Afire Page 7

  Shit. The last bus out of town leaves at eleven, and it must be nearing that now. The shop closes then, and the lights still blazed inside when I’d walked past, so maybe I’ll make it. If I don’t, God knows if I’ll find a bed and breakfast open this time of night. I’ve never had to use one before so have no clue how they operate.

  Two headlight circles appear, growing bigger as the vehicle approaches. I avert my gaze, staring toward town, and walk faster, though the appearance of the car makes me feel less alone. It speeds, the harsh, blowing exhaust telling me it’s the same car that just passed going the other way, and I guess they drove around the roundabout down there. Kids out for a joyride.

  The car skids, back fishtailing to my left, and comes to stop. My heart pounds, and I hurry, not wanting anything to do with whoever sits inside. A car door opens then slams, and I risk a glance back to see what’s going on. A guy storms toward me, a weird mask on his face, one with goggles attached. My stomach flips, and I turn my head to face the front, legs like jelly.

  “Oi! Where d’you think you’re fucking going?”

  Oh, shit.

  I spin around, walking backward, once again taking in that damn fucked-up mask, designed to scare the shit out of people, I’ll bet. I open my mouth to answer, my words snuffed out by the guy’s arm rising, a gun held in a gloved hand.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  “I said, where d’you think you’re fucking going?”

  The voice is distorted, kind of muffled, but I swear it belongs to Trevor. What the hell is he playing at? Should I answer him? If I don’t, will he use the gun?

  “I…”

  “You ought to fuck right off, I reckon,” he says, his stride assured, gun hand steady.

  He jabs the gun at me, and I eye the hole where a bullet could come speeding out at any second, the streetlight we’ve just passed showing it in all its terrifying glory. I glance around for somewhere to run, the only option through the hedges and trees—the only place with cover—but before I get a chance to run, Trevor lunges forward and smacks the gun handle down on my temple. Pain rips through my head, and I drop the bag before sinking to my knees. Trevor grips my hair, holding it tight in his fist, and points the gun to my throbbing temple.

  “We don’t want faggots round here, you got that?”

  Powerless, I nod, piss seeping into my jeans.

  “Your sort…well, we just don’t want it, right?”

  I nod again, willing the tears away. Even if my courage from earlier returned, it wouldn’t do me any good now. The gun sees to it that I’ll keep my mouth shut and do as he says.

  “So, I don’t expect we’ll be seeing you around here again, will we?”

  I shake my head, stare at his trainers—pristine white Reeboks—and imagine my blood spattered all over them if he pulls the trigger.

  He yanks me upright, gun still pressed to my head. A click echoes—shit, he’s taken the safety off, shit, shit, shit—and my bladder releases more liquid.

  He looks down at the path. “You fucking pissed yourself?”

  I jerk my head up and down.

  Time slows. Laughter floats out of him, his teeth bared, crowded tombstones in his mouth. The car engine hums a few feet away, and faint shouts issue from inside the car along with the thump of jungle music. My legs grow chilled from the cooling piss, my feet and trainers sodden. Trevor looks so damn hellish in that mask, his eyes partially obscured by the tinted lenses, his nose covered, mouth a thin line in the centre of a circle cut out of the rubber.

  The strobe of oncoming headlights has Trevor whipping around, the gun lowered beside him. I remain where I am, willing the car to slow, for the occupants to get out and help me.

  Trevor turns back to me and snarls, “Remember what I said. Don’t come back. Or next time I’ll fucking shoot, right?” He runs toward his idling car, yanking open the door and jumping inside. His yell of “Go, go, go!” reminds me of the movies, and if I wasn’t so scared I’d fucking laugh.

  The other car slows as Trevor’s speeds away, and I stare across the road at it, already forgiving the driver if he roars off. He doesn’t. Or rather, she doesn’t. Her pretty face turns toward me, and she looks through the glass. The window glides down, and she studies me wide-eyed. She seems familiar, maybe a couple of years older than me, and I wonder if I know her from school.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  I nod, though I’m far from okay.

  “You want me to call the police?”

  I shake my head. “No. No, it’s just some lads fucking about. It’s…it’s all right.”

  “Want a lift into town?”

  I think about it for a second. God, she’s brave offering me a ride. “What’s the time?”

  “Quarter to eleven.”

  I won’t make it to town in time if I walk. “Do you mind? I’ve…my jeans are wet.”

  She looks down at my legs, and a fleeting expression of sympathy skips over her face. “No, it’s fine. Come on.”

  I pick up my bag, cross the road, and hesitate at the passenger door. Should I get in? Involve this woman in my shit? I have no choice really. Still shaking, I open the door and put my bag in the footwell then get in, feet resting either side, conscious of my wet jeans on her leather seat. I close the door and slip my seatbelt on; she drives, eyes focused ahead.

  “He’s a bastard.” Her jaw muscles twitch.

  “Who, him back there?”

  “Yeah, him. Trevor.”

  “You know him, then?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Yeah, I s’pose.”

  “You piss him off?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you do?”

  I’m going to tell the truth. Fuck it. For the first time, I’m going to admit it out loud to a stranger. “Nothing. He doesn’t like me…doesn’t like me being gay.” A sense of freedom slices through me, and it feels so good to come clean, to get it out there. To let the words roll off my tongue. It’s like a huge weight has been lifted.

  “Is that right?” She glances my way then back at the road. “Fuck me! He’s got some serious problems if that’s all it was.”

  “Yeah.” I smile, want to laugh, really laugh. She’s just accepted it like I said nothing more than an inane comment, yet Trevor, Mum…Christ, why are some people so against it? What’s it got to do with them anyway?

  “You moving away?” She nods at my bag.

  “Yeah. Need to…need to—”

  “Don’t blame you. This place is a shithole.”

  We’ve reached town, and she swerves the car into the parking bay beside the bus station.

  “I take it this is where you wanted to go?” She holds the steering wheel at ten and two, turning to look at me.

  “Yeah. And thanks. For—”

  “No problem. Look, you take care of yourself, all right?”

  Her kindness almost breaks me, and I mumble my thanks again and get out of the car, pulling the bag free. I shut the door and watch her drive away, her hand lifting in a wave. Swallowing a ball of emotion, I run over to the nearby cashpoint and withdraw a hundred quid, then make my way to the large bus timetable mounted on a closed cafeteria wall.

  The only bus leaving tonight is heading north, going through Biddingford, an ideal, out-of-the-way place that’ll suit me just fine. We passed it once years ago on our way to Hayling Island and the holiday camp there. Dad had mentioned how sleepy and quiet it seemed, but Mum had said it was too sleepy for her. No way would she manage living in a place like that. The memory cements my destination, and I turn in a circle, looking at the stars, wondering what my future holds. It’s got to be better than my past, albeit without Ryan in it for a while.

  The low grumble of a coach approaching yanks me out of my reverie, and I walk to the bus stop, the only person wanting out of this place tonight. The coach pulls to a stop with squeaking brakes and the hiss of the door sliding open, and I grip the handrail, one foot on the bottom step.

&
nbsp; “You leaving dead on eleven?” I ask the driver.

  He stares down at me from his elevated perch, grey bushy eyebrows above dark brown eyes, his pasty, lined face lit up by the interior light above his head. “Yep. Why?”

  “Have I got time to nip to the loo and change my jeans? Spilled Coke down them.”

  He glances at my legs and nods. “Yep. Go on then. But be quick about it.”

  I sort myself out and return to the coach, climb aboard, pay my fair, and take a seat at the back. I reckon I’ve got a good three hours before we get to Biddingford. No other passenger occupies the bus, so I stretch out on the back seat, my head propped up on my bag. The coach eases out of the station, and I stare through the window, watching the familiar buildings pass by, a bittersweet feeling floating through me. Good to be going, but still a little sad. All that’s left here for me is Ryan, and I reckon he’ll wait for me. That thought is the only thing that’ll keep me going.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and press a speed dial button. Ryan answers after the first ring, not a hint of sleep in his voice. He’s been worrying, I’ll bet, and my love for him grows.

  “You all right?” he asks.

  “Yeah, you?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On a coach.”

  “Shit, so you’re really going.” He pauses, then, “Where’re you headed?”

  “Place called Biddingford. I’ll let you know when I get there. I’ll have to sort out a place to live. Get a job and all that.” The enormity of that weighs heavy on me, hitting me like a sack of shit. “I’m scared, Ryan.”

  “Shit. I wish I was there. With you. But I know…I get what you’re doing.”

  “Things’ll work out. I’ve just got to stand on my own two feet now.”

  “Yeah.” Another pause. “What if you can’t find a place and a job?”

  “Then I’ll go somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Fuck. You got enough cash?”

  “Yeah. Took out a hundred. Think I’ve got another hundred or so in the bank.”

  “Christ, Lee! You could have rented a bedsit here with that! Got out of your mum’s place ages ago.”

  I sigh. “I know, but I didn’t have the guts. And now I have, now I’ve got it straight in my head where I’m going… It’s all good. Trust me.”

  “I do but… I’ll wait for you, all right? However long it takes.”

  “I know you will. But you can’t wait forever. What if it takes a long time? What if I’m gone a few years and someone else comes along?”

  “What, for you or for me?”

  “For you.”

  He sighs. “They won’t.”

  “But you don’t know that.”

  “I don’t care. If they do, they can fuck right off.”

  I laugh. “Same feelings here, but it’s just…I don’t want you to feel you have to keep to what you’ve said now. Things change. People change.”

  “You trying to tell me to back off? To leave it?”

  “No. Just giving you an out if you need one.”

  “Right. And you’ll tell me if you meet someone else?”

  “Yeah, but I won’t.”

  His soft chuckle filters into my ear. “Yet you’ve just lectured me—”

  “I know. Listen, I’m fucked. Need some sleep. No idea if there’s a bed and breakfast in this Biddingford place, and if there is, it might not be open, so I need to catch some sleep in case—”

  “You’re not sleeping rough all night!”

  “Might not have a choice.”

  “For fuck’s sake!”

  “Look, it’ll be all right. I’ll find a shed. Somewhere like that.”

  “Make sure you do. And text me if you can’t find a place to sleep, all right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yep.”

  “Love you, Lee.”

  “Love you too, Ryan.”

  I snap my phone closed before he says anything else, because my voice would crack if I had to reply. Eyes shut, I squeeze them tight, but a tear still trickles out. I feel foolish for crying, for being reduced to a little kid again, but shit, it’s been one hell of a night. One hell of a life so far.

  Sleep doesn’t come, my mind too alert, filled with images from the past, all flitting through my head at speed, coming to a stop at the last time I’d seen Dad. It was a couple of years ago. The time since he’d left saw me meeting him sporadically, for maybe an hour or two on a Sunday—always a Sunday—when Mum allowed me to go with strict instructions to remember everything he said and report back to her. And I did, for a while, but as the years passed I kept some things to myself, treasuring the secret knowledge that she thought I was doing as she’d asked, oblivious that Dad’s words remained locked inside my mind.

  Last time we’d gone to the wildlife park in his car, him joking I was too damn old for this kind of shit but fuck it, we’d go anyway. We’d walked round, talking about everything and nothing, and lunchtime saw us sitting in the beer garden of a fake Tudor pub, the wildlife park a few miles away, forgotten for a while.

  “You know why I left, don’t you?” Dad asked, fingers wet from the condensation off his pint glass. He traced a fingertip around the rim. “Should have taken you with me.”

  “I understand why you didn’t. She’d have fought you for me.” I took a sip of my Coke. “It’s all right. I don’t blame you for going. I would if I could.”

  “But you can now you’re sixteen. You could come and live with me. Nothing she can do about that.”

  I thought about it—only for a second, mind—and nodded, hope growing inside me that I could get away from her. Be free.

  “You’d like that?” Dad raised his glass, swallowed a mouthful of beer. He licked froth off his top lip.

  “Yeah. Be great.”

  “You sure?”

  “God, yeah.” Excitement swirled in my belly, and I smiled, big and wide.

  I looked at him, and he winked, but it wasn’t long before his face clouded.

  “I wasn’t doing anything I shouldn’t have been, you know, son.”

  “I know.”

  “It was just…she was so… Shit, I shouldn’t be talking about her to you.”

  “It’s all right. I don’t mind.”

  “How…how has it been? With her?”

  “Bit rough.”

  “She been hitting you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit. I knew it. I should have—”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “It does.”

  We sat in silence, and I turned away to look out over a large field. Cows mooched, some with their heads bent munching on grass, others lying in the sun.

  “They reckon when a cow’s laying down it means rain’s on the way,” Dad said.

  I nodded. “Doesn’t look like it to me.” I stared at the clear blue sky.

  “Me neither.”

  After lunch, on the journey back Dad went through what we’d do next. I was to wait until Mum’d left for work the next day then pack my things. Dad would pick me up about eleven, and I’d be free. Free of her, free to catch up on all the time I’d missed with Dad.

  As I got out of his car, he said, “It’ll be grand, son, you’ll see.”

  The phone ringing that night, it’d sounded shriller than usual, faster, the space between rings shorter. I tiptoed from my room and crouched in the darkness at the top of the stairs, watching Mum as she spoke on the phone in the hallway, light from the living room doorway spilling onto her back.

  “Right. Okay… Yes, yes, I’m fine… Well, it’s no skin off my nose, is it? Don’t know why you even bothered to ring… Lee? Oh, right… Yes, I suppose so. Yes…yes…goodbye.” She turned and looked up the stairs, spotting me before I had the chance to scoot back into my room. “That was your aunt. Your dad’s dead.” She s
wivelled and walked back into the living room.

  Leaving me devastated.

  I thumped down onto my arse, leaned my head against the wall, and let the tears fall. I didn’t sob, didn’t sniff, just sat staring at the phone in its cradle—the damn phone that had allowed a voice to ooze out such horrific news and for a spiteful woman to receive it.

  Blinking now, I open my eyes and stare out the coach window, the vehicle cocooned in the darkness of what I imagine is a country road. No lights beam down like they would on a motorway, and I stare at the reflection of myself in the glass, a skinny young guy struggling to come to terms with what’s gone by and what’s up ahead. But I can do it, no doubt about that now. Already I feel stronger, as though the further away from home I get the hold it had on me loosens, its power receding.

  I spend another two hours dozing on and off. The coach heaves to a stop, and I look outside, the sight of a road lined with houses sparking off a memory.

  “Biddingford!” the driver calls.

  I stand, working out the kinks in my neck, and lift my bag, which seems heavier now. I lug it down the gangway, pausing beside the driver to thank him, then leave the coach, the cold whip of a hearty wind snapping me fully awake. I glance around, every house light doused apart from the home beside me. I take a deep breath and walk up the garden path, readying myself to ask the occupant for directions to a bed and breakfast.

  At the door, I ignore my fast-beating heart and close my hand into a fist, rapping my knuckles against the wood. My new life starts now, right this minute, and my future glimmers, ready to become an inferno.

  BURNING

  Dedication

  Another one for Sid

  BURNING

  ~

  Chapter One

  Night comes swiftly, bringing with it a smattering of stars that seem to twinkle and a heavy-looking moon the colour of magnolias. The cold, still air ruffles the hair about my ears, and I shiver, looking down from this hill at the village of Biddingford. The moon casts enough illumination over the cottages and houses so that I can make out the colour they’re painted, albeit a duller hue in the darkness. Yellow lights shine from windows, and the glow from the lampposts, few and far between, look like the stars above, only peach not white. Complete darkness hasn’t arrived yet, but it won’t be long before it does, and I’ll go inside after a long day at work and ease the aches away.