This is Not a Love Story (22 page)

Oh great. So that’s what they think I was doing.

How fucking ironic.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him.

Moving forward, he places a cold heavy hand on my shoulder, squeezes tightly, but someone else pulls him away.

The driver who yelled at me.

“He’s just a kid.”

“Yeah, and it’s not his fucking job on the line if that mess isn’t cleared off, is it?”

The door slams as he storms out.

The driver crouches down in front of me.

“We have to call the police, and you’re going to have to wait in here while we do.”

He has a kind face, and I realize he’s just doing his job, but I can also see he’s a little angry. What’s the point in trying to tell them it wasn’t me, when it quite visibly
is
me out there. They’ve convinced themselves I’m the culprit, and I just don’t have the energy it would take to argue with them. What could I say that would make them believe me? I slump back in the chair, completely exhausted. This is turning into a nightmare, and I’ve had a few too many of those recently. Always when I’m without Julian. Doesn’t that say something? I close my eyes and feel the traitorous prickle of tears. I miss him so much. Everything feels so wrong and empty without him.

I have no idea how I’m going to get out of this one.

But I don’t get to feel sorry for myself for long. The pissed-off guard marches in, grabs me (ignoring the protest of the other two), and drags me back out and onto the platform.

He hands me what looks like a wallpaper scraper and a bucket of water and pushes me toward a pillar.

“Looks like you’ve got some work to do,” he sneers.

“John, this is pointless. What do you hope to achieve? Security have called it in.”

I just stare at my reflection in the bucket. Can they not see my hands?

“Get on with it.”

I don’t move. I try to work out how many posters there must be. The platform stretches on and on, and like Pasha said, every upright surface is covered. Some of the posters have been graffitied. My face mocked up or completely blanked out, tagged. I look closer. Several of the posters have a blue tag that looks almost like it could say
Pasha
.

I hear the guard breathing heavily behind me. So close I can feel the heat of his body. He must be twice my size. Where the fuck is the driver now? Can’t he see what’s going to happen? Can’t he see this guy is going to beat the shit out of me, and I’m so fucking exhausted I can’t do a thing about it? I can’t even run. I drop the bucket and the scraper.

In one smooth movement, his hand grips the back of my skull and mashes my face against the poster of my face on the pillar. If I open my eyes, I can see every pixelated dot. I try not to react, because if I react, he’ll see he’s scaring me. But I
am
scared. Panic is fluttering madly inside my chest, and when he tightens his grip on my skull, the panic mixed with my exhaustion makes me weak and everything starts to fade out at the edges, as though I’ve reached some sort of limit.

“Do you know how much work this is every fucking day?” he hisses.

But really, I can’t process his words before darkness swallows me, and I black out.

W
HEN
I
come round, I’m lying on a row of chairs in the corner of a different, bigger, room. It looks like a staff room. There are a lot of people in the room. Some of them are police.

A woman in a blue polyester uniform with the logo of one of the train companies on it leans over and checks my pulse.

“My name’s Annie. I’m a first aider,” she explains. I watch her fingers as they press into my wrist. I feel my heart thumping in my ears. “So you’re the mystery boy who puts up all the posters, eh?”

She doesn’t sound pissed off. She sounds intrigued. But I guess it’s not her job to clean them off.

“Romeo, isn’t it?”

I look up sharply.

“How’s your head feeling?”

She lets go of my wrist and places a cool hand gently against my forehead. My head feels too heavy to move away.

“There are some officers here to see you. Do you feel up to talking to them?”

When I don’t respond, she smiles conspiratorially and whispers, “I won’t let them bully you into it.”

I mime writing. Puzzled, she reaches into her pocket and hands me a pen and tears a scrap of paper out of a magazine lying on the floor.

How do you know my name?
I write, in shaky letters.

She looks at me closely.

“When they checked you for ID, the only thing you had in your pocket was the card of a social worker named Estella King. I called her. She’ll be here soon. She said you absconded from hospital.”

How could I have been so stupid to keep that card in my pocket? It’s as though the forces in the universe are all working against me.

I don’t have the energy to respond to Annie and listlessly feel the paper and pencil fall from my fingers, my eyes closing. I don’t think I’ve ever been so unbelievably fucking tired.

“Is he fit to talk?” someone asks, but they sound muffled and far away. Too far away to possibly be talking about me.

“No. You’re just going to have to wait for his social worker to arrive.” Annie’s tone is icy.

If I had the energy, I’d smile at her apparent dislike of the police. It makes me feel safe, and I want her to stay with me. Not that I’d admit that to her. I’m not about to cling to her hand. It’s just… I need someone on my side.

Even though I try to fight it, telling myself I should be alert and ready to run, I feel the arms of sleep wrapping around me, pulling me down—in my dreams I see Julian, and I can’t resist.

E
STELLA
HAS
arrived when I wake. I pretend I’m still asleep. I really don’t want to face her. She has a short conversation about me with Annie. They all agree I’m in no state to talk to the police, which is a fucking relief. When I open my eyes a slit, I see Crash is with her again too. He really must have nothing better to do and no one better to be with. He spots I’m awake and gives me a tiny smile. I look away.

The room is emptier than before, and the pissed-off guard who slammed my face against the wall is thankfully nowhere to be seen. The driver is here, though, talking to Estella, probably explaining about the posters. I wonder how she’s going to make sense out of that one.

Crash moves closer and sits down opposite, staring at his hands and glancing at me every now and then and taking deep breaths.

Please don’t be nice to me
, I think. I want to be able to lump him in with everyone else here who doesn’t understand. But with every little look, he’s trying to reach out to me.

I need to use the bathroom
, I sign abruptly, getting up.

I don’t, but I do need to see if there is any way I can get out of here.

My legs are a little wobbly, and I’m still tired, but I feel mostly okay.

“Hey,” Estella calls out and walks over. “You don’t get away from me a second time, you know.”

She’s smiling, as though she doesn’t mean it like that, but I know she does.

Bathroom?
I sign, looking around.

“Wait a sec.” She holds up a hand and breezes over to where Crash is sitting.

I feel like a fucking child.

She signs something to him, and they both walk over.

“He’s coming with you,” she says, eyebrow raised as if daring me to challenge that.

Great.

The bathroom is small, but large enough for Crash to stand by the door and invade my personal space, watching me as I wash my face in the hand basin. There is only one small window that I don’t think I can fit through.

What’s your problem with all this?
he signs suddenly when I look up into the mirror. I didn’t actually expect him to confront me about anything.

I just want to be left alone,
I sign back, hoping he’ll take the hint.

I wonder how long the corridor we just walked down is. I wish I hadn’t been unconscious when they’d carried me up here.

He looks frustrated.

To go back out on the streets? Why? How can you not want something better? It’s fucking hell living like that!

I’m surprised and a little shocked at his outburst. I’ve never seen someone’s emotions play out so clearly across their face. It’s kind of fascinating. On the streets you learn to become guarded. We stare at each other through the mirror. It’s somehow easier to look at him this way, to pretend we are one step removed, and I’m not entranced by how startling his eyes are now I’ve let myself actually look at him.

I just don’t understand
, he signs, still looking so completely anguished, which confuses the hell out of me.
My foster parents are the kindest people I’ve ever met. They care about me. And they would care about you too. I know they would. I don’t understand why you won’t give them a chance.

It’s not that simple.

Yes, it is. You stay on streets, and after you’re eighteen, you really are fucked. Right now, you’ve got a chance.

Does he think I don’t know that? It’s the whole reason Julian has no fucking chance.

I never chose to be homeless. And I wouldn’t be doing this unless it was absolutely the only way. And I don’t care if you run and tell Estella, but wherever she takes me, I
will
leave.

She’s not stupid. She knows she can’t stop you. But she’s only doing this to protect you. What’s out there for you?

I can’t tell him. If I tell him, I’ll have given in, I’ll have trusted him, and that’s what Estella wants. I can’t let that happen. But I want to tell someone. I want to talk about Julian and bring him to life with my words, make him real and not just a memory.

Someone I care about
, I sign with my eyes closed.
I have to find them. They’re in trouble.

I take a deep shaky breath, and when I look at him, he gives me this sort of grateful happy look, as if he’s pleased I’ve opened up to him and, against my will, it makes me glad I told him. And I know I’m avoiding the fact that I enjoy looking at him because, I tell myself, it’s irrelevant.

What’s his name?

I blush, and quickly move toward the window. I don’t want him to see I’m embarrassed, but by knowing that I’m gay, he’s just confirmed my suspicions that he’s gay. I’m usually rubbish at picking up on that; even with Julian I was rubbish. But the glass is opaque, and all I can see is white, so I can’t even pretend I’m looking out at the view.

Julian
, I sign, turning around, suddenly cold.

What sort of trouble is he in?

I sigh.
Are you going to tell Estella all of this?

Crash glances at his watch as if he’s considering something.

She’s going to think something’s up if we stay in here much longer.

Crash, I need to get out of here.

What are you going to do once you find him?

I don’t know
, I sign, not willing to admit my plan to anyone.

We should get back.

Please
, I sign, desperately.
If you help me get out of here, I promise once I find him I’ll… let them put me in care. Anything.
I hate lying.
Otherwise I’m just going to be looking for opportunities to run.

Crash stares at the floor. His shiny hair flops over his face. I try and work him out. He dresses like a skater or something… or those kids who jump the railings and somersault off the steps around the city at night, looking so fluid and strong.

If I helped you, where would you go right now?

Tower Hamlets. A friend lives there who might know where he would go.

I don’t see the harm in a little bit of truth. Even if he told Estella, Tower Hamlets is pretty huge. They’d have no chance of finding me.

Crash looks straight at me. I have no idea what he’s thinking, and I feel uncomfortable for all the wrong reasons.

Okay. I’ll help you get out of here, but I’m coming with you.

And even though I don’t want to be, I’m so relieved I’m not on my own. With some weirdo out there putting up posters of me, being alone is the worst thing I could possibly be.

W
HATEVER
QUIET
,
careful escape I imagined, I know without Crash it would never have been as simple as just opening that bathroom door and walking the opposite way down the corridor.

For a fraction of a second, I turn and see the fire of Estella’s red hair through the frosted glass in the staff room door. I expect someone to stop us. But Crash holds himself with a quiet confidence and even has the audacity to smile shyly at the two police officers hanging around the doorway that leads out to the concourse.

But however confident he is or is pretending to be, we don’t hang around. We pick up our pace as we weave through the crowds and across the busy station. The noise and the freezing air wake me up to the world like cold water splashed in my face.

As soon as we are out on the street, I hear a mobile phone beep, and Crash reaches into his pocket, so I assume it’s his, and it must also vibrate or something to alert him to messages.

Some guy paid Julian with a phone once. We played around with it for a bit, but when the battery ran down, we sold it. That’s the only time I’ve ever even held one.

Estella?
I ask when Crash looks up from the screen.

He shakes his head and blushes deeply before shoving the phone back in his pocket and looking down at the ground.

A friend
, he signs.
I’m supposed to be meeting him.

I’ll be okay
, I assure him.
You should go.

Smiling wryly, he shakes his head, and something about the determined look in his eyes tells me it would be pointless to argue.