Junctions.
There is always too much choice.

Karl nodded, his whole face shutting down.

‘It’s nothing new,’ Godfrey said. ‘Come on. We agreed. I don’t even get what the big deal is.’

He waited. No answer. Nothing that could be swung like blah blah because of this, you get me, blah. No reason whatsoever other than Karl liked to run. At night. Away. Not to disappear, just to run. And to not call any-bloody-fucking-one. Not Godfrey, not Rebecca. No one but Abu.

Usually in the middle of the night, underneath Abu’s grand mansion of an estate around the corner from the big old new St Pancras. Posh and all. Prostitutes and druggies moved somewhere else. All cleaned up and shiny. You could use it as a mirror if you were so inclined. Watch yourself disappear. Soon to be pricing them all out, council flat or not.

Abu would walk to the front door, asleep, and buzz Karl in, often his mother awake also, by the time Karl slowly climbed up the stairs. She would be standing in the hallway in her nightie and the gown that was really a bit too big for her. And sometimes when Abu’s dad had come home from the night shift, he would come to the hallway from the living room. Nodding at Karl. Karl would go to shake his hand. That sort of respect thing between them. Abu’s dad treated him like an esteemed extension of the family. Even if Abu’s dad seldom had a lot of words. It was different to Mama Abu’s silent reasoning. He had them for no one. Night shift can do that to you.

 

‘Will you come to the hospital, at least?’

Karl’s hands in the pockets of his jeans.

‘She doesn’t have an infection this time. It’s a relapse. She’ll be home day after tomorrow.’

‘How does she look? Pale again?’

Rebecca had looked as if she had got mouldy last time. Pale wasn’t even the bloody word.

‘She looks good, Karl. Her cheeks are almost as rosy as yours.’

The corners of Godfrey’s lips twitched. Supposed to be a smile. If the youngster would finally let him. What the eff was it all the time? This can’t make a phone call am too sensitive yet wanna act all grown up thing? But he knew better than to let any of that seep from his lips. He got up from the kitchen chair and put his hands on Karl’s shoulders.

‘I think it will be good for you.’

Oh, the social workers of this world. Knowing everything that was well good. Godfrey was all cute like that.

When they got to the hospital Rebecca was sleeping. Her face was rosy. Healthy. The doctor said she didn’t really need to stay; they’d release her the following day. She was smiling in her sleep. Karl said he would go by later so they went to Rebecca and Karl’s flat, where he lived when he wasn’t running away. And although everyone knew where he was, running was running and the point was still the same: to be away. Because his mum, Rebecca, wasn’t there, couldn’t be there. Couldn’t really be there for him like proper because she was in hospital. This time. If not that, then seriously unwell. Again. Godfrey was taking care of him, Abu was, Abu’s mum was and the dad, all of them were having Karl’s back, in some real, big-time way. And the girls on their way to school and their other friends. The ones they really had. Not the wannabes, not them, of course not them. But it wasn’t enough.

Karl had helped his mum pack the bag he had got her for Christmas. The one that was super busy with the intense flower pattern. Cute though, if that was your thing. He hadn’t been sure if it was a good present. It was something she would use those rare times it really was too bad and she needed the hospital ASAP. Just in case. Just to get back to the right level. Where one could manage this MS. Multiple Sclerosis. It was major. But also it reminded them that she wasn’t all that well a lot of the time.

 

Last time Karl had scrambled out of the house when he heard the ambulance pulling up the road. Put the pre-packed bag by the door, left her on the chair, ran down the stairs, opened the door to the building for them, and said: ‘Second floor, first door on the right. Her keys are in her coat, the bag is by the door, she’s ready to go. Please close the door. Make sure it’s shut.’

And dashed. Split. Nothing could hold him and he ran and ran until the cold air almost cut into his face. Fingers throbbing, temples wanting to burst. His breath was broken and fast and spitting air with all that other stuff that was tight inside his stomach. Inside. Outside. If there were better ways to handle the difference, he would. We all bloody would.

 

The flat had been left mid-action. It was almost tidy if you discounted the mess around the gas cooker, the unwashed dishes, the crusty plates – two for the both of them – and the cups he had started soaping when his mother thought it would be better to call the ambulance. Better because for two days her balance had been way out and her legs were cramping and shaking. My friend, you couldn’t look at it. It was heartbreak proper. Karl had helped her move from kitchen to living room, to bedroom and back. Her face scrunched up like McD wrappers thrown in the wet dirt just outside the estate. Grim. So slow that Karl thought they wouldn’t make it. She didn’t want to call the doctor but then she said, ‘just in case’. Last time she’d gone in, she’d caught an infection that had knocked her sideways.

 

Godfrey had the mail in his hand and went straight to the sink to run water over the plates.

‘Seems like there are a couple of bills. Have a look while I do this, will you?’

He didn’t really need to ask. Karl was a runner but otherwise he had bare manners. Just the staying and looking at fate, at the inevitable, the feeling the pain, waiting for it to hit you straight on was hard, not washing dishes or paying bills. Could knock you off if you weren’t careful. Right?

He opened a window in the stuffy living room and sat by the small corner desk with the new laptop on it. It had come through some government scheme for single, disadvantaged mums. Although he was almost an adult it had still counted. They’d been eligible and after endless paperwork they’d been hooked up with the essential twenty-first-century gadget courtesy of the taking-care-of-those-less-fortunate charity-type scheme. The cheap desk, which they had to get themselves, was made of white, plastic-coated MDF. IKEA madness but second-hand, so they’d been spared the extended puzzling hours of putting it together. He opened the drawer, looking for scissors. A pencil with a broken tip, a sharpener, loose paper. Karl placed the wad of envelopes on the desk. Godfrey shouted from the kitchen.

‘How you getting on in there? Anything needing immediate attention?’

The scissors were at the back. His hand reached but pulled the drawer too far. The whole load dropped on the floor. Typical.

‘Wait a minute, man. I ain’t no priority speedy boarding, innit.’

The laughter from the kitchen was full and deep, in that comfortable way that was sort of a bit too grandfather for the age, but which Karl proper liked about Godfrey.

‘You’re too much. Get your groove on though, I got to get back.’

Karl smiled. Groove, he smirked. So last century. You getting old, man. No swag at all.

A letter fell under the table next to Karl’s trainers. He picked up the papers. Neat handwriting stuck out. Airmail. Hardcore old school. Karl didn’t bother to sit down, just opened the thing. Quick.

It had been re-opened; the torn bit of sello on the outside was a sure tell. Another pen colour scribbled on the side.

I’m in Italy from 4th until the 16th. Kindly call me.

And a number. Inside Karl, things sank. The heart, the stomach, the lung. All fell, crashing hard, pushing out the shallow bit of air that had survived his hasty opening-stuff-that-wasn’t-his operation.

‘I want to go.’

Karl’s head changed to red, his arms stuck by his side.

Godfrey had entered the room and now stood next to him. He picked up the letter. His brow furrowed. His eyes had skimmed over the words, to get level playing field with Karl. Eyes wandered from thin paper to Karl’s face, then back to the paper. Back to Karl.

‘I will go.’

‘I can’t let you do that, Karl.’

‘Godfrey.’

Karl was using Godfrey’s weapons, one of his favourites: the calling of the name. Complete with dramatic pause. Very classic. They were eyeing each other, ready for the next round.

‘Are you trying to say this isn’t like major, I mean like proper? Don’t give me your “just let it go” this time.’

‘Karl.’

But Karl had learned from the best.

‘Godfrey.’

Afternoon sun hit the open window right where the MDF fitted neatly into the corner. The window frame was old, wooden; it had started to crack over the years. It needed replacing.

‘Karl.’

‘Godfrey.’

Godfrey exhaled, his breath heavy from the opinion that he had dropped on it. A tactic that people, especially oldies like him, used when talking sensible shite to youngsters. It was so much more important when you left the words out.

‘I heard you and Abu had some trouble the other night.’

‘You’re changing the subject.’

‘Karl.’

‘Godfrey.’

‘Karl!’

‘Godfrey?’

‘But you did have some trouble.’

‘We did.’

Both stopped. Paused. Looked away, then at each other. Godfrey in his early-thirties-ness. Sporty Trinidadian, stocky. That nice nice type of guy. Proper solid, who believed in the right side of things. That you could find it with the right amount of effort, the right amount of care.

And that was exactly the sort of care he had for people like Karl. For Karl in particular. Who he had taken home and kept there when things were difficult. Before they had the arrangement that involved calling him when things went downhill with Rebecca. Before he got the special guardianship and Abu’s mum became a kinship carer. All of them tied in by law. A group effort to get this thing safely to the other side: Karl’s growing up.

They stared. At each other. Away. Godfrey, who was through and through: there are no wrong kids, just wrong outcomes. There were things to be grabbed with both hands, opportunities to make one’s own and so forth. In and out. Like trains, his sermons. Karl didn’t listen to too much of it, not because he didn’t care but because he had been hearing it for a while. For the past six years. Godfrey’s dark, almost black eyes, coin-shaped and normally a little too large for the face, narrowed and focused on the youngster’s. His tight-cropped hair shining, both from being proper black and the bloody pomade he’d used. Pomade! Twenty-first century, hello! right?

‘I’m cold.’

‘Then close the window.’

Karl stepped to it. All casual, so shrugging-shoulders type it amplified. And slowly he closed it, carefully. Must remind them again. The council. Then out loud to Godfrey:

‘Take a minute, a day, a week. Whatever. I’ll ask you again.’

Full-on assault now.

‘You know why, Godfrey. You understand. We both know it.’

Karl took the letter from Godfrey’s hand. Pushed it into his back pocket.

‘You always look out for me. You really do. And my appreciation is like crazy. For real.’ He paused. ‘Maybe you can’t let me go legally but I doubt it. You can sign anything you want for me. You know that. I know that. I thought I had no dad. That mum didn’t know him or he was such an arsehole that she couldn’t even talk about him.’

Karl’s voice was all screeching metal now, low volume, but still. It pierced your ears for sure. Godfrey pressed his lips together, trying to stay alpha.

‘Be honest. Tell me that you don’t get it. Forget even that mum lied to me my whole life, avoiding anything to do with the topic. Me and her don’t have the same bloody life. If it’s not the wannabes, it’s the bloody police. ’Cause we’re always causing trouble, right?’

Godfrey was still pressing his lips together.

‘Would be nice to experience something else for a change. Not be suspicious. For a minute.’

Karl was looking at Godfrey. He waited, taking his time.

‘I’ll ask you again, seven days from now. If you can look me in the eye and say you would not go if you were in my shoes, I’ll drop the whole thing.’

He continued on his sense-making, teamwork process. Looked away. Back at Godfrey. Arms dangling now, doing nothing with them, just loose and open and clear.

‘I promise.’

He held out his hand, showing most of his rosy palm. Was waiting for Godfrey to accept the fair deal. And you couldn’t say it wasn’t fair. Made a whole bloody load of sense. Karl had cornered him. That’s the thing when you train your people. Sooner or later they beat you at your own game. Punch. Strike. Defeat.

A week later Godfrey said yes.