’t sit here if you’re gonna start blaming yourself for -’ she leans in, ‘your ailment.’ I wrap a piece of bacon round my fork, shovelling it into my mouth. I start to laugh as I chew. ‘Ailment. Haven’t heard it said that way before.’ She squints, the way she does when annoyed with me for taking the piss. ‘You’re right.’ I say. ‘Sorry,’ She looks around the room again, hesitating. The silence lasts a great deal of time. She exhales, and speaks.

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‘Anyway. Not that I really want to know, but have you spoken to that girl since it happened?’ ‘No.’ ‘So, you just decided to get tested, to be sure, after what happened?’ ‘No,’ I say, looking down again. ‘What happened then?’ ‘She must’ve given the NHS my address. I got something in the post, telling me to get tested.’ ‘How’d she get your address?’ ‘I’ve no idea. Must’ve left something at her flat,’ I say, clutching my fork, ‘I hate her.’ She frowns. She sits forward slightly. ‘As much as it pains me to say it, Marcus, that little slut saved your life.’ I clutch the fork still, so sure of my hatred, so comfortable now with it, so needing of it. It’s felt right, that hatred, it’s felt right. ‘Think about it. Would you have got tested if she didn’t contact you? She didn’t have to, after all. I’m guessing you didn’t exchange details. Would you have got tested, Marcus?’ My grip loosens. ‘No. I guess not.’ 10.

‘ You think God’s a dude because fellas act like pricks sometimes.’ ‘Sorry,’ I say, bumping into a little girl who’s run from her mother’s grasp. I steady the child with my hand, smiling at her and her mother. I walk past them, towards the GUM unit. ‘I have an appointment with Dr. Palmer,’ I say to the secretary.

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‘What’s your name?’ ‘Marcus Stone.’ She looks at her screen, clicks on the keyboard a few times and says, ‘Ok, take a seat Mr. Stone.’ Feels odd, being called Mr. Stone, doesn’t feel quite right. Even at Uni, where everyone’s an adult, it’s all first names. It’s weird, thinking you’re a grown up but knowing you’re not really, that there’s more to being a grown up than a number. I wait patiently, trying not to think about the last time I was here, the feeling that I’d walk out, a few tablets in hand. Sorted. ‘Mr. Stone, you missed your check up,’ says the doctor, leafing through my notes. ‘Marcus,’ I say, raising my back from the chair. She looks up. ‘Marcus, you missed your check up.’ ‘Yeah, sorry.’ ‘Don’t be. It’s common for patients to miss the first. But I won’t be so forgiving next time.’ She looks up, smiling a smile that doesn’t seem quite natural to her. But I forgive her because I know she’s doing her best. You can tell she’s the sort who flew through Med school on the science bit; but needs a bit of coaching on the old bedside manner. Regardless, her point gets through and I make a mental note not to fuck with her. ‘Well, I’ll get right to it. The tests show your CD4 count is high, and your viral load is low. Do you understand what this means?’ ‘No,’ I say, scared by her cold tone. ‘It’s good, Marcus. You want to keep things this way around. CD4 cells, or your tcells, are white blood cells that keep your immune system strong. The higher they are the better. The viral load on the other hand is the amount of HIV in your blood.’ ‘I see.’

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‘So we have things exactly as we want them now. But that’s why I need you to come to your appointments, because things can change quickly and we need to keep monitoring you.’ ‘How do I keep them this way?’ I say, looking at the badger on her coat. She’s young, pretty even. She’s her hair tight back so tight it’s putting pressure on the skin around her temples and her glasses exaggerate rather than accentuate what I take to be interesting green eyes. ‘HIV treatment’s come a long way, but you shouldn’t have to start treatment for a long time. Perhaps ten years, maybe more. It’s different for each person. You might be unlucky and have to start in two. But you’re young, and healthy, so you shouldn’t worry about it. For now, the best thing you can do is what you should any way, lead a healthy lifestyle. No smoking, low alcohol intake, healthy diet and plenty of exercise. And no drugs,’ she says, coldly, like she says this to all patients. I feel she’s judging me based on appearance. Guess I can’t complain. I look over to her desk. Her coat hangs over a chair. ‘Those your cigarettes?’ I ask, looking at the twenty deck in her breast pocket. ‘Yes’, she says, pulling her glasses down slightly, ‘I’m trying to quit. It’s a stressful job.’ ‘Stressful illness,’ I say. She smirks, getting the measure of me. ‘My job is to see you as little as possible. The healthier you are the longer you can go without the drugs. So you need to look after yourself, because unfortunately, as far as we’ve come with treatment, the drugs can have some nasty side effects. We try to minimise that with the right course of treatment, but we can only do so much.’ ‘Yes, doctor,’ I say, smile firmly wiped from my lips. ‘Right, let’s book you in for your next check up.’

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She leafs through her notes once more, clicking on the computer screen, finding a date which suits us both. • ‘Four!’ shouts Buggy, as Sweet Chris steps up to take his shot. ‘Fuck off, Buggy.’ He steps up to the tee, knowing full well he won’t be able to get his shot off without more abuse from Bugs. ‘Ooh,’ said Buggy. Sweet Chris brings it back down, as a practice shot. ‘Hurry, the fuck up.’ ‘Don’t rush him,’ says Sedge. Sweet Chris pulls it above his head again, swings, and missed. He tries to pretend it’s another practice shot. ‘Tiger Woods could’ve shagged all our Mum’s by now, and been on the third hole.’ ‘He’d of done two holes just with your momma,’ says Sedge. ‘I’ll do Sweet Chris’s if he doesn’t hurry the fuck up.’ Sweet Chris pulls the club above his head again. ‘Four.’ ‘Shut up, Buggy!’ Buggy chuckles, his arms crossed and chest heaving with his own laughter. ‘Banter.’ Sweet Chris swings, finally connecting with the ball, though it doesn’t go far. ‘More like two than four there Chris, well done.’

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‘Give me some of that,’ says Sweet Chris, walking over to me. I hand him the joint, and walk over to take my shot. We’ve decided to sack off lectures and found Sweet Chris. We tried Tim too; but no one can get through to him these days. The doctor told me to do some exercise, so I figure gold isn’t a bad idea. I haven’t told the lads about what ran through my head recently, the idea I’d got up there. It doesn’t seem befitting with the tone of the day. It feels nice, being out and about. But it’s the feeling like this is a normal day in the life of a third year student, that’s what I like, that’s what I’ve been missing. I know the disease is a shitter; but it’s the loneliness that’s been getting to me. Loneliness, I’ve realised, is just about the worst thing in the world. Even more so when you feel it in a room full of people. Sedge and Buggy are racing ahead of me and Sweet Chris. I’m walking to the seventh hole with Buggy. The other two lads are further ahead. Now’s the time, I tell myself, be a man, tell him you’re sorry. It’s hard, it’s always hard doing that; but I’ve gotta get the words out somehow. The old lump throat trick doesn’t come into play because I’m not afraid, I’m not tongue tied. I guess I’m embarrassed more than anything, embarrassed to admit I was wrong. ‘Buggy,’ I say, out of the blue. ‘I’m sorry I blamed you for telling India.’ He stares at his score card. He tells me not to worry about it. There’s an urgency in his voice, a lazy urgency that tells me he’d rather not talk about it. ‘Weren’t my place to blab on that one,’ he says. He goes back to the card, totting up numbers. ‘I know. But you didn’t need to take the blame for Tim.’ ‘Figured it kept the peace. Status quo and all that.’

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‘So, who did he tell?’ ‘Fuck, I’m falling behind,’ he says. He peers up. ‘Honestly mate, I’ve no idea. He must’ve slipped it somehow.’ I nod. We walk on. We leave it at that. Buggy hurls abuse at Sweet Chris. We get back to our game. • It’s not like I’ve had an epiphany, like I’m trying to be a do gooder or anything; but I need distraction. That’s why I’m helping Jason with his free lunch in the Chapel. I’ve realised I need to spend as little time in my own company as possible, at least for the time being. Thoughts get louder when I’m left to my own devices, thoughts and worries and if I hads and hadn’ts. The lads don’t really ask me much about what’s happened; but they’re keeping an eye on me. I get texts from them checking where I am a lot. They try and treat me normally but I now they can’t help but see a different Marcus. Something in the way they look at me, the way they speak to me, even when trying their hardest not to. It’s different, don’t know what it is but it’s different. The chapel’s a small building between the Arts Centre and the library, used by faith groups on campus. Jason’s organised a free lunch with a debate about Christianity afterwards. ‘When people come, just tell them to help themselves,’ says Jason. ‘Shouldn’t I big up the food? More people might come if they know it’s good.’ ‘My potato salad speaks for itself.’ I look at the mayonnaise lathed potatoes, pick up a fork and eat one. ‘You made this?’ ‘Yup.’ ‘You should give this to Richard Dawkins.’

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‘I know. Good isn’t it?’ says Jason, as he organises some leaflets to be handed out. ‘No, the mayonnaise is off. You’ll give him food poisoning.’ ‘What?’ says. He runs over, tastes ones, realises I’m having him on and says we’d best be on our way. ‘Thanks for speaking to India by the way,’ I said, as we walk to the chapel. ‘No worries,’ he says, without mentioning what words passed between them. ‘So you spoke to her?’ ‘Yeah, she was round the other day. She said sorry.’ ‘Good, let me know if anyone else needs talking to,’ says Jason, like some kind of gangster’s heavy. ‘Will do.’ ‘Do your housemates know you’re at a Christian lunch?’ ‘No, why?’ ‘They might think you’ve gone nuts.’ ‘Maybe I am going little nuts.’ ‘Could God be a woman?’ I asked as we neared the chapel. ‘Careful. The Muslim lads use this place too. They’ll go mental if they hear that kind of thing. But they’re right, no, God can’t be a woman.’ ‘Oh. No?’ ‘No. God’s too sentimental. He thought it was better for us to have free will, instead of just being born perfect.’ ‘Really? That’s how you see it.’ ‘Yeah. If God was a woman she’d have been far more practical. She’d have cut out the crap. Made us all perfect to start with. T’would have been much simpler. God’s a man. He’s romantic.’ ‘I see.’

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‘Look we’re here. Just focus on the lunch. It’s important, if it goes well, they’ll realise what a mistake they made with Ogunleye. He’s been screwing up all year.’ We set up the food and soon enough, people start to trickle in. Other than the CU lot, most are chancers, here for the free food. Jason’s looks smug as he counts the numbers. He’s organised it without Ogunleye’s permission. The president hasn’t showed. I don’t know why but I don’t feel so scared here, so exposed. Maybe it’s the holy surroundings. I’m sure I’m not about to rediscover God because of this; but I think it’s the familiarity of the chapel, it reminds me of going to mass when I was younger with Mum. It makes me think about home and how I wish I could take India’s advice and tell them. The task is easy. I just hand out food and debate with anyone who can be bothered to talk to me. ‘I just find it hard to believe there’s a God when there’s so much suffering in the world,’ says a mild mannered fresher, keen not to offend my ‘beliefs. ‘It’s difficult,’ I says. ‘But I believe we have free will, and it’s up to us how to use it. I think it makes being God more meaningful.’ Christ, I’m on fire. ‘Is it worth all the sacrifices, being a Christian?’ asks another person. ‘You know, the not being able to have sex, having to go to church every Sunday. What makes Christianity worth it?’ I see Jason look over at me nervously as he mingles with other key members of the CU. ‘The White Album,’ I say.

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The girl looks confused. ‘The what?’ ‘The White Album. By The Beatles. It’s my favourite.’ ‘What’s that got to do with Christianity?’ Jason is glaring. I am suppressing a smirk. I shrug. ‘Lennon and McCartney met at a church fete. If they’d never met, there’d be no Beatles, no Rubber Soul, no White Album.’ She looks unconvinced. ‘It’s just cause and effect,’ I say, ‘Little twists of fate. I don’t think they happen by chance. I think everything happens for a reason.’ I’m smiling now because I’m lying through my teeth, I believe firmly that shit just happens sometimes and that’s what makes the world such a terrifying place. But it’s fun to bullshit every now and then. And sometimes it feels good to remember that shit just happens from time to time. She questions my logic, as politely as possible. ‘Have you listened to the White Album?’ I ask. ‘No but-‘ ‘Well, I think you should before you dismiss my beliefs.’ ‘Sorry,’ she says, walking away sheepishly. ‘This is all a big joke to you isn’t it?’ says Jason, walking up as I bite into a cocktail sausage. ‘No. Why?’ ‘The White Album?’ ‘You think God’s a dude because fellas act like pricks sometimes.’ ‘You know, my religion means a lot to me.’ ‘More than making Chris Ogunleye look a dick?’ I say, looking over at the group of people he’s been speaking to.

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‘Of course it does,’ he says, his voice weak and unconvincing. ‘Sure?’ ‘Yes. It’s like, a seventy-thirty split. Or sixty-forty.’ He pauses. ‘It’s at least fifty oneforty nine.’ I laugh. ‘You don’t take anything seriously do you?’ he says. ‘I weren’t kidding mate. You can’t undo the crusades, the gay bashings, all the bad it’s done. May as well look at the good things that have come out of it. White Album’s a great record.’ ‘You are a twat.’ It’s been fun helping Jason out. I feel useful. We’ve an Atheists Society here at Warwick. I know the president, he’s a smug tit and ignorant to boot. They don’t help people, they just sit in pubs drinking real ale and complaining. I wonder if they’d be any more tolerant of me. Their dogma is terrifying. Jason’s devout but he’s a sense of the decent. He might believe in things I don’t but somewhere along the way someone taught him right from wrong, taught him how to treat others good. Religion aside, I see Jason as human. I don’t know if it comes from faith, or his parents or his padre; but someone taught The Reverend too be a man, to be a good man. And he has the dick to stand up for it whenever he has to, to stand up for what that means, to be a good man. We need more Jasons. • Thinking of the way Jason’s treated me since finding out; and the others, has got me thinking. Where the fuck has Tim been? I’ve barely seen him in weeks and it’s not a coincidence. I decide we need to talk. I eat a burger at the Well and sink two courage

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pints. I march home, approach his door and find all my bravery sapping as I prepare to knock. I hesitate. But, needs must. I knock.

‘Alright, mate,’ he says, looking around as I enter. ‘Hi,’ I say, ‘You’ve been scarce recently, Tim. What’s up?’ I get straight to the point. Beating around the bush will only prolong it or allow us to find a way of avoiding it. ‘Been proper busy,’ he says, looking at his computer screen, moving the mouse around erratically like he’s looking for something in particular. ‘I’m sure you have, mate. You got time now?’ ‘Yeah.’ I pause. I’ve not really thought about what I’m here to say. I’ve not really decided what my gripe is. Is it to do with India? Is it his absence? I look up at the Debbie Harry poster I got him for Secret Santa. ‘How the fuck did India find out about Clara?’ He looks around, but doesn’t speak. ‘You had me blaming Buggy, but it was you, wasn’t it?’ ‘You blamed Buggy, not me.’ ‘Yeah. But you didn’t speak up when I did. Fella took it on the chin for you.’ ‘Well, Buggy’s a top boy isn’t he, Marcus?’ he says, mimicking me. ‘How did she find out?’ ‘I don’t even remember.’ ‘You’re lying.’ ‘I’m not. I dunno, I must’ve told one of the St. Mary’s lads when we met over summer, when I was pissed or something.’ ‘You’re telling me you don’t remember.’ He glances around, liar’s eyes searching the room for answers that they won’t find.

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‘So, you couldn’t cover up for me, but you’ll do it for whoever let it out after you.’ ‘Marcus-’ ‘Friends don’t fucking talk!’ I shout. ‘Warwick’s a small place,’ he says, standing. ‘Things get around.’ ‘Dicks,’ I say. ‘Why couldn’t you all just keep your fucking mouths shut?’ ‘I let it out when I was pissed. You ever done something stupid when you were drunk?’ I see it in his face, see that he’s sorry, that it’s just a slip, what he’s just said. But I use it, because I’m angry. I shake my head. ‘That’s low, Tim.’ I shake my head. ‘You’d no fucking right to talk.’ He points a finger at me. He talks urgently, fast, erratic. ‘Look, if you’re gonna pole some girl in London, you should remember how small this place is. Things get around, and if you’re Marcus fucking Stone, everybody’s mate, what you do’s gonna get back to you.’ I turn from him. I’m so angry I can’t speak. I want to punch him. I somehow control myself. I think about that night, about something else ‘Why’d you do all the MDMA?’ ‘What?’ ‘You and Buggy,’ I say, ‘me and him bought that gram, and you two did it all.’ ‘So?’ ‘So? It’s your fucking fault. If I’d taken it, this’d never have happened,’ I say, tears in my eyes. ‘Hey! Buggy tried to give it to you loads of times. What you do starts and ends with you and your fucking cock!’ he says, pointing at it. ‘Don’t fucking blame me!’ ‘But I do,’ I say, moving towards him. He takes two steps back. He knows I won’t hit. It’s something else.

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‘Jesus,’ I say, snorting dryly, ‘you’re actually afraid of me touching you. Aren’t you?’ He purses his lips. He draws his head back and shakes it but he’s see through. . ‘Yes, you are. You’re actually afraid of me.’ He stands in silence. ‘Fuck you, Tim.’ I close the door behind me.

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11.

‘ Yeah. Suze, the thinking man’s crumpet.’ As the weeks pass, I’ve a sense that things are returning to something approaching normal. I awake still, each day, with the same worries, the same anxieties, the same regrets and the realisation that inside me there’s something swimming around that shouldn’t be But I don’t feel so lonely now. It’s not uncomfortable walking into the kitchen, seeing Buggy lying there watching Come Dine With Me, or Sedge cackling away about something funny he’s said himself. The most uncomfortable moments are when Tim comes upstairs; but they’ve been getting rarer and rarer. The others have noticed it. They know we’ve had an argument, but they’re staying neutral and I like it that way. I don’t want to drag them into anything. I’ve already put Buggy through months of blame. Tim’s become a ghost. Feel bad about the MDMA thing. It cheapened my argument, picking up on that when I knew it was just something that happened, that there were greater reasons why I caught HIV. I still can’t but help resent him and Buggy. I can’t help it. But I know if I’m going to stop blaming myself for what’s happened, I can’t be blaming them. Like Jason said, it was just shit luck. It’s the way Tim said it that bothers me. He does think it’s my fault. He thinks I’m being punished for sleeping with Clara. I’ve started jogging. It feels good to get some exercise, though it makes me feel strange too, all that blood swimming around inside me. Though I can’t see them, I picture the infected cells coursing round my system, straining to be cleansed, unable to as the disease mocks them, smothers them, telling them they’ll never be free no matter how fast I run.

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The air’s biting but it never takes me long to warm up. Last year, I’d run up the length of the parade, all the way to the last bus stop before you left town, but now I’ve found a route where few people walk, a quieter one where I won’t be seen. I still seek solitude sometimes. Daring to be healthy seems like a crime. I know it’s nonsense but I feel like I’m meant to give up and I need to find a way to hide that I’m not. And that way maybe I won’t. I’m watching the telly with Sedge. He’s woken up, feeling rough, having been at the Union with the Lacrosse team. ‘It’s not the same without Carol,’ he says. ‘I was never a big fan.’ ‘You fuckin' kiddin’, mate, you’d turn down Vorderman?’ ‘Well, no, but, I just didn’t rate her that much? New girl’s much fitter.’ ‘No way. She’s fit, like, but Carol’s the girl next door.’ ‘Bollocks is she. You wouldn’t see Rachel trying to sell loans to muppets. We’ve been over this. I always preferred Suzie,’ I say. ‘The dictionary corner girl?’ ‘Yeah. Suze, the thinking man’s crumpet.’ ‘Interesting.’ Jeff Stelling makes a quip. We laugh and watch to see how many vowels and consonants will come up. After a while, I decide to tell Sedge about something I’d not told anyone, not even in these pages. It was something that happened before Christmas. I went to the Union cinema on my own. Some rugby boys had just gotten off the bus and were characteristically drunk. They were shouting abuse at people, girls included. They started pushing some kid, must’ve been a fresher and something switched in me. Maybe because he didn’t look all that different from Fergal, maybe that’s what it was; but I stood up for him. I told the

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rugby boy to fuck off and leave him alone. We got in a scrap. He punched me in the nose. Everyone around just watched. My nose began to bleed. A netball girl approached me and I screamed for her to stay back. My reaction was so shrill, so unusual given I’d just stood up for a guy, that she

knew, they all knew. Anyway, the fella who hit me started laughing. I couldn’t believe it. And of course, his pack joined in. I still remember the look of pity in that netball girl’s eyes. I ran, I ran into the cinema and hid in the darkness and watched my film as planned because I was safely enshrouded there. Needless to say, it is not easy to talk about, to speak of that humiliation. After I tell all this to Sedge I need to stop a moment. I go to get a glass of water. It still pains me. When I return, Sedge is fuming. He looks like a man who cannot control his world and it’s angering him. I tell him I just want to drop it, that I only told him to get it off my chest. But he makes me describe the rugby and he recognises him from my description and he’s off on one now. And so am I. Fuck it. Part of me, perhaps the smart little section of my brain, it tells me, tells me not to fuck around, to just drop it. But I think of that night and the humiliation and the cruel laughter. I want them to pay. Maybe knowing my mates have got my back helps but I’ve thought of what happened that night constantly. I want them to feel just a tiny bit of what I felt that night, when they taunted me. It’s probably a bad idea to let Sedge’s blood lust come to the surface. But it’s not the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Over the next few days, he starts making plans, he gets right into it. And I feel a part of everything again. I feel included. I feel part of the group, part of the pack. I feel like a man.

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• ‘I asked him, but he said he didn’t want to get involved,’ says Sedge, as we sit around in the living room. ‘Well, I guess we can’t force Tim,’ I say diplomatically. ‘We could get into a lot of trouble.’ ‘Sack that, he ain’t scared,’ says Buggy, ‘he’s just being a prick.’ ‘When do we get to spray paint this pricks car?’ Barnaby asks, wobbling with anticipation. ‘Be patient, fella. We’re gonna do this proper careful like, or we’ll all be fucked.’ ‘Do they train you for this in Liverpool?’ says Buggy. ‘It’s a tough town, Bugs, you know how it is. Anyway, Chris Maddox lives in the middle of Radford Road. So it’ll be hard to do anything to his car without someone seeing.’ ‘But him and his housemates shouldn’t be there should they?’ asks Barnaby. ‘They should be in the union. But you never know. Let’s hope so.’ ‘Won’t you get owned for missing your Lacrosse circle?’ asks Buggy. ‘Nah, it’ll be alright, they don’t mind if you miss the odd week. Plus, it’s nice to change things up a bit.’ ‘Don’t wanna get stuck in a routine do you?’ says Buggy with mock effeminacy. Sedge winks. I ask him if he thinks this prank will go as well as his last. I don’t want to dampen the optimistic, lively mood; but someone does need to ask. ‘Mate, it’ll be sound.’ ‘No chairs involved,’ says Buggy. I jump in before Sedge and Buggy go off on a slagging match. ‘It doesn’t sound like we have much of a plan,’ I say, ‘Sounds more like we’re just gonna vandalise his house and car.’ ‘Yeah, that is the plan.’

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‘Oh, I see.’ Sedge places his hands on the table, as if there’s a map there. ‘Right, I reckon we wait till midnight, then head over. We’ll go the long way round. People might remember a big group of lads, and we are lads,’ he says, turning to Stan, ‘walking up Radford Road with a load of spray paint and bog roll.’ ‘Do you reckon the woman in the joke shop suspected anything when you bought ten cans of spray paint and silly string?’ ‘Nah, she didn’t care,’ says Buggy. ‘Probably just thought we were a bunch of numpty’s.’ ‘So what exactly is the plan?’ I ask, ‘in totality.’ ‘Spray paint words on his house and car. Throw stuff on his house.’ ‘So why are we sitting around planning it out like Dresden if that’s all we’re gonna do?’ ‘Because we need to get battered first,’ says Sedge. ‘You didn’t think we’d do this sober did you?’ ‘No, that would be mad.’ ‘Right, we’ve got a couple of hours. Let’s play some drinking games.’ ‘No,’ pleads Stan. ‘Bit of Pro?’ Buggy suggests, and I suddenly feel at home. • Radford Road’s not far from our house, but we take the long route. Sedge’s right, we stand out, walking down the street in a big group. It feels good. I hold back, watching the group walk. I know this is all a bad idea, it’s stupid as hell. But it feels great, getting caught up in the whole thing. The lad’s are being reckless without quite thinking about it. I can’t do that. Everything I do requires thought. I’m

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choosing stupidity, I’m fully aware of everything. But it feels like the right choice this time. As we walk past the houses, Sedge skirting around the glow of every streetlamp like James Bond, I feel good. From waking up in the morning to walking down the back streets of Leam with cans of silly string, spray paint and bog roll, everything is more thought out for me. But I’m choosing to act like my friends. Months ago, I wasn’t making choices. I was floating, numbed by shock, numbed by substances, keeping it all inside. That was the worst of it. The pressure to be the person you were, when you’d changed. Looking back, the boys noticed little things I did differently, how I was quieter, less outgoing. But I’d always had an excuse. I’m glad I’ve decided not to hide any longer. As I watch them walking ahead of me, I am warmed by their generosity. Sedge already has a caution for weed. All of them could get chucked out of Uni for this; but they none of them batted an eyelid when Sedge told them what we were doing. Because that’s what you do. ‘Alright, so what do we do now?’ says Sweet Chris as we stand opposite the house. Sedge stands silently. ‘Sedge?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘He’s frozen,’ says Buggy, ‘fella’s frozen.’ ‘Nah, I’m cool, I’m cool. I’m just thinking how to do this.’ ‘Fuck it,’ I say, ‘follow me.’ I walk over to the front door, and start spray painting. ‘Cunts. Nice,’ says Sedge. The others follow. It’s quiet but it’s a residential street, anyone could walk past. And the house is basking in the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. Regardless, the boys start working away.

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‘You’ve done this before,’ I whisper to Sedge as he spray paints the bonnet. ‘I love willy. Nice.’ He even draws a picture. Sweet Chris and Buggy run around back. ‘Shall I draw a swastika?’ asks Barnaby. ‘No. Why would you wanna do that?’ I say. ‘Because they’ll think their Nazis.’ ‘No, mate, they’ll think we’re Nazis.’ ‘You sure?’ ‘Yup, just write pricks or cunts or something, it’s much better.’ ‘Safe,’ he says, running around to the side wall. ‘Numpty,’ says Sedge, ‘No one’s gonna fockin’ see it there.’ Sedge runs to the hedge at the end of the driveway, signalling me to follow. ‘Can you hear someone?’ he asks. ‘I don’t hear anything.’ ‘Sound,’ he says, looking around. ‘We’d better finish up soon.’ ‘Alright, just let me do one thing,’ I say. Barnaby’s putting stink bombs through the letter box now, as I walk over to the car, standing in front of the windscreen. I steady the can. I write slowly, careful not to make any mistakes. ‘Why’d you write that?’ Sedge asks when I step back. I’m not sure entirely. ‘Just wanna see how he likes it,’ I say, staring at my work. ‘I have AIDS,’ says Barnaby, reading aloud. I feel a small pang of guilt because I’m trying to shame him the way he shamed me. But Chris Maddox’s is the kind who only understands the eye for an eye kind of lessons. Fuck him. Suddenly, we hear people approaching. And so, we peg it.

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• ‘You were shitting yourself,’ says Buggy, laughing at Sedge. It must be around three or four before I go to bed. The St. Mary’s lads stay over, most too drunk to leave. They decide it’s probably not a good idea to walk past the house tonight. I’m glad with what we did. I suppress my feelings of guilt, my worry over the recklessness of it. I feel good. I know it is not a good way to get the feeling; but I feel it nonetheless. I only wish I could see the look on Chris Maddox’s face. As I walk to my room, Tim comes out of his, passing me in the hallway, muttering, ‘alright.’ ‘You missed, a good one mate,’ I say, without turning around. ‘A real good one.’ The only sound I hear is the clicking of the bathroom door as it shuts. Over the next week, I’m not the only one worried about the consequences of what we’ve done. The St. Mary’s lads tell me it was great as they passed the next day, the rugby lads all standing there in board shorts and flip flops, Chris Maddox looking furious about his car. Though I’m glad I did it, I know nothing will change Chris Maddox. Sooner or later, he’ll figure out who was behind it and he won’t be thinking about why it happened but what he can do for revenge. The house is lively that week, as the boys spend most of their time at home, too afraid to risk going to campus. We all jump when the intercom goes off, though it’s usually Becky, Gemma or one of the St. Mary’s boys. ‘No, she looks nice, she looks nice,’ says Sedge, looking at the woman on TV who’s just had a makeover. ‘The bird the other day was better at the end,’ says Buggy.

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‘Yeah, but she were a right rotter. Gok had loads to do. This one was just a bit chubs. She looks good though.’ ‘Hair’s nice,’ says Buggy. ‘Do you reckon Gok Wan’s actually gay?’ Me and Sedge give him the same confused look. ‘Nah, I know he acts it, but sometimes I reckon, all this makeover programme stuff, it’s just so he can get a bit of fanny.’ ‘You do talk some shit, Buggy.’ ‘I just dunno. I reckon he likes a bit of tit.’ ‘He’d like you then. You’ve got the lot.’ ‘You knows it.’ I see a thought enter Sedge’s mind and he turns to me with urgency. ‘Mate, Rag are doing a charity speed dating thing in Kelsey’s next week. Fancy it?’ ‘Me? Sedge, are you serious?’ ‘Look fella, you don’t have to do anything. But it’ll be a laugh, ya know. Just banter. That’s why we’re going. Buggy’s going.’ ‘No I’m not.’ ‘He’s going. We all are.’ ‘Mate, I dunno.’ ‘Look, don’t come if you don’t want. But it’s just a laugh. Don’t think of it as going out on the pull. None of us are taking it seriously. I mean, I’ll probably get laid but that can’t be avoided.’ He grins, baring as many teeth as he can. ‘Seriously mate, it’ll be fun. I only wish I still had my crutches. They’d love it.’ ‘Just like they did when you had them,’ says Buggy. ‘Shut it, fatboy.’ ‘Love you, Simon.’ ‘Love you too, Edward.’ ‘Babe, I don’t like it when you call me that.’

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‘Sorry, sugar.’ ‘Long time no see, Tim,’ says Buggy the next day. We’re having a game of Fifa when he walks in. The sarcasm hangs heavy in the air. It’s not lost on Tim but he makes a point of ignoring it. ‘Alright boys,’ he says, brushing his hair aside with a shake of his head, only for it to slide back in front of his eyes. We haven’t spoken properly since the argument. I don’t even want to know anymore how what happened with Clara got out. It’s not going to change matters. Still, I can’t bring myself to forgive him. He was meant to be my best friend. Friends keep their mouths shut. I lied for him in first year when he was seeing this girl called Emily. I felt bad about it too, because she was a nice girl; but he was my mate and I did what I had to. ‘Hi, Tim’ I say, looking over briefly, before turning back to the screen. I wish I hadn’t, because Buggy twists my right-back up. ‘Schlurps!’ he says, ‘he’s done ’im. One,’ he says, clicking the square button, ‘two.. and, fuck! How can he save that!?’ ‘World Class keeping,’ I say. ‘It’s David James, this game’s rigged.’ Tim walks into the kitchen. Buggy shouts to him as I dart up the wing, bashing the crap out of the run button. ‘You coming tonight, Tim?’ ‘Coming where?’ ‘Speed dating at Kelsey’s.’ ‘You’re going?’ ‘Yeah. Sedge’s making us.’ ‘No. I’ve got loads of work to do.’ ‘Bollocks,’ says Buggy. He commends his own player’s defending before turning around to face Tim after I lump the ball out of play. ‘You do English mate. You can afford a night off.’

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‘Maybe, I’ll see, I’ve got stuff to write for the paper too.’ ‘Don’t be a fassy. I’m going. Stan and Becky are going. The St. Mary’s lot are coming.’ He points at me. ‘Marcus is coming.’ A look of surprise comes across Tim’s face. I can’t say that I’m surprised by it myself. ‘You’re going, Marcus?’ ‘Yeah. Why not?’ I say, knowing full well why it might seem me odd, me going to this speed dating thing. ‘Nothing, just thought, nothing.’ I pause the game. ‘Thought what?’ ‘Well,’ he says, shuffling around nervously. ‘You know, I didn’t think you-’ ‘What? Could go to a charity night at Kelsey’s because I’ve got HIV?’ He stands up straight bearing a look which speaks both defiance and desperation. ‘Well, yeah, I mean, it’s speed dating,’ he says, like the last words should and must be an alien concept to me. I’m inclined to agree. But it’s Tim. And I’m petty now. I’ve a right to be petty. I choose not to continue into a pointless argument. ‘Take your throw in, Buggy,’ I say, unpausing the game. Tim sighs and leaves the room. ‘Don’t listen to him, fella. He’s bang out saying that.’ I slide tackle Buggy’s player and get booked. ‘Sorry.’ I can’t decide what to wear. I’m trying to be as relaxed as possible and Tim’s got me thinking maybe this is a bad idea; but I want to do normal things, I want to pretend for a night that I’m a normal lad and I can go and have an innocent chat with a few girls. It’s for charity for fucks sake, no one’s out on the pull.

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I imagine some of the rugby boys might show up but it doesn’t bother me. Knowing Sedge’d rip the head of anyone who went near me is quite the comfort. I end up dressing casually: a red cardie, plaint white tee shirt and blue jeans. ‘Dressed smart,’ I say when I see Sedge in the hallway. He’s gelled his hair, and he’s got on a shirt and tie. ‘Who said romance is dead, fella?’ Buggy walks out of his room. He’s got a weary, half arsed look to him, like he knows he’s not going to enjoy his evening. ‘You’re not going like that, are you?’ says Sedge. ‘Yeah, why not?’ Sedge shakes his head. ‘I don’t know why I bother with you boys.’ ‘Thought we were just going for banter,’ says Buggy. Sedge walks up to Buggy. He places an older brother like hand on his shoulder. ‘With ladies, Bugs, it’s never just banter.’ He slaps him affectionately, lightly, on the cheek. ‘Twat.’ ‘That’s the aim of the game.’ ‘Well, I’m only coming for a laugh,’ I say. Sedge assures me it is, that it’ll just be for fun and he’s just winding us up. Stan walks out of his room. ‘You nervous, mate?’ ‘Nervous? No, why?’ ‘It’s speed dating, there’ll be all sorts of fellas after Becky’s number.’ ‘It’s just for charity.’ ‘Yeah, but, she might meet someone. Sparks might fly.’

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‘Shut up, Sedge.’ ‘Only joking mate,’ says Sedge, walking over to the mirror in the hallway. ‘It’s not like there’s gonna be loads of good looking single men flirting with her.’ Stan looks to me for support. ‘Leave him be, Sedge. He’s only kidding Stan, it’s just a bit of fun.’ Sedge giggles to himself and we set off. • Kelsey’s is lit up like a disco. There’s a bunch of tall tables set up for the speed dating. I look at the girls sitting on the sofas. In avoiding campus, I’ve forgotten the way I’ve started to think when I see attractive girls. Hell, I get the horn when I see just about any girl these days. There’s a girl opposite me in a Windsoc hoody. I can’t even tell if I’d find her attractive in the slightest usually. But, low and behold, I begin picturing the underwear beneath those clothes, simple, plane but somehow sexy. I start to think of her playing the flute and that of course leads to thoughts of phalluses and mouths and then I regret wearing skinny jeans. ‘I need a pint.’ After getting my drink, I stand with the boys. It’s a bit like being back at school. For all the talk, we’ve pretty much avoided any of the girls, waiting until we have to sit down at the tables. We’ve holed ourselves up in a corner. The boys are talking big; but none of them have the balls to actually speak to anyone. The whole thing makes it seem like a joke, a farce; and so it seems all the more real.

The plus side of all this is that when I’ve to sit down in front of the girls, I’ve only got three minutes, so nothing can go too badly wrong.

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‘Hi, I’m Becky,’ says the first girl I meet. It’s Stan’s Becky. ‘He looks uncomfortable,’ I say, looking over at Stan, who’s sitting at a table with a redheaded girl, rattled after what Sedge said earlier. ‘What did you boys say to him?’ ‘That you were gonna shag every fella in here.’ ‘Well, you never know,’ she says with a sly smile, before rolling her eyes. ‘So, what course do you do?’ she jokes. ‘Engineering.’ ‘Ooh, exciting. Is it hard?’ ‘So hard,’ I say, accentuating that final vowel. ‘I don’t know how people who do other courses can complain, because like, my course is so hard. We’re in labs all day. It’s like, well hard.’ ‘And what do you do for fun?’ ‘Well I like to chill out with some Pantera and play World of Warcraft most evenings, sometimes I play my own guitar.’ ‘Oh, god, you’re turning me on,’ she says. She looks over at Stan, and bursts out laughing. ‘Look. This’ll be funny.’ She puts her hand on mine. I retract slightly. We look over. He’s trying to be polite and focus on the girl but he’s definitely noticed. I tense my fingers slightly, realising how little I’ve seen of Becky since Christmas. ‘Becky,’ I ask, tentative and worried. ‘Do you know, about me?’ A smile spreads across her lips just as her hands spreads more firmly over mine. ‘Yes, Marcus.’ ‘Thank you,’ I say, relaxing my hand. I relax all through, muscles and sinew loosening, untightening, heeding to the softness of her hand, the reassurance in her eye. ‘Thanks.’ •

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I’m enjoying myself. But, with each date, I can’t help but wonder: would the girl laugh if she knew? Would they be interested every time I said something interesting? Could it be the same? It probably couldn’t. So enjoy it for what it is. I sit with the lads after the first round. Sedge is off talking to one of the girls he met. So much for it being a laugh. We chat for a while. Even poor old awkward Buggy seems to be having a decent time. Off for another round. ‘Hi, I’m Marcus,’ I say to a pretty blonde, wearing a blue sequin dress. ‘Hi, I’m Clara,’ she replies. I ramble through what course I do, where I’m from and count down the three minutes in my head. ‘Hi, I’m Jessica,’ says the next girl. She’s pretty. She’s fair hair and dark eyes that sit deep in the sockets so you’ve to look carefully to see them for all they are. It’s as if she’s done it on purpose. She reminds me of someone and I know full well who. I choose ignorance. Tis bliss. ‘Hi, I’m Marcus. Where do you live?’ ‘Just down the road, on Tatchbrook. How about you?’ ‘Round the corner, Regents Place.’ ‘Ooh, fancy,’ she says. ‘Yeah, it’s a nice.’ ‘Where are you from?’ ‘London.’ ‘Oh, me too, what part?’ ‘Edgware, in Brent. How about you?’ ‘Putney.’

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‘Really, my mate Buggy’s from there,’ I say, pointing to him. He’s chatting to a disinterested looking girl. He looks uncomfortable. He’s unused to this. I’ve never thought much before how hard it must be for Buggy, with us lot out on the town, as it were. He knows he’ll sleep alone, every night. I can see it in him. He is stifled by his own lack of confidence. ‘Ah, he’s talking to my friend Sarah. Do you reckon they’ll hit it off?’ ‘Yeah, three kids, a nice little house on the river. As long as she doesn’t mind him having his Playstation, I think they’re set for life.’ She laughs. We talk on, about more than just where we come from and our courses. For the first time, I’m sad to see the three minutes pass. She tells me to come talk to her later. • ‘Just a bit of fun then, Sedge?’ I say, as he walks in the next morning, his shirt untucked, his hair still ruffled. ‘Mate, I can’t help it if chicks dig me.’ ‘Chicks dig me,’ says Buggy in an affected American accent. ‘You have a good night, Buggy boy?’ says Sedge, squeezing Buggy’s cheeks. ‘He did and all,’ I say. Everyone’s in a good mood. I talked to Jessica again after the speed dating finished, and asked if she wanted to go for a drink. The words slipped out, and as soon as I said them I regretted it, until she said yes, and for a while I just thought about going out with her. It dawned on me this morning that I’ve pushed it too far. But it’s only a drink, right? And shock of shocks, Buggy managed to bag himself a date. He met a girl not long after I’d sat looking over at him with Jessica, worrying about how difficult it all must

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be. Still, I can see the bashfulness in his eyes, the worry, the anticipation, fear and excitement, excitement that it might finally happen. ‘She asked him out,’ I say, after Buggy’s cheeks’ve got proper red. The words come out and I immediately realise that with Sedge in our presence, this probably won’t help. I tried. ‘The girl asked you out?’ says Sedge, his voice lifting to the skies. ‘You gayboy.’ ‘Swivel, sunshine,’ says Buggy, his eyes purposefully glued to the TV screen and our game of Feefs. ‘Marcus, pay attention. You’re shit enough as it is.’ Feeling all worried for Buggy, I’m quickly betrayed by the fat man himself. ‘Marcus got a date too.’ ‘Gossipy cunt,’ I murmur, scuffing a shot about three metres over the bar. ‘Yeah?’ asks Sedge. There’s reticence in his voice. I can hear him modulate his tone to try and hide it but it doesn’t quite work. Least, that’s what I think I hear. Maybe I’m just getting paranoid. I wouldn’t blame Sedge for being wary though. I’m wary as fuck. ‘Well, I’ll see how it goes. Might go, we’ll see,’ I say, fixing my eyes to the screen a-la Buggy.

He moves into my view. It seems purposeful, like he wants me to look up at him. ‘You should mate,’ he says. ‘Sounds good.’ I think there’s a forced neutrality in his voice. I could be wrong but I think he’s just trying his best to be a mate, regardless of what he thinks. He walks towards the kitchen. ‘You lads make it too easy for me, waiting for girls to ask you out.’

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We roll collective eyes as he natters on and on about his gloriousness in the kitchen. Buggy gets a corner, does fuck all with it and I break, doing fuck all with it as well.

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12.

‘ Just soaking up the pressure, just soaking up the pressure’ I arrange to meet Jessica on Wednesday. The thought of calling it off shoots through my head but characteristically, I’m unable to say no. I’m too eager to please and somehow I justify this being better. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. This week, I’ve done some essays. I’ve actually done some essays, trying to push Wednesday night out of my mind. Wednesday comes. I’m ironing the right sleeve when there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ It’s Buggy. ‘Ironing? You fanny.’ ‘Gotta look good, mate.’ ‘You don’t need to iron to look good.’ ‘Thanks babes.’ ‘Love you.’ I suddenly feel self conscious, having Buggy there, witnessing the efforts I’m going to for this date. Adrian must be out because he’s standing in the hallway all smug like, fag in mouth. ‘What do you want?’ ‘Dunno. Just thought I’d wonder the halls, hang out with my palls. That alright?’ I nod, disinterested. He can stand there all day for all I care. He cranes his neck, propping my door open at the same time. ‘Sedge, Casanova’s getting ready.’

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Before I know it, I hear a familiar, excitable, scouse bounding coming from the other side of the hallway. Ginger peers around the door. ‘Iron. Nice.’ I look at Buggy. ‘He would say that. He’s the biggest gayboy I know.’ ‘You’re wearing a pink shirt,’ says Sedge. ‘Pink polo top. That’s alright.’ ‘What’s the difference?’ I ask. ‘Pink with Polo’s fine. Pink with shirts is gay. City boys wear ‘em. Same goes for football tops. Remember that Juve kit?’ ‘Yeah, that were batty,’ says Sedge.’ ‘Italians,’ says Buggy. ‘So, those are like, rules?’ I ask him. ‘Yes, they like, are, you American chief,’ says Buggy. I realise I’m out of touch with moron etiquette. Proper out of touch. It’s one of the few things I’m not sure I miss. Still, never feels good to be rusty. Suddenly, Buggy’s eyes drop to my shirt. ‘Easy on the iron, son.’ I look down. ‘Fuck.’ • I stand outside the pub waiting for Jessica. I’m wearing a different, un-ironed shirt. I tap my feet against the wall. I’m cold and the tap tap tap sound is a welcome distraction, a metronome, atmospheric like, clouding the mind of all thought and wondering.

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‘Hello,’ she says, walking up to me. She’s wearing a pretty green top and blue jeans. Her eyeliner matches the top. ‘Were you waiting long?’ she asks as we sat down with our drinks. ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head, ‘I’ve not been here before. Took me a while to remember the direction,’ I add, with a laugh, hoping she might find poor geography skills endearing. ‘Embarrassed to be seen with me?’ she says, tilting her head to one side. ‘No, I just thought it’d be nicer than the places in town.’ She laughs, picking up her glass and taking a short sip before speaking. ‘I’m kidding. It’s nice here. Plus, you can’t go out in town without bumping into everyone you know.’ She smiles and I notice for the first time the lipstick she’s wearing, a light rouge colour I imagine to be only just a little redder than her lips are normally. ‘My housemate Tim said he knew you,’ I say. In trying not to stare at those rouge lips too long, too hard, it’s the first thing that enters my mind. ‘Tim Croft?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Oh, he’s your housemate?’ she says, to my relief. I’ve been worrying that he’ll have told her about me. ‘He’s in a couple of my seminars. Really clever.’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘Yeah, really intelligent. Half the time he looks hungover, but he knows everything. He’s always late but our tutor loves him. He always speaks the most in class.’ ‘Tim’s the talkative kind.’ ‘Yeah, but it’s always good. He doesn’t ramble.’ She’s right. He’s no fool. ‘Are you the same?’ she asks. ‘What, clever?’

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‘No. Well, yeah, you seem-’ ‘Arrogant?’ ‘No, no-’ she says jumping forward, embarrassed. ‘Maybe a little,’ I say, to spare her discomfort, ‘I can talk my way through a seminar. Though it’s probably more bullshit than Tim.’ ‘Yeah, he’s not a bullshitter.’ ‘Oh, so you agree that I am?’ I said, unable to resist. ‘No,’ she said, smiling defiantly, seeing through me. I think of my lectures. I’ve gone to more recently; but I’m still pretty quiet. It’s the energy to argue that I’ve lost. I’ve never been the most studied up guy but I was always able to fight my corner, long as I had a kernel of what I was going on about. These days, I can’t be asked, I heed the floor to someone who’s actually gone and done the work, even if I reckon what they’re saying is shite. ‘What about you?’ I ask her. ‘Oh, I spend my life in the library. I panic the minute I think I’m falling behind.’ ‘You do English don’t you?’ ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she says, twisting her head again. ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘we used to tease Tim about his course.’ ‘Used to?’ ‘Yeah,’ I say, trying to hide the weariness that creeps into my voice. ‘He’s gone a bit awol lately.’ I look up at her. ‘Maybe he’s finally working hard.’ I begin to pick up on her quirks as we talk. Whenever she responds to a question or comment, she bobs her head slightly, usually pushing her hair behind her ears, only for the fine strands to fall gently and hang loose again. When she laughs, she pulls back slightly, spreading her thin, sleek fingers across her knees. I’m struck by her arms. Sounds odd to say, sounds fetishy. But she’s nice arms. I guess it pops into my head

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because Sedge is always going on about Jessica Carter, who apparently has ‘the best arms in Warwick.’ But Jessica’s got nice arms. ‘So we’re sitting in the car with this girl, having finally got a lift, and she ring’s her Dad.’ ‘Ooh, that’s a bad idea.’ I’m telling Jessica about first year, when me and Tim did Jailbreak, a charity hitchhike, and got stranded in Ramsgate. Not fun. But the next morning we finally found a way out of the country, and more importantly Ramsgate, with a German student who offered us a lift onto the ferry. ‘Yeah, we could hear the fella down the end of the line shouting. Tim speaks a little German, but I knew what her Dad was saying.’ ‘Why did she do that?’ ‘God knows. If you’re gonna give two English boys a lift, don’t tell your Dad.’ ‘Silly girl. He must have been thinking all sorts.’ ‘Best bit was, Tim turns to me quietly, and says, ‘shall I tell her my Granddad’s German? That might help. He served in the war.’ . ‘Is that true?’ she asks, laughing. ‘Oh yeah, Tim’s old man’s Dad was German. Stayed here after the war. But I don’t why he thought that’d help. Fella’d blatantly think we were taking the piss.’ ‘So what happened in the end?’ ‘Well, we went on the ferry and her Dad probably worried himself silly until she got home. She offered to take us to Arnhem but we decided to get wasted in Belgium.’ ‘Wow, you made it to Belgium?’ ‘Yeah. We had a great night. Got chucked out of a bar for trying to nick glasses.’

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‘Typical English lads,’ she says, with a small and what I take to be impressed smirk. I become lost in thought a moment, thinking of that weekend, how much fun we had. ‘So, anything happen with either of you and that lovely German girl?’ she asks. She raises an eyebrow after I hesitate. I coyly tell her yes. ‘Really? On the boat?’ I nod. ‘You, or Tim?’ ‘Me.’ I lie. I don’t know why, or why I’d think it was a good idea to say it on a date. Perhaps I’m trying to sabotage myself. Truth is. Tim had sex with her in a toilet cubicle on the way over. Maybe I want to repulse her, maybe I’m trying to find my way into the fire so things’ll end here. Perhaps a part of me is jealous of Tim. The reality was I spent the whole time watching The Terminal on the ferry, texting India back in England and deciding not to worry about the cost of foreign texting. Mental. ‘Filth bag,’ she says, laughing. ‘Well, I guess you were kind of on holiday. I hope you were a perfect gentleman afterwards.’ ‘Of course. Tim offered her petrol money when she dropped us off. Would’ve looked a little weird if I’d done it.’ She laughs, sitting up, folding one leg over the other. It’s nearly closing time. Jessica’s laughed more and more at the things I’ve said throughout the night. I’m not sure if I’m getting funnier or if we’re just getting drunker. We get to talking about our plans for next year.

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‘I’ve no idea what I’ll do,’ she says, with a pensive, lost look. ‘I’m terrified. I applied for a few things. Civil Service, publishing, but, I don’t know.’ She trails off. She asks me about my plans. I’ve not really thought about it. I wait a couple of moments but too much time passes. ‘I’ve not a clue,’ I say, forcing out a relaxed smile. ‘Aren’t you worried about it?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘It’ll work out.’ She sits back. ‘Wish I was so brave.’ ‘Or stupid,’ I say; and in my head I quickly count how many months I’ve left here, before I’ll have to think about it again. • I walk her home. It’s getting chilly. I make her wear my coat. Pulling the leather jacket around her shoulders, I think of what the doctor said; and what Sedge and the boys might say if they saw me walking around without a coat, or jacket, or whatever the hell it’s called. Fuck it, it’s my not off being Marcus-lite, tonight I’m being good old Marcus Stone. ‘You’re shivering,’ she says, as we reach the parade. I might be acting like the old Marcus tonight; but he hated the cold and shivers like a wimp. Granddad gave him his circulation. We could take the back roads, but I tell her we’re best off walking the parade. It’s lighter. I’ve had fine. I’m glad to be seen. ‘I’m fine.’ ‘You sure? Here take it back, I’m alright, the drink’s warmed me up.’

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‘No,’ I say, insisting. ‘What would the boys say if they saw me letting you walk home cold?’ ‘Oh, so you’re not ashamed to be seen with me now?’ ‘I guess not.’ I grow agitated as we near her house, though I try to hide it. What if she invites me in? What am I going to do? My feet keep moving and my mind keeps whirring but I don’t do anything about it as we near the gate of number twenty three. ‘Thank you. I had a lovely time.’ ‘Me too,’ I say, relieved. ‘Oh, your jacket.’ She takes it off. She hands it to me. I start putting it on, looking down as I force my left arm through the hole, she says, ‘such a gentleman.’ When I look back up I find myself kissing her. This feels wonderful, I tell myself. But there’s an itch in my mind, like I’m betraying her, because I’m hiding something. I know this can’t do any harm in and of itself. I know this and yet I can’t help but feel like this is criminal. She stops. She tells me she’ll see me soon. I can’t help but smile all the way home. • ‘How was your date, mate,’ Sedge asks as I walk in. He’s leaning forward, Xbox controller in hand. He keeps his eyes on the screen as him and Buggy concentrate on their game. ‘Yeah, it was good. She’s cool.’ ‘Yeah?’ he says, taking a shot, which goes miles over the bar. He turns briefly. ‘She nice, yeah?’ ‘Yeah, she was funny.’

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‘Sounds like a fat girl,’ says Buggy, ‘funny. Fun. Bubbly, Great personality. Full of life.’ I walk over, rub his belly, and walk into the kitchen. ‘Been reading the personals again Buggy?’ ‘Totally. You’d love them Marcus, their proper banter. Ooh, Sedge you are shit at this game,’ he says. I’ve no idea what mistake Sedge has made this time but Buggy is quite unforgiving ‘Just soaking up the pressure, just soaking up the pressure.’ I start making myself a cup of tea, listening to the two of them, playing, slagging each other off for laughs. ‘So, when you seeing her again?’ I put my mug down, and look at the cupboard. I don’t know how to answer that question. ‘I don’t know. Maybe during the week.’ Sedge gives me the courtesy of nodding, of keeping his mind. I see the TV reflection in his eyes, I know what he’s thinking. I wonder if the lads have discussed all this and figure they must have, there must be some worry about where it’ll all head. Because I’m fucking terrified and I’ve no idea what to do. ‘Buggy, when’s your date?’ ‘Tomorrow.’ ‘Where you going?’ asks Sedge. ‘Like I’m gonna tell you pricks,’ Buggy says with a chuckle. ‘What? We ain’t gonna come and watch.’ ‘You would, if you knew. Heskey, you are shit,’ he says, trying to concentrate on the game, hoping Sedge’ll drop it at that. Fortunately or unfortunately for Buggy, he does, because he rakes a pass up field; and pulls off a disgusting goal. ‘Goal, goaly goaly, goal!’

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He starts slapping Buggy on the chest over and over. ‘I hope you’re better with Babs than you are at Fifa, mate.’ ‘Is she called Babs?’ I ask, laughing. ‘No,’ he says, batting Sedge away. ‘she’s called Chloe, this pricks just decided to call her Babs.’ I leave the two of them to bicker and badger each other. I go to bed. I pull the blanket around myself. I’ve got to tell her sometime. Not tonight though. Tonight, I’ll savour the fun I’ve had, I’ll savour those gay little butterflies floating around my stomach. • I go for a run, wrapped up warm in case Sedge catches me. He’s over the top with concern but it’s just his way. I feel healthy. I’ve cut down the smoking. I drink a lot still but, I’m English, I’m no exception. I can see heavy puffs of cold air as I exhale. Today I feel like I could tell people about it. I know it’s probably a feeling that’ll fade once I’ve finished running, once I’m out of the Rocky Balboa gear. It enters my mind that I should maybe tell someone at the university. Malcolm said my last essay for ethnic conflict was ‘lacking your usual talent for hiding a lack of work with intelligent writing.’ I get the feeling he’s fed up with me, the way I say nothing in class, the way I’m floating through the year. I guess he thought I had potential. Perhaps I did. But the world feels like it’s piecing itself back together today, albeit slowly. I’m not worried about Jessica at the moment, I just want to see her again. I just want to enjoy her company. I want to feel like a normal third year student a little while longer. I want to feel like one of the boys: talking crude, talking crude, watching football and fucking around on Fifa. I want the easiness, the languor of student life. It’s not a good use of time but it’s a better use of time for me right now.

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I stand in the park, getting my breath back. I hold onto the green plastic fencing, that very same fencing which I clenched on that first day, the day I changed, or learnt I’d changed. There’s a light on the rise. The sun is still climbing, I can’t see it, hidden as it is behind the tall Georgian houses. I feel the rush inside my body, the blood coursing around. But it doesn’t feel like poison so much. God, I wish I could go back. Every time a positive thought enters my mind, it’s tainted by those ifs and I’s and hads and hadn’ts. But that’s just the way it is. I’m not blaming myself so much these days. Jason’s right. Just shit luck. Yeah, I got this from cheating on India. But how many guys get HIV from cheating? Brad Pitt got Jolie, I got H, I, fucking V. Just good luck for him and shit luck for me. Just the way it is. Later on, I find myself opening up to Sedge, telling him how I’m feeling much better but telling him about that tainted feeling that’s always there. He nods thoughtfully like he’s understanding but I can’t blame him for not because I sure as fuck still don’t. There’s not much to understand. I tell him about India, and how much I regret what I did. He tries to say I shouldn’t think of it that way but I tell him I’m not talking about HIV here, I’m talking about her. About me and her, but specifically her, and the pain I must’ve caused. He grows quiet. ‘What did you think when you found out?’ I ask. He turns to me, his face sunken in that way people get when they are about to be and must be truthful. ‘Honestly, mate,’ he says, ‘I couldn’t believe you’d been such a fool.’ He lets it stay there, airing like wine, for a short but very long moment. ‘She deserved better than that.’

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I look out the skylight. I’ve never heard anyone say that before; but I’ve sure to fuck told myself it a million times. This one thought, I think, has the right to whirl around my brain. I hurt someone. I can still feel guilt on that one. ‘But it’s done. It’s over with now. At least you’re sorry. Some fellas wouldn’t give a fuck.’ ‘Don’t think I’ll be getting any awards any time soon.’ ‘No. But, it’s done,’ he says again. ‘No point mulling on it. It didn’t stop me wanting to be your mate, like. I just thought you two were good, and you fucked it. Sorry.’ I appreciate his honesty. When you have what I’ve got, it’s easy to find denials and lies and things that don’t quite seem true because they’re not but their prettier pictures than the reality you’ve found yourself in. ‘It’s sound, mate. I’ve told myself it millions of times. Guess if I could do that, we weren’t right for each other.’ He takes a hefty drag, granting him access to silence. ‘At least you’re friends now, though.’ After a long while of silence, in which all I can here is the revolutions of the extractor fans, Sedge turns to me, yet hesitates a long while before speaking. ‘What’s it like mate?’ ‘What?’ ‘Like, well, it? Do you think about what it’s like having it, or do you just get on with it? I mean, don’t talk about it if you don’t want but, I just wondered, day in and day out, how it feels. I can’t imagine.’

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‘Neither can I,’ I say; and I guess it’s as truthful as I can be. ‘It just hits you again and again. I mean, I’m getting used to it, in a way; but then you always start to think about what it means, what it is, what might happen. And about what can’t happen in your life or at least what you think you can’t do anymore.’ I don’t give examples and he doesn’t contradict. His small blue eyes are concentrated and keen, attentive and patient. ‘You know when people say they have good days and bad days,’ I say. ‘When they’ve got a disease, or some other shitty thing in their life?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Well it’s not quite like that, as far as I can see at least. It’s more like, good minutes, bad minutes. You can be feeling up, feeling better about things, much better. Then a few seconds later, you’re down, you’ve sunk. Nothing’s happened, you don’t know why but, you feel it. You feel you’ve sunk and it scares you because you can’t control it and you don’t know why it’s happened. I take a fag from his pack. I light, I suck, I exhale, heavy. ‘A minute later, and you might find you’ve got your day back.’ I click my fingers. ‘Just like that. His nodding has been replaced by a stillness. Perhaps he is waiting for me to go on, to offer something closer to clarity. ‘I guess that’s the best way I can describe it. Seconds and minutes.’ Still, he’s still, his mouth pursed and thoughtful, his eyes ready to listen if need be. ‘The good ones are getting longer though,’ I say; and I know that at the very least, that much is true. • It’s a big night for Buggy. He’s going on his date. Far as the rest of us know, this is a first for Bugs. And we know what sort of territory that puts him in. Virgin Ville. We’ve an unspoken agreement. We all know it; but we don’t talk about it. I mean, a twenty one year old virgin. It’s taboo. The collective excitement in the flat, however, tells me

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everything I need to know. Everyone’s hoping he’s going to do the happy. Christ, Buggy, don’t fuck this up, son, it’s been a long time coming. We can hear the shower going downstairs. ‘Do you reckon his date’ll go well?’ ‘I hope so. Fella deserves to be happy.’ ‘I didn’t see her at the speed dating, what’s she like?’ ‘She’s alright man, like, for Buggy. She’s not a small girl, but she’s nice like. Rosy cheeked.’ ‘Fun?’ Sedge laughs. ‘Bubbly as fuck.’ He pauses speaking. He actually pauses the game too, which for Sedge is a rule break. ‘Seriously, though, she’s a nice girl. She’s cute like.’ ‘That’s not nice.’ ‘What? Cute’s nice.’ ‘No, cute’s fat. ‘Nah.’ ‘If a girl’s fit, you say she’s fit don’t you? Or perhaps tidy, where you’re from. Cute’s not the word.’ ‘You never called India cute?’ ‘Oh, so now we’re talking about India?’ I say, giving him the finger. He just laughs. ‘Yeah, course, man, but only after we’d been together a while. When you talk about a girl you’re seeing, you don’t say cute. Your mates only care how fit she is.’ ‘Those the rules are they, Marcus?’ he says, raising his eyebrows. I push a strand of hair behind my ear and scratch the narrow bridge of my nose. I nod assent and grab one of his fags. ‘Well, she’s pretty fit is Buggy’s lass. But she better be nice to him. He’s a fat, lazy fuck, but our Buggy deserves to be treated well.’

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‘You’re serious aren’t you?’ You’re actually worried for Buggy.’ ‘No, I’m just saying, I don’t want the fella to get hurt. He deserves a break.’ ‘Ah,’ I coo, ‘Sedge is getting all maternal.’ He takes a drag, holding his fag like a girl. He laughs out his smoke. ‘I just like to see love grow.’ ‘If you weren’t ginger, you could be cupid.’ ‘Fuck you.’ ‘Fuck you more.’ My phone vibrates.

‘Hey, fancy another drink sometime this week?’ I’m surprised to hear form her so soon. I say yes without thinking about it, suggesting a bar just off the parade, and about ten minutes later I get another message.

‘Cool, see you then  xx’ It just so happens that me and Buggy both have second dates on the same night. By all accounts, none of which come from the man himself, Buggy’s first date with Chloe went well. I decide not to pester him about it. He’s spent the day pretending like it’s nothing big, but he must have a load on his mind. I mean, Uni’s almost done with. And everyone gets laid at Uni. He’s never shown any frustration. But, well, I guess I see it now. The way I’ve gone all introverted, I guess I see how he keeps it inside, how he carries the fear around within him. It’s not like he can avoid it either. As a house, we’ve always tried not to talk about sex too much in front of him. But it’s not like you can stop every game of I Have Never from cropping up. He felt a girl up in Smack once. I’d usually bring that up so’s to make him feel a bit the man.

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Because we never knew him before Uni, there’s this sort of unspoken agreement and lie, an understand that Buggy slept with a girl before he got here. He’s never said it, we’ve never said it; but we kind of all know that’s the official party line. If he were ever to be asked about it, that’s what his story would be and we’d back him up. But on day one in first year, when he walked in with his baggy jeans and his Charlton Athletic top, I straight off that Buggy’d never slept with a girl. I was getting annoyed with him up to recently. He seemed to have got lazier than ever. But I realise now, it’s just that he’s been losing hope. This change with Chloe is big, it’s his change to end Uni on a high, it’s his chance to feel like us, to fit in. We leave at the same time. He’s wearing a shirt, which is quite the effort for Buggy. ‘So you gonna tell me where you’re going?’ ‘Nope.’ ‘Ah go on, I’ll be with Jessica, I’ll be too busy to come embarrass you. ‘Alright. But don’t tell anyone. Meem Saab.’ ‘Restaurant!’ I explain. ‘Ooh, bit much for a second date.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Wine, dine, sixty nine. You charmer.’ ‘Fuck off,’ he says, a glint in his eye as he takes a drag. ‘Don’t tell the lads, they’ll rinse me.’ I leave Buggy at Tesco’s and walk through to the White Horse. I text Sedge and tell him where Buggy’s going. I feel a traitor. But, Buggy’ll see the funny side in the end. I’ve been waiting for Jess a while, I couldn’t think of anything better to do.

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‘So you picked the White Horse,’ I say, as we sit down. ‘Trying to show me off?’ ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself,’ she says, ‘I didn’t know it’d be so busy.’ It’s quiz night. It’s rammed. ‘So, you think anyone’s gonna see you out on a date?’ she asks. I look around. There are a few familiar faces; but no one I know well. I look at Jessica. She’s wearing that same lipstick. She’s sitting straight, back arched, yet there’s something relaxed in her, she looks at ease. ‘Wouldn’t be the most embarrassing thing in the world.’ She smiles and I’m pretty pleased with my choice of words. ‘No,’ she says, smiling. She glances around. ‘But you’re one of the lads. Not worried they’ll come up and embarrass you? The boys in my house did that to my housemate John.’ I think about it. It really wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. ‘They’d do their best, but I wouldn’t mind. They’re jealous.’ She smiles gratefully. ‘Plus, Buggy’s on a date. They’ll go find him.’ ‘There’s a couple of guys over there I know,’ she says, ‘they keep looking over.’ I look around and see a small group of friends. It’s easy to make out who recognises her, as they glance over at us every now and then. ‘Oh, did you want to move somewhere else?’ ‘No, she says, looking down at her drink. She looks back up. ‘No, I’m happy here.’ There’s a question in the quiz about cricket. I don’t know why I answer, I hate cricket. I really hate it.

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‘I thought it was Andrew Strauss,’ says Jessica as I walk her home after the pub closes. ‘I got cocky. I don’t have a scooby when it comes to cricket.’ She giggles, bobbing her head in that way again. She slips her arm into mine. ‘Scooby,’ she says, laughing again. We walk a little further before she says, ‘You looked tense in the pub. Everything alright?’ I can hear the insecurity in her voice and feel bad for not telling her it was because one of Chris Maddox’s friends walked past. I remember the feeling. I tried fobbing it off but my body acted of its own accord. ‘No, I was fine,’ I say. Her mind will wonder but, I can’t explain. ‘I’m so scared of leaving,’ she says, changing the subject, ‘It’s lovely here, especially in the summer, when everyone’s out.’ We’re just passing the park, the fountain lit up all pretty. I think about last summer, when you’d see people you knew wondering around, through the parks, playing football and lying in the sun. It won’t be too long before it all started again, before it becomes strange to stay inside all day. She tightened her grip around my arm and leaned in a little. She bent her head slightly, like she wanted to lean on my shoulder, despite us walking. ‘Yeah it’ll be nice when it’s warm,’ I repeat. ‘Hopefully not too soon,’ she says, leaning further into me, away from the cold. I loosen my arm. She looks almost hurt. I put it around her waist. She follows suit with hers around mine. I can almost feel the grooves of her fingers pressing into me, choosing me. This is going too far. But it feels so normal.

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The lights in her house are off. Say something, say something, say something now. We’re kissing again. Before I can say a thing, we’re kissing again. Has she started kissing me or me her? Either way, I’m kissing back. Her tongue is soft, warm. Stop. Say something. I can stop it here. I can run, I’ll think of an excuse that’ll spare her feelings. Warm tongue, the soft skin on her hips. It’s been so long, so fucking long. I don’t want to let go of the feeling. Her hands tighten around my waste. I reciprocate. She’s feeling the small tuft of hair on my lower back. I can’t tell if she likes it or dislikes it but she wants me either way. I try to stop caressing her smooth skin but hands forbid me. She turns. I’m going into her house. Last chance. She drags me by the hand, fumbling the key into the door. We kiss again. Her lips taste sweet. They are soft, they are soft they are soft I can’t think of anything beyond them. The door slams behind us. She pushes me up against the door, away from her, then back to her with aggressive energy. I pull off her coat. She frees me of my shirt. She slides her hand down my trousers. It’s rock hard. It knows it’s going to get what it wants, what it needs. It wonders why it’s been starved all this time. She leads me to her room. My mouth is padlocked. She’s leading; but I’m not stopping. I’m doing everything I want.

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We’re on the bed. We’ve been kissing and tussling for minutes. She’s her top off. I unclip the bra, surprised I remember how to after all this time. I kiss her nipples. The left tastes best, but she moans more as I pass my poison tongue over the right. Snake, you fucking snake stop it! Her hands search down the back of my trousers, nails digging into the soft, nervous flesh. We’re still safe. I have a condom. I roll over, she sits on top. She bends down. She kisses my nipples with her warm, innocent tongue. She reaches for my belt. She undoes it, she lets it out, stroking the shaft back and forth. She leans down. ‘Wait!’ I shout, sitting up, loud enough to wake her housemates. She looks up. ‘What’s wrong?’ I collapse, defeated. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’ I throw her off with my legs. I get up. It’s still hard. I bring my jeans up and put it where it belongs now. ‘Marcus, what’s wrong?’ she says. I pity her, sitting up on the bed, confused, wondering what she’s done, her breasts in front of me, unsure why they aren’t wanted all of a sudden. Her eyes dance over me, trying to figure out what flaw of hers has been exposed. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t,’ I say. I grab my tee shirt, pick up my shoes, and run out without my jacket.

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13.

‘ Captain Floppy came to town?’ The next few days are like Christmas. I don’t answer or check my phone. Fucking coward. I can’t bring myself to tell her why it happened. No, the truth is, I can’t admit how close I came to putting her at risk. I don’t talk to the boys about it. They’ll hate me if they find out. I snapped at Sedge the other day after he started to pester me too much about the date. He should never have made me go to that Speed Dating. Buggy’s been quiet the last few days as well. Something must’ve gone wrong. He’s been finding solace in Neighbours and Countdown. Three days after the date, I check my messages. She sent one just after I left, and there was a phone call. I admire her for not ringing me constantly. There’s another one from the next day and the day after that. They get increasingly fed up in tone. I begin to hate myself, not only for what I’ve done; but how I’ve made her feel. In fact, the self-loathing kicked in pretty quickly, I didn’t need much help with that. But thinking of her wondering what’s up with her tears me up, because there’s fuck all up with her. It’s me and I’m a coward for not telling her the truth straight up. By day four, I’m just moping around like a tosser. I spend most of the day watching garbage online. Eventually, I need to go upstairs to get water. Buggy’s slumped on the couch, watching TV. ‘Hi mate, you alright?’ ‘Sound’ he says, limply. ‘What went wrong the other night then?’ ‘Nothing. It was fine. Just don’t wanna go crazy about it. Exams next term.’ I scoff.

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‘Buggy.’ ‘What?’ ‘Tell me, mate.’ ‘Piss off, Marcus,’ he says, coming to life for the first time in days. ‘You said you wouldn’t say where I was going. Cunts walked past pointing and laughing.’ ‘Yeah. Sorry about that. But it was a just a joke. That’s not what went wrong is it? You can’t say part of you didn’t enjoy the boys coming to see you chirpsing Chloe.’ He purses his lips. ‘It’s not the point. I told you not to.’ ‘I know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.’ He’s right and all, I was just bored. I didn’t do it to help him at all. He looks at me, then back at the screen, pausing a long while, thinking about whether to speak. ‘The meal was nice. Then it went a bit shit.’ ‘How?’ ‘We went to hers for a drink.’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘And-’ He carries on watching, like the conversation is secondary, ‘I couldn’t do it.’ ‘What? Drink? ‘No.’ ‘Shag?’ ‘Yeah. Ended up in bed but-’ He trails off. ‘Captain Floppy came to town?’ He looks down, forlorn, ashamed almost. ‘Yes.’

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I try not to laugh. I’m not laughing because it’s funny (it is, a little, or would be, if it wasn’t Bugs). I’m laughing because it doesn’t really matter (or wouldn’t, if it wasn’t Bugs.’) ‘Mate, it’s not the end of the world. Happens to all of us. Too drunk to fuck. It’s rock and roll,’ I say, knowing it’s come out fatuous and patronising. ‘I weren’t drunk. Dunno what happened.’ ‘Oh,’ I say. It must’ve happened because he’s nervous. But he wouldn’t be nervous if he wasn’t a virgin, so I can’t let on that I know it’s that. ‘Still, it happens Bugs. Used to happen with me and India all the time.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Well, not all the time,’ I say, realising what I’m saying, ‘but every now and then.’ He shrugs. ‘Captain Floppy,’ I say, laughing, thinking of the times it’s happened to me. ‘It’s not funny, Marcus. It’s different for me.’ ‘Why?’ He gives me a serious look a look that says come on let’s face it the gigs up the cats out of the bag. ‘I’ve never, you know?’’ He puts his head in his hands. He looks like a man who’s seen the world collapse in on itself. ‘I blew it.’ ‘Have you spoken to Chloe?’ I ask, after some time. ‘Not properly. Few texts.’ ‘Saying what?’ ‘Saying it’s nothing to worry about. But she’s just being nice. She must be freaked out.’

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‘She’s not mate. Girls are used to disappointment. Sounds like she’s really into you.’ ‘She ain’t called or nothing though. I think she just wants to leave things at that.’ ‘No fella. She’s waiting for you to tuck your balls out from underneath your vagina,’ I say. ‘Piss off.’ ‘I’m serious mate. If she didn’t mind, she seems pretty sound. Girls understand,’ I say. ‘Sometimes,’ I add, for clarity. Don’t want him getting into this with completely the wrong idea of what he’s got ahead of him. He looks away. ‘Look, from what I hear, she’s pretty cool. But she won’t come running after you if you get scared off by that. Just go see her. It’ll probably be alright. What you got to lose?’ ‘Pride. Dignity.’ He has everything to lose. ‘A little of that went when Captain Floppy came to town,’ I say. I nudge him till he smiles. ‘Trust me, it seems far worse than it is. Give her a bell. End.’ Finally, he laughs for the first time in days. ‘Cheers mate.’ ‘No worries,’ I say, getting up. ‘How was your date?’ ‘Good. Just giving Jess a call now in fact,’ I say, holding my phone up. • I’m at my desk, staring at the phone. I pick it up. I put it down. I pick it up. Eventually, I get the balls I’ve told Buggy to grow. I call her.

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‘Hello,’ comes a voice at the other end. In just one word I can read a mood, can sense a I’ve had a shitter of a week and this isn’t gonna help kind of approach to the world. ‘Jessica.’ ‘Hello,’ she repeats, colder this time. ‘Hi.’ ‘Why did you run out?’ she says. She gets straight to the point, she doesn’t want to hang around. There’s an urgency in her voice, to get things done and dusted with as quickly as possible. ‘I’m so sorry, Jess,’ I say. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t be shortening to Jess at a moment like this. But I’m calculative, like India said. Contractions breed familiarity. ‘I have to tell you something.’ ‘What’s to tell? You couldn’t wait to get into bed with me. Then you ran away like a little boy. Who does that? And then just ignores someone for three days.’ ‘Me. I’m a cock.’ Twenty years of Catholicism and you learn to both invite, enjoy and make the best use of guilt. Before she can speak again, I ask her to let me explain. To my surprise, she goes silent. I say I want to meet in person. She says no, she says explain now. I tell her I can’t. I say I know I don’t deserve it, really jumping on the self-loathing, guilt laden bandwagon. I insist it has to be in person. She heeds. She sighs first but heeds, saying I can pop over in the afternoon tomorrow when she’s back from lectures. And she hangs up. Tonight, I don’t get much sleep. I keep my phone on beside me, like a lovesick puppy. But I’m not lovesick I’m just desperate as hell to explain everything to her. I need to make her understand why I did what I did. This could ruin me. She might tell people. The mosquito of Warwick.

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But, I was always told to put others first. Didn’t always listen but I am now. Yeah, used to be putting others first meant given up the last piece of cake. Now it just means being an honest man, come what may. Who’d have known? If ruining myself stops her mind from wondering, it’s for the best. If infuriating and disgusting her stops her doubting herself, then it’s worth it. Action and consequence. Sometimes you just need to accept consequence. Or ramification. I think that fits better. Sounds like something Malcolm’d say. At about twelve, my phone beeps.

‘Hey Marcus. Just wondering how you were?’ It’s India. I don’t reply. A couple of minutes pass, and, reluctantly, I pick up the phone. She’ll only worry if I don’t respond.

‘Good, thanks. How are you? Just heading to bed. Stayed up late playing Xbox with Buggy.’ The reply is almost instantaneous.

‘Losers.. Let me know if you wanna meet up at all soon. Glad you’re okay xx’ I reply saying we’ll meet up soon. It’s not long before I get another message.

‘Sorry. I shouldn’t call you a loser. Sleep well xx’ Jesus, she’s treating me too well. I’m more than happy to be called a loser for staying up all night playing Fifa. I’m sitting in the living room, anxious, waiting, nervous. It’s hours before Jessica’ll be home but all I can think of is getting there and explaining everything. I play Solitaire. I keep checking my phone as if it’ll make it buzz. When it goes off I’m surprised, disappointed and nervous in a wholly different way, because it’s Mum. ‘Hi, Mum,’ I say. I hope this won’t take too long. ‘Marcus.’ Fuck, something’s wrong. Her voice, it’s croaky, it’s slow, even, lacking in energy.

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‘Mum. What’s wrong?’ ‘It’s your Dad.’ • I’ve been on the train ten minutes and I just remembered Jessica. Mum was crying when I hung up, having told her I’ll head straight home. He’s had a heart attack. She left the house for ten minutes and found him unconscious. He’s been rush to hospital. My Dad’s been rushed to hospital. He’s not that unhealthy, how’s this happened? He likes a beer here and there, but nothing mental, like? In fact, I can’t remember ever seeing him proper steaming? Is there something I don’t know? Mum’s insisted on the low fat Mayonnaise for years. His diets fairly good. Thoughts invade my mind. Possibilities. What if he were to die? I can’t imagine him not being there, walking frantically around the house looking his glasses, when they’re on his head; bitching about the quality of TV whilst watching it anyway, being a generally cynical (but ultimately good natured) bastard. Poor Mum, waiting alone, in the hospital. She’s the strong one, till it’s one of us. You never see her worried. He’s the one who overreacts. You must be strong, Marcus, when you get there. I tell myself these words; and I know I must adhere to them. But I don’t want to have to be strong. I head straight to the hospital from Marylebone. Mum’s sitting in the ward, her hair tousled and untied. It looks odd. I’ve come into the hospital while she’s at work a few times.

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She always has her hair tied back tight. She looks strong and professional. Now she’s her head in her hands. She looks weak, frail, exhausted. Older. She sees me. She runs over, clasping her arms around me. ‘Mum, what happened?’ ‘He had a heart attack,’ she says; and it hits me like new. ‘He was fine this morning, I nipped over to Mrs. Connelly’s and–’ She starts to cry. ‘Oh, Marcus, it was horrible. I should never have left him.’ ‘Stop it, Mum. How could you know?’ ‘I was just chatting away at Mrs. Connelly’s,’ she goes on, as if she’s not heard me. ‘And he was probably calling out for me. ‘Mum. Stop it. You couldn’t know he’d collapse. If you’d not found him, he’d be dead.’ There’s a look of terror in her eyes. I know the words are severe. But she needs to know. She needs to know she’s saved his life. ‘Okay?’ ‘Okay,’ she says, rubbing her eyes. ‘He’ll be alright. He’s safe now, he’s here.’ She wipes her eyes and nose with her hands. Something in her seems to recall that she’s a nurse, that she’s poise, that she’s a mask she can wear. ‘I’m just going to the bathroom to wash my hands.’ I pull her close. I feel her shiver, I feel her dropping that mask for a few more moments. While she’s gone I go the desk. I ask the nurse about dad. She points me to a door. I peer through but can’t see him. I stare through the wired window, wondering what it’s like to lie in tone of those beds, to be so sick that people walk around you speaking aloud about your condition, whilst you merely listen in, powerless.

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I’m afraid of the idea of Dad being scared. Can’t remember ever seeing him scared. Looking back though, there were times. Broke my arm once, when I was seven. I was fucking around on the monkey bars when I fell. Mum sat me up against the monkey bars while he went and got the car. He drove it right onto the park. The grounds man went mental. Dad lamped him. He was a hero down at work. Even the policeman rated him for it, apparently. I remember him telling me ‘you’re alright son, you’re alright son,’ over and over as he carried me to that car. Calm as fuck. I realise now. He must’ve been bricking it. I’ve been sitting back down for around ten minutes when Mum finally joins me again. We’re silent a while before she jumps. ‘Did you have to skip classes, Son?’ ‘Don’t worry about that, Mum. No, I was home today, it was easy getting back.’ ‘You poor thing,’ she says for some reason, putting her hand on my knee, ‘you must’ve been worried sick all the way home.’ ‘Where’s Fergal?’ I ask, realising for the first time my brothers awol. Or absent. I know exactly why he’s not here. ‘I sent him over to Ray’s. He shouldn’t be here.’ I know it isn’t right, Fergal being treated like a baby so. But she can’t help it. I think of telling her that we’ve to let him come here, that he should be here. But I know it’ll only worsen matters. ‘I’ll go see him later. He’ll want to know how Dad is.’ I look down. Her nails are painted, red. I can’t remember whether they were like that when I arrived. They must’ve been. I must be imagining it. But something in me reckons she’s put make up on since I arrived. Masks. So very important are those masks. The body doesn’t always hide what the mind wants to. You need to force it.

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‘I can’t stand it when one of you gets sick,’ she says. She holds herself like a frustrated child, like this is some injustice that should and must be attended to and resolve immediately. ‘Well I’m not sick, Mum,’ I say. The words leave my mouth and I regret them. And yet I don’t. Still, she’s looking away; but I can feel her loosen slightly. ‘And Dad’ll be fine.’ I brush her arm. ‘It’s going to be okay.’ Should I tell her, now? Oh, Jesus, Marcus, timing ain’t your thing. You’re her son. She knows HIV much better than me. But it doesn’t mean shit when you’re her son. I think about what I should say to her at this moment of crisis, this moment of worry. I tell her I’ll get a coffee. And I know that’s far and away the best thing I can do. I go to the vending machine. I change my mind and decide to go downstairs to the café to get something approaching decent. I check my messages. There’s one from Jessica.

‘I’ll be home at two if you want to come around.’ I scroll through my contacts. I find Fergal’s name. ‘Hello,’ I say. I hear background noise. He is sitting at the worktop in Aunty Anita’s house, probably with his elbows on the plush black marble Mum’s always wanted but won’t ever have, unless Dad wins the lottery. ‘Hey.’ ‘Hi.’ He doesn’t ask. He just waits. Waits for me to deliver news, whatever it may be.

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‘Dad’s okay, Fergal. He’s still asleep but he’s getting better. It’s a scare, they’re monitoring him now. ’ ‘Really?’ he says. ‘What happened.’ I pause a good old while before answering. How do I say those two words in succession without scaring the fuck out of him? ‘He had a heart attack, Fergal. But it was mild.’ He doesn’t respond. I go on. ‘He’ll be alright.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘You alright?’ ‘Yeah. I’m at Anita’s.’ ‘I know. Poor you,’ I say. ‘No Xbox there.’ ‘No, Ray’s got Sky Sports News on for me though.’ ‘Sweet. Let me know the team news for Saturday. Can you put Ray on?’ ‘Okay.’ Before he takes the phone from his ear, I tell him Dad’ll be fine. But I don’t know if he hears it. ‘How’s he doing, Marcus?’ ‘They haven’t told us much, he’s still in intensive. But I think it’s just monitoring.’ ‘Jesus. How’s your Mum?’ ‘Terrified. But a bit better. I’m just out to get coffee for her.’ ‘Good man yourself.’ We talk briefly, I tell him everything I know, which doesn’t amount to much. I tell him I’d best be off because Mum’s waiting upstairs. He grants me platitudes I’m not sure I deserve but I accept them graciously. Eventually, we get to a proper goodbye.

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‘Oh, wait,’ I say, just before hanging up. ‘Yes?’ ‘Ray, I think he’ll be fine, but just in case anything goes wrong, I’ll let you know, but let me talk to Fergal before you say anything.’ ‘I will, Marcus.’ ‘I’ll need to ring work for him,’ says Mum, sitting with her coffee in hand. I still can’t decide about the nails. ‘I’ll do it, don’t worry about that.’ ‘Oh, you can’t do everything. You must be exhausted. You’ve not got the number anyway.’ ‘It’s fine, I’ll find it.’ I turn to face her, as she sips her coffee. ‘Mum, I didn’t think Dad was that unhealthy. How could he have a heart attack?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she says, ‘maybe I should be stricter with his diet.’ I don’t want her blaming herself. I know it’s not her fault. But I need to be sure I know the whole truth. ‘Does he drink a lot?’ She gives me a you’re kidding sort of look, the kind of look which tells you all you need. ‘Your father?’ she says, shaking her head, ‘no, he might have a couple of a night, few more on occasion but he’s not been a big drinker since his twenties. He was awful when we met.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Oh, God yes,’ she says. ‘I gave him an ultimatum, about a year or two before you were born.’ ‘An ultimatum?’ She laughs.

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‘I told him if he spent as much time on me as he did the pavement we’d have enough kids for a circus.’ My world collapses in on itself. In a manner no disease can achieve, the thought of my parents having sex causes my mind to implode. ‘Thank you, Mum’. I let it settle a while. I compose myself. ‘But, you’re sure he doesn’t drink too much.’ ‘What are you saying, Marcus?’ ‘Nothing, Mum, I just wanna make sure we know everything, in case the doctors need to know.’ ‘Jesus, Marcus, there’s no story. He’s no worse than the next man. He has a few beers here and there, and we’ll share a glass of wine, but I haven’t seen your Dad fall down drunk since God knows when.’ ‘Ok. Just wanted to check. It could be anything Mum. I guess heart attacks are more complicated than you think.’ I wait for her to say more. After all, she’s the nurse. But she just stares ahead in silence. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘The poor man.’ She told me years back that she never blamed herself when patients died. Even when it was your fault, she said, mistakes happened. You could only do your best and learn from them. When someone died you moved others would too. I look at her now, wishing she could have that cold professionalism. But she can’t. Her face is flushed with emotion, fear, worried love. ‘I’d best ring Ray soon and update him.’

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‘I rang him when I got the coffee.’ She looks up, surprised. ‘Thought I’d check on Fergal.’ ‘I shouldn’t have sent him there, he should be here, with his Dad. What if-’ ‘He’s fine Mum, they’re watching football.’ The words hang for a moment, whilst we distract our concern for Dad through Fergal. I tell her I’m sure Fergal’ll be able to come in tomorrow and she sits back, relaxing slightly at that word, tomorrow. ‘Yes. ‘Yes, you’re right.’ What football’s on now?’ ‘It’s not. They’re just watching the sports news.’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know how you men watch that all hours. I can understand watching that game, but just news updates,’ she says, gesticulating, ‘you could watch real news.’ ‘Real like X Factor, Mum?’ ‘It’s hardly the same,’ she scoffs. ‘At least there’s some variety in that. Besides, I only watch to relax after work.’ ‘Well we only watch football to distract ourselves from the stresses of being a man.’ She slaps my arm half playful, half serious. ‘It’s all the fun of the fair for your lot,’ she says. ‘Lives of leisure.’ She looks out the window again, her hand on my knee. I think of offering something back but figure life’s better for her with that put upon illusion. She needs this role, as keeper, protector. She needs to think that we are carefree, that she soaks up life’s worries for us. A doctor finally comes. He tells us it is a heart attack; but a mild one. They say they’re not sure why it happened yet and he’ll need to be kept in for monitoring.

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I feel relief. Of course, I’m relieved he’s on the mend. But I’m also relieved I won’t have to ring Fergal, make that call. I ring Sedge. I tell him what’s happened. He offers to help me any way he can, offers to come to London if need be. I tell him everything’s fine but thank him none the less. I do not ring Jessica. If I do so now, I will use this as an excuse, I will exonerate myself. Most probably, she wouldn’t even ask about what happened, such is the gravity of Dad’s heart attack. And I won’t want to use my father as a makeweight. I’m heading back to the ward when I decide I’d better ring India ‘Hello.’ ‘Hi, it’s Marcus.’ ‘Hiya, you alright?’ ‘Yeah, look everything’s fine. My Dad’s a bit ill, he’s in hospital.’ ‘Oh, God. Is he okay?’ ‘Yeah, he had a mild heart attack, but he’s stable now. He’s just being kept in for monitoring.’ ‘Oh, God,’ she says, again. ‘India, he’s alright. It was a bit scary but he’ll be alright. I just thought you’d want to know, in case you wondered why I wasn’t calling you back.’ ‘No. Of course. Is there anything I can do? I can come down if you like.’ ‘No. I just thought you should know. I’ll ring if anything changes, but he’s sound, he’ll be alright.’ ‘Ok. Say hello to your Mum for me. Tell her I’m thinking of her,’ she says clumsily. ‘Thanks.’

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Eventually, they move Dad from Intensive to Recovery. I keep everyone updated. There is relief in Ray’s voice when I tell him, the sort of relief I recognise in myself, of not having to hold up fronts any more, of letting go of brave faces and dropping masks. I try to make Mum go home and rest but Dad’s improvement brings about a return in her stubbornness. We sleep outside the ward, in the hallway. In the morning, they let us in. Mum runs up to his bed. She looks as if she’s about to hug him; but restrains herself, remembering how fragile he must be. ‘Oh, darling. You poor thing,’ she says, caressing the air around his head. He looks weak. His skin is sallow. I can see he’s dehydrated. ‘How are you feeling, love?’ she says. ‘Weak, Mary. Very weak.’ ‘Oh, darling,’ she repeats. She sits, looking at him a long time.

She talks to him for a long while. I eventually persuade her to take a walk and promise to look after him. ‘How are you feeling, Dad?’ ‘Not great,’ he says. After an extended pause he adds, ‘I feel awful, Marcus.’ He stares off into nothing, just as Mum did while we waited for news. ‘Dad, it’s ok. You’re going to be fine.’ ‘I was terrified Marcus, when I woke up.’ ‘I know.’ ‘What if I get worse?’ he says, looking up at me, ‘these things can get worse can’t they? They can change from good to bad quickly.’ ‘You won’t. They’re monitoring you. They’ll figure out the cause soon enough and we’ll have you back on track before you know it. You’ll see.’

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He looks down at himself. ‘I’m scared, son.’ In his honesty, I can feel only admiration. My father, on the verge of tears, my father, the big man, ready to cry like a baby. Because he’s honest. What did deception get me? I deceived myself, I lied to others and to my own mind; and it nearly killed me. I feel stronger now. I put my hand on his arm. ‘Dad, it’s over now, they promised. Doctors don’t make promises unless they’re sure. You might have to cut down on a few bacon sarnies, but I’m sure it’s nothing major.’ ‘I’ve never been sick before.’ ‘You always say you’re sick.’ He laughs a little. ‘Not like this.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Dad, you’re sound now. They’re sorting you out. Doctors know what they’re doing, whatever you might think.’ With a short, dismissive sniff, I see a morsel of the normal him returning. ‘Why’ve they got me wired up to all this, if I’m not in trouble?’ ‘It’s just to be on the safe side, I say. ‘ealth and safety,’ I add, knowing it’ll rankle. ‘They don’t need me wired up like this if I’m fine,’ he says, unconvinced. He looks at the saline drip leading into his arm. ‘It keeps you hydrated,’ I say. ‘It’s normal.’ ‘Why’m I so thirsty then?’ I pick up the bottle of water Mum’d bought and pour a little out. ‘You can’t have too much, it’ll make you feel ill.’ I reach over to his mouth, but he lifts his arm, weakly, determined to do it himself. Still, I hold the cup, guiding it to his mouth. He takes a few sips. ‘Thank you.’

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‘When did you get here?’ he asks, after I’ve put the bottle beside his bed. ‘Yesterday. Mum called me in the morning. I got the train straight down.’ ‘Ay,’ he says, looking around the ward. The other beds are occupied, for the most part, by elderly people. I can see this distresses him, to be sharing this space with the infirm. ‘Have you told the university you’re down?’ ‘There’s no need Dad. It’s not like school. You don’t have to tell when you miss lectures. They’re optional.’ ‘They’re not optional.’ ‘Look, it’s no problem. I wasn’t going stay there, with you here.’ ‘No,’ he says, looking at himself again, as if he can figure out the cause with his own eyes.’ ‘We’ll figure this out soon, Dad. Stop worrying, you’ll scare Mum.’ He looks up all of a sudden. ‘How is she?’ ‘She’s alright. She was worried but she’s-’ About to say she’s glad he’s awake, I mute myself. I think of another way of going about it. ‘She’s busy planning your new fitness regime.’ ‘Christ.’ I see him realise something else and he asks where Fergal is. I tell him Mum had him sent over to Rays. He laughs, thinking about how she babies him. But another look of concern crosses his eyes after some time. ‘He’ll be in to see you soon, Dad. Ray’ll bring him in soon enough.’ ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Good.’ ‘Mum returns soon after.

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‘How are you, my love?’ ‘Oh, a little better, Mary,’ he says, looking up at her. ‘Still feeling a little weak.’ ‘Oh my love,’ she says, hugging him. The warmth, the love, the sympathy, they are short lived. • ‘Stress, my arse,’ shouts Mum. ‘What’s he to be stressed about?’ She’s beside Dad, hand on his arm. She continues to stroke it affectionately, all the whilst berating the doctor, who has had the misfortune to deliver the verdict on why Dad had a heart attack. ‘It could be a number of things,’ says the doctor, ‘it doesn’t necessarily mean that he appears stressed or even feels it, but, your body’s telling you to take it easy, Mr. Stone.’ Dad nods thoughtfully. ‘How old are you?’ Mum asks the doctor ‘Family life is a common cause of stress, says the doctor and I jump in, almost physically, it seems, before Mum has a chance to incarcerate herself. ‘So, will he have to do anything differently?’ ‘I’d recommend taking it easy for a while. You won’t be able to work, at least for a few weeks.’ Dad continues nodding. All of a sudden the doctor’s word is gospel. He’ll love a few weeks off the train. ‘And you’d best reduce your alcohol intake and eat well.’ ‘I don’t drink that much,’ pleads Dad. ‘Still, best to be on the safe side.’ Mum scoffs, like she’s barely listened. She mumbles stress under her breath.

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‘Jealous, Mum?’ As if to ignore me, she turns to Dad, with a cold glare. ‘Well, you’ll be on a new diet, now, Duncan. No bacon sandwiches, no sneaking off to the cafe before work for fry ups.’ Dad’s been rumbled. ‘Oh, I know your secrets Duncan Stone. It’s a clean life for you now.’ I laugh. Things can’t be so bad if this is the limit of deceit within their marriage. Dad grumbles, Mum ignores him. She plans out his new regime. He lies back and closes his eyes. I think deep down he likes this, likes knowing that he means the world to her. I fade in and out of the conversation, just watching them, seeing how they tick as a duo. Dad gets plenty of visitors whilst recovering. Every time we leave he seems a little disappointed; but he knows the worst of it’s over. I’ve never spoken to him so much in my life. I tell the lads he’s on the mend but they still check how he is, or perhaps, how I am, every day. India too. I get a text from Tim, of all people. I’m cold in my reply because I can’t be any other way with him now; but I thank him for the message. The one person I’ve not spoken to is Jessica. She texted me the night Dad had his heart attack.

‘So, no show. Thanks.’ I still want to explain. I want her to know that even though we came close, I stopped it. I did stop it. I didn’t put her at risk, not in the end. It’s just, knowing what you can’t do and not doing it anyway isn’t quite the same. Every day I need to remind myself I can’t act quite so naturally as other people. And it gets to you. It’s the sort of thing that makes you feel different, that makes you think you might go crazy, might be going crazy.

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I don’t know what I’ll do when I go back to Warwick. Over the next few days I fuck around at home, milking the free food. I tell Mum and Dad I’m getting on with essays but I spend most of my time playing Xbox with Fergal because it reminds me of my youth and my past and the innocence of a boy with a controller in his hand killing pixelated people. On Wednesday, I tell Mum I’m meeting my mate Simon. She tells me it’s a good idea, that I should get out of the house after all I’ve done. What does she mean all I’ve done? She smiles when she says it, proud like. All I did was come home when they needed me. It’s a perfectly feasible excuse, saying I’m meeting Simon. On the train into Camden, a part of me feels as if I actually am. But I’m not going to the Monarch, or the market, or the Dublin Castle. I stand in front of a door I’ve seen once before, a door I stumbled out of feeling like hell, buckling my belt before I bolted up the road. I stand in front of the place I last saw Marcus Stone.

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14.

‘ You like that word, don’t you?’ ‘Oh God,’ says Clara. ‘Hi.’ ‘Oh, God.’ She looks tired, depressed. She’s no makeup on and she’s in pyjamas. Tell her why you’re here, for fucks sake. ‘I’m not here to give you hell,’ I say. At first I take the look on her face as a sign that my words didn’t sink in. Then I realise, it’s a look of permanence. If she were dressed exactly as she was that night we met, in the dark allure, she’d look exactly the same. Her eyes are listless, tired. She has the look of defeat. I can tell she does not see people often. She starts to weep. ‘Can I come in?’ She looks up, worried. ‘I just want to talk.’ She leads me upstairs, keeping her distance. I slow down, feeling that she wants me to remain a few steps from her. I remember us stumbling up these very same steps. I recognise the living room and the large sofa in the centre where we left Tim before going to her room. All of a sudden, she collapses on this very same sofa, burying her head in her hands. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know when we-’ ‘It’s alright.’ ‘I’m so sorry.’ I peer down at her. And it hits me.

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I’ve held a view of what happened, all this time, even as things have improved. I’ve held a view of her which I needed and which was weak. I told myself she latched on to me. Somehow, it excused myself from blame, to some degree. She didn’t latch on to me that night. The slut who poisoned me, led me to her room, she didn’t exist. I created her. Blaming eased my pain. I look at her now, afraid, ashamed, vulnerable; and I realise she is just like me, a child, lost and afraid. ‘How did you get it?’ I ask. I don’t want to pry. It isn’t the most important thing to know; but it has preyed on my mind and I must know. She wipes her eyes. She wipes her eyes. ‘My boyfriend broke up with me a couple of months before. We’d been together three years. All through Uni. Then he got this job and said he just didn’t have time for this right now. Just like that.’ ‘Bit dickish.’ ‘So, I started going out again, trying to forget him. I couldn’t, but I tried.’ Her knees and clasped together. She rubs the fading grey pyjamas with her forefinger. ‘I slept with a couple of guys before you, without protection.’ She fastens her eyes, sniffing, pausing a long while. ‘It was so stupid. I wasn’t thinking straight. I wanted to get over him, get him out of my mind. There were two guys, a few weeks apart, I think. I got trashed and just wanted-’ she pauses. She lifts her knees up to herself. They are still clasped together. She seems to curl inwards. ‘Distraction. That’s all I thought about, I didn’t think at the time to make them wear something. My boyfriend was only the second guy I’d been with. I had a boyfriend all through school. I suddenly felt I’d missed out a bit. I’d never felt that way before, I was happy, but the way he ended it, I wondered whether he’d been honest with me.’

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‘So, do you know which guy it was?’ ‘No. I got tested not long after you and me got together. I’m so sorry.’ ‘Stop saying that.’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘Didn’t you think it might’ve been me?’ ‘No. It was too soon. It takes three months before they can be sure.’ ‘What were these guys like?’ I ask, unsure why. She gives me a quizzical look. ‘Normal, nothing different,’ she says, with a shake of the head. I feel stupid for asking. ‘Must have been about my age. I met them in clubs, the way I met you.’ She bites her lip to stall tears. ‘I’m so sorry I did this to you.’ She covers her eyes, curving her small fingers around them, as if wanting to ball them from the sockets. I lean over. I make to pull her hands away but I stop. I decide words and not touch may be the best course of action. ‘I slept with you,’ I say. I let it hang there, hoping she’ll respond; but she doesn’t move. ‘I could’ve stopped it if I’d wanted.’ A question pops into my mind and I think of asking it, a question of whether she knew or not when we… I pause, even inside my own mind, unable to utter it internally. I just wait, wait for her to say something. ‘You must hate me.’ I have done. I’ve wanted every bad thing under the sun to happen to Clara, that is, until India made me realise that she saved me.

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It’s still taking seeing her here to realise I was wrong, that what I imagined her to be was as false as what I imagined myself to be now. A hopeless, broken loser who deserved it that way. ‘I did, for a while,’ I say. ‘I tried. But it didn’t work, so, I don’t. If it weren’t for you I, well, I hate to think what could have happened. How’d you get my address?’ ‘You left some ID here. A video card or something. I wasn’t sure if it was a real address but I tried anyway.’ ‘Thanks for telling them.’ She looks surprised. ‘That’s fine, the second I thought I might have given you it, I couldn’t not do anything.’ I look out the window. All you can see is a brick building opposite. No colours or life or activity. But it’s London, so it’s rustic, it’s interesting. I wonder if I’ll ever live in town. ‘But, really, you don’t hate me?’ she asks. I crane my neck to face her again. I have to think long and hard because I’m determined to be honest. ‘A little’ I say. She shuts her eyes, hopeless like. ‘When I’m feeling shitty.’ Really shitty. When that happens, I blame you. But I know it’s not fair and I know it’s not true. Most of all, I know it won’t do shit to help me.’ She murmurs sorry, so low I almost can’t here. So I figure I’ll just go on. ‘It feels good to blame someone, sometimes, but it never lasts. You didn’t know.’ I don’t wait to find out. ‘It happened because we slept together. You know, I try not to feel sorry for myself, helps me feel a man I guess. More often than not I fail, but, you know. ‘Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I can’t imagine what this is like for you, knowing you’ve passed it to someone else. I don’t blame you, I don’t hate you; but I can’t begin to imagine what this is like for you.’

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She breaks down. I move next to her. Sitting beside her, I hesitate before finally putting my arms around her shoulders. It feels strange, touching someone who has it. It surprises her, I see, to be touched. The feeling is alien. But eventually, she relaxes, sliding towards me so’s to to let me comfort her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says through sniffles and sobs. ‘You like that word, don’t you?’ • We sit in a cafe. It’s busy. She’s looking out the window. I wonder if she has that same feeling I did when I went for lunch with Mum, whether she looks out for familiar faces, whether she worries about them. I guess it’s easier to be invisible in London. Perhaps that’s why it’s been so hard for her. A young waitress brings us coffee. It’s a cold morning, I hold the cup with both hands. I waited in her living room while she got changed. Nothing fancy, just a pair of trackies and an old top. All these months have taken their toll. She looks not so much sick as drained. We talk, about things vague and unimportant. Eventually, out of nowhere, she says tells me she lost her job. I ask why. She gives me a look as if to say are you serious? She explains that she told a girl in the office, someone she thought she could trust. It got around. When her contract was up for renewal, it wasn’t renewed. No proof of wrongdoing, no case for a fight, no nothing. Simple as that. As she finishes, she tells me she was good at her job, pointing bitterly at the shaker. She tells me she was sure, were it not for what happened, she’d still be there. They like her. They had liked her. She tells me to be careful about who I tell. I ask

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about friends and family and then expose myself for having not told my folks. Still, I ask her about friends. ‘The ones I told were supportive at first, but drifted off. I don’t hear from many now. My flatmates avoid me. They’re waiting to move out, or hoping I’ll crack and go. I probably will. I can’t afford the place much longer without a job,’ she says, biting her lip, her voice cracking. She covers her eyes. ‘I was so fucking stupid.’ This time, I don’t wait for her to move them, I take those hands and I place them on the table. I stare intently in her eyes because she better be fucking listening this time, she best hear these words which will come from my mouth. ‘My Dad had a heart attack,’ I say, ‘That’s why I’m down here. He’s fine, he’s going to be fine. He’ll need to take it easy for a while, but, it was a mild one. He’s lucky, it’s just a warning.’ She sits up for the first time, it seems, in months. I lean forward, before she can get a word in. ‘The thing is, Clara, right now the world and it’s dog is running around after Dad, doing whatever it takes to help. And that’s how it should be. But at the end of the day, there must be something in his lifestyle that caused it. It’s not his fault like; but that’s just life. ‘But you won’t find a soul who’ll round the blame game on him, not a soul.’ I I laugh. ‘They wouldn’t live long.’ For the first time, she doesn’t look around, away, avoiding me wherever possible. ‘It’s different with us, Clara. You know why? Because it’s easy to blame yourself when there’s a world full of cunts willing to do the same.’ She scrunches her nose.

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‘I don’t that word.’ Smiling, I go on. ‘But they’re wrong. Sure, we were stupid, but how many times have you been stupid and got away with it?’ ‘Not many,’ she says, bitterly. ‘Well, I have, and I know all my mates are the same. But you never sit around blaming yourself for something stupid when there’s no consequence. I won’t sit laying blaming. Because this isn’t going away.’ Though the crumbling of my life is centred on that very fact, I have never said the words to myself. And yet, they come as a relief. To see it for what it is, to face it, it is a relief. It is heartening. ‘I’m done with blame,’ I say, picking up a salt shaker, twiddling around in my hands. I put it down. ‘Shit just happens, sweetheart. What were the chances? It’s just shit luck, that’s all.’ She picks up her tea. She sips, appearing to be deep in thought. ‘I hope your Dad’s ok.’ ‘Oh, he’ll be fine,’ I say, noticing how she’s like me in a way, how she finds talking of difficult things difficult. I’ve always found offering comfort embarrassing, if not hard. I wonder if that makes me strange. ‘He’s enjoying the attention.’ She looks sideways, thoughtfully, and takes another sip. ‘Thank you. For not hating me,’ she says, shifting her eyes to me, before quickly throwing them back into space. ‘I can’t. And when I do, it’s only for a few seconds, but I know it’s unfair. None of it’s fair.

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‘But it’s not going anywhere,’ I say, ‘We’re just going to have to find a way to live with it.’ I walk her home. I promise we’ll speak soon. There is relief in her eyes. I don’t know if it’s the knowing I don’t hate her, or just having had someone to talk to; but there is relief nonetheless. A little of that tiredness seems to have lifted. From me also. • It’ll be a while before Dad’s in the clear; but they’ve let him home and he’s got back to grumbling and whining in a way that only he does this well. Two days ago Mum told me I should head back to Warwick, now he’s on the mend. I feel guilty because I said I wasn’t leaving just yet, that I want to keep an eye on him. I feel guilty because deep down I know I don’t want to face Jessica and the truth and all that entails. I guess, as always, I’ve let my mind wonder. If she’d gone and told the whole of Warwick I’d know by now. It’s a small enough place. I decide she’s right though. I realise what I’m avoiding and decide I’d best go face it, best go at the man even if I just want to stay here and dick about on Xbox, which is what I’m doing now, albeit with my brother. ‘Mum’ll kill me if I don’t finish it before the end of the week. She keeps checking.’ ‘She won’t kill you. Just breeze it. It’s not in for ages is it?’ ‘Two weeks. But I’ve got maths to do as well, so she’s making me get the history done first.’

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‘Two weeks! That’s fucking ages. Fergal, at Uni most essays get done the night before they’re in.’ Fergal nodded. I remember how much harder GCSE’s were than my degree. ‘Well, don’t leave it too late, I guess, if you’ve got maths as well. You’re shit at maths aren’t you?’ ‘Yes,’ he says., like he’s been scolded. ‘Me too. That’s the best thing about Uni, not having to do shitty subjects you hate,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait.’ I laugh at his eagerness to leave. It reminds me of myself, even though I’m sure school wasn’t half as hard for me as it is for him. I sneak up to his character on screen and but him with my rifle. ‘Fergal, you are so shit.’’ He grips the controller, shuddering with frustration. He’s not beaten me for about two years. Some time passes. Some people die in the game. Fergal is the controlling force of all these people. Then, after a while, after a comfortable silence interrupted only by the bleeps, bangs and clanks in the game, Fergal pipes up. He asks me, he says, were you scared and it surprises me to her him ask and I don’t know why I say no, in fact, I say nah, with a dismissive tone. I wait for him to realise I’m bullshitting but he says nothing, he simply moves his character into a clearing, in order to pick up a rocket launcher. A sitting duck, he is, this boy. ‘Course I was scared dick’ead,’ I say. He says oh and I tell him it was Dad, it was Dad and it was proper scary seeing him that way. But I tell him he’s sound now, I promise our father will be fine. •

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‘Here you go, Son,’ says Dad as I’m preparing to leave. He’s walked in, holding five twenties in hand. I take them immediately, like a kid who’s never seen so much money. ‘What’s this for?’ He frowns, like it’s obvious. ‘Your Mum told me how you acted while I was in there, son.’ I shrug. ‘No,’ he says. He taps me on the chest and I can’t help but retract slightly. I hope he doesn’t notice it. ‘You’re very grown up, my boy.’ ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say. I shuffle the notes in my hand. I feel like I should tell him; but indulgently, I know I won’t. I’ve never seen him so proud. He tells me about how responsible I’ve been and I don’t want to shatter it, I want to savour it for what it is right now. ‘Dad is everything alright? I know they said stress might just be because you’re working too hard, but there’s nothing wrong is there?’ He frowns briefly but it is soon replaced by a light, calm smile. ‘No, son, I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me and your Mum if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m happier than ever. I guess I just need to take better care of myself.’ He peers out the door. ‘Nurse Ratchett’ll see to that though. I think all those late nights on the train maybe took they’re toll.’ I look up at him. Even now, he’s a giant. Everything about him is big, his hands, his feet, his body. He’s built, neither muscly or fat, but built, stocky, standoutish. ‘Just, take it easy, Dad,’ I say. He rolls his eyes. I tell him I was sure nothing major was up, that I just needed to check. I tell him to try and avoid getting stressed if he can. I

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assure him Fergal’ll fly through his exams, smart kid that he is. I tell him Mum’s much happier now he’s out of hospital and he means the world to her. I tell him they deserve each other. ‘And you?’ he asks. ‘Eh?’ ‘Are you all good son?’ Oh. Think. I look at him. I think of what to say. ‘I’m doing just fine, Dad.’

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15 ‘ Don’t start, mate. You think I want to be a virgin. We need loopholes.’ I came ‘home’ today. Funny, how you say it that way around sometimes. But it does feel that way, Uni, or at least the flat, it can get to feel like home. Stan, Buggy and Sedge were huddled together in the middle of the couch, trying their best to avoid the scorching heat as it poured through the skylight, onto the leather sofa. They got up and came to greet me. It was Buggy who paused Fifa. I was shocked. I could’ve sat there all day, playing Fifa, talking about home, talking about whatever the hell I liked. But I knew the longer I put it off, the less likely I would’ve been standing where I am now. I stand in front of her door. I wait for what seems like an eternity before knocking on that door. Never noticed the peeling paint before, such was the darkness. It opens. I recognise the girl in front of me from the speed dating. I tell her I’m here to see Jess. I ask if she’s in, she tells me yes with an iciness that spells both understanding and friendship towards the spurned party. To her credit, that’s the worst I get; and she points up the stairs and right. ‘Come in,’ says the voice the other side of the door, when I’ve finally knocked on one after a second, prolonged period of hesitation. I enter. She turns. There is fury in her eyes. Those deep, dark eyes spell an anger only humiliation can bring. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Jess, I need to explain,’ I say, but before I can continue she’s up, shaking her head, gesticulating, pointing.

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‘Firstly you run off when we’re about to have sex, then you ask for a chance to explain. Then you don’t even show up or call me. You’re a prick,’ she shouts, loud; and for effect. ‘You’d like my ex girlfriend.’ Fuck Marcus, why do you never think about what comes out of your mouth. She’s going to hit me. ‘Dad got ill.’ ‘What?’ ‘My Dad got ill,’ I say again. I can’t use this as an excuse. I won’t. But I need her to calm down for a second so I can explain. ‘What?’ ‘The day I was meant to come over, my Dad got ill. I’m not lying, he’s fine now, but he collapsed, I had to go home, etc.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘Look, I should’ve called you, but with everything that was happening, I forgot.’ ‘No, I understand,’ she says, with a hint of disappointment in her voice. I’ve torn from her the right to unbridled anger. I recognise the feeling. I felt it when Tim asked after Dad. I feel like some of the anger has departed and that I have to let it go. ‘You should have told me,’ she says eventually. ‘I know, I was going to but, I dunno, I didn’t want to just drop that on you without explaining why I rushed off. But it just made things worse.’ ‘Yeah, that’s kind of weird,’ she says, flicking her eyes away. It grates. ‘But he’s alright now?’ ‘He’s fine. He will be anyway.’ ‘So why did you run away?’ she says.

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She has that same confused, insecure look I left her with, as much as she tries to mask it with anger. And I can’t think of the right words. You’re about to ruin yourself. Do you really want to do this? ‘Jess, I stopped what I was doing because-’ ‘What?’ she says, growing impatient. ‘Because, I have HIV.’ Of all the silences and all the pauses over the past eight or nine months, none compare with this. It lasts for years, millennia, eternities. Until her mouth slowly droops. ‘What?’ ‘I know I should never have let things get that far, but I’d had such a good night, and I knew I couldn’t do it, but as we started I just, I was kissing you and, when I realised where it was going, I stopped it,’ I say, hoping she’ll understand but she’s horrified, I can see she’s horrified and I can tell I’m well and truly fucked. ‘You have HIV. And you didn’t tell me?’ ‘I was going to. I didn’t know things would move so fast.’ ‘You have HIV!’ ‘I’m so sorry.’ She moves to the other side of her room, backing away from me. ‘You could have given it to me,’ she says, her eyes piercing the floor with worry, like she might still have got it somehow. ‘No, I was never going to let it go that far. Please, I’m so sorry.’

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‘We nearly had sex, Marcus!’ she says. ‘And you didn’t tell me you had it. That’s fucking illegal.’ ‘Oh fuck.’ I pull my hands through my hair, stooping against the wall. I apologise. I murmur sorry over and over and over and over. ‘Look,’ I beg. ‘I know it was wrong, but I was always going to stop it. I just thought‘What, that we were going to kiss all night long. I can’t believe you kissed me without-’ ‘You can’t get it from kissing.’ ‘I don’t care,’ she says. She looks at her body, as if it’s been tainted. ‘You deceived me.’ I hang my head. ‘Normal.’ ‘What?’ she says. Eyes glued to the ground, I repeat myself. I say normal, two, maybe three times. Normal. It say it was good to be normal again, to feel it at least. ‘When I realised what was going to happen, I stopped it,’ I say, peering at her, hoping for some understanding. ‘I just, couldn’t help it. I didn’t know when to stop.’ She asks me to leave. There’s almost a reluctance in the shivering finger, pointing towards the door. But it’s message is defiant and unshakeable. ‘Jess.’ ‘Just go.’ ‘But.’ ‘Go!’ I leave her house. I look back at the end of the street. I look back to where Marcus Stone has just changed form for the third time. Pariah.

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• ‘Why didn’t you tell her you were Catholic?’ says Jason, sitting on his desk. One of his housemates has friends around. Jason can’t stand them, so we’re in his room. ‘Oh, like if I was a Christian I’d let things get that far.’ ‘Well, you have HIV and-‘ ‘Yes, yes, alright. I dunno. I don’t look like a Christian. She’d already touched my cock by then anyway.’ ‘I’ve had girls touch my cock.’ ‘Really? That’s allowed?’ ‘Dunno. Not really. But there’s nothing in the Bible that literally says you can’t. Hand jobs and head. They’re alright.’ I throw a tennis ball against his wall, stooping to catch it when it returns. ‘So, a girl can suck you off but you can’t have sex? How’s that work?’ ‘I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.’ ‘Surely a blow jobs as sexual, if not more, than just having normal sex.’ ‘How?’ ‘Well, she’s got your cock in her mouth for a start. That’s pretty filth.’ ‘Yeah, but you’re not messing with the plumbing. That’s the main thing the Bible get’s antsy about.’ ‘My God, Jason. Sometimes I wonder whether there are some tiny flaws in this religion.’ ‘Don’t start, mate. You think I want to be a virgin. We need loopholes.’ ‘You need fucking holes mate.’ ‘Anyway,’ he says, lighting a fag. ‘We were talking about you massively fucking up.’ ‘Yes,’ I say, as he throws the lighter over. I’ve come straight to Jason’s house. She knows where I live.

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‘You could have said you were gay.’ ‘Me?’ ‘What?’ I think about it for a few seconds. ‘That would’ve done the trick wouldn’t it?’ ‘Would’ve saved you a load of trouble. She’d not have stayed mad, and she’d have gone shopping with you for new clothes.’ ‘Fuck.’ Jason pulls a loose, long strand of curly blond hair that’s clung to his t-shirt. He discards it, and shrugs. ‘You never know mate, once she calms down things might be alright. But you’ve missed the boat on the gay thing..’ I throw the ball once more, catch it; and stop. I sit up, swinging my legs off his bed. ‘I’m tired of hiding,’ I say. I bury my head in my hands, not desperate like, just, exhausted. ‘Marcus, you were always gonna stop weren’t you?’ ‘Yes,’ I say, checking internally, clarifying, just for the record. ‘It’s just, things moved quickly. It weren’t just the sex thing. It reminded me of India. You know, going out, getting drunk, coming home. Together. It felt familiar.’ ‘I bet.’ ‘I was always going to stop. I just couldn’t tell her. Then I made it much worse.’ After seeing Jason, I go home. I tell the others what happened.

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‘Look, at least you stopped it. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again,’ says Sedge. ‘I never would’ve, you know.’ ‘I know, I know,’ he says. ‘You just didn’t know when to call it off. Don’t worry, she’ll cool off.’ Our flat’s not really suited to parties. But given its position in town, between the St. Mary’s lads’ house and the centre, it’s somehow become the social hub, or at least the starting point. Party might be stretching it a bit. We’ve decided to have a few around ours. I’ve spent the money Dad gave me on booze and a bit of food. I feel like thanking the lads for how they’ve treated me. We’re on our way back from the shops, me and Sedge, when we bump into Jessica, as she approaches our door. ‘Hi,’ I say, passing Sedge the crates. ‘Can I come in?’ she asks. ‘Sure.’ We go inside. Sedge heads upstairs. I walk to my room, with Jessica in toe. She sits on my bed, briefly, before getting up and twisting my chair, placing herself on it. I remain standing. ‘What you did was wrong, Marcus, even if you did stop it. You should have told me up front.’ I can’t think of a response. I’m tongue tied for the first time in a while. I look at the window, the shutters are still down from when I got changed earlier. ‘But,’ she says, twisting a piece of paper on my desk with her dainty fingers, ‘I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through, or how hard it is to talk about.’

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I wonder if that’s the ad about t-shirts she’s twisting, or my appointment card. It suddenly hits me that I’ve never moved it. ‘Thank you.’ ‘Look, we probably shouldn’t see each other anymore. It’s a bit too messed up now.’ ‘Thank you,’ I say, nodding. ‘And thanks for not calling the police or anything.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Marcus, I wasn’t going to call the police. It was just stupid of you to let it get that far.’ ‘Did you tell your housemates?’ ‘No, no, of course not. It’s none of their business. They did ask though, about the shouting.’ ‘What did you say?’ ‘I told them you said you were gay. In denial’ she said. ‘Hmm. Jason was right.’ ‘What?’ ‘Oh, nothing.’ ‘They thought it was a bit unfair of me to be honest. But, it doesn’t matter.’ ‘Well, thanks for not telling them.’ She picks up her bag and stands. ‘We’ve got a party in a few days. I know it’s probably not-’ She cuts me off, shaking her head. ‘Probably best, not to.’ ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Thanks for coming round.’ ‘Of course,’ she says, with a weak, sad, smile.

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She walks towards my door. ‘Jess?’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘If I’d told you, up front, would it have made a difference? Would you maybe have gone out with me? Honestly.’ ‘Honestly, Marcus,’ she says, biting her lip a little. ‘Probably not. Sorry.’ She moves closer. Is she going to hug me? No, she brushes my arm and offers me that weak, sad smile again. And then she is gone. • I have been informed not to come to Ethnic Conflict anymore if I react the way I did on Tuesday. We were having a debate about War Rape. Of course, HIV propped up. I got shirty with a Yank called Dominic who, despite being a bit of a nob, actually prepares his arguments and reads the books. What he’d said wasn’t so bad, I just didn’t agree with it. And I’d felt exposed, cornered perhaps. I told him he was talking bollocks. Malcolm’s email has an air of the conciliatory; but its message is firm, clear. Fuck it. I’m walking home from the bus station when I see a large, stocky figure approaching me. It’s Chris Maddox. ‘Oi!’ he says, walking over to me, his flip flops sounding loudly against the floor. ‘Alright.’ ‘My cars fucking ruined.’ ‘What?’ ‘You graffitied my car.’

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‘What are you talking about?’ ‘You’re paying for the repairs,’ he says, stepping forward, yet keeping his distance. ‘I ain’t got a fucking clue what you’re on about. I’m not paying for shit. What got graffitied on your car?’ ‘Don’t play innocent.’ I smirk. ‘Say it. What got graffitied on your car.’ His eyes are fire, he is pure rage. If only he knew what it was like to feel that inside. ‘I have AIDS. Who else would write that?’ ‘World’s full of weirdos Chris,’ I say, smirking, ‘Could’ve been anyone.’ I try to walk past him; but he grabs my collar. ‘You going to hit me, Chris?’ I say, ‘You gonna give me a bloody nose? Wouldn’t want to start spraying that around, now would you? Never know where it’ll end up.’ He stares. He is still gripping my collar but I have no fear of him. He is powerless. ‘You’ve no disease, Chris, count yourself lucky. You’ll wake up tomorrow with a dodgy banger covered in paint. I’ll wake up with HIV. Now, you want to tell the police, be my fucking guest. But just have a think about what I’ve got to lose, and what you have.’ I force him off me with a hard push of my shoulder. ‘Now, piss off, you dumb prick,’ I say. I walk home, staring back at his static form all the way till my turning.

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16.

But if you’re gonna go out with a nipper, you gotta be prepared to sit down and play Lego once in a while.’ Sedge looks like Lily Savage. For some reason we’ve decided to do fancy dress for this gathering we’re calling a party. He’s meant to be Britney. Josh seems to have forgotten one of the commandments and rocked up as Jesus. Despite having a girlfriend, Buggy’s still lazy as fuck, so he elected to do nothing. But Chloe painted his face and he’s made quite the tiger. Even Tim’s shown up, though as the evening progresses I notice that he spends most of his time talking to the lads from St. Mary’s. Sedge is giving Gemma grief about her costume. ‘You can’t come as a school girl.’ ‘Why? You are.’ ‘I’m Britney, love. It’s different with fellas. Takes effort.’ ‘This took effort.’ ‘Nah, it’s not the same, tell her Ades.’ Adrian turns to Gemma. ‘Sedge doesn’t like it when girls use fancy dress as an excuse to look sexy.’ ‘It’s just nice to look good.’ ‘No, no, no,’ says Sedge, banging the table. His legs are wide apart but luckily the dress is long enough. ‘Fancy dress is for laughs. The efforts in looking silly, not fit.’ ‘At least someone’s trying. I look fit?’ she asks to Adrian. ‘I always say you look fit.’ ‘Look at Marcus,’ says Sedge, ‘he’s spent ages on that, and it looks sick.’

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‘Sick is the word,’ she says. One of the pros of having HIV is that people feel they can’t call you up on anything. Sometimes that has its benefits. Like when you dress as a Nazi for a party. What? It’s my fucking party I’ll do what I want. ‘That’s a bit dodgy,’ says Jason ‘Good costume though.’ ‘I know everyone here.’ ‘What about Chloe?’ ‘She drew my armband.’ I’m distracted by the buzzing in my pocket. I tell them India’s here and go to take off my armband. ‘What you doing?’ ‘It’s not worth the hassle mate,’ I tell Sedge. ‘She won’t get it. I’ll say I’m Charlie Chaplin.’ ‘Mate, if you’re getting whipped by your ex, you’re fucked.’ He gives me a stern look. I leave the armband on. After all, Chloe’d spent ages helping me. Seems Buggy’s hit the jackpot. She’s sweet. No, no, she’s kind of pretty. A bit clichéd to say rosy cheeked, but she is, with frizzy brown hair and a nice smile. ‘Them two starting up again?’ I hear Barnaby say as I go downstairs. I don’t want it, but it’s nice not to hear anyone say no as I reach the bottom step. It’s nice that one of them could going down the stairs. I was glad not to hear Sedge say no. I didn’t want it again, but it was nice to know people thought it possible.

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‘Marcus, you can’t be dressed as Hitler. It’s wrong,’ India says as she takes off her coat. ‘It’s my party.’ ‘No, Marcus. It’s out of order.’ ‘Finally, somebody said it,’ I reply, ‘he was well out of order wasn’t he?’ ‘Marcus!’ ‘India, it’s not like I’m Prince Harry. How is he anyway?’ She glares. The combination of costume and reference to her privilege doesn’t charm her. ‘Fine, I’ll take the bloody armband off. But Sedge is going to be pissed with you for coming as a secretary. You know that, don’t you?’ ‘It’s why I came like that, you moron. It amuses me to make Baby cry.’ We’re upstairs. India’s chatting to Gemma and Becky. They look like best friends, though I’ve no idea if they’ve kept up over the year, since we split. She looks over, shaking her head, bitching, I imagine, about my erstwhile costume. This is what I’d in mind when we got this place. No, not India moaning, that’s rent free. But, just us, the lads, with our girls and our mates, hanging around in this attic of a place, as Mum calls it. Sedge dragged us to the estate agents at eight in the morning to sign up for it. When we looked around the living room, we knew it was the perfect. I watch her, and I realise something. I don’t want her back, even if it were possible. She’s brilliant, amazing, wonderful and everything in between. But I killed it. And if I killed it, maybe there was a reason for it to die. She needs someone who can’t hurt her, or, she needs to be free. She needs someone who’s not me.

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Of course, if I could go back, I would. But you can’t. Maybe that’s all part of the game, learning that. ‘I’m shitting myself,’ says Sweet Chris. ‘They’ll be alright mate,’ says Sedge. They’re going on about finals. Do you even take exams in Sociology? Thought they just gave you some crayons to play with.’ Chris sighs. We tell him to stand up for himself. ‘Well, said Chris, trying his hardest to give it back ‘Well, we’ll see who has the best grade at the end of the year.’ ‘Ooh, Billy big bollocks all of a sudden,’ says Sedge. Chris hasn’t exactly done a great job. ‘Tenner says Chris gets a first and you don’t,’ says Buggy. ‘I’m sure he will. I’d get a first if my course was easier than dot to dot puzzles.’ ‘You can’t get a first Sedge,’ said Buggy. ‘Course I can.’ ‘No, you just can’t do it,’ I say. ‘Right, you’re on. Twenty knicker says I get a first.’ He holds out his hand, the red nail varnish gleaming garishly. Sedge can’t turn down a challenge. Something stirs within him. It is very easy to manipulate him this way. ‘So, am I still involved in this?’ asks Sweet Chris. ‘No fella, this is big boy stuff now. Real degrees.’ I go to the kitchen to smoke out the window. I can feel India following behind me. ‘Hi.’ ‘Hey, got a minute?’ She closes the door. ‘You alright?’ I ask. ‘Yeah, I just wanted to see how you were doing.’ ‘I’m alright.’

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‘Really? Are you looking after yourself?’ she says, looking at the can in my hand. ‘India, I’m allowed a drink. Just can’t go mental all the time.’ ‘I just want to make sure everything’s ok. That you’re not drinking through it.’ ‘Yes,’ I say, sighing. I stop. She’s just trying to help. And she doesn’t have to be in my life, she’s chosen to. ‘Yes. Thank you. It’s just a party, just tonight. I’ve cut back on the drinking. I’m just letting loose tonight, what with the boys being here and everything.’ She nods thoughtfully, readjusting her pseudo-secretarial glasses. ‘How’s your Dad?’ ‘He’s fine now. All over.’ ‘Good.’ She suggests we get back to the party. I blurt out something about Clara, about having met her. She’s surprised. As I tell her about what happened, India looks increasingly uncomfortable. ‘We just talked. You were right. I shouldn’t be angry with her. She didn’t know.’ ‘So why did you want to meet her?’ ‘I Just had to.’ ‘What’s she like?’ she asks, looking around the kitchen. ‘She’s nice. But she’s struggling.’ ‘I bet.’ ‘We’re keeping in touch. It might help her. Might meet up sometime.’ `‘Uh huh. Let’s go back out.’

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‘What?’ ‘To the party, Marcus.’ ‘You alright?’ ‘Yeah, Marcus can we go back to the party?’ she says, moving forward towards the door. ‘India, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you’d get upset.’ ‘No, it’s fine,’ she says, frowning. ‘I just don’t want to talk about her.’ ‘India, we’re just friends.’ ‘You had sex with her.’ Her neck tautens as she speaks, her eyes narrow and she looks stiff as stone. I’ve pushed it too far, I’ve gone on and on about Clara without thinking for a second how it’d make India feel.

‘I’m sorry. But it’s different now. You told me I should contact her.’ ‘Yeah, but-’ ‘What?’ ‘I didn’t think you actually would.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘But you’re right, it’s a good thing.’ I look at the blind on the kitchen skylight. I think back to the prank on Stan, to that fear I felt, of exposure. ‘India, I’ll always hate what I did. Always. HIV aside. But, seeing her helped. Me and her. She’s a mess. She needs a friend.’

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‘I needed you,’ she says, her words bringing a vacuum into the room. I never thought of that. Never thought about her needing me. Loving, wanting, enjoying, maybe. But needing, I never knew. ‘Do you now?’ I ask. ‘The way you did. Do you still need me that way?’ She breathes in, lifting her eyes slowly to up to meet mine. ‘I guess not.’ Her pose softens, her shoulders drop, her neck loosens, her eyes return to their normal, beautiful disposition. Gasping out the words is relief to her, I can tell. words seemed to come as a relief to her. ‘Ok, Marcus, I’m sorry I got like that.’ ‘Don’t be. India, you’ve never any reason to say sorry to me. I know you’re tired of hearing it, so I’ll say it once more, just once.’ I walk towards her. I take her soft hands in mine. ‘I’m sorry.’ I smile. She tries to smile back. She doesn’t quite manage it. A small tear runs down her cheek. She mouths thank you. ‘Back to the party?’ I ask. She nods. We go back to the others. It’s only in the morning that I realise it might’ve been a bit tasteless, my costume. Well, of course it was tasteless; but it was especially tasteless, given that Tim’s granddad was a Jerry. It’s unlike Tim not to speak his mind. ‘Where’s Sandra?’ I ask Sedge, as we sit around watching telly. He’s been seeing this older woman who works in Saint bar. ‘Ah, that’s done, with mate.’ ‘Really? What happened?’

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‘Nah, it was just a bit of fun like.’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘Yeah.’ He sits back on the couch, putting his legs on the table, far apart. ‘It’s sound. She just reckoned I was a bit young for her.’ ‘Too young?’ ‘She’s twenty six, like.’ ‘She knew you were twenty one when you started.’ He scratches his head, fast, with four fingers. ‘I guess she didn’t wanna get too involved. Reckons we’re a bit immature. Didn’t say it, like, but that’s what she was getting at.’ ‘Sounds bang out to me,’ says Buggy. ‘You alright?’ I ask. He gives us an unconvincing, dismissive laugh. ‘Yeah, like I’d be bothered over some bird I met in Saint bar,’ he says, his voice trailing a little at the end. ‘She shouldn’t have led you on like that though,’ I say. He shrugs, becoming unusually quiet. ‘It’s true, man,’ says Buggy, ‘If you’re gonna go out with a nipper, you gotta be prepared to sit down and play Lego once in a while.’ ‘You’re a funny boy, Bugs,’ says Sedge. He picks up the controller, presses the big green x in the middle and the machine starts whirring as it turns on.

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Buggy leaves the take a shower. I ask Sedge again if he’s ok. He says he’s fine. He tells me to pick a team, turning on the other controller and throwing it onto my lap. I do as I am told. I choose a team weaker than his; but not so weak for it to be obvious. • I’m not looking forward to Easter. But I promised Mum I’d head back and spend some time with the family. Dad’s heart attack’s still got her rattled, I can tell, even though he’s back at work and everything. I should go back and check on him though. And I’ve arranged to meet Clara. It’s the last Thursday of term and we’re going to Smack. I’m just firing off a message to Clara when there’s a knock on my door. I tell whoever it is to enter. It’s Tim. Alright,’ I say, as he walks in. ‘Hi, mate.’ ‘What you up to?’ I look back to my screen, trying my best to look disinterested, petty as it may seem. ‘Just wanted to talk,’ he says. He sits on my bed. My eyes start to sting as I stare at the screen intently. I think he is waiting for me to turn around; but I won’t turn around, I will wait, I will for him to get whatever he’s got to say out of his mouth. ‘Mate, I’m so sorry.’ I stop typing. I guess it’s what I’ve wanted to hear, guess it’s what I’ve been expecting him to say if he finally came to speak to me. Yet, somehow it comes as a surprise and not altogether welcome and I don’t know why.

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‘For what?’ I ask, perhaps a little unfairly. ‘For the way I’ve acted,’ he says, weak, like, his eyes down on his knees, his fringe looking like it’s touching his bowed chin. ‘Oh, you mean telling people I cheated on India? Or being an ignorant cunt ever since I got HIV?’ Finally, he looks up. He says both, he looks a little taken aback. But he can’t have expected me to forgive just like that, surely? ‘I came to say sorry about the way I’ve acted. With the HIV.’ ‘Let’s start with India.’ ‘I said sorry for that.’ ‘No, you told me what I did with my cock’s my fault.’ He looks away. ‘Well, I’m sorry.’ ‘No. You’re right, Tim, what I did with my cock is my fault. With me and India. With what happened to us. But you were making out like what I got was some sort of punishments. ‘No, mate I-’ ‘Weren’t you?’ I shout. I am standing now and I haven’t even noticed myself lifting from the chair. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.’ His eyes are determined to lie anywhere but on me. He is struggling, it is not a large room, yet he is somehow succeeding in finding a place to rest them every time, finding a way to hide from my incessant gaze. ‘I guess I did, a bit. Not a punishment, like, just, linked.’

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‘Of course it’s fucking linked!’ ‘Mate, I’m so sorry.’ ‘You’ve said that twice now.’ They find the floor now, though I can tell he knows how cowardly it is, not being able to look at me, not being able to face me and what he’s done. ‘You don’t tell on your mates, Tim. You just don’t.’ ‘I know. I shouldn’t have told anyone. It just slipped out.’ ‘Slipped out. You’ve kept secrets before. I’ve done it for you. How did it just slip out?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he shouts, helpless. The others must be able to hear. ‘I guess it was just weighing on me, this big, story.’ ‘Story? It was my fucking relationship.’ I have to stop for a second, because I must be honest and it takes me two or three breaths to get the will for it. ‘You know what, no, you’re not taking any blame for that. I messed it up. But our friendship, Tim, that meant something to me and you fucked that up proper.’ He nods; but remains silent. I look at him, trying to murmur out apologies and reasons and excuses but they come out as white noise and nothings and are meaningless for whatever they are meant to represent. ‘You’ve been a ghost, Tim. A traitor and a ghost. Bravo.’ I leave him there, in my room, on my bed. Too see him there brings pity, of all things. I pity him as he sits with his hands in his lap, his shoulders hunched, in my room. I take a walk, not so much to cool off as to give the house a respite from this madness, the madness which follows me and the madness of this situation I have found myself in and have drawn others into. For once, I don’t feel guilty; but responsible, for

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bringing some semblance of peace to 6A Regents Place. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s inhabitants, for the most part, deserve a sense of normality and who am I to deny it them?

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17.

‘ I would’ve pulled him. I was out of it. He was looking fine.’ I’ll miss the lads over Christmas but it’s not the only reason I don’t want to head back. Being on campus, which I am more often now, I’m surrounded by sexuality. It kills me and kills me all in one fell swoop. I see all these girls walking around, I know I can do nothing. But it’s something, a reminder perhaps, that there is some sexuality within me, one which must be tempered; but is real nonetheless. When I go home, I know I’ll feel stifled, limp, sexless. And something about being at home’ll stop me going solo. Under that roof, I know it’ll feel like poison again. Pathetic isn’t it? But, every girl I see, I imagine naked, pretty much. I’m like one of those men in their forties who dream of rock stardom, because they know the dream is all that’s left, they know it’ll never happen now. I’ll never do anything so stupid again, as with Jess; but even when Gemma and Becky are in our house, I wonder what they’re like underneath. Because it’s fantasy, because it’s sustaining and necessary. Because it, perhaps, keeps me sane. I mean, I can’t watch porn any more. And it’s porn. That whole art porn debate never flew with me. The stuff I used to watch was porn. Nothing weird, just graphic hanky panky. But I can’t watch it now. Maybe it’s just too full on, it reminds me of what got me here. Besides, the ‘cast’ are usually unprotected. And that gets me thinking in bad ways. • I am dancing. The floor is a sea of people. There is flesh all around. Sometimes it rubs against me. But I feel no danger. I am in control. The music thumps, on, on, on.

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It drones. We dance together. At some point Sedge embraces me. He is off his head. He has quit smoking for finals, because we told him he couldn’t. He is drinking relentlessly, as if it will help distract him. He mumbles drugged up nothings. I don’t understand; but I don’t really care. It is like the old days. I go to the toilets. The urinal is one, long, plastic covered surface. There is some splash back. I wash my hands, calmly, thoroughly. The bog troll offers me aftershaves to ‘freshen up for ladies.’ I laugh, diligently scrubbing away. I rinse, dry and return. I drink vodka Redbulls at the bar, with Tim. He pays. I say thank you. We near the precipice of conversation; but are saved by the arrival of an old, popular song we both love. He raises his arms in celebration and we depart for the dance floor to join the others. I’ve been dancing for minutes when I feel a tap on my back. It’s India. I hug her. She joins our group, dancing erratically, unsexually, just for laughs, like. I catch a glimpse of Lydia in the back, standing static, glaring. ‘She doesn’t look happy,’ I say, managing to find some volume among the clamour. ‘Don’t worry about her.’ We sit and talk a while. I tell her to relax when she warns me about drinking too much. She gives me the ol’ I’m just trying to look out for you and I know it but tonight’s the last big Smack of term and it’s a one off. She protests and protests until I take her to the bar and force her to drink with me.

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She goes back to speak to Lydia, to keep her happy; and I see she’s getting a talking to. I can tell she hasn’t informed Lydia of the development in my life and I’m grateful. Tonight, tonight, tonight, I tell myself. Think only of tonight. I take some more of the MDMA Tim’s brought for the occasion. Occasionally, my mind recalls that night, the drugs, the drink, the consequence; but I dull it and think only of this evening, my evening, which is here for the taking, here for the enjoyment. I don’t know how many vodka red bulls I’ve had now, I can never keep score. I’m back on the dance floor. I realise I’m not dancing erratic now. The music stills thumps away but I’m facing India, much like that time earlier in the year with that girl, and the sweat on her chest. She has a low cut top. I remember her tits, small, beautiful. I see her see me having a stare. The music roars. I am kissing her. I pull away. ‘Fuck,’ she says, ‘Sorry.’ She runs off. I am outside, trying to call her. There’s a tap on my shoulder. ‘Marcus.’ ‘Oh, Jess.’ ‘Marcus, that girl-’ ‘That’s my ex. She knows. Look, sorry, I have to go.’ • ‘Oh, fuckles, you’ve got yourself into a bit of trouble, haven’t you?’ says Buggy in the morning.

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‘Take your fucking free kick.’ ‘He, he.’ ‘You’re chirpy. Anyone’d think you got laid?’ ‘Nope. I was fucked on that stuff. Said I wouldn’t, but you know how it is.’ ‘Why so chirpy then?’ ‘It’s just one night. There’ll be others.’ He taps the triangle. ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘don’t mean to rub it in.’ ‘It’s alright mate.’ I take another shot. ‘Why the fuck did I pull India?’ ‘Dunno.’ ‘I was mangled.’ ‘Probably that then. You spoken to her?’ ‘No,’ I say. ‘I called her after it happened, but she didn’t asnwer. Lydia went fucking nuts.’ ‘Fuck her man, ain’t her business.’ ‘Guess she’s just trying to look out for India.’ ‘Still, ain’t her place. Up to India who she pulls.’ ‘Don’t think it was really. She was fucked. I shouldn’t have done of it. You guys see?’ ‘Yeah,’ he says, a guttural laugh escaping him, ‘We saw.’ He looks as if about to elaborate; but goes no further. ‘Fuck. Jess saw me as well.’ ‘It was only a kiss, mate. You were trashed. Don’t worry about Jess, she won’t say anything.’ ‘She came up to me and tried to ask.’ ‘Yeah, but she probably saw how mashed you were, and was worried about the girl.’ ‘Yeah, but, you know I’ll never let that happen ag-’

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‘I know mate,’ says Buggy. He pauses Fifa and swivels on the cushion. ‘I get it mate, it was India. It’s different. I’m sure you wouldn’t have let it gone further, it’s just, well, India. Jess’s no idea who she is.’ He turns the game back on as if that’s it, sorted. I join in, moving the little man on the screen with the blue triangle over his head in a vain bid to catch Buggy. ‘Mate,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be sound.’ He takes a free kick, it goes in. This rarely happens in Fifa, even for Buggy, who is far and away the best of us. When he has finished shouting his tits off, when he has finally sat back down on the couch, when we have watched the replay of his goal from three different angles, I thank Buggy, I thank him for his words, I thank him for the words not said, I thank him for everything he has done for me. I say only two words, thank you; but somehow all these various forms of thanks are, quite clearly, I believe, wrapped up in them. • I stand, the window inches from my face. Flitting, between guilt, pleasure, guilt, pleasure, guilt guilt, pleasure pleasure. I must set things straight with India. But those memories of last night have brought the urge. I picture as many famous women as possible; the whole catalogue, like; but I can’t get India out of my mind. That kiss reminds me of all those times, the times we, together, kissed, fumbled, tumbled, laughed and loved. The world is somehow more complicated than it was yesterday, yet, for a few minutes, as I imagine my past, it’s almost like I’m there, like I’m living it, feeling it, living her, feeling her.

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Maybe we’re not right together but fuck, India’s gorgeous. I see her light pink nipples, I see the soft milky skin, I see the small tuft of hair waist down where I’d glide my fingers, where I’d make her moan. Used to tease her, used to tell her she was posh, even when moaning. That was something we used to laugh about, together. Still erect, I part the blind. I look out to the organic store. The owner is moving stock. She’s in her mid forties, perhaps older. She’s bent over a crate, ready to lift. I think sexual. Release is healthy, release is good; but the more I allow myself it, the more I miss the real deal. In that last moment, it is India I see, it is real moments of pleasure that were lived which I experience in my mind’s eye. Satiated, I reach for my fags. I remember I’ve agreed to quit; and resist. I throw the tissue in the bin and tie the bag, ready for it to be taken downstairs. • ‘Hello,’ I say as Lydia opens the door. I’m greeted with a frown, she begins to speak. I choose tact, for once, whilst at the same time cutting her off. I tell her it’s important, tell her I’ll be gone in five minutes. Somehow it works. She points up the stairs, which feels odd, me, not knowing India’s room, where it is, what it’s like. Reaching the top, I knock. There is a murmur. I enter. She turns, mortification painting her face upon seeing me. She buries her head in her hands, making a strange, depressed squeak. ‘India, don’t overreact,’ I say foolishly. She grumbles. It is agony, it is embarrassment. I pull up a chair. ‘India, it was my fault.’

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There is a long, long pause before she tells me she should never have gone out, mumbling it into her arms. ‘India, don’t be silly. You were having a good night.’ For once, I decide a lie, or what might be a lie, is the best solution. ‘We were both really drunk. I’m sorry, it was my fault for kissing you.’ She lifts her head for the first time. Mascara is smudged on her eyes but she hasn’t been crying. She has simply yet taken the effort to get rid of last night’s, stuck in the pit of despair as she is. ‘Yeah. We were dancing and I was all over the place. I didn’t mean to but, I leant in. It was me.’ ‘You sure?’ ‘Yes. I was off my head. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, or bring them back, or whatever.’ ‘I shouldn’t have done it,’ she says. Jumping, she adds not because of before I cut her off with no no no, I understand what you mean. ‘You didn’t do anything, Lily, it was my fault. Acting the cunt.’ A light smile passes her lips, before she sinks, once more, into herself. ‘I feel horrid. I was so drunk.’ ‘You were. You’d have pulled Buggy if he was there.’ She kicks me without looking up. ‘I would’ve pulled him. I was out of it. He was looking fine.’ ‘Stop it,’ she says, with a giggle.

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I let her sit like that for a while. Eventually she turns to face me. She says thank you. I ask for what but she just smiles, almost sarcastic like. There’s a long wait, so I break it. ‘Want to go Big Cup or something? I feel rotten.’ ‘No. I’d best get on with my essay.’ ‘You able to work?’ ‘No. I felt shit. But-’ ‘It’s alright,’ I say. I smile at her. I don’t want her to feel any worse than she already does. ‘I’ll go grab Sedge. I’m fairly sure he’ll be feeling it this morning.’ As I walk out of her room, she stops me. ‘Let me know how you are later.’ I’m not sure what she means but I tell her to do the same and walk downstairs.

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18.

‘ Come back when you’ve lost the trolley. And got some marbles.’ I tap my foot over and over, looking at the book, unable to concentrate. I came home a few days back; and I’m trying my hardest to revise. I have a couple of essays to do and, giving how much I feel behind, the task ahead has just dawned on me. In light of everything else, ending up with a 2:2 wouldn’t bother me; but telling Mum and Dad would. Dad knows fuck all about Uni, except that is, for the cost and consequent expectation. He won’t be expecting a first, especially after all that time I spent at home. But I don’t want that to be my excuse. I they start to worry that Dad’s heart attack affected my grades, I’ll have to tell them the truth. I look at my phone, though I would’ve heard it vibrate. I haven’t heard from Clara in a while. I’ve begun to worry. We’ve talked often; but should I be doing more? We send messages frequently but perhaps I should call more often. Part of me can’t get quite get to grips with the fact that I’m keeping in touch with the girl who gave it to me. But she needs a friend. Yes, I’ve started to wonder if she’s interested in anything more. She must miss it to. I try hard to push it out of my brain but the thought can’t go away. After all, she’s the only girl I could do it with. Maybe she thinks I still resent her for what happened. Maybe I do, somewhere below my words, below what I recognise as the truth. But resentment isn’t quite as natural as lust. It’s been so long. ‘Fergal, fancy a game of Fifa?’ I say, walking into his room. The pages are blank white to me, I can’t do any revision at the moment. ‘I can’t, I need to revise.’

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‘Sack it, Fergal. Just a few games.’ ‘I can’t. I need to work.’ ‘Ah, you’re boring,’ I say, knowing I’m trying my hardest not to work, knowing he’s got his GCSE’s to think of. ‘Just one game. I’ll be like Lebanon or someone. You can be Brazil.’ ‘No, I need to work.’ ‘Come on Ferg, don’t be gay,’ I say. Fergal does something surprising. He walks over and nudges me out of his room, needing to get on with his work. I need to work too but he doesn’t realise the worries I have. Then again, he’s a fifteen year old virgin, so, sex probably pops up in his mind frequently. I go back to my room, determined not to distract him. I’ll do some work. Within minutes, I’ve grabbed his Xbox, which, unusually, is downstairs; and not in his room. I’ve moved it into my own room. I tell myself I’ll just play a couple of games but within a couple of hours I’ve set up a league and everything. It isn’t the thought of failing that stops me playing sometime later. It’s the beeping of my phone.

‘Hey, Marcus!’ Glad you’re back. Sure, I’m free whenever if you wanna meet up. Still living at the flat in Camden, for now. Let me know if you’re about. Xx’ Pathetically, I analyse those kisses to the point of getting a semi, re-reading the text countless times, trying to find something interesting in it. I reply.

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‘Cool, fancy meeting up tomorrow. Could wander around the market and get some lunch? xx’ I texted her. The reply is almost immediate.

‘Sure, Chalk Farm at 1?’ I haven’t had fried pigeon for ages. Lol xx’ I wince at her using ‘Lol’, but the pigeon thing does make me laugh. I fire back a reply and sit on my bed tapping my feet, staring at my crotch, hoping it’ll calm down. • ‘Marcus, I need you tomorrow. I told Anita you’d help move that old bed out of the spare room.’ ‘Why they getting rid of it?’ ‘It’s old, and they’ve visitors in the summer.’ ‘I can’t. I’m meeting a friend,’ I say. ‘Can’t you meet them later?' It won’t take long,’ says Mum. I don’t know what to tell her. I can’t say it’s one of the lads because it won’t be a good enough reason. If I say it’s a date, she might buy it; but there’ll be an inquest and a gossip fest. Every time I see Mum, I think of telling the truth. But I look at her and I remember, the timing, it’s not right, not now, after what Dad’s been through. ‘India.’ She’s been moving stuff around in the kitchen; but turns all of a sudden, with surprised eyes. ‘Oh?’ ‘Don’t start, Mum. There’s nothing happening with us. She’s just been stressed with exams and ain’t getting along with her housemates. We’ve chatted every now and then and she fancied meeting up.’

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‘Isn’t, Marcus,’ says Mum. ‘I hate it when you say ain’t. My little cockney,’ she says. There is a smile on her face. Perhaps she would like us to get back together, despite what she ‘did. ‘Well, I just don’t want you getting hurt again, darling. You never really explained what happened, but I know you. It can’t have been nice having her end it just like that, from Tasmania.’ I glare. ‘Sorry, sorry, yes, Tanzania,’ she says, pronouncing it like it rhymes with mania. ‘It was coming. She did the right thing, Mum. She just had the guts to admit it wasn’t working. We’re friends now. It’s fine. It would’ve been worse if we’d kept going. Would’ve ruined both our years,’ I say, a sort of truth coming out towards the end. ‘You’re a good boy, Marcus. Just look after yourself, love. Emotionally.’ ‘Emotions. What are they?’ She slaps me on the arm with a tea towel. ‘You’re worse than your father, bottling things up,’ she says in a serious tone. ‘I’m joking, Mum,’ I say. ‘I will.’ Perhaps it should just tell her. Instead I make some wisecrack about the life of a man being harder than that of a woman, that we have to live with women and bottling it ups the only way to do it. I don’t mean a word but it winds her up royally and I receive a crack on the knuckles for my sins. But she is smiling and she is happy to have Dad well and no, now is certainly not the time. I’m on my way to Camden when I get a text from Tim asking how things are. Maybe I’m being petty but I find it annoying how quickly he’s changed his tune. It doesn’t change the ignorance that he showed me. I’m not sure I can get past that. So’s not to be a cock, I send a brief, polite message asking how things are back up in Leam.

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As I near Camden, I try to recall that night. I try to remember what she looked like, naked. But I can only grasp brief, vague images of fumbling. She is still a mystery to me. Am I attracted to her? Or have I regressed into animal lust, having been starved for so long? That nigh with Jessica, my body told me to just do it, that it’s what it was meant to do. It felt so unnatural pulling away. I felt an alien afterwards. I don’t want to feel that way every again. When I see Clara, she is facing away from me, in a blue, silky top, with denim jeans and a woven black band pulling back her long hair. I’ve seen it before but I guess it is purely coincidence. I call out to her. I don’t want to startle her by just walking up behind and tapping her shoulder. I hate it when people do it to me. There’s still that nervousness that I can’t quite shake off. I reckon she probably feels the same thing. She turns. There is a smile. It looks genuine yet forced at the same time, like she wants me to see her smile, like she means it; but like part of her has forgotten how to make the body do it. ‘Hey, how are you?’ I say, unsure whether to hug her. ‘Good, thanks. And you?’ She hugs me, she even gives me a slightly awkward peck on the cheek and I tell her I’m well. She suggests we walk to the market and so we make our way there on foot. ‘It’s still really hard,’ she says. We’ve been wondering around the market a while. She sifts aimlessly through a rack of vintage coats, her fingers seeming to be the only part

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of her actually paying attention to them. ‘The loneliness really gets to me. My housemates haven’t been any better.’ I watch her as she walks slowly, pondering. Her gait is slow, careful, thoughtful, like her words. I wonder if she was always this way. I tell her I’ve been lucky. I nearly laugh aloud saying it; but I have been, for the most part, when it comes to my friends and how they reacted. ‘I’ve been going out more,’ she says. ‘Not with anyone, but I’m getting out of the house, going to the market, things like that. It was awful, having it just down the road, being too afraid to leave the house.’ I tell her I had the same feeling, that I always felt someone would find me out if I left the house, if I sat down in a bar or café. Eventually, she asks me about Tim, about what happened with us. ‘We were best mates,’ I say. ‘But, he became a ghost. And he--’ I pause. I wish I’d stopped at ghost. She’s no need to know the rest. Why did I continue? ‘What?’ ‘Nothing,’ I say, and I know it’s inevitable now, that I have to say it. She asks me again. ‘My ex found out because of Tim. ‘About-’ I pause again. I consider saying India found out only about the HIV from Tim. But I can’t lie to her. I look at her, her eyes waiting for answers; and I know I can’t lie to her. ‘About you and me.’ ‘I see.’ She’s been holding a coat. She puts it back on the rack.

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‘Marcus, I’m sorry I ruined everything you had with your girlfriend.’ She looks around. I see the corner of her eye and I think tears could easily find their way out soon if I don’t say something. ‘What did you ruin?’ I say, stepping forward slightly. ‘Did I tell you about her?’ She remains silent, peering down at the green, velvety jacket she’s been holding. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I made a choice that night. Believe me, Clara, I tried blaming you. It never worked.’ Still, her eyes are down. She taps her ringed finger against the rail, pushing coats back and forth, ‘Clara, I’ll always have regrets about what happened. Who wouldn’t? I mean, not just because of what it’s led to, but because of India. She deserved better.’ I stop her moving the coats back and forth. ‘Don’t for a minute think you were at fault. I have to be a man about it. I laid my bed, now I’ll lie on it. None of this is your fault.’ I try and let it sink in. I think she nods slightly but it is vague and I am unsure. I realise there is only one thing I can do now. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘I’m not allowed to drink alone anymore.’ • ‘I haven’t drunk in four months,’ says Clara as we take a seat in The Enterprise. ‘Why?’ I think it’s come out aghast, like, and I guess that says a lot more about me than her. ‘Getting healthy?’ ‘No, I just didn’t really have the energy for it after I found out. I’ve never really drunk when I’m down. I mean, I’ve got trashed with mates, like when my boyfriend left me. But I used to drink more on my own, not a lot, just the occasional beer or glass of wine. Now, I just don’t want to.’ ‘You don’t have to have that,’ I say, pointing to the pint I’ve bought her.

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‘No, I want to,’ she says, clasping her glass. She offers a reassuring, grateful smile. ‘It’s nice having a drink with someone.’ She looks around the pub, obviously familiar with it. ‘I smoked a lot, but I’ve cut down.’ ‘I wish I was like you,’ I say, ‘I drunk myself senseless at first. Don’t even know why now.’ ‘Loneliness,’ she says, ‘It’s just loneliness. Even when there were people around, I had to find something. That’s what fags were to me. Company. I’d sit out the window smoking, over and over, just to pass the time, fill the silences.’ ‘Yes,’ I say. Loneliness, loneliness, loneliness. That was the bugger. Loneliness. I ask if she ever told her parents. ‘God no, did you?’ she replies, her eyes widening, big, pretty, stand out eyes which I notice at all times, which I make an effort not to peer into. When she laughs, she will squint; but somehow it makes me all the more aware of them. ‘No. Still not sure about that.’ ‘I can just imagine the look on my Mum’s face. She won’t understand.’ She takes a sip, lifting the glass, her little finger pointing outwards. ‘My Mum’s a nurse. She must know a fair bit about it. But I know what you mean. All goes out the window when it’s your nipper I guess.’ What comes out of her mouth is, well, I’m not sure. A scoff or a laugh, or a mixture of the two. ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Edgware. I told you didn’t I?’ ‘Yeah, just didn’t realise there were cockney’s in North London.’ I show her my middle finger. ‘Oh, that’s nice.’ ‘Do you ever think about support groups?’ I ask, a while later.

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‘No, I couldn’t. I’m sure there good for some. But I couldn’t face a big group, not yet. Plus, that whole sitting around in a circle thing-’ She trails off, wrinkling her nose and scrunching her face. ‘A bit Fight Club?’ I say. She nods. She wipes a lipstick smudge from her glass. It’s not hers. She tells me it doesn’t bother her. She actually makes a joke of it. She looks me dead in the face and says ‘what am I gonna catch?’ We laugh. I’ve not laughed that hard for a while. We talk on, and on and on and I feel comfortable and calm and as peaceful within as a man like me can be. Eventually, during a lull in conversation she asks me if I still talk to my ex at all and I say no, not really. I’m probably drunk, my hand gestures probably aren’t much use. But we’ve got onto football and I’m doing my best to help her. ‘I still don’t understand,’ says Clara, shaking her head, like a child who knows they should’ve got it by now. ‘Right.’ I place my hand horizontally on the middle of the table. ‘This is the last defender.’ ‘Last defender. But you have four defenders don’t you?’ she says with a measure of pride. ‘No, no, no, not like that. And anyway, sometimes you have five.’ ‘Sorry,’ she says, smirking, teasing. I will not take the bait. ‘The last defender, in this instance, means the last player on the team that is defending, who is nearest to the goalkeeper. See?’ I pull over a bar mat to use as a prop. ‘Goalkeeper,’ I say, pointing to it, and, ‘last defender,’ pointing at my hand. ‘Right,’ she says, listening intently, trying not to laugh. I’m enjoying the authority I have on the subject. Didactic, manly authority. With bar mats, pennies and a hand.

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‘So, if one of the attacking team’s players is here,’ I say, pushing a penny in front of my hand. ‘And another guy on his team passes to him, that’s fine, ok?’ She nods. ‘But, if the attacker is here,’ I say, pushing the penny around behind my hand, ‘and his teammate passes, that’s offside. Understand now?’ ‘Oh, I see.’ I have explained the offside rule clearly. I have succeeded. I am a pimp. ‘So, basically, if there are no defenders between the attacker and goalkeeper when his friend passes, that’s offside?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, why didn’t you just say that then?’ she says. I am flattened. ‘Actually, no, it’s not exactly that way,’ I say, sitting up, determined to bask in the glory of knowledge again. ‘It’s all about the defender. If there were two attackers past the last defender, then they can pass to each other, but if one passes to the other, with a defender in the way, it’s offside. It’s all about the last defender,’ I say, tapping my pointed finger on the table. ‘Alright, alright, well thank you for explaining the offside rule to me, Marcus,’ she says, all sarcy like. She leans slightly forward, laughing at me and I lean forward slightly myself. ‘You should be grateful,’ I say, ‘it’s a good thing to know about. Now you can tell people whenever they ask about the offside rule.’ ‘Oh, and not be a silly little dumb girl who doesn’t understand football?’ I wink ‘Exactly.’

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I stare at those eyes. Am I leaning in again? Is it just me or is she just doing the same. The song changes. Guess I’ll never know. ‘Yay,’ she says, turning to face the jukebox and I am full or rage for Bob Dylan, for cock blocking me. My hero hath betrayed me. And it’s not even a decent song, it’s one from his ‘Christian phase.’ I watch her singing along, surprised she knows this one. She is smiling and happy looking. And I draw what I can from what has just happened. I was not afraid. It’s something, Marcus, it’s something that. She brushes a strand of hair, looks back at me and sees me watching. I smile. ‘Let’s go clubbing later?’ said Clara, ‘and get trashed.’ Clara suggests we go drinking somewhere else after. I begin to wonder what’s in that; but I choose to enjoy what is happening right now. I buy another round and agree to go wherever she wants. It occurs to me, the longer I stay out the more questions Mum’ll have about India. But as I watch Clara, as I speak to her, as I feel free and at ease, I don’t want this evening to stop short any time soon. I watch as she walks to the bathroom. She has a cool demeanour which the months and the happenings have not quite destroyed. She returns, minutes later, sullen looking. She has her phone to her ear and gestures that she’ll be back soon. ‘Sorry, I had to take that,’ she says, returning. Her eyes are weary, she seems to have lost all her energy and enthusiasm, just like that.

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‘You ok?’ ‘Yeah,’ she says, looking at the floor. She peers up and forces out a smile, ‘where were we?’ ‘Clara, what’s wrong?’ ‘Sorry, that was my Dad. Just wanted to say hello. But when I speak to him, I feel terrible.’ A tear rolls down her cheek. She wipes it away and apologies for being stupid. ‘You’re not being stupid,’ I say. She dabs her eyes with a tissue, shifting uncomfortably, aware perhaps that there are people around and that they may have noticed her tears. ‘I have to tell him works going fine, when I’ve been sacked. He asks after my flatmates, and I just say they’re all doing great. I’m running out of money. Sooner or later, I’ll have to tell my parents.’ I think of things to say but nothing comes out. ‘I hate this,’ she says. ‘Me too.’ I take a big sip of my drink. ‘You know what, maybe we’d best find some work.’ ‘What?’ she asks, confused, as I stand and put my jacket on. • She is laughing, carefree like, as I push her along the pavement, in the trolley we’ve nicked from Sainsbury’s. I did pay for fags though. ‘Where next?’ ‘There, there,’ she says, pointing towards a clothes shop. I pull up outside. The door’s open. ‘Hello,’ Clara shouts, waving at the owner, a fella wearing a leather jacket and an old faded Allman Brothers tee shirt.

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‘Got any jobs?’ We’re trying to find our feet.’ ‘Come back when you’ve lost the trolley,’ he says with a laugh, ‘and got some marbles.’ ‘No!’ she screams with delight. Never never never. She signals for me to ‘drive’ on and I duly do so, charging down the high street at what is probably an unwise speed. The people move out of our way as I push. They seem more willing and happy to do say than if we were walking. We must look quite the pair. We try a few more shops and it’s all fun and games but eventually we run out of stories to make up, aliases to try out. ‘We could say we just finished doing time,’ says Clara. ‘It’d be like Natural Born Killers.’ ‘I think they’d suss us out,’ I say. ‘We’re twenty, we’d have done a few more years at least.’ ‘Speak for yourself,’ she says. ‘I’m twenty two.’ ‘That makes me the innocent nipper you roped into all the killings.’ ‘Yup,’ she says patting me on the head. ‘But, you’re right, they’ll never buy it. Your face is too innocent. We’ll have to think of something else.’ She shrugs. ‘We could tell the truth.’ I can see the look in her eyes, a look of regret. It’s as if she is still trying to put the words back where they came from. But no, they are out there now and they are not going away and perhaps, though she is regretting it, she is right. ‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ she says, ‘Sorry.’

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But I say no, don’t be sorry, I think maybe you’re right and despite the look of worry on her face, there is a determination in me now, a determination to discover just dangerous the truth can be. Eventually, we find a pub advertising for staff. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t,’ says Clara, sobered by developments. But I have to know now. One of these days I’ll have to do this for real. If I’m not going to tell Mum and Dad I’ll have to find work and if I want to find work I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep it secret forever ‘I’ll wait here,’ she says. I assure her it’ll be fine. I walk into the bar. It is busy. ‘Hi, what can I get you?’ says the man at the bar. I take him to be the manager. . ‘I saw your ad outside. Are you still hiring?’ ‘Yes, we are,’ he says, enthusiastically, ‘do you have bar experience?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Great, well have you got a CV on you?’ ‘No, sorry, can I bring one tomorrow?’ ‘Sure, just pop it in and we’ll have a look. We’re looking for a few people, so you should definitely get a call.’ I feel very alone here, without Clara. I look for her through the window but she is not there. And in a way I’m glad, glad that she’s not watching. ‘There’s something else,’ I say. ‘What?’ Tick for la tock for la tick for la tock. Good things come to those who wait. But my hesitance is doing nothing but prolonging the inevitable sinking of his face, the tensing of his muscles, the uneven, uncomfortable voice with which he will reply to me.

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‘I have HIV,’ I say. ‘Would that be a problem?’ The old man next to me gets up. He walks off, mumbling. There are two young people around my age close by. They two depart, making a cackhanded attempt to do so surreptitiously. I have more respect for the old boy. ‘I see,’ he says, his responses, both physical and otherwise, unsurprising. ‘Are you being serious?’ ‘Yes, I’m being serious,’ I say, bold but calm. ‘Well, look,’ he says, raising his hands in the air. ‘I’ve nothing against people with your-’ He pauses. ‘Condition.’ I smile. It’s a new one. He leans in and whispers something about health and safety. He starts to ramble. It is undignified. I stop him short. ‘I didn’t think I’d need to screw in this job.’ He winces. He tells me about the possibility of cutting myself on the job, the dangers, the hazards, he rambles off bollocks like a steam train. He could work in politics if this old bar game goes tits up. ‘I don’t see any of your staff wearing plasters,’ I say. ‘I know it’s Camden, but the Goth pubs down the road.’ He sighs. He puts his hand to his forehead. He tells me he is sorry. The fucker calls me mate in a piss poor attempt to seem empathetic. I call him a cunt. Can’t help it. Credit where it’s due, he keeps his cool. But instead of throwing me out, instead of granting me the dignity of throwing me out like he would a normal punter calling him a cunt, he merely ignores me and walks over to a new customer.

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And that is when I spit on the bar, a thick hock of disgusting phlegm. Well, it’s a dirty business this old HIV and if he doesn’t like it, well, no one fucking likes it do they? He is shocked. The bar is shocked. Many turn. They seem more surprised by his failure to act, by the stunned expression on his face. They watch me. I can feel the people behind me watching. I back out of the pub, staring him in the eye all the way. ‘So, what did they say?’ says Clara, ‘Did you tell him?’ I have begun to walk fast; but I slow, I tell myself I must be calm, cool, even, for her. ‘It was good,’ I say unballing my fists. ‘He told me to pop in a CV.’ ‘You really told him, and it was alright?’ ‘Yeah, he said it was no reason you couldn’t work in a bar. Now, hop in, let’s go for a pint.’ She jumps back in the trolley. I have lied to her again. But look at her, she is smiling, she is relieved. She has hope. As we pass, I see the manager inside, wiping the surface.

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19. ‘ You running a marathon or something, Marcus.’ We decide against drinking any more. Well, Clara’s mother decided for her, by calling. As we reached her door, she said she’d call me. I gave her a hug and she walked up her stairs, back to her flat where she would have a difficult conversation with the woman who loves her more than life itself. I think about today a lot on the way home. I think of Clara and I realise I’ve done something very stupid. I’ve only gone and allowed myself to start liking her. ‘Hi Dad,’ I say, when I get home. He is in the living room, watching TV. ‘Where’s Mum?’ ‘She’s on a night shift.’ ‘You alright?’ ‘I’m fine. How was town?’ ‘Yeah, it was nice.’ ‘How’s India?’ ‘Fine.’ ‘Looks like you’ve had a few.’ ‘Just a couple’ ‘Swift ten?’ he says. ‘Well, I hope it was alright, son. Just make sure she’s not using you. You’re Mum said she was stressed about work or something. She should look somewhere else if you ask me, after what she did to you.’ ‘Mum probably exaggerated, Dad. It was fine, India never treated me that badly,’ I say, thinking that she never treated me badly at all. ‘I met up with Simon after I saw her. He was round Camden way.’ ‘Ah, that’s why you’re steamboat.’ ‘I’m not steam boat.’ He laughs. It’s almost a giggle even. He seems so very relaxed these days.

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‘You should be working shouldn’t you?’ he says, before answering the question himself, ‘well I guess one day to see Simon won’t hurt. He still with that girl?’ ‘No, not for ages Dad, I told you.’ Simon’s ex girlfriend got sick at my eighteenth birthday. ‘She was a numpty,’ says Dad, ever unsympathetic. I sit down to join him as Match of the Day comes on. We watch around ten minutes of the highlights when I turn to ask him something. ‘Dad, did you ever find it hard getting work?’ He laughs. ‘Plenty of times. You think this is a recession. We had Thatcher. Why?’ ‘No, but, I mean, down here, do you reckon anyone disliked you because you were Scottish, did it ever stop you getting a job?’ ‘Down here? No. Back home it was harder. We lived in a Catholic part of town, because of Pa’s job. Name like Duncan Stone didn’t help me there. ‘But, no, down here, it was never a problem. People teased at work, but that’s just what they do when they like you. I never got much stick from anyone who didn’t take to me, and when I did, I gave it back as good. Where’d you think you got that mouth of yours?’ ‘Mum.’ ‘Ay, that’s true,’ he says, taking a sip of his coke. I’m guessing it’s alcohol free. ‘Why you asking this, son?’ The lines on his forehead wrinkle as he burrows his brow. ‘Just wondered,’ I say, hoping he’ll not inquire further. But of course, he does. ‘You do a lot of that these days. You alright, Marcus?’ ‘Sounds, sound, sound,’ I drone, pretending it was just vague interest. I tell him I just never realised how it might’ve been hard for him, that’s all, moving down here from Scotland. He laughs, like it’s a silly thing to say, though it doesn’t seem that strange to me. People will look at anything to keep someone outside.

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‘London’s been my home twenty five years,’ says Dad, smiling. ‘It’s been no bother here.’ He slaps my leg, not hard; but fatherly like. ‘I’m no leper, Marcus.’ ‘No,’ I say, ‘No, Dad.’ Clara texts me later. She says she had a great time. She says she wishes we could meet up soon but she has to head home because her nanna’s a bit ill. Selfish as it is, I can’t help but feel resentful. I want to see her again. Before I know it, I’ll be back at Uni, with revision and exams and stress. And when it’s done, the partying will start. Sure, I’ll drink with the rest; I know it’s going to feel different for me, I know I will begin to worry about the future all the more. I want the now, I would lie to feel as I did last night. Relaxed. And I don’t feel as relaxed as perhaps I should back her, at home. Something’s been stopping me from, you know, under my parents’ roof. It makes me feel all so very Catholic; but something about being back here puts me off, makes me feel poisonous again and I’d rather go without than feel that way again. I somehow manage to focus more properly on my essays over the next few days. I ramble off two thousand words for US Foreign Policy and couldn’t give a toss regarding the quality. It’s done, it’ll do. I get an email from Malcolm which comes as a surprise. I figured he’d given up on me. He wants to check what topic I’ve picked. With my attendance this year, he feels it best I play to my ‘strengths’. Patronising arse. I’m making decent headway on another essay when my mate Simon texts me. And thank Christ, I have a reason to get out of the house. •

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‘How’s Uni?’ Simon asks as we walk through the park, towards the small huddle of lads sitting down, smoking and drinking, this small group of lads who I grew up with and are now dirty lunged, deep voiced men. For the most part. There’s eight of us in total. I sit with Ben, who doesn’t want to play football. I feign an ankle injury so’s I can stay put as well. ‘Fag?’ he says, holding out a twenty deck of Camel. I consider it; but decide I’ll be a good boy. I shake my head. I told Sedge I’d quite when he did. I cheated on him the other night; but I couldn’t let Clara stand outside the pub, smoking by herself. We get to talking about University. I’ve known Ben since I was four. He’s up at Leeds. We speak of nights out and the people we live with and I make up stories to make my year sound boring as opposed to whatever it is that it has been. Eventually, he asks me if I’ll miss it all. I have to think a moment before answering. ‘Yeah. It’ll be weird not having your mates just down the road.’ He holds his hands aloft. ‘Are we not your pals?’ I laugh, refusing to fall for the ruse. No, I say, but, you know how it is, with everyone close by. Just won’t be the same. ‘Alright, Morbid Michael,’ he says, rolling his eyes. I’ve a bit of a reputation for the cynical back at home. ‘It’s not all over after Uni.’ ‘You’re right I say,’ thinking there is something after all this. But I’m not quite sure what it is. I ask him if he’s enjoyed it. ‘It’s been a ball,’ he says, drawling the words slowly, ‘weren’t all it was cracked up to be. But some of it’s been alright.’ ‘You still talk to Lucy?’ ‘Nah, sack that man, she can go fuck herself.’

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I laughed at his candour. My friend Mark comes and joins us, sweating and panting after running around for half an hour. He asks Ben to set him the snouts. Ben throws the pack and lighter over. He takes one, lights up, and returns them. ‘Quitting fags, yeah?’ Ben asks me, one loaded into his mouth. I sigh. ‘Trying. Figure I need to be a bit healthier.’ He cracks up in disbelief. ‘You running a marathon or something, Marcus.’ I smile, looking towards the other lads, still some way off, knocking the ball about. ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Of sorts.’ • It’s Easter Sunday, and we’re expected Ray and Co over in the not too distant future. Dad is banging on the door, asking me what I’m doing. ‘I’m shaving.’ ‘Well, hurry up,’ he says, ‘It’s not like you’ve more than bum fluff as it is.’ ‘You ain’t exactly Santa Claus yourself, Dad.’ ‘Eh, I had a beard once, a beard you could only dream of my boy.’ ‘I remember,’ I tell him, whilst focussing very hard on the slow motion of the razor, extra careful not to cut myself. ‘You looked like the Fat Controller. ‘Just hurry up. I need to get dressed.’ ‘Wanna look good for Ray?’ ‘Hurry up.’ I notice that I’ve stopped shaving. I am extra careful these days. Besides, I am no multi-tasker. I wait until I’m sure he’s gone and carry on with the job.

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I love Easter, there’s always loads of football. Mum has just yelled at me and Dad to stop watching Sky Sports News. Instead we must help get everything ready. Dad is clearly no longer in the honeymoon period of his convalescence. For once, Fergal is exempt, due to his GCSE’s. I help Dad pull out the extension on the dinner table, careful not to catch my fingers or thumb in the hinges. We start laying the table. ‘Have you thought about what you’re doing after university yet, Marcus?’ ‘I’m still thinking, Dad.’ ‘Any ideas?’ ‘Not yet.’ ‘I’m not pressing you son. It’s just harder than ever these days.’ ‘It’s not my fault.’ ‘No, it’s the bankers. But they’re not gonna get you a job to make up for it.’ ‘I know, I know, I’m just focusing on the exams for now, Dad. Forks go on the left,’ I say, pointing. ‘Lost generation,’ they’re calling you lot in the papers. ‘You’re unlucky. They reckon you’ll be working until eighty odd now.’ ‘It’s exaggerated, Dad, I’ll be fine.’ ‘Ay, well, good luck talking to Ray today. He’ll wanna plan your future out all afternoon.’ Dad’s right, Ray is interested in my plans. Luckily Fergal’s been getting a grilling about his A-Level choices; but eventually it’s my turn. ‘Have you thought about supermarkets?’ ‘It mightn’t be Cambridge, Ray,’ I say, ‘but I should be able to do more than push trolleys after I finish.’

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‘Management, Marcus,’ says Ray, with a stern, serious expression he reserves only for discussions on the world of work. ‘Supermarkets are looking for graduates. Great money.’ ‘Marcus doesn’t want to manage a supermarket, Ray,’ Mum says for me, and she couldn’t be more right. ‘It’s great money, eighty grand after you’re trained.’ ‘Yes, but money’s not everything. He might want to do something creative, or something he’s passionate about.’ ‘Fine, so, what are you passionate about, Marcus?’ says Ray, sarcastically. ‘Easter dinner,’ I say, holding up a slice of beef on my fork. Ray snorts. I tell him I don’t know. He just says well and I just say well back. ‘Ray,’ says Mum, in a calm though pressing tone. ‘remember what Dad was like.’ Ray goes quiet. Dad laughs at him silently when Mum’s not looking. Ray mouths for him to fuck off but gets clocked by Anita. ‘Anyway, both these lads have exams to do first.’ ‘So have these two,’ says Ray, looking either side of himself, at his two daughters. ‘And how’s it going girls?’ asks Mum. ‘Good,’ says Roisin, quietly. Collette nods inagreement. ‘They’re working very hard, Mary. Till nine or ten most nights. They’ve only taken today off.’ ‘Geeks,’ I say. ‘Marcus!’ snaps Mum. I can see Dad wants to laugh; but is duty bound to keep a straight face. Roisin, sour, as always, looks pissed. Collette’s always been my favourite of the two. My phone beeps just as Ray’s about to pipe up. ‘How come Marcus can answer his phone at dinner?’ says Roisin, about to pull hers from her pocket.

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‘I’m an adult.’ She’s about to respond when Ray turns to her. ‘Put that away, young lady.’ ‘Marcus, put that away,’ says Mum, looking embarrassed. I put the phone on my knee and continue eating. I press the button and read on the sly.

‘Hey, sorry I haven’t called. Nonna stayed longer than planned. Wasn’t too bad in the end. Fancy coming over later today? Sorry it’s short notice. Xx’ I nearly bang my fist against the table. I’m tempted to tell them I’ve been invited over by a girl. They’ll understand. Bollocks will they. Fucking religion, fucking tradition. Fucking lovely family meals. By the time I can leave it’ll be too late. I’m bitter, but I know I’m just acting the horny adolescent tit, like. I scroll down to Mum’s name in my address book and press the green button. It beeps in her pocket. She jumps up, startled, having forgotten to turn it off. ‘No phones at the table Mum,’ I say, winking at Ray. After dinner, I go up to the bathroom to reply:

‘Ah, I really want to come, but I’ve got family around for Easter. Ahh! My Mum’s a bit Catholic like that. I won’t be able to leave here until at least ten. Too late? You not home for Easter? xx’ After a couple of long minutes, there’s a reply. ‘That’s ok, I’ll probably just have a drink and go to bed. Just thought it’d be nice

to see you. No, we don’t really do Easter in my house, except for eggs. I could have stayed, but once my Nan went, I didn’t really want to be alone with my parents. Maybe we could meet tomorrow?’ ‘Definitely. What time? Where?’ ‘I’ll text or ring you in the morning. Goodnight xx.’

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I go back downstairs, where Mum and Anita are laying desserts. We’re spoilt for choice, there is more than enough for fifteen people, let alone eight. ‘So no girlfriend at school, Fergal?’ says Ray, smiling. Mum gives him a hard stare. ‘No.’ ‘Ray, shut up,’ I blurt out. It comes out all aggressive and I don’t mean it like that but I know Fergal, I know how this is making him feel. It’s Easter Sunday. He’s got exams, so have I. Being prodded about girls’ is the last thing on our minds.’ ‘I was your age once, Marcus,’ he says, ‘girls are the only thing on your mind. That’s why these two are at the Sacred Heart. No needs for distractions at school.’ ‘Yeah, separating the sexes, that’s natural. Funny how Sacred Heart has the highest pregnancy rate in North London,’ I say. The girls eyes search the floor for the possibility of a hole which may open, which may consume them and save them from embarrassment. But it doesn’t come. I feel sorry for them. But they’re stronger than Fergal, they can take the embarrassment more easily, they can take the hit to spare my little brother. ‘Football,’ Mum shouts, ‘Ray, you’re heading up to Manchester tomorrow for the game aren’t you?’ Dad’s nearly pissing himself. ‘Thanks,’ says Fergal, later on, after Ray and Co have gone. ‘For what?’ ‘That whole girlfriend thing, I hate it when he does that.’ ‘Don’t worry about Ray, he doesn’t mean to embarrass you. He’s too old to remember how awkward it feels.’ Fergal nods.

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‘You’ll pull sooner or later Gayboy,’ I say. He looks up. ‘There’s desperate girls too.’ I ruffle his hair. He pushes my hands away, but smiles, through gritted teeth. ‘Wanna play FIFA?’ he says. ‘Finally. I moved the Xbox to my room.’ We’ve been playing about ten minutes when my phone vibrates. I finish the game and go to my room.

‘Thanks for lying about the pub the other day.’ What does she mean?

‘Lying? What about?’ ‘You said they were cool about HIV. I went in and they got all funny. They asked me to leave. Told me about you, asked if we were together. I got totally humiliated. Cheers Marcus. Let’s not bother tomorrow.’ What the fuck? She actually went in there.

‘Clara, I’m really sorry, I didn’t meant to hurt you. Just thought it’d be better if you didn’t know how they reacted. They were pricks to me. I didn’t know you were gonna go in there. xx’ ‘So it’s my fault?’ ‘No, no, no, I just didn’t realise. Sorry for humiliating you xxx’ No reply. Three kisses might’ve been over the top as well. How I’ve reached the point where I’m apologising I don’t know. I’m fucked. I lay awake for two hours. Fuck it. I reach underneath my boxers. I’m too tense and upset not too. When I’ve finished, I hold the tissue there, careful not to let anything out. I scrunch it up and put it

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in the bag, tying it after. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll throw it out in the morning, before anyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s up. I go to the bathroom, and wash.

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20.

‘ It’s killing me, fella, I’m going nuts.’ I’ve just got back to the flat after the short hour and a half train journey back to Leamington. I’ve been in my room around ten minutes when my phone starts ringing. ‘Hello,’ ‘Hi,’ says Clara, at the other end, tentative like, an uncertainness in her voice. ‘Hello.’ ‘Marcus, I’m really sorry.’ ‘What for?’ ‘For getting mad with you.’ I look out the window. I must be a pretty odd sight, shaking my head passively, lips tightened in frustration. I’m not mad, or if I am it’s only at how things’ve panned out. ‘It’s ok,’ I say, running my finger along the blind above. There is a long pause. I apologise for upset her again, nearly biting off my own finger at having once again apologised for what wasn’t really my fault. But it’s just my way. ‘No, you were just trying to help. You had no idea I’d go there.’ ‘I should’ve just told you.’ ‘No, that would’ve ruined it. I had a nice day.’ I look at the restaurants outside. They are closed, they will not open until the evening. There are two, side by side; but both seem unhindered by the other. They are

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regularly full, from what I hear they are good, people come from outside towns to dine in them. Some nights I watch the customers, not so much in jealousy, but disbelief. At how little I took normality for granted. I will see a couple gaze lovingly, it is normal, I will see a middle aged woman take her mother out for an evening, it is normal. I will see groups of two, three, four, sometimes even just a one. And still, it is all so everyday and normal. And for the life of me I wish I could always feel so very normal. I wish I could take her to this restaurant and not think about what we feel we are now. She asks me if I want to come see her and I have to tell her I’m up in Leamington. She says of course of course, I forgot, you have exams soon don’t you and I say yes and for a moment that feels normal, I feel like just a normal student in a normal town living a normal life. But I know if it wasn’t for this life I lead, this thing I have, it wouldn’t feel such a crushing disappointment that I can’t go to Camden now. But, chin up, son, as they say, chin up. • ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, where is it?’ Sedge is running around the living room, an unfamiliar, wearing an uncharacteristic, frantic expression. And I know exactly why. ‘What you looking for?’ I ask. I’m sitting with Buggy, having a break from revision, playing a game of Feefs. ‘My Uni card.’ ‘Calm down,’ I tell him, ‘It’s bound to turn up.’ ‘Marcus, I need my Uni card or I can’t go to the library.’ ‘Why’s it up here?’ ‘I don’t know! I’ve searched everywhere. It has to be here.’ He tips over a few things on the table before storming back downstairs.

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It’s a few weeks into the term. I’ve been fairly good with my work. I’ve been talking to Clara a lot and wishing I could go down to London. But I’ve got to thinking that it mightn’t be a bad idea trying to get a somewhat decent mark in these exams. ‘That boy is stressed,’ says Buggy. ‘Aren’t you?’ ‘Yeah, but he’s going mental. Do you reckon it’s getting beyond funny now?’ ‘Yeah, let’s give it back or he’ll kill someone.’ Buggy takes Sedge’s Uni card from his pocket and shouts to the stressball to come upstairs. He holds it aloft as Sedge enters. ‘Where was it?’ ‘We moved the sofa’s back. Must have slipped off the table or something.’ ‘Ah, cheers fella, said Sedge. He stared at the fags. ‘Cigarette to celebrate?’ ‘You’re a cunt, Buggy,’ says Sedge, charging downstairs and out of the flat. The fear has hit, the exams are here. • The fear has hit me too. My exams are close, yet I can’t bring myself to work. I’ve been sitting at my desk for nearly two hours but the sum total of my revision has been reading two pages of text, from which nothing has gone in. I need a smoke. I know that inside my drawer, there is a ten deck. I know I promised Sedge I wouldn’t, I know I said we’d quit together. But he’ll never know. I take out the pack, put one in my mouth and spark the light. But the lighter is not close enough; and it is my hand which keeps it at a distance, centimetres, just centimetres from lighting up that stress busting snout. I drop the lighter. It clatters on my desk.

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Turning my palms, I look at the back of my hands, the veins protruding slightly. It’s not just this thing with Sedge, this isn’t why I’m trying to quit. I have to think of my health, more than your average twenty year old. So tempting, those white little sticks, so tempting. But temptation and reality are at war with each other; and this time I must allow reality to win. I put the fags back in my desk. As I do so, I hear a knocking sound coming from down the hallway. I step outside. It’s coming from Sedge’s room. His door is ajar. I walk in. He is tapping his feet frenetically, banging his head lightly against the desk. ‘Mate, you alright?’ He turns. There is hopelessness and desperation in his face. It is drained of its usual rosy pallor. He is actually physically drained with worry. ‘Marcus,’ he says, ‘I’m fucked. I’m so behind with work.’ ‘Same here.’ ‘They start in a week. I should never have gone out this year,’ he says, with a defiance that can only be equated to madness. ‘Should’ve focussed. Should’ve studied harder.’ I try to reassure him; but he simply goes on and on with his worry. ‘My Dad keeps ringing to see how I’m getting on. I called him a twat the other day. I called my Dad a twat, Marcus.’ ‘Christ.’ He puts his head in his hands, before slowly lowering his head onto the desk again. ‘Wait here,’ I say, walking back to my room. I return with my ten deck and a lighter. I throw them onto his desk. They land beside his elbow, still propping him up, just. . ‘I never finished them.’ ‘So?’

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‘Have ‘em mate.’ ‘Fella, we’ve come so far,’ he says. ‘You’ve not smoked have you?’ ‘No,’ I say, figuring it wouldn’t help to be honest for a change. ‘Sedge, you’re a wreck. You shouldn’t try quitting in the middle of exams. You need to relax. You only agreed to quit cos we tricked you into it.’ ‘Eh?’ ‘Whenever we tell you that you can’t do something, you insist you can. Because you’re a macho fool.’ ‘Eh?’ ‘Remember in first year, when we were playing football on the playing fields, and we said you couldn’t hit the crossbar from the halfway line?’ ‘Yeah,’ he says, smiling proudly, ‘I did it.’ ‘I’ll take your word for it. Point is, you didn’t come back to Rootes for over an hour. It’s unbelievably easy to make you do something. You just need to say one little word: can’t.’ His face is a mixture of agony, confusion and potential ecstasy as he looks at that ten deck, then at me, trying to comprehend it all. ‘What about you?’ he says, ‘What are you gonna do?’ ‘I’m going to stick to it,’ I say, ‘I’m going to quit.’ ‘It’s killing me, fella, I’m going nuts.’ ‘I know, look if it helps you be less stressed, just go for it.’ ‘But, what about-’ ‘Believe me,’ I say, ‘It’s not like I want to quit. But some of this HIV thing, I have to do on my own.’ As I leave, he is bent backwards on his chair, exhaling, long, extended drags of smoke rising from his mouth. Glad to have tamed the beast, I return to my room, in

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the hope that I will work, safe in the knowledge that Sedge is less likely to kill anyone during this exam period. • This term, I have worked hard. I have been diligent, as diligent as I came be given the circumstances. I have tried not to fall prey to distractions, I’ve tried to be a good little student. But today, with just a few days left before my first exam, I’ve cracked and I know it. ‘Hi, Clara, you free this evening?’ ‘Yeah, why?’ ‘I want come down,’ I say. I know it is madness. But I see everyone around me, waiting for these exams to be over so they can feel sane again. I just need to feel me again. ‘Can I stay at yours? We can go out, get something to eat, go for a drink.’ I’m surprised by her enthusiasm when she responds. She says yes immediately. Unfortunately, she remembers my exams. She asks me if I’m sure and I tell her it’ll be fine, I tell her I’m well ahead on the work and I put on a voice that is believable to both her and myself ‘Alright, when will you be down?’ ‘A couple of hours.’ ‘Great.’ Packing I night bag, I pause briefly, looking down at my crotch. It’s going to happen, I tell myself. It’s going to happen. I am putting a book into my bag when Stan texts me.

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‘Hi mate, I took out a short loan book, thought I’d brought it with me but forgot. Think it’s on the table upstairs. Could you check?’ I walk upstairs. Whatever it is that’s going on up there doesn’t sound good. I enter the living room. Tim is sitting on the couch, his hand on Adrian’s shoulder. I need no telling. Too tired to bawl, too sad not to weep. My friend Adrian has just had his heart broken. ‘Gemma broke up with him,’ says Tim. ‘Oh, Ades,’ I say, ‘fuck.’ I I walk over, placing my hand on his other shoulder. He weeps, on, on, on, saying nothing. And we say nothing because there’s fuck all of any use that could be said. He’s three days before his first exam. I text Stan to say the book was there. I tell him what’s happened. In between tears, all we get from him is surprise and shock. He hasn’t seen it coming. After a while, I go downstairs. Sedge and Stan are on their way back. He’ll probably feel overcrowded with the lot of us here. I’m packing another couple of books into my bag and I am telling myself everything that could feasibly serve as an excuse not to stay but I know that if I, Marcus Stone, am not to be a complete chief, I cannot go down to London. I pick up my phone. ‘Clara?’ ‘Hey, are you on your way?’ ‘Clara, I’m really sorry.’ ‘What? What now, Marcus?’ ‘I can’t come?’ ‘Why?’ ‘My housemate just got dumped. He’s in pieces.’

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She says nothing. ‘There’s nothing I want more than to come down, but, it’s not fair to him.’ ‘Not fair to him?’ ‘I know, I’m really sorry, I’m letting you down.’ ‘It’s fine,’ she says brusquely, sighing. I apologise again. She says no, it’s fine, again, with that world weary tone girls have perfected, which indicates that you are well and truly fucked for reasons beyond your comprehension. I say we’ll talk later and she says maybe and then when I say goodbye she hangs up. A few minutes later, and she’s calling back. ‘God, Marcus, I’m so sorry. I’m being a twat, it’s your mate.’ ‘Yeah,’ I say. I’m not just letting her off the hook. She’s no idea how much I want to head down the London; but, I can’t leave him in this state. ‘I just, want us to meet up again soon. I’m lonely. Sorry.’ ‘Me too,’ I say. ‘But Adrian’s been good to me with everything that’s happened.. I’d look a right dick if I left now.’ With sincerity, she tells me it’s fine, it’s cool. I say I’ll call her later if I can. We say our goodbyes. I sit on my bed, head-in-hands gutted like. I unzip my jeans and put my right hand down my boxers because it’s sure as hell all I’m going to be getting today.

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21.

‘Nah, don’t like eating anything shapes liked bears. Reminds me of my teddy.’ We ask Adrian if he wants to talk it over in the pub; but he just wants to go to bed. ‘It’s out of order,’ says Becky. She’s sitting on our sofa. I expected her to be the devil’s advocate, given her friendship with Gemma, but her arms are crossed like bones and she shakes her head furiously every time she speaks. ‘You spoken to Gemma?’ ‘She keeps ringing,’ says Becky, without fully answering. ‘Proper cuntish,’ says Buggy. ‘I might go check on her later, but I’m really pissed off.’ ‘She say anything about why?’ ‘Oh, they’ve been in trouble for ages. Gemma said it’d gone too far, she just couldn’t put up with it anymore.’ She lays the back of her hand on the table, between a coffee cup and Sedge’s can of Fosters. ‘She could have waited a few weeks.’ ‘I thought they were set on moving in together,’ says Buggy, opening up a new can for himself and putting his feet up on the table. ‘She wanted to a few month back,’ said Becky, ‘But, I don’t know. Maybe she was just trying to tell herself everything was still good.’ Seeing the end of the world look in Adrian’s eyes’s got me thinking. If I’m to live, to live something that could be called a life, I’d better start giving a fuck about my future.

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If someone’d told me I’d a future back in September, I would’ve lamped them. Back then, I was dying, I was sure of it. Those good seconds, those good minutes, well, to be honest, they’ve started turning into good days and bad days after all. It broke my heart, HIV, but it’s starting to heal. So, that evening, I work, I work hard, leaving my door open just in case Adrian wanders out and wants to talk. In the morning, Adrian refuses to stick around with us, he’s determined to go to campus and work. We force him to go for a fry up, which I realise is the last thing he needs, all that publicity and public. But we’re trying. In the end, he heads onto campus with Sedge, in the hope of taking his mind off things. He keeps apologising to me, for sobbing when ‘you’ve got’… He always tails off at the end. Yeah, I guess my life is more screwed up than his; but, well, no one likes hearing the same record over and over, least of all me. The boy’s a mess and it’s fair fucks that he’s bawling. The timing couldn’t be worse. Even though they make you numb, make you stop eating, make you want to stop living, broken hearts don’t rank so high on the list of excuses acceptable to the exam board. • It’s odd having the six of us in one place, but we’ve persuaded Adrian to get out of the house. The pub’s quiet. It’s a small place off the back streets, a place I’d gone to with Sedge once, back when I still wanted to avoid big crowds of people. A couple of old boys look over at us. We must look right fairies to them, rubbing Adrian’s arm, consoling him.

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‘Things’d been a bit rough,’ he says, ‘but I thought it’d go away.’ ‘Did you say anything?’ ‘No, I just thought it was the exams and stuff like that. I didn’t realise she was thinking about us.’ ‘You spoken to her?’ Tim asks. ‘No.’ ‘Good. Probably best to leave it that way for a bit.’ ‘Were you not shagging?’ asks Sedge. We glare at him. ‘What?’ he says, ‘Something’s not right if you’re not doing it.’ ‘Two months,’ Adrian whispers; and a strange silence descends. ‘Fuck,’ says Tim, slowly drawling out the words. ‘Did you say anything?’ ‘I tried,’ he says. He sweeps his long raven shaded fringe from his eyes. ‘But there was always some excuse.’ He takes a small, meditative sip. ‘Guess I didn’t really want to bring it up. Maybe I knew. But, I was telling myself it was just these exams. She was really stressed.’ ‘Gemma does Early Childhood Studies doesn’t she?’ ‘Sedge!’ says Buggy. ‘Sorry fella.’ Adrian lets out a dry life. ‘No, it’s true. She had like three hours of lectures a week. What kind of excuse is that?’ ‘Tis a pony one mate,’ I say, ‘tis a pony one.’ The boys head out for a fag, leaving just myself and Stan with Adrian. ‘Has Becky spoken to her?’ he asks Stan.

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‘A bit. Not much, Gemma keeps ringing her, so she went round last night, but she’s really angry.’ Though it’s clear to the rest of us, Adrian can’t see it, can’t see how badly she’s treated him. He knows it; but he just won’t let it sink in, he can’t. He says things like I should’ve done more or if I hadn’t done this. And I realise how hard it must have been for the guys, trying to relate to what I had. They can roll out every soothing platitude in the book for Adrian, they’ve experience in the field. But, what do you say to a man who thought he was dying? I get a text from Clara.

‘Hey, how’s it going?’ I slink outside now the boys are back. ‘Hey, how’s it going? Sorry I didn’t call earlier.’ ‘That’s alright, how’s your friend?’ ‘Pretty shit still, but, we made him go out for a pint.’ ‘Cool, how was it?’ ‘Well, we’re still out. We didn’t want him sitting around alone all night.’ ‘You’re such good friends.’ I feel guilty because I can’t be there with her, friend or otherwise. But I know I’ve made the right choice. I had to make the right choice. HIV or no HIV, there’s no excuse for being a chief. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask. ‘Yeah, course,’ she says. The eagerness with which she speaks is endearing. I appreciate her trying to sound fine when I know she is most probably lonely. ‘So, I better let you get back but, talk tomorrow?’ ‘Yeah, sure.’

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She says goodbye and hangs up. I go back inside. Stan has gone for a fag and left his wallet. I’ll get the next one, I promise; but it’s conveniently placed. I get Adrian a pint in. • After his first exam, Adrian’s a bit cheerier, says it went well; but he says he’s still feeling wank. So he’s decided he’ll head home for a few days to see his folks. No one’s said it aloud but there’s an air of relief in the house. We’ve all fallen further behind with our work and it’ll give us a chance to catch up. Still, we decide to keep him company this evening before he heads home. We’re in Costcutters on campus, deciding which beer and snacks to get him. ‘Get Pom Bears,’ I say, ‘He likes those doesn’t he?’ ‘Yeah, dunno why,’ says Sedge. ‘Pom bears are sick,’ says Tim. ‘Nah, I don’t like eating anything shaped liked bears. Reminds me of my teddy.’ ‘What about gummy bears?’ ‘Nope. Nope,’ says Sedge, shaking his head, ‘I find it weird.’ ‘Huh. Never knew that about you.’ ‘Yup. I’ll eat those piggy gummy things. They’re ace. But I eat pork, so it’s cool.’ I’m so busy laughing at Sedge’s logic that I don’t even notice Gemma creep up to us. ‘Hi, guys.’ ‘Alright,’ we mumble in unison. ‘How is he?’ ‘Shit.’ says Tim. She shifts her feet, gazing at the biscuits to avoid us.

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‘It’s not as simple as you think, guys. It hadn’t been working for ages.’ ‘You don’t love him,’ says Tim, blunt as butter. ‘Seems simple enough. But you’ know how hard he’s worked for these exams. Couldn’t you have waited a few weeks?’ ‘I’ve got exams too.’ ‘So, it’s all about you?’ ‘No, I-’ ‘No, Gemma, he’s fucked now. And it’s all your fault. You could’ve waited. Exams are a great excuse not to see each other for a few weeks. But you just thought about yourself.’ ‘That’s not fair. I didn’t want to hurt him. It’s more complicated than that.’ ‘No it’s not. You don’t dump someone days before their first exam. It’s just a dick thing to do.’ Gemma gets bold all of a sudden, her face flushed with a mixture of public embarrassment and anger. She points at me, whilst speaking to Tim. ‘Oh, and you’re so perfect. Where were you this year when Marcus got HIV?’ It is loud. It is clear. Her finger, rigid but shaking, is still pointing in my direction. People are staring. I shake my head. Tim walks inches from her face. She steps slightly back. He’s so close, you know she can feel his breath on her face. ‘I was a ghost. A pathetic, weak, ghost. Don’t try and compare yourself to me, Gemma. You’re a whole different breed of prick. Now fuck off.’ She runs out of the store. He turns to me, his neck taut with anger, the skin reddened. He asks if I’m alright. I think I’m alright; but I start to feel the eyes floating back towards me. It’s emasculating, it strips me. I think of Adrian, sitting on the couch, alone, thinking about this girl, thinking that maybe she’ll come back to him still. ‘Come on, let’s buy the stuff before he changes his mind and goes home tonight.’

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• ‘Weren’t you embarrassed when they all found out?’ says Buggy. ‘Nah.’ ‘Seriously? I’d be fucking humiliated.’ ‘And you walked past them all today?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘What happened? ‘They were laughing at me.’ ‘And that didn’t bother you?’ ‘Nah, what’s the worst that can happen?’ says Sedge. ‘Nothing embarrasses you does it?’ I say, ‘all her housemates know you threw up on her, and you sit down and talk to them.’ ‘Firstly, mate, I didn’t throw up on her, I threw up next to her. Big difference. And they’re nice girls, they understand.’ Buggy chuckles, his big red cheeks nearly reaching his eyes. ‘It were banter. They just rinsed me about it. Her friend Jenny didn’t look too impressed. But she’s a bitch.’ ‘You did throw up in her mate’s room.’ ‘Not her room, though. She claimed she heard it. Bollocks.’ ‘Was Patty there?’ ‘No, we haven’t spoken yet. But her mates’ll put in a good word. I told them I wanted to take her out to dinner to say sorry.’ ‘Such a sweetie.’ ‘I’ll get those arms before the years out.’ The lads talk on. I try to involve myself; but there’s something nagging at me. What Gemma said won’t go away.

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Strangely, it’s not the being outed that bothers me. Of course I’m upset but I can handle myself. Besides, Uni’s almost over. What bothers me is how I felt instantaneously drained of all masculinity, as soon as she said the words. It reminded me of what I’ve tried to forget and it’s made me feel asexual, incomplete. I try and I try but the thought just won’t go away. • I’m lying in bed. It’s ten in the morning. I’ve one day before my first exam. I have been trying to revise more and more as they have been approaching. But like a bell jar, the familiar thoughts that have been racing through my mind persist, unceasing, unyielding. I beg for a minute’s peace, beg that I might be granted a respite in order to get some work done. But whatever I have been reading hasn’t consciously gone in; and if it has gone in, well, if it has gone in I’ll be fucking surprised. I’ve jacked off. I’ve had a beer. I know, it’s ten am; but things are getting desperate. After all, I’ve not smoked, I deserve some credit. I was in the pub the other night, with Tim. Yeah, we’ve been getting on recently. I know and he knows, things aren’t the same; but it’s been better. We got to talking about Clara. I didn’t mention that I’ve spoken to her, that I’ve seen her. He asked what I’d do if I ever came face to face with her and I just said dunno mate dunno. Madness, isn’t it? Me and Clara hanging out. I pick up my phone. I call the girl who gave it to me. I call Clara. Pretty Clara. She picks up. ‘Hey, you alright,’ she says. ‘Hey.’ ‘What’s up?’

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‘Oh, nothing,’ I say, unsure why I’ve called, my hand having decided for me. ‘just, wanted to say hello.’ ‘Ah, that’s nice. How’s the work going?’ ‘Good,’ I lie. ‘Got my first exam tomorrow.’ ‘I know, I know,’ she says, eager, all familiar like. It excites me, it scares me. I have not known this warmth for quite a time. I know, it is perverse, I have brought the girl who has drawn me towards hell into my life; but, somehow, it is her, Clara, who might save me from the darkness. Well, all I can say is, life’s an odd one every now and then. ‘What are you up to this evening?’ I ask. ‘Oh, just watching TV,’ she says. ‘Nothing special. Catching up on all the classics though.’ ‘Strictly, x factor, Talent?’ I say, the words coming out lacquered in sarcasm and she knows it. She tells me to do one, mimicking my accent as she does. All I want is for to be in London. ‘So, do you feel ready?’ she asks me. ‘For what?’ ‘For your exam, stupid. Do you think you’re prepared?’ I pause, ever so briefly and she jumps the gun. ‘Do you want me to go? Am I distracting you?’ ‘No, no,’ I say, scared she’ll hang up without saying goodbye. ‘I never revise the night before an exam. I try to relax.’ ‘Well that’s dumb. Go revise.’ The seconds tick and tick before she cracks into laughter. She tells me she’s joking, she tells me to do whatever I need to be prepared. She wishes me luck on the exam and we talk a while longer and I push my foot against my drawer so’s to prevent

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myself from pulling out my national rail card because I want to be near her now more than anything because she is comfort to me and I am glad to have found her, perverse as that may sound. • I try to revise; but it doesn’t work and I decide my usual plan is best. I’ll relax for the rest of the day. Still, I feel anxious, uncomfortable in my own body, my own presence. I take a walk. I cross the blue bridge. It vibrates despite the lightness of my footfalls. There’s no one on it. The weather is warm. I think of that day and if nothing else, I’m glad it’s warm today. There was a chill that day, which is odd, because, thinking back, the rest of that week was warm, unseasonably so for September. August weather. Old school August weather. I watch the swans on the river, fingers curled around the green fencing. I’m thinking of what lies ahead and what I may have recovered in my life when I see a familiar figure in the distance. I wander over to Sweet Chris. ‘Alright, mate, what you doing here?’ He turns. He looks pale, distressed. ‘Oh, I couldn’t revise anymore. I’m petrified.’ ‘About the exams.’ He laughs a little. ‘Yeah.’ I see his mouth dare to say something along the lines of oh sorry I know I shouldn’t be complaining what with what…. But he doesn’t do it and I’m grateful for that. ‘They’ll be alright, mate. Everyone’s stressed, they’ll be done soon and you’ll be sound.’

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A swan starts making that noise, whatever it is they make. Quacking? I don’t think so, that’s ducks. I’ve been tried to think of the vacuous and meaningless of late, to distract myself because I know I’m stressed too, even if the exams have become of secondary importance. Sweet Chris exhales heavily. ‘Hey, Chris, this’ll take your mind of exams for a minute.’ ‘What?’ he says, turning to face me properly for the first time. He has lazy, relaxed blue eyes which betray the general skittishness of his person. They are innocent, they are welcoming, they are blue and calm. ‘What if I told you I’d met the girl who gave me HIV?’ I say, unable not to check around for people as the words escape. ‘Really?’ ‘Yeah. I went and found her.’ He waits for me to go on. ‘In Camden. I went to her place to see her.’ ‘Why? What happened?’ ‘Why? Shit, I don’t know why. Or I didn’t then. Just had to, I suppose. I think I needed to see her to get my head straight. Turns out she’s not so bad.’ He brushes a strand of hair behind his ear and hands me a rolly which he’s been preparing throughout. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Well, she’s kind of cool,’ I say, knowing it probably sounds weird to him because it sure as hell sounds odd to me; but it’s just how things stand. ‘She’s, alright.’ ‘You like her?’ ‘Yeah. She’s hot.’ He shrugs. ‘Well, it’s not like she knew is it?’ ‘No, but, don’t you think it’s weird?’ He picks a flower off of the ground and starts peeling away the petals.

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‘Well, Marcus, I guess nothing in your life’s quite normal.’ He smiles at me. ‘But you always liked to be different.’ We stand a while, listening to the silence, smoking our cigarettes, watching the water bathing in the sunlight. ‘So, what about you?’ he says at last, ‘are you stressed?’ ‘Oh yeah,’ I say, lethargic, like. ‘About the exams?’ I stub my cigarette out and speak through the smoke of my last drag. ‘No, I guess not.’ • The morning comes. My exam is today. I twitch, I click, I tap, I tut. I’ve hardly slept. I’m packing my bag, getting ready to head to campus. I receive a text.

‘Good luck today! I’m sure you’ll do great. Let me know how it goes xxx .’ I close Clara’s message. I go to the kitchen. Sedge is milling around, preparing his lunch. He has been a stress ball all term but for some reason he appears calm today, ready. ‘You want a lift in, mate?’ he says I look out of the skylight. I can see all across Leamington, this home from home that won’t be home for so much longer, this place of memory and hurt and love and laughter. ‘No,’ I say. ‘My exams not until the afternoon. Cheers though.’ He pats me on the back. He wishes me luck and I wish him the same. He leaves.

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Staring, staring, I hold an unlit cigarette. I throw it out the skylight, down onto the street, so’s not to crack. I look at the red rooftops. I browse my memory. There is much to remember of this place, there is much to be grateful for. There is something missing. Fuck it. 22.

‘ Yes.’ Up and down, up and down. That’s the memory I have of train journeys as I could, riding into London, scared of the darkness, my mother telling me everything was okay, that there was nothing to be afraid of. Riding the Chiltern, everything is different. If I shut my eyes, I barely remember I’m on a train. The journey is so smooth. The tranquillity is interrupted only by the machine in my pocket. I take it out. The text, this time, is from Mum.

‘Good luck today, darling. Hope it all goes well. So proud of you. Xx’ Perhaps I’ve made a big mistake. Of course I’ve made a big fucking mistake. But I have to. I need to go back to the last place I saw Marcus Stone. The front door opens. She stands there. She is taken aback, her eyes are widened like never before. She says my near, almost gasping it out. I walk inside the doorway and I kiss her, long, till we both depart each others mouths’ for air. ‘Your exam?’ she says, stepping back, her hands flat against my chest.

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‘Yes,’ I say, ‘My exam.’ And again, we find ourselves kissing. Almost preternaturally, I kick the door shut behind me. We stumble up the stairs, one by one struggling to ascend without unlocking limb and lip. I am kissing the nape of her neck. She giggles, half shrugging me off as she pushes the key into the door. I’m not afraid. We fall through it, onto the floor, grappling, tussling, kissing, the door still open and yet still, I’m not afraid. She rips my shirt off. I nearly laugh, thinking it a cliché but it’s been a whilef or her, I suppose. I remove her cardigan and the white and blue t-shirt restraining her, restraining me from knowing her fully once again. I roll over. She’s on top of me. She bends down, kissing my neck, my chest, my nipples. She knows everything and yet she kisses on. We know the truth, we know what we are and yet it is continuing and it is fine and I fear nothing. Grabbing her side, I pull myself up. I kiss her mouth, holding my head, clasping the fine hair. I feel such strength, with her weight balancing in my arms. I roll her over; but she wriggles away from me. I fall on my chin .Dumbfounded, I look up. She is standing at her bedroom door, smiling. She turns, unclipping her bra. The hook dangles apart, the bra still on, as she walks into the room and out of view. I follow.

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Gliding my tongue over her skin, I find it new, rewarding. I realise I have next to no memory of the last time. This pleases me. It is pale, not like my pale, but pale, or cream like. It is hard, down there, as she strokes the tough denim around my fly. She undoes the buckle, urging me to rid myself of the jeans. She pulls down my boxers, holding the shaft, pulling slowly back and forth. She does this a long while. Eventually, she wraps her mouth around it, after looking at me a moment, perhaps with a grain of doubt. I groan. I feel her head bobbing up and down. I slide my right hand down to her breast. She grabs it, aggressive, authoritative. She withdraws and lays back, panting, waiting. I crawl over. Lowering myself, I’m about to enter when she stops me with a hard push of the hand. ‘Wait!’ ‘What?’ ‘Condom, Marcus?’ she says. ‘Oh, right,’ I say. ‘I mean, we both have…’ ‘Babies, Marcus,’ she sighs. ‘Babies’ ‘Oh, yeah,’ I say, hovering above her like an ill prepared, ignorant virgin. She smiles. ‘Idiot.’ She points to a jar at the far end of the room. I walk over. There are three. I take one out and unwrap it. Sliding it on, I lead my hands slowly along her thigh. I part her legs with a short, sharp, and, I hope, passionate movement.

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Entering, my first thought is not excitement or pleasure, which are bountiful; but freedom. After this time, it is freedom I feel. And then satisfaction, as I hear her sigh. She turns her head to one side, gripping the bed the sheet. Her body moves with mine as I gradually surge, faster and faster. She wraps her legs tight around me, so tight I can feel the moist warmth of her thighs as they cross my back. She screams, hungrily, happily. My breathing gets heavy, animalistic, heated. She whispers yes, yes, yes, louder and louder. She ascends into a pleasured groan, all the while my surging twinned with deeper, faster, more primal gasps. I turn her over entering from behind. We grow louder and louder together, almost screeching as we approach climax. In between the deafening pleasure, I can hear her tell me she has nearly arrived, she is nearly there, as am I. And then we come. Each pore seeps, each muscle is exhausted. I lay back. Looking down, I can see that for all its pathetic wares, the shrivelled mess feels itself again, satiated. I have release, I am reclaimed. I cradle her in my arms, still gasping, panting. For a moment, I think she is crying, but, like me, she is happily spent of breath, restored and replenished of hope. • ‘Sorry I didn’t think to put a condom on,’ I say, as we sit up, lying in bed. ‘So,’ she smiles, ‘you were planning on doing that all the way down from Leamington?’ I twist my head.

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‘Confident,’ she says. ‘That’s alright. It was kind of nice telling you to wear one. Reminded me what daft pricks you can be.’ She holds the cover above her chest, smoking with her free hand. After all that’s happened, it seems odd her holding the cover like that and it makes me laugh. Pregnant, I forgot I could get a girl pregnant. It must feel good for her too, knowing everything still works, that the engines there, like, even if it the car mightn’t ever get driven. ‘Thanks for coming to see me,’ she says, stroking my arm, her head laid against my chest. Suddenly, she starts up. ‘But what about your exam? What’s going to happen.’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Marcus, this could ruin your whole degree.’ I sit slightly further up. ‘I had to see you.’ ‘But Marcus-’ ‘What? I finish the exams, go back to feeling the way I did when I woke up.’ I turn to look at her. ‘You know the feeling, don’t you?’ ‘Yes,’ she whispers, her voice pained and coarse. I lay down again, entreating her to put her head against my chest. ‘I’ll figure it out, Clara,’ I say, ‘But I’m not going to pretend like this was a bad idea.’ •

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I want to stay the night but she reminds me the ladsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll definitely notice if Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m gone for the evening. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s still early afternoon and I can get back to Leam before anyone notices a thing. As I walk up Camden High Street, towards the station, I feel myself again, or as close to that self which I ever can. And at the same time, there are parts of that Marcus I was I am glad to have left behind. Parts of me other than this cunt of a disease have changed over the year. As I walk up the street, I am happy with the Marcus walking in these shoes.

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23.

‘ If I use it once, I’ll fall back on it all my life.’ I walk through the corridor. It is exceptionally quiet, even for the summer months, when virtually no one other than post grads needs to be in the Social Studies buildings. Three years of corridor walks ghost through my mind as I approach Malcolm’s door. I knock; and the voice inside tells me to enter. He swivels in his chair as I walk inside. ‘Marcus.’ ‘Hi.’ ‘Guess you’re here to tell me why you weren’t in the exam yesterday.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Rendering all my hours of marking and tuition completely useless.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Except the hours you didn’t show up for this year. Which was most.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Go on then.’ I freeze. I haven’t thought that far. I just planned to come and see Malcolm, hoping it’d all turn out okay. Granted, as battle plans go, it ain’t bullet proof. ‘Marcus?’ ‘I just, missed it.’ ‘Alright,’ he says, shrugging. Over the course of the year, I’ve started casting him as the smug academic. But I know, I’ve let him down. He always put his faith in me. ‘It’s just a pity he says. I thought you could’ve done well. But, it’s your degree.’

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I stand, waiting to be berated; but it doesn’t come. The look he holds is one that could be misread as disinterest. But it is failure, it is my failure I read on his face, the disappointment of failed expectation. ‘How do you just miss an exam?’ I feel I may as well lie now, I may as well give him every reason I can to truly regret ever having seen something in me. ‘I had a few last night,’ I say, ‘Nerves. Guess I hit it a bit hard.’ He rises. ‘In two years, I reckon I’ve seen you less than half the time I should. You’re a piss artist. I know the kind, I was one.’ He picks a book off his shelf, leafs through the pages without reading a word, before dropping it on his desk. ‘You’re lying though. Don’t give me nerves, you don’t know the meaning.’ ‘You’ve fucked around this year. But you’re a natural. If you wanted you could be something; but you’re happy to coast. Still, I don’t believe for a second you’d trhow away a two one just like that. You don’t give enough of a fuck to come in here and tell me it was nerves, Marcus. What the hell happened?’ I look around the room. To my left is a shelf, chock full of books, of all genres. I can tell his interests are not limited to his field of study. On his desk there are lots of photos. He has travelled this world. In one he is smiling with a young woman. Both of them are wearing sunglasses and backpacks. I can tell from its position on the desk, neither at the front nor hidden away, that they are friends and never lovers. It’s placing is too inauspicious. There’s a quote from The Wire above his computer screen. I laugh. I tell him I’ve seen it and we are distracted a moment by idle chit chat about the show. But the ruse fails, he clocks my stalling and despite my best efforts returns us to the crux of the matter.

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‘Marcus, what’s going on? If you have a decent recent why this happened, I need to know so I can tell the department.’ I stand there, like a little boy, staring at the soles of my converse. It feels as if the sleeves of my hoody are growing over the hands as I shrink into myself. ‘I have a good reason,’ I say. My muscles, what muscles I have in this perturbed, delicate body of mine, tense up. I try to find the right words. But it is so very hard. ‘I think I do. It’s just, I don’t want to use it.’ ‘Why?’ he asks. I can’t see his face, yet I can feel his body reacting to my words, his eyes narrowing, his mouth pursing, his mind racing. ‘Because,’ I say, lifting my head to face him. ‘If I use it once, I’ll fall back on it the rest of my life. Any time something goes wrong, any time I need something, I’ll use it.’ ‘Marcus, what is it?’ he says, with almost a half measure of irritation entering his voice. ‘If there’s a good reason why this happened, I need to know now? What’s going on? Is everything alright at home?’ ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘well, actually, my Dad had a heart attack a few months back.’ A look of both surprise and realisation appears on his face and I am quick to dispel it. ‘He’s fine, he’s fine,’ I say, ‘it was mild. He’s been off work, but he’s alright, he’s on the mend.’ Malcolm looks at me sympathetically, as if not quite believing that this isn’t the answer as to why everything’s happened. ‘So that’s why you missed the exam?’ ‘No.’ ‘Are you sure?’

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It would be easy to just say yes. He wouldn’t even question why I’ve denied it in the first place. It would be so easy. But it’s not the truth. The truth is rarely fun. But it’s right. ‘I missed the exam because I was in London.’ ‘And?’ ‘I was fucking a girl.’ He sits down, confused in a way I can tell is rare for him, stupefied even. ‘That’s the excuse you’re going to fall back on all your life?’ he says, with almost a hint of sarcasm. ‘It’s not that straightforward is it?’ Tell me it’s not that straightforward,’ he says, nearly pleading. ‘I wish. It’s not.’ I ball my fists. I take a deep, heavy breath and I say it. ‘She’s got HIV.’ His eyes widen. ‘So do I,’ I add. ‘I caught it off her last August.’ His mouth opens slightly in shock. ‘I found out just before term one. Went a bit mental, but, since I told my mates, it’s got better.’ ‘Marcus, I-’ I put my hand up. I want him to hear the words from my mouth exactly as they are coming out now, without interruption. I need him to know the real reason I didn’t turn up yesterday, in full. ‘But, I couldn’t focus. I tried telling myself it was exam stress, but it wasn’t. It was something else. I didn’t plan on going there, but, I did. Sounds kind of stupid doesn’t it? Skipping an exam so I could do something to make me feel alright about doing exams?’ He thinks a moment, looks at his screen briefly and then turns to face me again. ‘Well, badly put,’ he says, ‘but not so odd. Or at least, not so simple.’

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He clasps his hands together. I feel guilt for the shock I have brought him all of a sudden. He was probably working away nice and quiet and peaceful before I came in. ‘So, you’ve had this all year?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘I’m sorry to hear this, Marcus.’ ‘Me too,’ I say, with a laugh, ‘saying it all again reminds me what this years’ been like.’ ‘You know, your attendance wasn’t great last year. Why was that?’ ‘Razzed it, mostly. It was second year.’ He smiles. ‘Never did believe your emails about twisted ankles the morning of seminars, or sick uncles.’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘This explains your little outburst to Dominic.’ ‘Sorry about that, too.’ ‘It’s alright, he’s a pain in the arse,’ he says, waving his hand dismissively. ‘Marcus, I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through all this. Why didn’t you tell us before the exam?’ ‘Because I don’t want it to be a crutch. It’s not like I couldn’t have done the exam. I chose not to.’ ‘Like I said, it’s not simple, but it might’ve helped. Do you still want to do it?’ ‘If I could.’ ‘Well, even with this in light, they won’t let you sit it. Bureaucracy. Unless you leave the exam and go straight to the doctor for a note, it won’t fly. You would have had to have told us months ago. And now you’d have an unfair advantage. I know that probably sounds a bit rich.’ ‘Seems reasonable enough.’

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He pauses for thought. He stands up and starts waving his finger, looking around as if he’s lost something. ‘Remember when you came to see me back in, March, was it?’ ‘No.’ He starts pushing papers off his desk. They fall dramatically on the ground, ending up in a disorganised heap. He starts to throw the books from the shelves onto the floor. His tidy office is soon a shit tip. Anything he can think of ends up on the ground. Some of it must be off importance to his research. ‘Malcolm.’ ‘Yeah,’ he says, still looking around the floor. ‘I remember now. You came to tell me about your Dad’s heart attack. How you had to go home. And I asked you a few weeks ago if you were alright to do the exam, and you said you’d try your best.’ I look at him, confused. ‘So stupid of me. We even wrote down a note so I’d remember in case something like this happened.’ He shoots me a smile. ‘I’ve been meaning to tidy this office for ages. As soon as we find that note we wrote in March, I’ll take it to the exam board.’ ‘Malcolm, you can’t, you’ll get in loads of shit.’ He shrugs. ‘They might not buy it now. But if it’s not your fault, there’s a chance.’ ‘Malcolm.’ He sits down, gets a scrap of paper, and starts writing. ‘See it as a favour to me,’ he says, with a smile. ‘They make my life hell all year. I should be able to have a little fun with them.’

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‘Thank you, Malcolm,’ I say. My throat is a lump. I try to thank him again but it is painful; and if I speak, I know I will flood tears. He makes me sign the bottom of the note and dates it. He places it on his desk and wipes some dust from his computer screen. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Marcus, ok?’ I nod. I can’t bring myself to speak but thanks be to God, I think he knows why. I walk down the corridor for perhaps the last time, knowing there are friends in this world, knowing I have friends outside of Regents Place, knowing perhaps there are more to come, there are people to meet and there are people not to fear and who will not fear me.

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24.

‘ Yes, but I’m your badger.’ Results are three days away. Everyone’s finished now. The University accepted my excuse; but I can’t do a retake until the summer, with a new paper. But at least I can do it. They apologised for the error and the stress I must’ve gone through over Dad’s heart attack. I didn’t want this as my excuse, but was Malcolm’s idea. He’s in a heap of shit over it, he’ll be on probation a good while. He laughed it off, saying he enjoyed causing the Uni trouble. But I know he’s done me a solid here, I know it’s more than just a favour. He could’ve ruined his career. I’ve told the lads about Clara, all of them. They are staying at my house, before we all head back to get our results. When I say they, I mean everyone, the St. Mary’s lot included. When I said I’d like a couple of the boys to visit, Dad insisted I have as many as I like. He’s been chirpy as fuck the last few weeks. I watch as he asks my friends about their courses. He is out of his depth; but he tries and I appreciate it. Soon enough, Sedge returns him to his comfort zone and they talk about football for a long time. We are in a club. I am excited; because she is coming to meet us. She arrives. She seems nervous. ‘You ok?’ I ask. ‘Yes,’ she says, sliding her hand into mine. ‘I think so,’ she adds, taking in the club. She turns. I kiss her.

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She dances with my friends. Tim makes her do a two step with him, which is ill fitting in a dark and dinky indie bar. She smiles. I watch and I smile and I am glad to have him back to himself again. • Results day comes and goes. We all achieve the 2:1 Sedge isn’t so disappointed after having learnt that we tricked him into aiming for a first. ‘It was always in the bag,’ he says of his 2:1, as if he’s gone through the whole thing without any stress whatsoever. Everyone is glad, and relieved, to see Adrian get his 2:1. He was back for a couple of nights; but he’s moved home now, to begin the long process of recovery which broken hearts somehow require. Things start to peter out as the days pass. I’ve got enough for a 2:1 in my other modules, but I’ll have to sit that exam before I can graduate. I worry about telling Mum and Dad. The truth that is. In a way it’s god. That day’s been coming. The timing feels right. I got through the year. If I don’t open up now, I’ll have to pretend it was Dad’s heart attack that caused all this and I’m not doing that. I couldn’t have told them before. Not when I felt as far removed from who I am as I did. Now I know, I can sit them down at least, tell them what’s happened, tell them about this year, tell them I’m ok. Things’ll be different. But only for a while. It’s my last day in Leam. I’m in my room, looking out the window, at the organic store. The day is bright, the shutters are up; the dial tone is ringing. Clara picks up.

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‘Are we really gonna do this?’ she says. ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But I think it’s time.’ ‘Marcus, I’m scared. What if they react badly?’ ‘Then you wait till they start reacting goodly,’ I say. ‘It’s their problem, not yours. Darling if you don’t want to, don’t do it yet. I’m scared too. But, just think how much harder it would’ve been a few months ago.’ ‘I know, but-’ ‘I know.’ ‘I’m just worried.’ ‘So am I, but it has to happen sometime. I’ll meet you tomorrow afternoon at yours, before you go see them ok?’ ‘Thank you. And then you’ll go to see yours?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Ok. But, please don’t tell them about me, just yet.’ ‘I won’t. Not yet. One thing at a time.’ ‘Ok.’ ‘I’ll call you a little later, alright? I have to go meet the boys in the park.’ ‘Ok. Have fun.’ ‘It’ll be alright, Clara,’ I say, ‘It’ll be alright. ‘I know.’ I say goodbye and walk to the park. The boys are playing football. I join in. ‘Pass it, mate, pass it,’ screams Sedge, looking every inch the pikey, topless, with his baggy jogging bottoms on. He isn’t in position, so I passed to Sweet Chris. A few minutes later, I have the ball at my feet. Pausing for a moment, I decide I can make a break for it. I charge forward, only for Tim to slide in and tackle me badly from behind. I fly up in the air, landing badly on my side.

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I roll over, grabbing my ankle. By the time the boys’ve rushed over, I realise it’s just a sting, painful as fuck but nothing serious. ‘Fucks sake, Tim. Go easy,’ says Sedge. ‘Shit mate, sorry, you alright?’ says Tim. They are crowded around me. ‘I’m sound lads,’ I say, looking up at them. ‘Don’t worry.’ ‘Go easy, Tim,’ says Sedge again. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine, don’t worry.’ Tim pulls me up. I thank him. He keeps asking if I’m ok. I pat him on the back, I assure him I’m fine and I am. We carry on. I ease off to the side. I watch Tim. He looks burdened by what’s just happened. He has no idea what he’s just done. It is the most important thing he’s done all year. Better than all the apologies, better than standing up for me in front of Gemma. Better than any attempt he’s made. Because he’s changed. He slid in like nobody’s business, not worrying about it being old me with HIV. He didn’t think about it. He has learnt what has taken me all year to understand. It is me, still, me, here, me, Marcus Stone. • The boys stand at the station entrance. I hug them one after the other. I give Becky a goodbye kiss. Not to be outdone, Buggy lumps me one on the lips. ‘You are a badger, boyo,’ I say. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘but I’m your badger.’

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Sedge sheds a tear, dainty thing that he is. I promise him I’ll come visit him soon, up north. The fella at the station says I can have a mate help me with the bags. ‘I’ll bell you later yeah?’ says Tim, as we stand on Platform 3. ‘Yeah, I’ll give you a call.’ My eyes find the floor. I am unsure how to end all this, after all this time. ‘Alright, well, safe journey mate,’ he says. I shake his hand. He clenches; but before soon, we find ourselves in a long embrace. I don’t know how long we stand there for, seconds, perhaps minutes. It is good to have him back. My train pulls in. I get on. I look out the window. He waves, I wave back. I’ll see him soon, I’ll see them all soon. But it’ll never be quite the same. Just the way it is, I guess. I need to go home, I need to tell my parents. I’m terrified; but I need them now. I watch as the train slowly departs the town I have called home these past two years. Once Leamington is out of view, once I can’t see the river, or the church spire, or the parks or any of the many takeaway places I’ve frequented in my time here, I pull out my phone and I find Clara’s name.