Authors: Sue Brown
“This was my son, Allan.”
I pick up on the past tense. “Was?”
She nods, her eyes fixed on my face. “He was seventeen when he died. He was attacked outside a pub near where we lived. A gay pub. The first time I found out my son was gay was when the policeman told me he was dead, killed by a group of drunks who decided to pick on the skinny kid coming out of the pub.”
I look at the picture. I know what Mrs. Wilson is saying: it could so easily have been me. Nearly was me a few weeks ago. It should have been me. Allan had been loved by his family. I was just some loser on the streets.
“Soon after Allan died, I met Sharon. Her mum kicked her out for being trans. She stayed with us for six months, until she got a job. I promised myself no other gay child would die if I could do something about it. I can’t save them all, just one at a time.”
“Why not foster a teenager? Someone younger, who needs a home. There are plenty of them.”
Mrs. Wilson touches the image of her son with one fingertip. “My son was gay. I look after gay children.”
I need space to think. To give myself time I pick up the forgotten fizzy drink and take a long swallow. Around me the world carries on, oblivious to my turmoil.
Sylvia is giving me a sympathetic look that makes me want to grit my teeth. “I know it’s a lot to take in. We’ve done this at least twelve times now, and we know what you are feeling. Would it help to talk to one of Mum’s kids?”
“I can do that?” For some reason that startles me.
“We keep in touch with most of them.”
“Most? Not all?”
“Some can’t stick to the rules,” Mrs. Wilson says as she puts away her wallet. “I don’t have many, but I expect those I do to be kept. Just as you would if you lived at home.”
I bite my lip, but I know she’s right. Mum and Dad would have expected me to abide by their rules.
“What about rent? I’ve got no money.”
“You can sign on and claim for housing benefit. Mum will show you how to do that.” Sylvia puts down her cup of tea and gives me a frank look. “We’re not trying to take over your life. I know you’re independent, and you’ve survived this far, but another bout of pneumonia—hell, even cold or flu—and you’re not going to make it. This way you get a roof over your head and a chance to recover for the winter. Danny, you’re not well yet.”
The inside of my mouth is getting raw from all the biting. I know I’m still fucked up. I can feel every breath, and just the short walk to the cafeteria has done me in. Still, the thought of being dependent in someone else’s house…. I know how to get money if I need it, and it doesn’t involve begging. Being on my knees, yes, but that’s my choice.
“Tell you what, Danny….”
I look up to see Mrs. Wilson giving me a shrewd look. “Yeah?”
“
Yes
. It has an
s
on the end. Stay until you feel well enough to move back to the streets.”
“You won’t force me to stay?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “I’m not into kidnapping young men.”
“Mum prefers older men,” Sylvia confides.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to make some crack about wheelchairs, but she’s not my mum.
“I do not,” Mrs. Wilson says hotly.
“John Carpenter? Mick Lawson?”
“They were friends, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mrs. Wilson splutters. She’s all flustered, and I can’t hold back the grin when Sylvia shares a slow wink with me.
“Don’t you give Danny any ideas. He’s moving into a good house.”
“I’m only teasing you, Mum. He can see you’re a good person.” Sylvia looks to me for confirmation.
I nod immediately because I can see that, and I’m rewarded by both the women beaming at me. Fuck knows why she wants to take random guys into her home in memory of her dead son, but I can see she means well.
Mrs. Wilson gets to her feet. “Sylvia’s going to walk you through what happens if you decide to stay. I have to go now. I’ve got a date at the community center.”
I stand up too and hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Wilson.”
“Mary,” she says as she shakes my hand.
“Huh?”
“Call me Mary, and don’t say ‘huh’. It makes you sound stupid.”
I look over to Sylvia to be rescued, but she shrugs. “Get used to it, Danny. She’s a menace when it comes to the English language.”
“Just because I insist it should be spoken correctly does not make me a menace,” Mary says primly.
“Just don’t call her a Nazi,” Sylvia says in a stage whisper.
“I’m going to ignore that. Give me a kiss and I’ll see you later, Sylvia.” Mary leans forward.
Sylvia bends to give her mother a kiss. “See you later, Mum. I’ll bring in dinner.”
“What do you like to eat?” Mary asks me suddenly.
I’m thrown. “Anything I can get,” I admit honestly.
“But before. What did you like eating when you were at home?”
“A roast dinner or lasagna. I loved Mum’s Sunday roast.”
“Roast lamb it is, then,” Sylvia says. “Me and Mum love a roast.”
“It’s not Sunday,” I say, outraged. “You have roast on a Sunday.”
Mary looks at me with a serious expression on her face. “We’ll make an exception, just this once. I’ll cook, Syl; you just bring the boy.”
I realize I’m being stupid. I rarely get the luxury of a roast dinner and I’m arguing about what day of the week it is? And then I realize they’re already assuming I’m coming to their house.
“Does anybody ever turn you down?” I ask sourly.
Sylvia grins at me. “Not after the bribe of a roast dinner.”
Despite the resentment at their casual assumption, something inside me just
folds
. It’s the first time in years I haven’t had to think for myself—since Harry, anyway—and it’s like a blockage has cleared and I can breathe. I want to say no, I can survive on my own, thanks, but I can’t. Even if I accept the dinner and not the bed, they aren’t asking for my mouth or my ass. Okay, it’s some sort of therapy for the old lady.
Mary, not the old lady.
But if it benefits me for a while, then fuck it.
I suddenly realize they haven’t said anything, and I look up to see them smiling at me. I sigh and rub between my brows. “I don’t do the washing up.”
Mary snorts. “Good Lord, that’s what a dishwasher is for. You can clear the table, though.”
I open my mouth to argue, but then shut it again. I’m not sixteen anymore.
“Good boy,” she says in that patronizing manner grown-ups always have. “I’ve got to go. Edna’s going to have my guts for garters.
Sylvia laughs. “Go. You don’t want Edna sulking all afternoon.”
Mary makes that snorting noise again and walks off, leaving me and Sylvia. I looked at her helplessly.
“First, we have to spring you out of here,” she says immediately.
“You make it sound like a prison break. How do you know they’ll let me go today?”
“Because you’re being released into my care,” she says smugly.
“I’m nineteen. I don’t need to be released into anybody’s care. They didn’t try and help me when I was under eighteen. They can’t make me accept help now.”
Sylvia stops looking so smug. “Danny, the staff
knows
you.
I
know you. We’ve nursed you through three bouts of pneumonia, bronchitis, a stabbing, and this last time. You walked out every time social workers tried to get you into shelters and other programs. For once in your life, accept that people want to help you.”
“You think I trust anyone enough to help me? My parents threw me out when I was a kid.” I hiss the angry words at her, stopping, embarrassed when my voice cracks.
I see the pity in her eyes and it makes me cringe, but she says, “Oh, baby, you aren’t the only one. We’ve seen so many kids rejected by their mums and dads. Come home, Danny. Stay for dinner, stay for one night, if that’s all you can manage. But let us help.”
I stare at her for a long moment.
Chapter Nine
T
HE
house is a surprise. Not that I’m sure what I was expecting. Maybe a large room in the back of an old lady’s house. Instead, Sylvia shows me to a door down the side of the house.
“This was built as the granny annex for the people before us. We’ve been here for about thirty years. Mum and Dad never used it except to store junk, but when Allan died and Mum started taking on waifs and strays, she redecorated the place. It’s not that big, but it’s got a kitchen and a bathroom.”
Sylvia’s right. The place is tiny, but for someone like me, used to a hollow under a bush, it’s a fucking mansion. The rooms are simply decorated, plain light walls and no pictures. Sylvia sees me looking around.
“You can put what you like on the walls. If you decide to stay, Mum asks that you help redecorate when you leave. Over the years, everybody has helped Mum prepare for the next person along.”
There a small TV in one corner of the room, and…. I look closely… a PlayStation. Sylvia follows my wide-eyed gaze. “The games console was donated by kids in the local area. There are a few games in the cupboard.”
“You trust me not to nick these and sell them?”
“You’re not going to get a lot of money for them. It’s not like they’re new or anything. Why don’t you leave your bag here and come and have dinner. Mum said it’s ready.” She holds up her phone.
“Your mum knows how to text?” I’m impressed. My gran could barely manage the house phone.
“She’s learned over the years. Too many kids around for her not to have picked up a trick or two. If she offers to play
Crash Bandicoot
with you, on your head be it.”
I look at her skeptically. “Your mum’s a master at
Crash Bandicoot
?”
“Among other games. Don’t you underestimate Mary Wilson. Too many people have done that, to their cost.”
I mutter something that seems to satisfy Sylvia, and she leads me through the door to the rest of the house. I don’t leave my bag, despite her suggestion I do so. The house smells just like mine used to before…. Angry at myself for being such a sap, I blink back tears. Mary’s waiting in the kitchen for us, poking at something on the hob. She looks over her shoulder as we come in.
“Finally. I thought you’d got lost.”
“I showed him around,” Sylvia says easily enough. She doesn’t sound bothered by her mum’s snippiness.
“What do you think, young man?” Mary asks.
“It’s very nice,” I say politely.
She frowns. “Nice? Is that the best you can manage?”
I’m not sure what else I can say, but luckily Sylvia comes to my rescue.
“Leave him alone, Mum. It’s a lot to take in.”
Mary harrumphs and points to the chair at the pine table. “Sit down, then, and I’ll serve up. You must be starving.”
Not really. I’m too nervous to be hungry, but I sit down anyway. Mary places a plate full of roast lamb, roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and vegetables in front of me.
“Gravy?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes, please,” she says firmly.
“Huh? Oh, yes, please. Sorry.” I’m going to have to remember my manners. Mum was never bothered by “yeah” and “nope,” but Mary froths at the mouth every time I forget.
“Better. Eat up.”
I eat—and eat—and eat, until I’m completely stuffed. I can barely manage half the plate because my stomach has shrunk during the illness, but something inside me rebels at leaving food like that, not knowing when I might see it again.
Sylvia lays a hand on my arm. “Don’t make yourself sick, honey. If you want, we can cover it up and you can take it back to the flat.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Of course not,” Mary says. “It’s important you feel comfortable. Besides, you might get hungry in the night. Just make sure you return the plate washed, okay?”
The words are out of my mouth before I have time to think about them. “I thought you had a dishwasher.”
“Call it a sign of goodwill,” she says easily.
I nod slowly. The women have shown me more than enough goodwill. I can wash one plate. A yawn catches me by surprise. It’s barely seven o’clock, yet I feel exhausted.
“Why don’t you have an early night?” Sylvia starts wrapping my plate up in cling film.
“I….” I want to say no. I want to get up and run, run away from all these people pretending to be nice and ordering me around.
“Sleep, Danny. Tomorrow you’ll feel better and more able to make a decision.”
Mary sounds firm and I give in. I’m too fucking tired to care. I let Sylvia lead me back to the flat. The bed is already made up with some well-worn sheets. I wonder briefly how many people have slept in them and decide I don’t care enough to ask.
Sylvia shows me the bathroom, complete with toothpaste and new toothbrush, and then leaves me to it with, “See you tomorrow evening. I’m working all day tomorrow.”
I nod. Maybe I’ll see her, maybe I won’t. I’ll think about it in the morning. “’Night, Sylvia. Thank you.”
I take off my sweats and get under the duvet. The bed is firm and miles more comfortable than a hospital bed. I contemplate turning on the TV, and in mid-thought, I fall asleep.
A
GENTLE
knocking wakes me up. I sit up with a start, heart racing as I can’t work out where I am.
“Danny, are you awake? I’ve brought you breakfast.”
“Hold on.” I skim into the joggers Sylvia brought me yesterday and then open the door from the house.
Mary’s standing on the other side with a covered plate that smells suspiciously like bacon and eggs.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly. “Um, good morning?” I add hastily as she starts to frown.
“Almost. It’s two in the afternoon.”
“It’s 2:00 p.m.?” I stare at her. I’ve slept nearly seventeen hours.
“I was wondering if you’d left without saying good-bye, but the curtains were still closed from the outside, so I took the chance you were still asleep. Now, where would you like to eat breakfast? In the flat? Or in the kitchen with me? I’m just about to make a cup of tea.”
“In the kitchen?” From the way she beams at me, that was the correct answer. “Can I just use the bathroom and I’ll join you?”
Mary nods and turns away. In the daylight, I see scars on her wrists that I hadn’t noticed before. I recognize those scars. She catches me looking and shrugs. “There were dark days,” she says simply.