What’s this?
He looked at me, his eyes nervous but a smile playing on his lips. Don’t be pissed off. I only did it cos I know you’re so good.
I frowned, took the letter from him, scanning my eyes over it quickly and then again, more slowly. It was from the editor of a local paper, the big one that went all over Yorkshire. Something to do with a poetry competition, congratulations, an invitation to submit for the next round. I looked up at Danny and he was smiling wider now, his teeth shining.
I sent some of yer stuff off, what you wrote, he gabbled, his words coming out too quickly. I know I should’ve said summat, but you wouldn’t’ve let me if I did. I know what you’re like. And anyway they liked it, see. I knew they would. You’ve been shortlisted, they want to see more of yer work. You’ll get it published if you win, it’ll be in a proper book, Neef. You’re not pissed off, are yer?
I sat there quietly for a minute, processing what Danny had told me. No, I’m not angry. I leaned forward, ran my thumb along his jaw. Thank you.
Danny helped me choose the poem for the paper, said it was no contest, that it was the best thing he’d ever read of mine—of anyone’s in fact. I wasn’t so sure, it felt a bit daft to me. But still, I let him send it. I didn’t give it much thought after that, I only had room in my head for him.
It didn’t occur to Danny or me to think about bills or keeping a roof over our heads. Once the summer ended, we stopped taking as many trips out, curling up together in front of the telly instead. September was bitterly cold that year and the thought of sleeping outside lost its appeal. We’d leave soon, of course we would. But London wasn’t going anywhere and neither was the rest of the world, so we might as well wait until we’d saved up a bit.
Money only started to become an issue when the leccy meter ran out a week before I was due to get paid; we’d never thought to put extra aside so we could make sure it stayed on. We scrabbled down the back of every sofa cushion but still only had enough to keep it going for another day or two. Danny started looking for work properly again then, although nothing ever seemed to come together. I told him he should sign on but he refused, too proud to even entertain the idea. In the end they took him on at one of the factories on the industrial estate near the high school. He said it made his brain feel like it was dying, but it would be worth it when the money started coming in. We promised each other we’d start saving properly, maybe even open a bank account, put a bit away every month. But when Danny’s payslip arrived, there was a mistake. Surely that wasn’t right—all those hours he put in, all that dead-end time. He took it to his manager, who glanced over it, taking pleasure in telling him that was all Danny was owed.
The mood in the house took a dip after that. Each day after his shift Danny would come home more beaten down than the one before, drawing back inside himself again, spending more time hunched over the coffee table building spliffs, less and less time outside bringing things to life.
I asked Barry for a few more shifts at the pub, to try and make ends meet, and he agreed. I was cheap labor after all. Business was picking up, but the clientele had changed. Ste seemed to be in there almost every day, graduating from the kids behind the Portakabins to knocking about full-time with Jody and his whizzhead crew. I knew he was selling a fair bit, he was never short of a bob or two. How’s Danny gettin on at the factory? He’d smirk, unrolling the notes from a wad in his pocket as he paid for his double Jack Daniel’s and Cokes.
I tried to ignore him, did my best to stay out of his way. But Ste never was easy to shake off. One evening after my shift he caught me by the freezer near the kitchen, ramming bread rolls and bags of chips into my bag. What you doin with that? he asked me. I didn’t answer, shoved my way past him out the back door.
The next day he sidled over to me in the car park when I was chucking out empties. I know yer hard up, Neef, he said, fake sincerity veneering his words. I’ll let you in on it, you only have to ask.
I never intended to say yes. But then one morning before work I had no choice but to slide a packet of tampons into my bag at the Co-op without paying. When I turned round I saw the girl behind the counter watching me. She didn’t say a word, just smiled at me with a face full of wretched pity, and the shame knocked me sick.
A few hours later I was following Ste upstairs to his bedroom, hating myself for doing it. He told me to sit on the bed but I shook my head. Nah, I’m all right here, I said, leaning against the closed door.
What, you think I’m after a piece? Get over yerself, Neef. He sneered.
I stared down at the floor, felt my cheeks scalding as he knelt, slid out the drawer from under his bed, rifling through the clothes and socks and pants, before pulling out a large oblong package wrapped up in brown paper like an old-fashioned Christmas present. He held it out to me but I didn’t take it, and so he dropped it onto the bed. Two hundred pingers, he said with a half smile. Need em shiftin fer four quid a pop.
I sat down, pulled back the paper and ran my hand along the clear plastic, tracing the shape of the pills with the tips of my fingers. Don’t tell Danny, I said.