Warmth

 

 

MY FEET skid in the snow as I stop and drop down, yanking at my jumper with my good arm to get it over my head.

“Micky?” I say urgently.

But he doesn’t respond or even acknowledge he’s heard me.

I manage to rip the jumper off over my head, and… I hesitate. He’s shivering. Not as much as I am, but it means he’s not frozen to death yet. He’s completely naked. I search the pavement, but there is nothing around him: no bag, no pile of discarded clothes. His bare feet are in the gutter where the icy water is still just about flowing, but slivers of ice are forming at the edges.

I can’t really tell in the ghostly light of the streetlight, but I suspect his feet and hands are blue.

“Micky?” I say again.

Nothing.

I take a deep breath and wipe the snow from his back with my now bare arm. I feel him jump at my touch, and I lay my jumper over his back and shoulders, thankful it’s so big.

“Micky, it’s me. It’s Danny. It’s okay. I’m going to look after you. I’m going to get you somewhere warm,” I say softly, though my voice is shaking.

I have no idea where, but we need to move.

It’s so stupid, but for a second I’m scared to touch him properly. I’ve never touched anyone who’s naked like this. Biting my lip, I put my arm around him and try to drag him to his feet. It’s not easy, and Micky isn’t helping. I don’t know whether he’s semiconscious from the cold or if he’s out of it for some other reason, but he is really out of it. My injured shoulder hurts with the effort of shifting him, but I don’t care. He’s going to get fucking hypothermia if I don’t get him out of this snow. We both are. I’ve no idea how long he’s been wandering around like this or whether it’s got anything to do with Jack.

Finally I manage to get him to stand. I push him up against the lamppost next to us and press my hand to his chest to stop him collapsing to the ground. I don’t think I can carry him any distance, but if his legs are on the verge of giving way with him just being upright like this, I think I’m going to have to.

I look around and consider calling for help, just shouting and hoping someone comes.

“Micky? Help me get this jumper on you. Please,” I beg him. I can’t hold him up and one-handedly pull the jumper down over his head. It’s impossible.

My teeth are chattering, my hands shaking. The thin T-shirt I’m wearing is soaked through.

Micky can’t seem to focus on me, and he screws his face up and squints. When he brings his hand up, I don’t know whether he’s trying to help me or not. It’s as though he can’t quite control his limbs. If it weren’t so cold, I’d say without hesitation that he’s absolutely smashed. As it is, he doesn’t smell of alcohol, although the falling snow could have washed away the scent. Maybe he’s high or in shock because of something that’s happened or because he’s so fucking freezing.

In the end I let him slip to the ground, and I unstrap my shoulder so I can roughly pull the jumper over his head. I wish I could afford to be gentler with him, but I want to get him covered up.

After that it’s much easier to get his arms down the sleeves. Not once do I look or even consider his nakedness: his long glowing limbs and how the outlines of his bones show through his skin. Nothing. Until he touches his soft dick as if checking it’s still there—pressing his fingers down the length and squeezing, then pulling the skin at the tip, stretching it.

I swallow and pull the jumper down over his hand.

“We need to find some shelter out of the snow,” I say mostly to myself. I hoist him up again, gasping as it feels like something tears inside my shoulder. The pain nearly overwhelms me for a moment, but after a minute it begins to back off as I breathe through it.

I glance across the road to where I can see several blocks of posh Victorian flats overlooking the park. One or two lights are on in the buildings. I don’t know if any of those people would help us, but Micky is freezing to death in my arms. I need to do something.

Should I call an ambulance? I can’t see a pay phone so it would mean searching for one, walking who knows how far until we find one that works. The flats are nearer.

With my good arm around his shoulders, I do my best to carry Micky across the empty road. By the time we reach the other side, I’m mostly dragging him.

We make it up the well-tended path to the solid front door to one of the blocks. Slowly I lower Micky to the ground, where he sits, head lolling back against the doorway. I glance at his feet and see blood across the top of his toes where I’ve scraped them on the ground from dragging him.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper shakily. Fuck.

There are twenty lit-up call buttons next to the door. I hover my fingers over them, one by one, but I can’t press any of them. I can’t call any of these sleeping strangers.

I hold my hand over my mouth, then touch Micky’s face with my fingertips. We’re both so, so cold. I look out into the night. Snow is falling thick and fast, white on black. The ground is covered with it. I don’t know what to do.

Despite the fact he’s sitting up, Micky looks unconscious. The light here in the doorway is brighter than the streetlights, and he’s really not a good colour. My breath catches. I need to wake him up, get him warm. What am I doing just standing here? I’m so cold too. It’s hard to think.

For the first time in my life, I know I’m going to have to do something really reckless.

The path leads around the back of the flats. I’ve walked past enough of these buildings to consider their layout, and they have a back door.

Grimacing with the pain, I lift Micky in my arms. It’s agony. Burning, stabbing pain lances through my shoulder, and I think I might drop him at any moment. He’s not as heavy as he should be, but right now I’m not as strong as I usually am. Every time I take a step, an awful sound escapes me—a wounded animal sound. I can’t help it.

We make it to the back door. There are so many shadows around here. Micky almost falls as I try to lower him to the ground—I almost don’t have it in me to stop him, but I manage to lay him on the path.

Under this blanket of white, I can’t see at all what I’m looking for, so I drop to my knees and shove my hands in the freezing snow, searching. A stone, that’s all I need. A heavy stone.

Finally I spot a stone on top of one of the bins, probably to keep the lid down and to keep the foxes out. We’re like foxes, I think, and maybe for once this stone is going to help some foxes get in somewhere.

I stand in front of the back door, feeling for where the lock and the handle are. I don’t even know for sure if this is going to work, but I really don’t have any other ideas right now. Focusing my remaining strength into my good arm, I bring the stone down as hard as I can on the lock, trying to muffle the sound with my body. I do it over and over again. After five hits I think I hear a clink, as though something has fallen to the floor inside, and I give the handle a shake. Like some Christmas miracle, it gives, the door swings open, and the building’s warmth envelops me. No alarms go off, no lights flash.

An immense sense of relief courses through me, and it feels so good that for a second I stand there, unable to move.

Micky, I think suddenly. I reach down and grab his wrist. Even moving slowly like this hurts now.

He’s lying on the path, eyes closed. I should lift him, but I can’t. I just can’t. Using the last of my strength, I pull him across the ground towards the door.

Once we’re both inside, I close the back door, shutting out the cold. But now it won’t stay shut, so I fetch my rock and wedge it on the inside. I find the light switch by running my hand along the wall. I switch it on and see we’re in a small corridor. A low whoosh-whooshing sound is coming from nearby. It sounds a lot like a washing machine. It smells a lot like laundry: like the clothing bank but less detergenty. The scent here is sweeter and more flowery. It’s comforting.

It’s warm.

God, it’s so warm.

I crouch and gather Micky in my good arm, pull him against my chest. His hand twitches as though he’s trying to grab ahold of something. His eyelids flicker.

Gently I lay him down again so I can sweep the pieces of broken lock into the shadows by the door. Then it won’t look as though someone has broken in—at first glance anyway.

I put my hand on the tiles. Even though the air is warm, they feel pretty cold. Micky is splayed out across them, arms and legs everywhere. Keeping my eyes on him, I walk backwards until I reach the end of the short corridor. There are three doors. One is slightly open—the one where the noise is coming from. I push it wider and feel for a light switch. It’s a small laundry room: three washing machines, two tumble dryers, several drying racks, and a small sink. It doesn’t have any windows, but I feel safe here. I don’t even try the other doors. There could be alarms. Maybe the laundry room isn’t important enough to have one.

Micky begins to mumble incoherently as he stirs. Gently I shush him and crouch so I can place my good arm around his chest again and pull him into the laundry room.

I make a nest for us in the corner of the room out of the four large soft towels I find in the tumble dryer. When I’m done, I roll Micky onto them and wrap him up warmly.

I switch the light off and push the door over, leaving it open a few inches. The light spilling in from the corridor keeps the little room from being pitch-black. If anyone were to glance in, we should be out of sight here, and hopefully they wouldn’t notice us.

Even though it’s so warm, I’m still trembling. Trembling and tired and brain numb.

As I curl my body around Micky’s, I feel like a mother cat protecting her young, or a fox protecting her cubs. It’s such a strange thought, but it’s the last one I have for a while.