38

Chapter Six

Finlay

The short weekend passes in a blur of solo walks around the city and trips to the Sainsbury’s right outside his flat for instant noodles before he attempts to scout out the nearest Eastern European grocery places. It’s peaceful, despite the small twinges Finlay feels when he spots groups of fellow young people gathered in cafés. Classes start on Monday and Finlay assumes someone will be forced to speak to him. This should fix the issue of his social skills and hopefully there won’t be a repeat of what happened with the girls in the common room. He wonders if he’ll be in one of their classes. Finlay resolves that he’ll actually talk if he sees them again.

There’s only one small problem. Monday arrives and his alarm doesn’t go off.

Let Finlay repeat: Monday morning, his very first day of university, his alarm doesn’t go off. He cannot stress enough how cursed his phone is.

Finlay rushes like his life depends on it, like he’s being physically hunted. He throws things into his backpack and 39shoves on his shoes unlaced. The combined nerves-nausea have created a cess pit inside him.

The building is a maze. It takes Finlay two flights of stairs to find the right room. When he barges in, the students stare at him.

Hellish. Worse than hell.

Finlay sits at the back. The lecture hall is massive, with rows of red-velvet seats and the ceiling towering high above him. The front is dedicated to a desk with a huge whiteboard behind it.

Everyone seems to have brought slim, sleek laptops. Clicks resound throughout the room. Finlay pulls out his notepad.

It seems as if being late is the university standard. Finlay is about to check the time again when somebody slides in beside him.

‘Hi!’ Derya pants, a little out of breath, as though they’re old friends. Jun follows behind, shrugging off her jacket.

Finlay blinks at them. He’s wary to believe or accept this cosmic good luck. They pull out their things but don’t speak. Come on. Come on.

‘Hi,’ Finlay manages after a solid minute.

Derya looks up with a smile.

A rush of relief and pride floods Finlay. He grins back.

At that moment, the tutor walks in. She’s maybe in her forties, with an NHS lanyard around her neck.

‘Hello!’ she begins to the room at large. ‘I’m Nora, one of the lecturers here at Glasgow. For today, we’ll have a run-down of the structure of the course, and what to expect with the programme.’ 40

She opens a slide show: Introduction to BSc (Hons) Adult Nursing:

Adult Nursing at Glasgow University:

  • Range of Courses
  • Electives
  • Clinical Placements

Finlay starts scribbling amidst the roar of pressed keys.

‘Now, a major feature of our programme is that we’re based in the medical school, so we’ll share our learning spaces with the medical, pharmacy, and physician associate students.’

Medical. Finlay’s heart jolts in his chest as his cheeks suffuse with heat. Akash. He’ll be near Akash. A strange euphoria trickles into his bloodstream, polluted with the dread of actually talking to Akash.

‘While you’re out on clinical placement, you’ll be getting assessed as well,’ Nora carries on. ‘You’ll be given certain learning outcomes, and while you’re there you’ll have someone called a mentor who’ll assess your overall performance.’

Nora keeps talking. Finlay is descending into barely legible and basically another language categories of handwriting. He covers his notebook with his body so nobody sees how absolutely unfit he is to be a nurse.

‘I know that’s a lot of information to take in at once.’ Nora pauses for a moment to allow them to catch up. Finlay wonders 41if she’s obligated to do that every year. ‘It’s nothing that won’t be repeated and you’ll pick all this up as time goes on.’

Finlay breathes out a shaky exhale. Nora moves on to the next slide.

Derya turns her laptop to him. Finlay peers down and snorts. HELP is written in caps.

*

As soon as their introductory lecture is finished, it’s on to the next: which is in an entirely different building, in an entirely different part of campus. Finlay walks with Jun and Derya and manages to introduce himself this time. Nothing explodes or collapses. The left-over adrenaline of saying I’m Finlay lingers long enough for him to strike up a conversation and actually formulate replies.

He only has three classes this semester, but clinical placements start from October, which is less than a month away. Plus he’ll have to keep up with assignments in the meantime. The degree basically works the same way the ocean shore does: a gradual easing in before a sudden cliff-drop down. His feet can feel the oncoming descent, but the top half of him is still floating.

When they’re done for the day, Jun turns to him. ‘Coffee?’

Finlay is paralysed for a beat. He should say yes. It’s all been going so well thus far. And he wants to say yes. They’re so sweet, so amiable. Yet his first instinct is to say no. Go back to his dorm and lie down and call it a day. It feels blissfully appealing, so comfortable and safe. But he thinks about them laughing in the kitchen. And him listening from the other side.

It’s coffee. It’s an hour. And he can leave at any point. 42

Finlay nods.

*

Derya is from Bursa, Turkey, but she’s lived in Scotland for ten years, and Jun is from Daegu, Korea, but moved to Scotland with her family when she was three. They make Finlay feel welcome in every sense of that word.

‘Ugh.’ Derya takes a seat beside him, her toastie and coffee on a little tray. Her arm briefly brushes against Finlay’s as she sits, a warm moment he tries not to focus on. ‘It’s over.’

Finlay laughs. ‘It wasn’t terrible.’

He’s trying not to look for Akash. It would be absurd if they happened to stumble into the same café. They probably don’t even have the same timetable. But every dark-haired boy that breezes in sets Finlay’s stomach fluttering.

Jun’s eyes are closed, her head resting on a propped-up fist. Her coffee and sandwich sit untouched, hair cascading across her shoulders.

‘I can’t hack early mornings,’ she murmurs.

‘I’m also not smart enough for this,’ Derya adds.

Finlay hums in agreement, scrolling the reading list for this semester on his phone. Derya hasn’t pulled away. There’s a warmth in his chest. It’s nice. He’s not been this close to someone since – well, St Andrews. Finlay blinks the thought away.

‘Right, your turn.’ Jun straightens.

Finlay looks at her in polite confusion. Jun nods to the queue.

Oh. They thought he was saving their table while they ordered. 43

‘Right.’ Finlay stands.

‘Where did you get those jeans?’ Jun asks. ‘They’re really nice.’

Finlay huffs a disbelieving laugh and glances down. They’re his loose-cut pair with paint spatters at the bottom. ‘Honestly?’ Finlay asks. Here goes nothing. ‘Oxfam.’

Jun clicks two fingers. ‘I love that! You can always find good stuff there.’

‘Yeah, it’s really sustainable too,’ Derya adds. ‘There’re meant to be loads in Glasgow.’

Finlay nods back. For some reason his heart twists with the memory of someone else. Everyone is so kind. Jun and Derya have no ties to Finlay. No reason to be nice. But Finlay’s forced proximity to the people at St Andrews still felt more sincere. Or maybe just one person in particular. Banjo would never feel the need to justify charity shops.

Finlay goes to stand in the queue. He searches for the cheapest thing in the glass cabinet because he still desperately needs to secure a job. Mozzarella and sun-dried tomato. Tuna, lemongrass, and black pepper. Everything makes his mouth water. Nothing is cheap.

When Finlay collects his single latte, the girls wave him back over. A sense of being wanted rushes in. Finlay knew that feeling once. He’s not felt it in a long time. He knows how destructive it can be.

Three Years Ago

The new boy comes into Finlay’s room unannounced. Finlay’s been here a few weeks; it was bound to happen eventually. 44

There’s a duffel bag clutched to a bony chest, expression blank as the boy’s eyes skim the surroundings. His features are thin and sharp, a wild landscape of freckles across his face. Most noticeable, though, is the hair. It’s got to be the brightest shade of orange Finlay’s ever seen.

Lucy, the manager at St Andrews Residential Home, isn’t far behind: smile wide, friendly, and superimposed over her stress.

‘Finlay, this is Banjo. He’ll be staying with you for a bit. Banjo, this is your new roommate, Finlay.’

Banjo studies Finlay curled up at the top corner of his bed, back pressed to the wall. Finlay meets Banjo’s gaze before he pushes his glasses up and goes back to his book.

‘Finlay,’ Lucy calls. Finlay looks up. ‘Dinner in an hour. You need to sit with everyone. No excuses.’

Finlay nods. Lucy leaves them to it.

Banjo hovers at the door, as if waiting for Finlay to do something – drop the silence, jump up and dance, punch him in the stomach – but when Finlay ignores his existence, Banjo seems to take it as his cue to come inside. He sets his things down, back to Finlay as he unzips the duffel. He pulls out some clothes and toiletries.

Then Banjo sits on the bed and looks at Finlay dead-on. ‘Right, Ah’ve aboot a ragin’ bladder infection so Ah’ll be up aw night.’ His voice is much older than his face, hard and cold, but the problem is his Scots. It’s so thick it takes Finlay a full beat to understand him.

Banjo can clearly tell. He sighs. ‘I have a bladder infection. I’ll be using the toilet a lot.’ 45

Finlay feels locked in place, but he forces a sharp tip of his chin, not looking up from his page. He doesn’t see Banjo’s response but hears him storm off. Finlay assumes to the living room to watch TV.

But the bathroom door in the hallway slams shut. Perhaps he’s telling the truth. Finlay’s never been informed on meeting somebody that they have a urinary infection. He almost smiles.