The Sky Is Dead (9 page)

Harry doesn’t turn up the next day, either, or the day after. I’ve been back to his house every couple of hours, but no one is there. One time I see a neighbor staring at me from a window, and I leave hurriedly in case they call the police.

I go to his school and hang around for the day, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but nothing. I see Joe and George. I hang back, hoping they don’t see me. I want to ask someone, but who the hell could I ask?

On the third day, three men dressed in black suits come out of the house. They look serious, and I know whatever’s happened to Harry and his mum, it’s not good.

“It’s so sad, isn’t it?”

I jump as someone speaks behind me. I look over my shoulder to see an old lady staring over at the strangers in Harry’s driveway.

“They were good people. I’m going to miss Mel and Harry.” She clucks her tongue sadly, and then shuffles down her garden path without waiting for me to respond.

Tears roll down my cheeks as I realize I’ve lost my boy, and my happiness, and my life.

I also have a more pressing issue. I’m really hungry and I have two choices: I can beg for the day or earn some money to get some food. I’ve gone soft from being fed every day.

As I enter the park in the afternoon, I see the park ranger making his rounds in the van. He spots me and nods toward the toilets. I nod and pray it won’t take long.

As soon as the gents door is locked, he pushes me to my knees and undoes his fly.

“Not seen you for a while. Ahhh.”

I shut him up as I slide the rubber he gives me down his cock with my mouth. It doesn’t take much to suck him to full hardness, and I close my eyes as I blow him, trying to imagine that the skinny dick in my mouth is really Harry’s. The grunts and sighs he makes keep intruding on my fantasy.

Eventually—not soon enough—it’s over and he comes with a noisy shudder. I wait as he tucks himself away, and then he hands over a twenty.

He unlocks the door and leaves, a satisfied expression on his face. He’s barely out of the door before I lurch into a stall, my stomach heaving as I puke on an empty stomach. I feel like I’ve cheated on my Harry. Not my Harry. Not anymore.

I wash out my mouth, spitting into the basin to try and get rid of the taste of vomit. I leave the toilets, intending to head to the local shops to get some food. Instead I walk to the shelter, the desire to see a friendly face greater than anything else. It’s getting dark now, and the occasional streetlight casts a faint glow along the path that leads to the shelter. I’m lost in my own thoughts, and the footsteps behind me take me completely by surprise. I don’t have time to turn before something slams into me from behind and knocks the air out of me. I try to take a breath, but my lungs don’t seem to cooperate. Footsteps running away make me look up, and I think I see Joe and George legging it away from me, although my eyesight’s woozy.

My legs give out and I sink to the ground, facedown in the dirt. I don’t know what’s happened to me.

I can’t breathe. Someone is sitting on my back and squeezing the breath out of me. I want to tell them to get off. I turn my head to see Ben leaning over me, his eyes wide, and he’s talking. I know he’s speaking, because his mouth is moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.

I can’t breathe. Perhaps I’m having a heart attack? It’d be a relief. There’s nothing I want to stay here for anymore. Now Harry’s gone. Harry’s left me. Steve didn’t want me, and Mum and Dad threw me out. What is the fucking point of staying?

I try to look up but I can’t see anything except blackness. All the stars have gone out. I think the sky is dead.

Chapter Eight

October 2003

I
STARE
up at the ceiling, feeling I’ve just been given a death sentence and the sound of the doctor’s footsteps are leading me to the grave, rather than just moving to the next patient. Well, that’s it, then. I am officially fucked.

Go out on the streets again and die.

No placebo (go me, I remember the word)
,
no “
you have a risk of getting pneumonia
” or “
you need to take more care of yourself
.”

This time the Grim Reaper told me one more bout of pneumonia would kill me. My lungs are fucked over from all the infections, and since the stabbing last year, I’m even more vulnerable. The year has taken its toll on me, and the doctors have told me bluntly that reaching two decades is looking increasingly unlikely. My twentieth birthday is in just over two months.

There’s no point telling the registrar the second they throw me out, I’ll be back under my bush in the park. They talk to me about shelters and work programs, yadda yadda, and I try not to yawn.

Might as well accept the inevitable. I’m well enough to be discharged now and there’s no point delaying until it’s really fucking cold. It would only be harder to adjust again. I sit up and look in my locker. My clothes are there in a green hospital bag. I dig them out. Filthy dirty, blood-stained, and torn. I shudder as the memory floods back of rough hands pulling the joggers off me, nails tearing the skin of my thighs, and the thought of putting them on again makes me feel physically sick.

“You’re not wearing those again.”

I look up to see one of the nurses in the gap between the curtains. “I haven’t got a choice, Sylvia.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, young man.” Sylvia produces a small pile of clothes.

“Young man? You can’t be more than a couple of years older than me.”

Yeah, yeah, I am sucking up to her—the woman is old, forty at least—but she is nice, unlike some of the other bitches who’ve made it plain I’ve been taking up space.

Sylvia snorts and laughs loudly. “Flattery will get you everywhere.” She hands over the clothes—black joggers, a gray T-shirt, and a black hoodie. “I guessed the sizes. We can change them if needs be.”

I frown as I look at the pile. They aren’t left over from other patients. These are new clothes, with the tags still on. “Did you buy these?”

She nods. “I did.”

“I can’t accept them, Sylvia. You shouldn’t be spending your money on me.” But when I try to hand them back, she takes a step back.

“Get dressed, Danny. I want to have a talk, and it’s not easy when your arse is flapping out of the gown.”

Immediately, I look over my shoulder. Of course my bum isn’t exposed at all. I was sitting down, for fuck’s sake.

“Gotcha!” she crows.

I flip her off halfheartedly. “I’m gonna get you.” It’s a feeble threat and it’s reflected in her face.

But she sobers up and points at the clothes. “They aren’t expensive. I just got them at the supermarket. You need them, Danny. You can’t wear those rags. They should have been binned.”

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “Thanks.”

Sylvia looks at me knowingly. “Get dressed and we’ll talk.”

“Aren’t you on duty?” And then it strikes me she isn’t in her usual dark-blue scrubs.

“Not today. There’s someone I want you to meet. We’ll go grab a coffee at the café.”

I open my mouth to ask more questions, but she flaps her hands at me and disappears into the ward. Shoving my soiled gear back into the bag, I look at the clothes. She’s tucked boxer briefs and socks into the joggers. My cheeks heat at the thought of her buying me underwear. I pull off all the labels and get dressed. She’s got my size almost perfectly, the length just a little too long.

Shoes! Where are my trainers? I get off the bed to hunt in the locker, but I can’t see any sign of them. I push back the curtains.

Sylvia is chatting to one of the other nurses a little way down the ward. She looks up as I emerge and smiles. “Ready to go?”

I point at my feet “Where are my trainers?”

“Damn, I didn’t think about shoes.” She frowns and looks at the other nurse. “I don’t remember you wearing any. Your feet were bare when you came in.”

Lighted cigarettes pressed into the soles of my feet.
Yeah, those guys didn’t just sexually assault me. They liked torture as well.

The other nurse, a quiet young blonde with bad skin, clicks her fingers. “There’s a couple of pairs of trainers in the linen cupboard. What size are you?”

Size? I struggle to think. I don’t bother with actual sizes now. “Nine, maybe.”

She rushes off and comes back a moment later with a pair of well-worn black Nikes. They’re too big, but beggars can’t be choosers, as my gran used to say, and I’m definitely a beggar.

“Come on, then,” Sylvia says. “Mum’ll be wondering where we’ve got to.”

“Mum?” I wasn’t expecting to talk to anyone else.

“Yes, my mum wants to meet you. She’s been nagging me for the past week, but I wanted you to have a clear head before you met her. Mum’s….” She laughs softly, and I feel a pang of jealousy and loss. “Mum is a force of nature.”

I shake my head, not sure what she means.

“You’ll see.”

I can’t force any more information out of her, so I shut up and follow Sylvia to the café. As we walk in the door, a woman sitting at one of the tables gets to her feet. The resemblance is immediately obvious. Sylvia’s mum is a smaller, more wrinkled version of her daughter.

“At last. I thought you’d forgotten about me,” she grumbles as Sylvia kisses her on the cheek.

“Like I could do that,” Sylvia says, and I can hear the exasperation in her voice.

I stand back, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. I don’t know why Sylvia wants me to meet her mum, and it’s making me nervous. The urge to run is strong.

“So this is the young man you haven’t stopped talking about?”

Sylvia’s mum fixes her gaze on me, and I have to resist the temptation to salute.

“Here he is. Danny, meet my mum, Mary Wilson.” She tugs me forward to meet her mother.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Wilson.” I’m not entirely sure that’s true, but I make the effort.

She nods. “Polite. Nice to see you’ve got manners, Danny.”

I resist the urge to make a snarky remark and remain silent.

“Are you always this quiet?”

“Not sure what I’m supposed to say, ma’am.”

Mrs. Wilson nods again. “Well, sit down. Sylvia can get us drinks whilst we talk.”

“Cup of tea, Danny, or a Coke?” Sylvia asks.

I look over at the selection. “May I have a Tango?” I haven’t had a choice in a long time.

“Sure thing. Cuppa, Mum?”

“And some biscuits. Get Danny whatever he wants. You must be hungry if you’ve had hospital food for weeks.”

“I know what Danny likes. Be back in a moment.” Sylvia wanders off to the counter.

I resist the urge to rush after her and look at Mrs. Wilson.

She waves at a chair. “Sit down, Danny. You must be wondering what this is all about.”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, not yeah.”

“Yes, Mrs. Wilson,” I parrot obediently.

“Better.”

“Sylvia tells me you’ve had a rough time.”

“Yeah. Yes.” I nod, because
rough
is one way of describing it. Not the word I’d use.

She looks at me with an expression I don’t recognize. I’m used to seeing pity, disgust, and rejection. Mary Wilson looks interested in me, and I don’t know why.

“Why were you on the streets, Danny?”

“If you know what happened to me, you probably know my parents threw me out.” I go on the offensive, and I’m not surprised when she nods.

“Why did they throw you out?”

“What does it matter?”

“Did you steal from your parents, or hurt someone? Were you in trouble with the police? Take drugs?”

“No!” I say hotly, temper rising. The old bitch has no right to suggest such things.

“Then why did they throw you out?”

“Because I’m gay. My dad caught me kissing my boyfriend and threw me out.”

Mrs. Wilson nods again, and I can tell from the look on her face she already knew that.

“Sylvia told you, so why ask me?”

“Because Mum likes to know a boy is honest before she offers him a home,” Sylvia says as she puts a tray on the table.

“Wh-what?” I stutter the word in shock.

Mrs. Wilson rolls her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Sylvia, what did I say about taking this slowly? You’re going to scare the poor boy away before I’ve even spoken to him.”

“Danny’s not a kid anymore.” Sylvia looks at me. “My mum has a bedsit in her house that she offers to young people like you.”

“Like me?” I say stupidly.

“Kids—sorry—who’ve had a rough time and need a break. It’s a short-term thing, so don’t go thinking it’s a permanent home. But she offers you somewhere to live rent-free until you get a job and can find more permanent accommodation. You don’t believe me?”

My lips twisted in a sneer. “Rent-free? I’m gay, ladies. I don’t service women.”

If I expect them to be shocked, I’m sadly mistaken. “You won’t
service
anyone under my roof,” Mrs. Wilson says firmly. “It’s your place, with your own front door and key. My only rules are no drugs and no prostitution. If you want to bring a boyfriend back, that’s a different matter.”

“But why me?”

Sylvia lays her hand on mine. I resist the urge to pull away from the kind touch. “Danny, you’re one step away from killing yourself. Winter is coming, and you won’t survive out on the streets. The doctors told you that this morning.”

“I can find a shelter,” I say stubbornly.

“But you won’t. You never have. Danny, think about this. You’ve been very ill. You’ve had to recover from the assault and pneumonia and bronchitis. We didn’t think you were going to make it at one point. And last year you got stabbed. You nearly died then. All we’re asking is you give yourself time to have a fresh start.”

I look at Mrs. Wilson, who has been letting Sylvia do the talking. “What do you get out of it?” No one ever,
ever
, gives something for nothing.

She doesn’t answer and instead digs her purse out of her bag.

“I don’t want your money, lady.”

“I’m not giving you money. I’m offering you a home.”

She opens the small, leather wallet and shows me a picture. I recognize her and Sylvia, although Sylvia looks to be around my age. I don’t recognize the boy.