Danny was sitting outside on the wall near the bedsits, smoking, his back curved over and his elbows on his knees. I saw him as I came out of the side door, my arms piled high with plastic laundry bags full of mucky sheets. The sight of him stopped me in my tracks and I stood watching him, as though he were an apparition that might vanish with the slightest movement. He must have sensed me there, though, because he looked up, his eyes locking with mine until eventually he nodded his head back, that familiar gesture, drawing me toward him. I couldn’t move, wanting with every part of myself to go to him and with every part of myself to run in the direction that I’d come from. But in the end the shape of him won out and I dumped the bags there on the floor, walked over, sat down a couple of feet away, stared at a line of ants crawling near my feet.
Neef, he said after a while, and I felt the tips of his fingers on my jaw, a jolt of electricity down my spine. I shivered, turned to look at him, the sight of him filling me up as it always had. Jesus, Neef, he said, like the look of me made him sick. He drew his hand away, rubbed at the back of his neck.
I put my fingers to my mouth, trying to cover the sores around my nose and lips. I knew I looked like shit. I didn’t need him to tell me. What d’you want? I asked, my voice a rasp.
Just. To see yer, he said gently. See how you’re doin.
The silence fell between us then, awkward, uncomfortable, not the way our silences had ever been before.
Will you show me where you’re stayin? he asked.
You after a shag?
Danny whipped his head around to face me. What?
I laughed but the sound fell flat. You heard.
He was staring at me but I didn’t dare look up to meet his eyes, afraid of what I would see there. You know, he said eventually, his voice measured, you know that’s not why I’m here.
I shrugged, got to my feet, let him follow me to the front door, regretting it as soon as we walked in. The stench of old food and unwashed bodies curled up into my nose as we stepped into the kitchen, the squalor and the dirt and the grubbiness making the whites of Danny’s eyes turn bloodshot.
This is where you’re livin? he asked, looking around.
I ignored him. You got any cigs?
Danny pulled a full pack from his pocket, handed them to me. I ripped the top of the carton open greedily, pulled one out, leaned over to light it on the greasy hob.
Will you come fer a walk with me?
There was a dried stain on the countertop where someone had spilled food and I scratched at it with my thumbnail, the flakes settling on my skin. A walk?
He nodded. Yeah, just a walk. I’ve…I’ve got summat to show yer.
Outside the house I heard the sound of laughter, crude and deep. Men’s voices. The front door opened and Ste appeared, still in his grubby kitchen whites, one of the caretakers close behind. Ste paused for the briefest of seconds at the sight of Danny there. My beautiful Danny in that dirty, rotten place. Then he walked in, slapped me hard on the arse, slung a scabby arm around my shoulders.
All right, stranger. He sneered, a humorless grin smeared across his pockmarked face. Danny surveyed him levelly, then looked back to me.
You comin, Neef?
Ste snorted. Oh aye, takin him fer a ride, are we, Neef? Mucky little madam, this one. Ooh, the stories I could tell yer, Danny, lad. Mind you, you’ve probably got a few yerself, ain’t yer?
The caretaker guffawed and the two of them fell about laughing—inane, idiotic laughter that filled me with hot shame. Ste collapsed down onto a kitchen stool. Go on then, Neef, love. Go and gi’im what he came fer before he fucks off back to his dad’s.
Neef, Danny tried again but I ignored him, Ste’s words roiling inside me. I moved over to where Ste was sitting, perched myself on his lap. Only then did I turn to Danny, the pain of his abandonment tearing open like a fresh wound.
Nah, I said, screwing up my nose. Not today, ta. I’m all right.
For a moment we just looked at one another and I felt something crack inside my heart. Danny nodded slowly, stood up straight. From his back pocket he pulled out a thin paperback, its cover sleek and maroon, dropped it onto the table without looking at me. Then he left.
It was an anthology of poetry, published only weeks before by the local paper. I didn’t have to look far to find my lines, my words. There was no photo or bio, but my name was there. My full and proper name, printed in black and white. That night in my room, I let my fingertips trace the outline of each letter, over and over until I couldn’t see them anymore, the page buckling with my tears.