Authors: Sue Brown
Two days after the New Year, we are hiding in Steve’s bedroom again when there’s a knock at the door and Mrs. Gillan walks in with a woman I don’t recognize. From the look on Steve’s face, he hasn’t got a clue either.
“This is Miss Chalmers, from social services,” Mrs. Gillan says. “She’s come to find a place for Danny.”
I sit up in a panic. “What?”
Immediately, Steve is holding my hand. “What do you mean?”
“You’re taking me into care?”
The woman, a black woman with braided hair, nods. “Kind of. As you’re sixteen, we’re taking you to a halfway house. You get a room but you get to look after yourself, rather than be looked after.” She smiles at me, showing lots of white teeth.
I don’t want to leave Steve, but I know I’m not welcome here. Steve’s parents have made it very clear they don’t want me staying in their house a minute longer than I have to.
“You can’t go,” Steve says as I stand up. “Mum, tell Danny he can stay.”
Mrs. Gillan shakes her head. “He can’t, son. This is best for everyone.”
He glares at her. “Best for Danny or best for you? You just don’t want your son’s boyfriend in the house. Worried that you might get AIDS from him?”
The worse thing is the horrified look that comes over Mrs. Gillan’s face, as if that had never occurred to her.
“I don’t have AIDS, any more than Steve does. I’m still… we haven’t….” I turn away before I embarrass myself any further. I pick up the bin bags sitting in the corner of Steve’s bedroom.
“There’s some of your clothes downstairs,” Mrs. Gillan says. “I’ll go and get them.” She had been kind enough to wash them without complaining.
“I don’t believe this shit,” Steve mutters, finally letting go of my hand.
I kiss him on the lips, ignoring the social worker. “I’ll call, okay?”
“You’d better.” Steve sounds all choked up. “I’ll see you back at school?”
I make a noncommittal noise, because I don’t know what the hell is going to happen to me next.
“You’d better be there,” he insists. “I’m not doing that history project by myself.”
Steve walks me to the front door and kisses me long and slow, ignoring the noise of disgust from his mother.
I follow Miss Chalmers to her Nissan Micra. She seems friendly enough, but I don’t trust her. From the second my father made it clear I wasn’t welcome back, I had vowed to myself I would never trust anyone again, especially not a total stranger.
I watch Steve and his mum as we drive away. She has a look of relief on her face but he’s distraught, tears pouring down his face. The last thing I see is her putting an arm around Steve and him shrugging it away. I realize sadly that more than one family has been affected by a New Year kiss.
T
HE
halfway house is euphemistically called Hope House. I soon learn the kids call it Hopeless House. It is an old house that’s been newly decorated. Ten kids are living there, from ages sixteen to nineteen. The theory is the older ones will help us younger ones cook and clean and learn to look after ourselves.
What happens in practice is that the older kids take whatever they like of our things and make us do all the chores. For a few months, as I get over the shock of my parents chucking me out, I deal with living in Hopeless House. I try hard to keep up with my studies at school, and Steve does all he can to help me. Even the school does its best to support me.
I try to fit in, I really do, but I hate living in the home. I miss my bedroom and my home, even Mum’s crappy cooking and my small bed. I share a room with Peter, an eighteen-year-old with bad acne and an even worse attitude. The day I get back from school to find my things missing is the beginning of the end of my stay at Hopeless House.
I don’t have much in the first place—my school uniform, some jeans and tops and underwear. Peter is already back from school when I enter our room. I promised Steve I would go round for an hour but I want to get changed first. So far I’ve managed to keep up with my studies, despite the extra stress. I just want to get through my A levels and then leave school and find a job. I know university is out of the question now.
Peter is on his bed, reading a magazine. He manages a grunt when I say hello. That’s about as much as I normally get out of him. I know something is wrong as soon as I look at the couple of drawers I have. They’re empty, and the few clothes that were there this morning are gone.
Taking a deep breath to hold back my anger, I grab the edge of the drawer, digging my fingers deep into the wood. “Where’s my gear?”
Peter doesn’t reply. If the git had nothing to do with it, you’d expect him to deny it or ask what the fuck I was talking about.
“Where is my gear?” I ask again slowly.
When he doesn’t reply, I rip the mag out of his hands. He sneers at me. “Where the fuck are my clothes? What did you do with them?”
“I didn’t do anything with them, arsehole.”
“What did you just call me?”
“Arsehole. Pussy, cunt, buttmunch. That’s what you are. You’re a fucking queer. Got caught being fucked by your boyfriend and got thrown out for being a homo. Should I be careful about bending over?”
Rage builds inside me. “Yeah. So what? I’m queer. Don’t worry, I don’t want your saggy arse. Fuck knows what I’d catch from you. Now, where are my clothes?”
Peter curls his lip. “Not gonna tell you a thing, poof.”
I leap on him with a scream, hitting him wherever I can reach. He’s taller than me and has longer arms, but I’m so angry I don’t give a shit. For a minute he’s startled, then he tries to hit back, but I’m laying into him for all I’m worth and I’m not going to stop until he’s fucking broken.
The noise must have attracted the social worker on duty, because the next thing I know I’m flying back across the room as she tries to separate us.
“What the hell is going on here?” she yells.
Peter holds his nose, and I take satisfaction in seeing it’s bleeding heavily. “Don’t know. The fucking poofter just went psycho on me.”
I’m panting, trying to get my breath back. “He’s a fucking thief. He’s taken all my clothes. I’ve got nothing left now.”
She looks between the two of us. “Let me get this straight. Your clothes are missing, so you accuse Peter of stealing them?” We both nod. “Then what?”
“He calls me an arsehole and… homophobic names, so I hit him,” I spit out.
“Is this true?” She glares at Peter, who shrugs.
“Well, he is a homo.”
“Where are Danny’s clothes?” she demands.
“How should I know?” It’s obvious to me he’s lying, and the social worker can see it too. She shakes her head.
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this if it’s the last thing I do. Peter, go and wash your face, and get some ice for your nose. Danny, you don’t start hitting before you find out what’s going on.”
Peter leaves with bad grace, mouthing
homo
at me as he shuts the door.
“He stole my things and called me names,” I say stubbornly.
“You don’t know he stole your clothes, but he obviously knows where they are.”
“He’s still a homophobic git,” I say.
She huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, he probably is. But you can’t hit people just because they call you names. You’ll get thrown out of here if you do.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should care. You don’t have a lot of options, Danny. You’re going to find morons like Peter everywhere. Hitting them isn’t going to help your case.”
I can see she’s serious, but I’m so angry I’m shaking. “What case? My parents threw me out of my home for kissing my boyfriend. This dickhead steals my clothes for being gay. I’ve got nothing left.”
She looks at me with pity in her eyes. “Keep your head down for a while. You’ll be fine.”
I stare at her and shake my head. “Whatever. I need something to wear.” I lie on my bed and roll over so I’m facing the wall. I hear her sigh but I don’t pay any attention.
S
HE
finds some of my clothes. Peter stops talking to me, as do all the kids in the home. Every time I join them I hear
homo
and
poofter
hissed by the older kids, low enough not to attract the staff. A couple of the younger ones catch me when we’re on our own and mutter that they’re sorry but they’re scared of being the next target. I don’t blame them.
I’m
scared of them.
I talk to the social workers to see if they’ll move me, but my options are limited. This is a short-term placement, and I’m expected to deal with it. Oh, they make the right noises, but the implication is I have to keep my head down and live with it.
It wouldn’t be so bad if the rest of my life—meaning Steve—hadn’t gone to shit as well.
We try to keep it going, but it is clear his parents don’t want me anywhere near their precious son. Steve starts to make excuses not to see me. At first I believe him when he says it’s his parents, but I’m not stupid, and the rumor around school is that he’s got a girlfriend. He denies it, of course, and he makes love to me, fucking me behind the garage block until I’m sore and boneless.
Still, Steve is sixteen and he’s not that subtle. I see the way Julie Perkins looks at him, and worse, I see the way he looks at her. Now that we’re in sixth form, we can come and go when our lessons have finished, and he leaves before me most days.
I’m sitting in Business Studies when I look out of the window to see Steve going through the gate, his arm around Julie Perkins’ shoulders. I swallow hard against the lump in my throat at his betrayal. I’ve lost everything because of him. I have no home, no parents, no family… and no boyfriend. I don’t think about what I’m doing, just push back my chair and walk out of the classroom, leaving my backpack behind. Mr. Palmer falters, and then calls after me. I ignore him and the buzz of chatter from the other kids. All I can think is this is the end, there is nothing left to live for.
Not sure what to do with myself, I wander the streets until I’m bone cold and decide to head back to Hopeless House. Steve is loitering near the building.
“Danny. Where the fuck have you been?”
I shove my hands in my pockets to stop the urge I have to smack the bastard in the face. “What do you want?”
He hesitates, not looking me in the eyes. “I saw you as I left school.”
“So?”
“Julie doesn’t mean anything. It’s just to keep Mum and Dad off my back.”
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. “No?”
He shakes his head. “It’s still you and me, kiddo.”
“Have you fucked her?” I ask tersely.
Steve hesitates a moment too long.
“Is she a good fuck?”
“No! She’s just a cover.”
“Poor bitch,” I say unsympathetically.
“It’s only you, Danny. Just you.”
I look into his wide eyes and my heart crumbles into a million pieces. “Go away, Steve,” I say and turn my back on him.
I walk into the home, ignoring his calls, only to be shoved up against the wall, smacking my head against the plaster as a forearm is pushed across my throat.
“What are you doing here, fag?”
I wrinkle my nose at the stench of cigarettes on Peter’s breath. “I live here, arsehole.”
He presses his arm harder against my throat, against my windpipe. “Not for long. We don’t want a bumbandit living here. We’ll get AIDS.”
“We, meaning you?”
“All of us. So fuck off and live with your queer boyfriend.”
I am not going to break down and cry in front of this dickwad. “Can’t do that.”
Then his eyes light up. “Heard he doesn’t want you anymore. Got himself some real pussy, hasn’t he?”
There is only one thing in the rush of blood in my head. I punch him as hard as I can, the crack of his nose breaking very satisfying. He steps back with a muffled yell, clutching at his face.
“Danny!” The social worker, Susan, runs down the hallway. “What have you done?”
“He’b a fushing psybo,” Peter says, his words indistinct.
She pushes Peter down onto the chair. “Christ, what the hell is it with you two? You can’t stay here if you’re going to keep fighting, Danny.”
I watch her fuss with Peter, and the sick feeling in my stomach intensifies. I walk out the front door, ignoring someone calling my name for the third time that day. Steve isn’t there. He hadn’t even waited for a minute.
I walk down the street, swallowing hard against the anger and hurt threatening to spill over. I turn a corner and see a sign for the bus station. It’s time to get out of this shithole. I’ve got no idea where I’m going, but no bastard is going to throw me out of my home for a second time. From now on, it’s me and only me.
Chapter Two
May 2002
I
ROLL
over, grimacing as something digs me in the back. It’s time to replace the cardboard boxes again. They’re soggy and I can feel all the stones poking through the cardboard. It doesn’t matter how often I clear the soil, stones always seem to creep back during the night to make me feel like a cripple in the morning. I’m eighteen and sometimes I feel like eighty.
I sit up with a groan, peeking out to see what the time is. I don’t have a watch or a phone, but I can tell roughly what time it is by the inhabitants of the park. The commuters rushing through to the station aren’t there, nor are the kids on their way to school. Aside from a few dog walkers, the park is quiet, which means it’s probably before ten. After that it fills up with mums taking their preschool kids to the swings. I roll out from under the thick bush that serves as my shelter and stand up to stretch. I ignore the woman in the smart suit walking past, a disgusted expression on her face. Two years of sleeping rough has knocked the sensitivity out of me. These days that bush is my home. I sleep up against a brick wall that keeps the weather off me and gives me some measure of security. If it upsets the other park users, tough shit. Not that many of them see me at night. They’re usually too pissed to see me hiding.
I’m going to head to the drop-in center at the football club. I can get a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich there that will do until the evening meal at the shelter. I don’t bother trying to get a bed, but they let me drop in for a meal. The old guys need the beds more than I do. Sometimes, if I have the money, I treat myself to a burger at lunchtime. I try not to remember the time when I could go to McDonald’s every day. I blank out
before.
There is only
now
, and that is enough. Waking up dry is enough of a blessing.