Falling Fast (15 page)

I stopped at the park entrance on the way home. The light rain had stopped and the wind was getting up. I didn’t want Mum to see I’d been crying. But my plan to let the chilly
December air cool off my tear-stained face didn’t work. As I leaned against the park gates, my whole face crumpled. Every cell of my body cried out for him.

I bent over, trying to hold in the agony of it.

‘Don’t cry.’ Flynn’s voice was clear and strong, and right beside me.

I whipped round. He was standing less than a metre away, his lion eyes glinting in the street light.

My hands sprang to my face, furiously wiping away my tears.

Flynn moved closer. ‘Siobhan saw you just now,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t let me get on the bus with her. Told me to come after you.’

I looked up at him, my heart pounding. The wind was tearing past us, fierce and raw on my face.

‘Oh yeah?’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘You don’t normally do what you’re told.’

He smiled. ‘Siobhan said I was being an idiot. She said that if you really liked me, you wouldn’t care where we lived or who our family was. That if I was ashamed of it, that was my
problem. Not yours.’

‘Oh.’ I hesitated. ‘That’s funny. My dad said the same thing. More or less.’

‘Yeah, well.’ His grin deepened. ‘Dropouts. Hairstylists. What do they know?’

I stared at him.
God
, he looked beautiful. Why did he have to look so beautiful? I could feel my face starting to crumple again. I didn’t want this. Not him standing this close and
laughing like it was no big deal and me wanting him so much I couldn’t breathe.

It started raining again. We stood there, let ing it fall on our faces.

Then Flynn’s eyes softened. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you.’

My heart seemed to squeeze up into my throat. Everything stopped. The hiss of the distant traffic, the patter of the rain, the wind in the trees behind us. It just faded away into the other
universe.

The one without Flynn.

‘Can we go back to the other night?’ he said. ‘When you asked to come back to my place. D’you remember?’

I nodded.
Of course I do
.

‘D’you remember what I said next?’

I nodded again. ‘That you’d never taken anyone home. Ever.’

Flynn moved closer, so that he was standing just centimetres away from me. A drop of rain trickled off his fringe and rolled down his face.

‘And then your line was:
I’m not anyone. I love you
. Which was a great line. Only . . .’ He bent his head, so that our noses were almost touching. ‘I messed my
next line up,’ he sighed. ‘I just said
I’m sorry
.’

The whole world shrank to his eyes.

‘So what should you have said?’ I whispered.

He smiled. ‘I should have said:
Okay then, come home with me. Then we’ll see if you love me
.’

It was six-thirty by the time the bus dropped us at Archway. We walked round the corner and down the Holloway Road, where I knew Flynn lived.

The road was busy and dirty and full of traffic and litter. I could feel Flynn tensing as we walked. We’d hardly talked on the bus. It was like we were in limbo.

Waiting.

My heart thumped as I followed Flynn down an endless row of boarded-up newsagent’s, sex shops and convenience stores. He finally stopped at a set of steps sandwiched between a bleak,
harshly-lit café and a cheap-looking estate agency. The door at the top of the steps had six buzzers beside it. I could only count four windows above our heads.

Flynn turned his key in the lock and pushed the door open. The smell of damp was overpowering. He banged his fist against some kind of switch on the wall. A light flickered on and off
overhead.

Flynn swore under his breath. Then he strode across to a staircase opposite the door and started climbing. The smell of damp receded as we reached the second floor. There were three doors
leading off the tiny landing. Flynn turned to the one on the right and fitted his key.

I followed him inside, my hands shaking. I don’t know why I was so scared. I just knew that what we were doing was a very big deal.

A threadbare carpet led away from the door for a few metres. Two doors on the left. Two on the right.

‘This won’t take long,’ Flynn said darkly. He opened the first door on the right. It was a bathroom – a tiny bath on one side, a loo and a sink on the other. He shut the
door quickly. I only had time to get a general impression. Messy but clean.

He opened the next door. A living room – if you could call it that – about three metres square, with three beanbags on the floor, a TV and a tiny, spotless kitchen area to the right.
I noticed a pile of Flynn’s school books in the corner. For some reason the sight of them brought a lump to my throat.

Flynn shut the door. ‘Had enough?’

I shook my head. He leaned over and opened the first of the doors on the left of the tiny corridor. Siobhan was lying asleep, her red hair spread out on the pillow of the double bed which took
up most of the room. There was a single chest of drawers on the far wall and a small clothes rail crammed with clothes. I could make out less than half a square metre of carpet between the bed and
the door.

‘She always sleeps for a bit when she gets in from work,’ Flynn whispered. ‘She says Mum snores and it keeps her awake at night.’

He closed the door quietly and moved on to the next room.

It was even smaller than the first bedroom. Someone had hung a curtain down the middle of the room. The near side of the curtain contained a single mattress covered with a faded Barbie duvet
cover. A couple of cardboard boxes containing clothes and toys stood against the curtain. There were only a few centimetres between the boxes and the mattress – about the width of a
child’s foot.

‘This is Caitlin’s,’ Flynn said.

He took a single step across the room to the curtain, then twitched it back and waved me through. ‘My room,’ he said sarcastically. I crept past him. A single mattress lay on the
floor against the far wall. Books and magazines and clothes were scattered all over the remaining floor space. The entire area was about two and a half metres long by one and a half metres
wide.

My mouth fell open. I looked back, out to the corridor and the other rooms. The whole flat had to be the size of our living room.

I didn’t know how to meet Flynn’s eyes. There was a long silence. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped over to the door.

‘D’you want me to walk you down to the bus stop?’ he said dully.

I didn’t move. I stood staring down at the little mattress, at all the mess. I caught sight of his copy of
Romeo and Juliet
, lying open on the window sill above the mattress. I
stepped over and picked up the book. Romeo’s lines were marked:

Heaven is here

Where Juliet lives. And every cat and dog

And little mouse, every unworthy thing

Live here in heaven and may look on her:

But Romeo may not.

I sank down onto the mattress and switched on the little light that stood on the floor beside it.

The floor creaked. I looked up. Flynn was staring down at me. There was so much hurt in his eyes I couldn’t bear it.

Tears welled up, and the lump in my throat grew painful. I had had so many questions about his home a few days before. And now I was here, none of them seemed important any more.

Flynn came and sat beside me. He took the book from my hands.

‘I thought if you saw who I was,’ he said in a low voice, ‘you wouldn’t want me.’

I shook my head, and lay down, pulling him onto the mattress beside me. A tear rolled down my cheek. Flynn bent across and kissed it away.

We lay without speaking for a long time. My head rested on Flynn’s chest. His hand stroked my hair. I smiled to myself. I loved the way we could do that – just be together without
having to fill the space between us with words. Knowing that the words were coming.

After a while, Flynn took a deep breath.

‘My dad’s a drunk.’ His voice was steady, but I could hear all the layers of feeling behind what he was saying – the anger and the hurt and the humiliation. I lay where I
was, sensing he didn’t want me to look at him while he was speaking.

‘He’s from some town near Birmingham. Met my mum when she was sixteen and he was on holiday in Ireland,’ Flynn went on. ‘He was older. Good-looking. Full of big promises.
Then she got pregnant with Siobhan. Her family kicked her out – you know. Strict Catholics. Tiny village in Ireland. Big frigging scandal. So they came over here. He worked as a labourer for
a while. His drinking got worse. And then Siobhan was born. Mum got pregnant with me almost straight away. So there they were. Two kids. No money. My dad lost his job cos of his drinking. My mum
started doing cleaning jobs, trying to make ends meet. I remember going with her when I was little. All these snooty cows she worked for looking down at her. A teenage girl with two kids. Shacked
up with the local drunk.’ He ground his teeth. ‘Talk about a frigging cliché.’

I lay very still, my heart pounding.

Flynn took a deep breath. ‘So on it went. Mum got pregnant again. Lost the baby. Then one day my dad just left. No word. No goodbye. I guess I was about three or four. We didn’t see
him for years. I don’t know why. I remember him coming back, though. This big dark stranger who smelled funny – all sweaty with horrible breath. He moved back in. None of us wanted him
there, but Mum was scared. I mean, she must have been scared before, but now I was older I could see it in her eyes.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, they had Caitlin. My dad just lounged around
the house all day. Drinking while Mum was out working. I remember coming home from school, him shouting and staggering about . . .’

Flynn fell silent. I wondered if he was going to say any more. I wanted to hug him, to hold him and tell him how sorry I was.

But something about the way he was holding me, his hand running up and down my arm, told me he was scared of me feeling sorry for him. That the one thing I mustn’t do was pity him.

After a long pause, Flynn spoke again. And this time his voice trembled with anger.

‘He started knocking Mum about. Slaps and shoves at first. Then worse. I wasn’t really aware of what was going on. I mean, not how bad it was. Siobhan was, though. She looked after
me – she’d take me out of the room if they were arguing. We’d curl up together on the bed and she’d tell me stories about how one day we were going to be very rich and live
in a big house and how Mammy and Da would stop fighting and . . .’

‘Oh, Flynn.’ The words seemed to breathe themselves out of me. Tears were running down my face. I couldn’t bear to think of him curled up and frightened – just a little
boy. I buried my face in his chest and wept.

He gently stroked my hair again. I sniffed. This was all wrong. I should be comforting him, not . . .

‘By the time I was twelve we were all afraid of him, all the time. He punched my mum so badly once she had to go to hospital. I was scared she wouldn’t come back. I don’t know
why she stayed with him. But I didn’t question it at the time. You don’t when you’re little. You just accept whatever’s . . . Anyway, that year I grew about ten centimetres
in six months. And I started realising it wasn’t normal. That not everyone’s da was a loser drunk who hit their mum.’

Flynn sat up and undid the top few buttons of his shirt. He dragged the shirt down over his arm. There, on the ridge of his shoulder, was a puckered white scar. He looked at me for the first
time since he’d started talking. ‘I tried to stop him hitting Mum,’ he said in a dull voice. ‘He went mental. Glassed me. If I hadn’t been quick, he’d have got
my face. Or my throat.’

I blinked, staring at the scar. My head couldn’t take in what he was saying – what he must have gone through.

Flynn pulled his shirt up and started rebuttoning it. ‘In a way it was a good thing. He’d never touched any of us before. But now it was like him hurting me woke Mum up. She kicked
him out, then she went to the police. Dad did some time in jail. When he came out, Mum got a non-molestation order . . .’ He tailed off.

I looked up at his face. I could just make out the shadow of the bruise around his mouth from the fight in the pub alleyway. I stroked the tiny scar where his lip had been cut.

‘So have you seen your dad since . . . since what happened?’

Flynn leaned his forehead down onto mine. He stopped doing up the buttons on his own shirt and hooked a finger round the top button on mine.

‘Yeah, he’s not supposed to come near any of us . . . that’s what the non-molestation order is for . . . but he does. Asking for money, mostly. That’s why I meet Siobhan
after work all the time. He knows she’s a soft touch – well, compared to me or Mum. Plus, if he’s drunk . . .’

He gazed at me for a long time, his eyes searching my face. Then he started unbuttoning my shirt. I didn’t stop him. I just sat there while he peeled off my shirt, then lowered his face,
kissing my neck, his fingers fumbling with my bra fastening. I arched up, making it easier for him. Then I closed my eyes, feeling him peeling the bra straps down my arms.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he whispered.

‘You make me feel beautiful,’ I whispered back.

I lay back while he kissed me, my whole body radiating with how amazing it felt, with how close we were now.

The only sound was our breathing.

Until the noise of a key turning in a lock.

My eyes snapped open. ‘Flynn?’

He pulled reluctantly away from me. ‘That’ll be Mum and Caitlin back from Mass.’

‘What?’ I squeaked, grabbing at my bra. I sat up, fumbling to turn it right side up. ‘What were you doing, letting me be all undressed? They could . . .’ The words caught
in my throat as I imagined them walking straight in. I did up the bra in front, then swivelled it round, hooking my arms through the straps.

‘Well, Siobhan was here the whole time . . . you weren’t bothered about that.’ Flynn rolled his eyes in mock-exasperation.