Too close

 

 

THE NEXT day I’m at the café again, long before twelve.

“Here, you can have your alien egg sac back.” Micky greets me with a lopsided smile as he swings the hot-water bottle onto the table in front on me.

It’s almost unbelievable how happy I am to see him. I can’t understand how I can have so many emotions inside me without it feeling like I’m at war. But with Micky in front of me, I’m about as far from a war as you can get.

He sits down. He’s still not dressed for the bitterly cold weather, though at least he has a pair of jeans on today instead of thin leggings, and he is wearing a jumper, albeit a thin-looking navy blue cotton one.

My heart beats so fast I imagine I’ve caught a wild animal in my chest and it’s trying to escape its cage.

Today I foiled Micky’s superpower. I saw him come in, though I pretended I didn’t know he was here until he reached the table. Anticipation is like electric shocks all over my skin.

I glance at the clock. Micky notices and grins at me. If he winks at me, my heart might stop. Self-consciously I wonder if he can see how my body reacts to him. Do I give off signals without even knowing? I’m desperately trying to gather myself in and not give myself away.

I touch the hot-water bottle, feeling how warm it is. My finger vibrates as I run it across the funny rubber patterns that crisscross its surface. I pull it off the table into my lap. It’s a very bad idea. It’s almost hot and the warmth seeps beneath my skin and gets my stupid hormones all fired up. It feels nice, too nice, and all I can do is think Oh, before my brain switches off and I get hard staring at Micky’s full lips.

“It kept me warm in bed this morning, thank you,” Micky says.

He looks like he’s trying not to open his mouth too widely as he speaks, and then I see why.

He has a bruise on his face, mostly hidden by his hair. From the edge of his left cheekbone to his ear, the skin is purple and swollen. I frown and grip the notepad in my pocket, the warmth in my lap forgotten.

“What happened?” I keep my eyes on the table as I speak, then glance up again.

I don’t even have to explain what I mean. Micky touches his cheek self-consciously and sags forwards. All at once he looks exhausted.

“Nothing major.” He catches my eye and sighs. “Fainted. Again.”

Really fainted, or fainted into someone’s fist?

I frown at the tabletop. My fingers dig into my palm as I clench my hand, trying to rein in the intense wave of anger that surges through me at the thought of someone hitting him.

Gritting my teeth, I unclench my hands and clutch the empty mug in front of me instead.

“You can’t fix my phone, can you?” he says.

He rolls his shoulders back as if he’s trying to sit tall and make it not matter, but I can tell he’s upset. His bony fingers fiddle with the white ceramic salt and pepper pots in the middle of the table. He tips one then the other, making little piles of white and grey. The waitress behind the counter watches us.

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” he says.

It is my fault, though.

“Here.” He pulls my phone out of his secret pocket and pushes it across the table to me. “I really can’t keep taking your phone.”

I push it back. I wish he’d stop trying to give it back to me. “I’ll get you another.”

“Another phone?” He draws his eyebrows together and shakes his head. His hair looks a little greasy. The boy who looked dressed for a club the other night, all bright and glittering, is not the one sitting before me. Nor is the bright smiley boy of yesterday. Strangely it’s this one I like more. Not because he’s hurt or anything—I hate that he’s hurt—but because he’s real, he’s not spaced out, he doesn’t seem to be hiding behind a façade. He’s tired and sort of sad, but there’s this warmth about him too, this honesty. Like he was in that picture I saw so briefly before I fucked everything up, I somehow feel closer to the truth of him.

He makes my heart beat faster than ever.

I wonder what he’d have to do to not have this effect on me. It’d probably have to be something spectacularly awful that I can’t imagine, because right now it feels as though we’re inhabiting the same space, and I can count on my fingers how often I’ve felt like that in my life.

“It’s not your problem. Really. It’s mine,” he carries on.

“Take it,” I say firmly. A wild idea occurs to me. “Keep it. I’ll wipe all the data and then it’s yours.” I hold eye contact with him, though it does something weird to my stomach, and for a second my heartbeat seems to go flat-out crazy.

“No. It’s not fair. I can’t pay you. I don’t have anything to give you at all. Well, apart from the obvious.” A sad smile plays briefly on his lips. I’m not even sure if he’s joking.

“No charge,” I say quickly.

“That’s not a fair exchange at all!” he protests.

I disagree for reasons he’s never going to know. “Just borrow it, then,” I say. Indefinitely.

“I still need to pay you back.”

He picks up my phone, turns it upside down, and strokes it gently. He looks at it as though it’s something precious. I watch him through my hair. An electric charge is running through my body, up and down my spine, fingertip to fingertip, a complete circuit with nowhere to discharge itself.

“If I borrow this, what phone will you use?” he asks.

“I have lots of phones.” That don’t work.

“But this is your, like, main phone.”

I shrug. I have this skill of being able to watch people’s faces with my head down so they can’t see I’m watching them. Micky chews his lip. I’m not sure he believes me about having a phone. If he doesn’t agree to keep borrowing my Frankenstein, I know I’m going to have to watch over him tonight. My gut clenches with how suddenly scared I am for him. A shark is out there, hunting boys like him. I’m going to have to make sure he doesn’t get picked up by any creeps. Or maybe I should make sure he doesn’t get picked up by anyone. But then, I guess he needs the money. He wouldn’t be out on the street if he had any other choice.

I bite the inside of my cheek. How have I managed to make something as simple as fixing a broken phone screen so complicated? Why are my feelings so complicated? I don’t want good things to hurt. But everything hurts.

“Promise me you’ll let me pay you back.”

Micky’s eyes are so clear. I’ve never seen anyone with such clear blue eyes. If his eyes were the sky, I would never look at the ground.

Promise me, they seem to echo. I nod. I can’t do anything else.

“Phone might need a charge soon.” He winces as he says it, as if it’s something he doesn’t want to admit. It makes me smile—he’s going to take it.

This doesn’t make me feel any better about him being picked up on the street, though.

I take a spare USB lead and a plug out of my pocket and hold them out. I’d meant to give them to him the other day.

“You’re prepared for every eventuality, aren’t you?”

I shake my head. I wish I were.

Micky stares back at the phone, lost in thought.

I take a deep breath and push my chair back. I should go. As much as I sort of like this weird electricity feeling, I need to run to discharge it.

Being with Micky is unpredictable. Most people I meet act the same around me—uncomfortable, eager to leave. Dashiel told me I don’t make it easy for them. But Micky doesn’t seem to notice whether I make it easy for him or not. It’s as though he doesn’t see me like everyone else sees me. And because he makes my heart beat faster and I have this urge to follow him around and make sure he’s safe, I am absolutely terrified. I don’t want my heart to feel like broken glass anymore. Caring about someone is too terrifying. It takes my thoughts away from where they should be—from Dashiel and Dollman, from all the sharks out there.

“Wait,” Micky says quickly. I hear him swallow, his eyes glancing everywhere but at me, as though he’s nervous. I’ve no idea what he would be nervous about. “Do you think you can show me where the clothing bank is?” he asks hesitantly. “I… I’d like a coat.”

His expression is so unsure and yet so hopeful, I nod without even thinking. I feel kind of weak, like I’m under his spell, like I’ll do whatever he asks me. Like I want him to be pleased. Or something. Sometimes I felt like that with Dashiel—like I wanted to make him happy, or I just wanted him to be happy.

I loved him so much.

The clothing bank is the place I’ve been avoiding the most.

I know there must be others nearby, but the drop-in center on North Street is where Dashiel and I used to go. It’s only open Tuesdays and Thursdays, but they have the best clothes. Clothes that are clean and not full of lice like some of the other clothing banks I’ve heard about.

It hurts to think about how Dashiel used to make me laugh trying on the oddest clothes we could find. Dresses made out of thick flowery curtains, curtain tape still attached. Purple velvet flares with silver bells on. Badly knitted jumpers with anything from misshapen creatures to words spelled wrong. Christmas jumpers wired with lights that actually lit up. Mismatched boots. Dashiel would try everything on—mostly to amuse me and whoever else was around. It was our secret mission. Something we never spoke about.

I close my eyes and sit back down to hunch over, forgetting where I am and trying to curl myself around my heart.

“Are you okay?” Micky asks gently.

I open my eyes, noticing how he’s dipping his head to peer at me, and I try to straighten up, but for a moment I feel caught in the gravity of his gaze. Like a meteor being pulled into the sun, I’m stuck and unable to escape.

“I’m okay,” I say, trying to sound as sure as I can.

“I do kinda know where a clothing bank is, but I’ve no idea what I’m supposed to do,” Micky admits as we head outside. “Are you sure you don’t mind coming with me? I mean, you probably think I’m being pathetic, right?”

I shake my head. Pathetic? Never.

“Supervillains need coats too,” I say as brightly as I can. It’s true, I do need a coat, and I’d probably find a way to avoid going to the clothing bank forever, so Micky is doing me a favour, really. “The sea is a cold hunting ground,” I add, watching some guy with a predatory grin talking to a woman in the grocer’s opposite.

When Micky laughs, it startles me. I turn to see all the sadness and shadows flee his face, like a flock of swallows swooping up and disappearing into a September sky, leaving him grinning loopily, his eyes shining. “You come right out of left field, don’t you?” he asks.

I frown at the ground sort of happy to have made him laugh but having no idea what it is he means… and I can’t seem to open my mouth to ask him.

 

 

WE HEAD across the ironclad bridge towards Central London. It’s busy with lunchtime traffic, people crowding the bridge to take pictures of the river. The London Eye looms around the bend. I wonder if anyone inside a pod is looking down at us, the only two people walking with any purpose. The only two people on this bridge without coats or cameras.

Micky catches me staring at his jumper. It has a few holes in it. He touches them and I hear him swallow.

“My bag of washing got stolen last week from the launderette. I’ve had to borrow stuff. I lost most of my clothes.”

And I’ve managed to break his damn phone too. Well done, me.

The pavements are slick with ice. I don’t want to fall over, so I don’t walk too fast and I watch where I’m putting my feet. I watch Micky’s feet too. His dirty grey trainers at least look like they fit him. His jeans don’t—they’re too big. If I put my head up and stand up straight, I think we’d be about the same height, but his legs are much longer than mine. And his feet are huge, or perhaps they just look big on his skinny frame like his hands do, as though he’s not quite grown into who he’s going to be yet.

I wonder how old he is. Perhaps he’s younger than I thought. I don’t want him to be younger.

Micky talks about everything. His accent makes every word sound new, and he comes out with stranger facts than the ones that fill my head.

I think he’s cold and needs to take his mind off it. Maybe talking makes him feel warmer. I don’t always respond, but I’m listening. I like the sound of his voice. It relaxes me and makes me feel easy in his presence, which is weird because I hardly know him. Mostly I’m still thinking about “left field” and what it is he meant when he said that.

“Do you want me to shut up? I talk more when I’m nervous. I’m used to people telling me to shut up.” He’s smiling, so I don’t think he’s being entirely serious. I hate the way his teeth chatter, making his words come out all wavery, though. I’d offer him my jumper if I didn’t think I might freeze to death before I make it to the clothing bank wearing only a thin T-shirt.

I can’t imagine ever wanting him to shut up.

But then, I’m the weirdo who broke his phone trying to get a picture of him off it, and I’m the creep who lied to him about it. But I swear to myself that I’m going to convince him to keep my phone. After that I’m not going to do anything else weird.

He glances at me sidelong as if he’s still waiting for my answer.

“I don’t want you to shut up,” I say.

I’m glad he can’t see the way my stomach flips over as I speak or hear the way my heart is beating out a crazy rhythm in my chest.

Can’t lifetimes be measured in heartbeats? The faster a heart goes, the less time you have? Maybe Micky is bad for my health. I’ve probably knocked a few years off my life in the past half hour just by being with him. Strangely enough, I don’t think I want them back.

We cross a busy street, Micky chattering away about the London buses and how they make him think of Harry Potter.

I’m so engrossed with listening to him and staring at our feet trying to match our strides together that I almost miss our turning. I want to avoid the crowds, so I’m taking Micky the shortcut route down the back alleys and side streets.

The alleyway is gloomy and cuts out the noise of the streets beyond as soon as we step down it. I’m pretty positive no one is looming in the shadows, but Micky grows quieter and every few steps he glances this way and that. He looks scared of every shadow, and if he speaks at all, it’s in a whisper. It makes me wonder how long he’s been doing what he does on the streets. The longer you’re out here, the less obvious you are about your wariness. It becomes second nature—you look like you belong even if you don’t feel like you do.

It’s not a bad thing, but Micky doesn’t look like he belongs here. I don’t want him to belong here. Dytryk didn’t belong either. There is a sort of easy sweetness some people have. Maybe it’s trust, I don’t know. I think you can easily lose that way of being, though. I must have lost mine a long time ago.

Somewhere a dog is barking on and on and on. The sky is a million miles of grey above us.

We pass out of the alleyway into a busier backstreet with a warm-looking Turkish restaurant that smells like heaven on the corner.

To my relief Micky brightens almost immediately.

I decide we’ll take a detour down this street instead of going down the next alleyway. It doesn’t make too much difference to the distance.

Micky stares around. He seems fascinated with buildings in particular and chatters on about how he loves the quirkiness of London. How it’s not uniform.

The more Micky talks, the more comfortable I feel in his presence. Comfortable enough that when Micky pauses to catch his breath, I voice the thought I’ve carried in my head since we left the café.

“What did you mean about me coming out of left field?”

For a millisecond Micky’s eyes widen in surprise. Then he smiles and looks at me with the same crazy, conspiratorial expression he had on his face when he asked about shark hunting.

“It means I like you,” he says simply.

My steps falter, but I force myself to keep walking.

“Everything in London is so close together, isn’t it?” He carries on as if he hasn’t just stopped my heart with five simple words.

London, I think. London, London, London. London is all I know. Not Micky. I don’t know Micky. I don’t know why he said that.

I like you too, I think helplessly. It’s not just stupid hormones I can’t control, I actually like him. He’s lovely—sweet and trusting. I didn’t expect him to be like this. But he shouldn’t trust me after I’ve broken his phone and lied to him about it. I wish I had the guts to tell him the truth.

“Are you American?” I force myself to ask before I lose focus entirely.

Micky nods. “I grew up in Arizona.”

It’s a nice word, Arizona. I say it to myself again and again, trying to slow all the other words filling my head. Arizona sounds so completely foreign it might as well be another language. I like you is another language, one I don’t understand. Why would he say that? Doesn’t he know I could get the wrong idea? No. He doesn’t know me. How can he like me if he doesn’t know me?

Arizona. Arizona. Arizona, I think.

“Big skies, you know,” he says, looking at the ground. And although he’s smiling, I get the sense that talking about this is making him sad.

I shake my head. I don’t know. The sky seems pretty big everywhere.

“This is the scenic route to the clothing bank, right? I’ll have to remember this one.” Micky is still smiling, but even through the jumble of thoughts in my head and a hundred Arizonas, his change of subject is abrupt. And obvious.

 

 

WE ENTER the clothing bank via the back entrance past the bins. Before the clothes are put out on the shelves, they’re always washed. The back door is always open to let out the sweet-smelling hot air from the tumble dryers. I love the clean scent of the washing. I could probably live quite happily in one of the massive warm tumble dryers. My washing never smells so good when I hang it out to drip-dry in the shower cubicles.

My head is still so full. I’m considering taking my pad out and writing everything down even if Micky is with me. Maybe he’d understand—maybe this is like him needing to talk. I don’t talk much, but the words still need to come out of me somehow.

But I can’t. We’re spotted before we even take three steps through the door.

“What the—! Danny!” Lou exclaims, appearing out of nowhere.

My stomach drops a little. I was hoping to get through without seeing anyone, especially Lou.

I blink, unsure what to say or what his greeting even means.

The floor vibrates as the washing machines spin in tandem. The tumble dryers make the warm air hum.

Lou has been at the drop-in center for as long as I can remember—he calls himself a volunteer, though I’m not sure what he actually volunteers to do apart from hang around. I think maybe the center just lets him come here as he has nowhere else to spend his days. I wouldn’t be surprised if he actually did live in one of the tumble dryers. Except he probably wouldn’t fit. His tall stocky form would probably only fold inside so far.

I’ve never been sure whether he likes me. Dashiel said it was his way, but Lou was always a lot nicer to Dashiel than me, and now Dashiel’s not here. I take a deep breath.

“We’ve just come for the clothing bank.”

“You can’t come in this way.” Lou shakes his head and frowns. “This way is just for people dropping clothes off. You need to go around the front.”

The clothing bank is just a room in the drop-in center. The door to it is behind Lou. I stare at it. Is he really going to make us go all the way around?

“We’ll be really quick,” Micky says in a gentle voice. “I bet if you blink, you won’t even know we’ve gone in.”

He smiles at Lou. The warm smile that makes my heart trip over itself. I can see his sharp teeth.

It doesn’t surprise me that Lou is blushing. He lowers his head and stares at his hands, while Micky gives me a questioning look as if to say “Come on, where do we go?”

Micky has a magic that must work on just about anyone.

 

 

LOU DOESN’T try to stop us as I lead the way past the three industrial tumble dryers to the clothing bank door.

“Danny, eh?” Micky whispers as we reach the door.

I close my eyes. Bang goes my air of intrigue and mystery.

Micky’s elbow connects with my side, and he smiles as though we’re sharing a secret and it pleases him deeply.

 

 

THE CLOTHING bank is like a big cupboard, with a couple of small cupboards that act as dressing rooms off to one side. They have towels and sheets and sometimes sleeping bags, as well as clothes on the shelves.

We’re not the only ones here. Helen, as usual, is sitting behind the desk knitting colourful squares that will be made into blankets for some cause or another. I have one of her blankets back at the swimming pool. She must have made thousands of squares in the years she’s been here. As we go in, she stops knitting and hands us a ticket. It states how many items we can take. If you’re really desperate, they let you take more, so I think it’s just to stop people being greedy or from taking clothes to sell on.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asks us without looking up.

“Two coats,” I say.

“We’re a bit short on coats. It’s the weather. Might be one on the far shelf.” She points to the other side of the room.

The coat is a dark blue quilted jacket. It’s short but it looks warm, though it smells a little musty. I guess coats can’t be washed as easily as other clothes.

I take it off the hanger and pass it to Micky to try on.

He promptly hands it back to me. “You brought me here. You should have it.”

“I have another coat. It’s pretty ripped, but I can wear it,” I lie, while thinking, You wear hot pants and a see-through shirt when it’s snowing, and you faint, and you have to deal with people touching you where you don’t want them to touch you.

And you make my heart beat faster and faster.

“Are you sure you have a coat?” Micky draws his eyebrows together and looks at me. Really looks at me.

He looks at me until I look back at him.

My heart beats like a hummingbird’s wing. His eyes are bluer than any sky. I can see my own dark eyes reflected within them, like storm clouds over a sea.

For a moment it feels as if he can see right through me, as if I’m made of glass and every lie I tell is written out for him to read. It makes me sad, as sad as I’ve ever been, because I wish things were different. I wish it with everything in me—the thought sharp as a spear in my heart. I don’t normally let myself think like this, but right now I’d give anything, absolutely anything, to look ordinary. For him to look at me and see an ordinary boy looking back at him. I wouldn’t ask to be beautiful.

I can’t let myself think like this so I look away and nod. “Please take it.”

It fits him well enough. When he zips it all the way up, his face just about disappears inside the warm hood.

He looks at me unhappily. It’s the same face he pulled when he didn’t want to take my phone.

I wish I knew what to say to make him smile.

 

 

BEFORE WE leave I spot a fleecy hooded jumper on a nearby shelf. I want it, but I don’t want my lie about having another coat to become so obvious.

Warmth wins out in the end and I take it. I pull the jumper on over the top of the one I’m wearing. Micky doesn’t say anything. Helen nods at us as we leave, keeping one eye on her knitting. The clock above her desk says 1:30 p.m. I’m so tired. It was after four when I got back this morning after following Dollman. I want to go back to my shell and sleep before tonight.

We walk out through to the drop-in center. It’s always pretty busy. They have a café and a warm television room. I’ve curled up on the sofas in the television room a few times in the past.

Micky looks around, taking it all in.

“Will you come and have a cup of tea or coffee with me?” he says. I see a flash of sharp teeth as he worries his lip.

His lips look so soft. I want to touch them.

I concentrate on breathing.

“I can’t.” My response is automatic. I wouldn’t know how to say yes to a question like that.

I should go now.

“Okay.” He shrugs and looks away.

 

 

A BLAST of cold air greets us as we step outside.

The sun is shining. Somehow it’s managed to burn its way through all those thick clouds.

Micky leans back against the red brick wall beyond the doorway and closes his eyes. The sunlight shines on him. I stand next to him, closing my eyes too and feeling the faint flickers of warmth on my face.

“I miss the sun,” he whispers.

I’m not even sure he’s saying those words to me. I think he’s just saying them, because sometimes things need to be said even if no one is listening.

When I open my eyes, I’m startled to find Micky looking at me. He doesn’t smile—his expression is serious, and he doesn’t look away, embarrassed, like I would do if he’d caught me staring at him. He just keeps looking. I feel uncomfortable.

“Danny suits you,” he says after a few heartbeats—though if we’re counting in my heartbeats, it’s quite possibly a few hundred.

He leans in closer. I imagine I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek, hear the slow, strong beat of his heart. The thought makes me dizzy, breathless, and I can’t meet his gaze.

“I’ll still call you Loki if you want, though.” Micky cocks his head. “Who’s the shark hunter, Danny or Loki?”

I don’t think he’s making fun of me, his expression seems too genuinely curious.

I shake my head, feeling suddenly stupid. About everything. Especially the Loki thing, especially after last night with Vinny. It all seems so clear now—everything seems so clear. He probably thinks Dieter’s right that I’m creepy and weird. Maybe creepy and weird is all I am.

I shrug, and it sort of hurts.

All I can hear is the quiet of the sky and the quiet inside me. The sounds of the city have become muffled, unimportant, too familiar to distinguish.

“Forget Loki. It was stupid,” I hear myself whisper. “Dieter calls me Loki to make everyone laugh…. I guess I wanted to play games and make people laugh at me on my own terms. I know it’s stupid.”

“Hey—” Micky looks oddly distressed and shifts uncomfortably, his shoulder rubbing against the wall. “—I didn’t mean… I wasn’t making fun of you.” He tries to smile, but it looks like a painful one.

“I know.” I look at him, trying to make my expression open. I don’t want him to feel bad.

“If this is a game, I like playing it with you,” he whispers.

I frown at my feet. I’m not sure this game can still be a game if we’ve admitted to it. I’m not sure if the rules have changed. The stakes definitely have.

“I like pretending too,” he says. “It’s not stupid.”

All at once I feel sad again, like I did last night with Vinny. Has he been pretending this whole time?

“I should go now,” I say.

“Wait, we need to arrange something—like how I’m going to pay you back, for everything,” Micky says quickly, pushing himself away from the wall. “We need to sort that out. What’s your mobile number?”

“I’ve not got it on me.” I don’t want him to pay me back. I don’t want him to feel like he owes me. “Bye,” I say. I have this sudden and inexplicable urge to run.

So I do.

“Hey, wait!” Micky darts after me. He’s quick, faster than me, and he jumps in front of me so that I either have to stop or run around him. His hood has fallen down—his hair shines in the light. “Don’t disappear like this.”

He reaches out to put a hand on my shoulder and I automatically step away. He drops his arm to his side.

“Is it because of what I said? I’m sorry. I really, really wasn’t… I’d never laugh at you, Danny. Never. I swear on my life.”

My heart hurts. It beats faster, and with every beat, it hurts.

“I can’t pretend,” I say.

Micky frowns.

“I don’t want you to pretend I’m not a freak.” I force the words out, feeling sick even as I say them.

“What?” Micky swallows.

He looks upset and I feel awful, but this is what I’m suddenly afraid Micky has been doing.

I can’t pretend like this—it isn’t fair, even if we only do it for a little while. Even though I want it so badly, I will never be normal. I will never have a normal face that someone is going to look at and like. Pretending makes me feel even worse than a joke.

I shove my overlong hair back behind my ears and try to meet his gaze. He won’t look at me. Instead he closes his eyes, and his expression makes me think he’s wishing himself away from this moment.

“I’ve got to go,” I whisper, and when I step around him, he doesn’t try to stop me.

He doesn’t react in any way. I’m not even sure he knows I’ve gone.

 

YOU PUSHED him away. Dashiel’s voice rings in my head, louder than the traffic I’m racing past, heavier than the weight of the sky. I’ve never heard him sound quite so clear. Why the fuck did you push him away?