Wild Summer (2 page)

Again he felt that gentle hand touch his arm, but he shrugged it away. Christopher didn’t know what he was going to do, where he was going to sleep tonight. He’d been planning to stop in a hostel he knew in London and text his social worker in a few days, enough time that she was unlikely to try and drag him back to that family in Canterbury. Yes, he’d been on the streets before, but he’d had friends he could contact with his phone. He’d never been in an unfamiliar place alone.

Summer sat down on the grass close to Christopher’s hands, picking the petals off a daisy. Every few seconds he glanced up, but Christopher studiously ignored him. It was hard, though. Hard because even though he was upset, something about this boy stirred his guts up.

And there were sparks.

Sparks so bright they made his skin tingle. The last person he’d felt sparks with was a girl he’d slept in doorways with, so close he’d innocently thought it love. And those sparks had not been half as potent as this.

“I’ll get it all back for you,” Summer said solemnly as soon as he had eye contact. “I promise.”

C
AUTIOUSLY
THIS
time, they made their way back across the busy road, taking no chances and waiting for large gaps in the traffic before they crossed. Summer was still trembling, his hands shaking as he reached down to pick up Christopher’s bag, and Christopher wanted desperately to put his arms around him, to calm him with his touch, but he didn’t have the inner confidence to do something like that.

“There’s a café on the high street.”

Summer passed him his bag and dug around in his pockets. He held out a few coins—enough for a cup of tea, maybe two. “Wait there for me. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Smiling wryly, Christopher shook his head. It wasn’t because he didn’t trust Summer to return—inexplicably, he did trust him—it was more the dread that was rolling off the boy in almost palpable waves. Whatever he was going to have to do to get Christopher’s stuff back, it clearly terrified him.

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t trust me.”

Dipping his head, Christopher caught the miserable expression the boy was trying to hide.

“I do trust you. I just think you might need my help.”

Surprisingly Summer didn’t dispute it, just turned away and started walking, so Christopher wasn’t sure what he thought at all.

C
HRISTOPHER
KNEW
how it worked. Whoever Summer had sold his belongings to would have passed them on by now—goods quickly moving up the chain, obscuring their pathway, becoming untraceable. Summer’s fee would have been nominal, certainly not worth all this trouble. It would be a desperate amount, but then desperate was what most thieves were.

“It’s a debt, isn’t it?” Christopher said suddenly. “You owe someone.”

They walked a little farther across the potholed playing field before Summer halted, so Christopher could see him speak.

“I needed the money. It’s not drugs or anything.”

I
NSTEAD
OF
returning to the town, they turned at the edge of the field where the grass gave way to uneven pavements of cracked gray concrete and squat blocks of flats, the occasional window boarded up with graffitied metal plates. The whole place was faded, devoid of any signs of life. Even the dandelions withered in the white glare of the sun. Salt stained the brickwork. Gulls circled the sky.

“Are we near the sea?”

Christopher had been five the last time he’d seen the sea, the sun dancing off the waves, the air glittering with sea spray.

“After this, I’ll show you.” Summer smiled, but this time there was a certain false brightness, the light in him brittle like the sun glancing off broken glass.

They stopped outside a tiny garage. There were rows upon rows of them behind the derelict flats, the tawdry colors all faded and sun-bleached. This one looked dented, as though a car had rammed into it a few times.

Summer knocked once, then twice more. He might have spoken. The door hitched up a foot or so, no more. A dog shot out of the gap, its mouth opening and closing aggressively, and they both stepped back, nearly falling over each other. Christopher put his hand out to steady Summer and saw the dog was on a lead and could come no farther.

The battered metal door lifted fully, and a figure appeared, his hood pulled down low over his unshaven face. The inside of the garage was unlit, and the glare of the sunlight where they stood made it impossible to see very far within.

Without knowing why, Christopher’s heart began to pound, hard and heavy. The day’s brightness faded. The dog snapped its mouth and inched closer.

The figure spoke, looking down at the dog. One inky tattooed hand gripped it by the collar and yanked it backward.

Summer turned, and briefly his hand brushed against Christopher’s. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he mouthed, looking like he’d rather run.

Unhappily Christopher watched the garage door descend with Summer, the hooded figure, and the dog locked behind it.

Worried, but clearly surplus to requirements, Christopher was unsure what to do with himself. For a while he wandered in an aimless arc between the rundown garages, careful to remain within eyeshot of the battered garage door, trying not to dwell on whether he was going to make it to London tonight and where he was going to sleep if he didn’t.

When the door finally lifted, he forced nonchalant casualness to his gait to stop himself from jogging over in relief.

Even though he was quick to turn his head away, Christopher could see Summer’s lip was split around his lip ring, his mouth swollen. But whatever had happened, Summer didn’t want to talk about it and wouldn’t meet Christopher’s eyes.

“Your stuff’s moved on. We need to go to the club in town. Ren should be able to get it back” was all he said when he finally did look at Christopher.

They walked back across the playing field. Summer made no attempt to talk now. Whatever had happened had made him recoil inside, and Christopher wasn’t sure what to do to bring him out of himself again. Instead he watched his feet as they stepped on the springy grass. He looked around, getting his bearings and a feel for the place. Sophie had told him that was of utmost importance—bearings, where you were in relation to your immediate world, the balance of things, working out what your dangers were, where to avoid. Twice his age, she’d taken Christopher under her wing during his first time on the street, kept him safe and out of trouble, and he was so grateful and starved for affection, he’d thought he loved her.

A young woman had scattered a bag of breadcrumbs between the goalposts a few meters away, and twenty to thirty seagulls were wheeling the sky and diving for the food while another thirty pigeons and doves were pecking at the ground. Without thinking too hard, Christopher grabbed Summer’s hand and pulled him, running into the midst of them. A chaotic storm of bird wings beat the air as the whole flock took off at once, as one. Christopher tipped his head back and grinned as they stood among the breadcrumbs, birds glaring down at them from on high.

At first Summer looked startled, but then he seemed to find Christopher’s grin infectious, albeit reluctantly so.

“You’re a puppy,” he said, rolling his eyes, but that only made Christopher’s smile wider.

“Y
OU
WERE
right about it being a debt,” Summer stopped and told him as they reached the edge of the field. “But it’s complicated.” Summer sighed. “God, I’ve got to learn to keep my mouth shut.”

“How much have you got to pay off?” Christopher didn’t know him well enough to push too hard for details.

“It’s not just about money…. Like I said, it’s complicated.”

Though Christopher was more than willing to hear about complicated, when people said things like that, it meant they didn’t want to talk about it.

“How old are you?” he asked instead, trying not to be obvious about the subject change.

“Old enough,” Summer replied wryly, his eyes briefly flicking over Christopher as if he knew something of the reasoning behind the question.

Christopher looked away.

The main street of the town they’d run through earlier was off to the right. When Christopher looked back he saw Summer had started walking toward it. Seeming to realize Christopher wasn’t with him, Summer glanced back and inclined his head. With a sigh Christopher followed, thinking how no one in his entire life had ever got to him like this before.

T
HE
FRONT
of the club was on the high street, the entrance boarded up with a few plywood sheets covered in flyers advertising circuses and bands, months out of date. The place didn’t look as though it had been open in quite a while.

Summer led them to a rubbish-strewn alleyway around the side.

“I want to go in with you,” Christopher said, careful not to let any uncertainty into his tone. He hoped he sounded like this wasn’t up for negotiation.

Summer frowned, sucking his lip ring into his still bloodied mouth, and leaned back against the wall, rubbing the heel of his canvas shoe against the greasy-looking brickwork. The shadows of the alley darkened the contours of his face, making his blue hair black and giving him a certain haunted look
—
such a contrast to his luminosity of earlier.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” Christopher said, meaning it.

Compared to Summer, it would take a lot more to intimidate him.

“Look, I don’t even know you, but I don’t want to drag you any farther than I have to into my pathetic little life,” Summer said eventually. “They’re men, and you’re… a boy. I don’t mean that in a bad way—it’s just a fact. I’m going to get your stuff back for you, okay? Wait for me here. Don’t come after me. Please.”

Without looking back, he put his head down and walked quickly away down the alleyway.

Drawing on all his resources and gathering his resolve, Christopher took a deep breath, glanced around, and followed.

Now… (four years later)

W
HO
’
S
S
UMMER
?
Romeo signed carefully across the kitchen table.

Reeling his thoughts back in, Crash tried to compose himself. And failed.

He’d dreamed again last night.

Vividly.

Intensely.

For the past ten days, it had been the same, and when he awoke, it left him bereft, as if he were cursed to relive those hours he’d spent in some long-lost paradise in a painful, hiccupping loop.

He’d hoped coming to stay with Romeo and Julian at their tiny cottage in the middle of deepest Cornwall, cut off from everything, would help break the cycle somehow. But he’d been wrong. If anything the dreams were becoming even more painful.

From the fact that Romeo had asked who Summer was, he rationalized that at some point in the night he must have spoken Summer’s name aloud. Maybe he’d woken Romeo and Julian with it.

He winced.

Nightmares were bad enough, but this was infinitely worse somehow…. Maybe he’d said more than Summer’s name….

He flicked his eyes away from Romeo’s and stared at the morning sun streaming in the tiny railway-house window, the bright colors of the small garden beyond. Romeo always saw too much, knew too much without being told—as though being on the streets for so long had left him with the ability to see into the heart of things, once everything else was stripped away.

And this was not something Crash could bring himself to talk about, to anyone, however close he was to them—and there was no one he was closer to than Romeo. It hurt. Perhaps it always would.

Julian handed him a plate of toast and sat down at the table, surreptitiously turning his head, giving Romeo a look as if to say
Did I miss something? What’s going on?
Romeo barely moved when he glanced at Julian, but his look was full of meaning.

Their little idiosyncratic ways of communicating were fascinating, and though it made his heart ache a little, Crash could watch them all day.

He’d only had that profound connection with one person. And something told him he wouldn’t find it in anyone else. How could he? You only got that deep connection when you gave yourself up fully to someone, and he would never do that again, could never do that again. His heart would always belong to someone who didn’t want it—and he could never take it back.

S
OMETHING
’
S
UP
,
Romeo signed.

They sat in the gently moving surf, their boards rolling on the waves beneath them. The whole of the ocean stretched out endlessly in front of them, a never-ending wave generator, so deep and dark below. Behind them, Julian was just a tiny speck on the curve of sandy Cornish beach.

Crash shook his head.

Romeo turned so they were facing each other, a determined look in his dark eyes.
You are my best friend….

Crash glanced at the figure on the beach.

You both are.
Romeo frowned.
You’re not yourself. It’s like all the energy you usually have is wound up inside you somehow.

It scared Crash sometimes how close Romeo came to the very bones of the truth.

If you were yourself, we’d be swimming or diving or just trying to surf on these nonexistent fucking waves, but you’re staring out to sea like you’re looking for the answer to a question you can’t even voice.

Stop!
Crash held up his hand. It was too much.

Lying flat, he started to paddle back toward the beach. But Romeo wasn’t going to give up so easily and grabbed the back of his board. For a few strokes, Crash carried on, pulling the both of them, but it was exhausting and pointless—they were hardly moving.