Banjo
Banjo needs to get back into Paula and Henry’s good books. Although he’s still grounded because he threw that chair, he knows he can butter them up enough to get them to give in early and let him go back to work.
At the same time, though, Banjo can’t really stand the icy silence between them. Despite the fact he’s rejected their every offer of kindness, niceness, and overall good foster parenting.
At first it just made sense. Soon enough they’ll start to realise Banjo isn’t the long-lost son they’ve always wanted, or the perfect helper for household chores. But now, Banjo is willing to pretend: he’s got a life here.
He starts with an apology. Because he can’t bear their disappointed faces or striking up a conversation in the silence, he writes it on a scrap of paper. Sorry. He leaves it on the kitchen counter.
When Banjo comes home after school, there’s a note waiting for him. Thank you. It has a little smiley beside it.
They’re still at work for the next hour. He thumbs the note for 120a minute, the indent of Paula’s handwriting. He cooks the pizza in the fridge and leaves some for them in the oven.
*
Once the ban lifts, as if being freed from prison, Banjo’s allowed to work again. It sounds soppy as all hell, but Banjo wants to see everyone. Fuck it, he wants to see her. The weekend rolls itself around and Banjo is flopping about trying to get his trainers on, shoving a jacket over his work clothes and cycling with the speed of Chris Hoy to the café.
He’s so excited that it just bursts out as soon as he steps in.
‘Alena!’
God, his happiness is all over the space. He’s not even got his apron on. He might as well be naked for all he’s covering his arse.
Alena spots him over the top of a crate of lemonade and beams.
‘Banjo!’ she cries. ‘It’s Banjo!’ She sets the box down on a spare table and starts dancing. ‘Banjo’s back!’ she sings as she twists about all awkward: elbows out, knees wobbling, a complete dork.
Banjo’s laughter barks out, weird and unpractised. He can’t help himself; comes up to dance beside her, not really any better at it, mostly stiff and unsure, twisting his arms like some kind of chicken. Actually, no, scratch that: he probably looks like a stark-raving lunatic, dancing over the fact he’s got an eight-hour shift in a grimy, dirty-dish-infested, cheese-crusted café. Christ if he’s not happy about it.
*
The only problem is that Banjo can’t really talk to Alena. Not the way he wants to. Not the way she can talk to him. Alena can 121chatter about anything, but Banjo can’t join in; can’t share things like where he grew up, what schools he went to, if he’s ever had pets, whereabouts he stays.
If Banjo confesses any of that, then he tells her everything. Because the questions wouldn’t stop, and he’s not got any believable lies. It only opens more cans. So it creates this terrible distance between them, every time he answers her innocent conversation starters with another version of, ‘Aw, I don’ really remember, tellin’ the truth.’
Banjo knows almost all there is to know about Alena. He knows her favourite subjects (art, modern studies, history), her least (maths, chemistry), that she doesn’t like coleslaw, chews on her thumbnail when she’s thinking, plays netball and tennis, loves photography, is two inches shorter than him. Banjo stores the information away as though he’s preparing for an exam.
Yet Alena, Morag, Lizzy, none of them know Banjo’s in care. None of them know why he’s in care. And he doesn’t want that to change. He doesn’t want them to change.
At least not right now. He’s never been handed the ability to fucking … work up to it. It’s always been ripped away from him. It feels as though everyone he’s ever met, everyone who’s so much as looked at Banjo, has known. And it gives them this control over him, this peering insight that makes his skin feel raw.
Banjo never expected to keep it a secret at St Triduana, so it hardly mattered when word got around.
But it matters now. Maybe because he can do it on his own terms, in his own way. He can have the control for once. 122
Which would be great if he wasn’t constantly on edge, expecting Kyle to waltz back in and drop it like a bomb, or Paula and Henry to swing by one afternoon and let it all slip, and Alena will look at him totally different, she’ll look and she’ll see a liar.
Or maybe Banjo can’t have a good thing and not think it’ll end in disaster. The last good thing did. Obviously.
But something miraculous happens. Something incomprehensible. Something damn near religious.
Alena asks him round to her house for dinner.
‘Ye …’ Banjo tries, milk jug held over a latte glass. ‘Whut?’
‘Come to mine.’ Alena smiles. Her hair is down today, soft brown all around her shoulders, tucked behind both ears, small jewels in her lobes. She’s literally heaven.
‘Why?’
Is Banjo actually pissing in the face of this?
‘Because it’s the easiest way to set up an account,’ Alena informs, hands on hips.
‘Aw, no’ this again,’ Banjo groans. She won’t quit about the fact Banjo isn’t on any form of social media.
‘It’s happening.’ Alena waggles her finger. ‘Just accept it.’
‘Whit am I gonnae use it fur?’
‘To connect to the world!’ Alena gestures to the skies.
‘Tae who?’
‘Me!’ Alena spins around to get back to work, but she’s smiling. Banjo’s face burns the whole fucking day. 123
*
He remembers to text Paula before she calls the police: going to a pal’s for dinner. They are pals. That’s what they are. It would just be nice if he weren’t half in love with her.
Having dinner at Alena’s house isn’t so much a reminder of the fact that he doesn’t have parents, but more like stepping into a life he’ll never have.
He cycles over after a shower, while everyone is still out. Alena told him to come as he was – straight from work – but Banjo looked down at himself and decided his first impression on her family wasn’t going to include tomato-soup stains.
As it stands, Alena’s house is pretty easy to find. It’s not too far out. Banjo sets his bike against the terraced building with washed-out cream bricks, front window with the curtains drawn, flat steps leading up to the white door. Some knot eases in his gut to know that Alena isn’t one of those random rich people with a mansion in the middle of nowhere, Thorntonhall.
Banjo steps up to the door and knocks.
Alena opens up with a wide grin, a cropped black T-shirt and jeans on.
‘Hiya.’
‘Hey.’
There’s an awkward pause.
‘Banjo’s here!’ Alena turns and shouts into the empty air.
Banjo peers around her, catches a glimpse of a woman in the kitchen, who waves, before Alena takes Banjo’s wrist and pulls him up the stairs.
They stamp up to Alena’s room. Banjo’s heart is beating in his 124palms, inside the pads of his fucking fingertips. Her room is quite plain. There’s a white desk filled with paper and pens, an open laptop, a long collection of photos above her bed, a small fluffy beige carpet, and some teddies lined up along her pillow.
‘Come sit.’ Alena pats the bed. ‘I can set it up on my phone.’
Banjo sits.
‘So. First things first – name.’
‘Banjo?’
‘No.’ Alena laughs. ‘Last name.’
‘Oh. Murray.’
‘Nice.’ Alena nods.
Banjo wrinkles his nose. ‘No’ a fan.’ His stomach clenches. The memory of their faces as they were called in. Mr and Mrs Murray, I’m so sorry to bother you, but Banjo has been very disruptive. The look he got from those words. The tight grip on his arm.
He swallows it down like a sour taste.
‘Try Lekkas,’ Alena states, pulling him back to the moment.
Banjo frowns. ‘But that’s cool.’
‘It’s Greek. Along with half my family.’
Banjo smiles and gives her a nudge. ‘See? Pretty cool.’
‘We’re supposed to be making your account, not mine,’ Alena reminds him.
Banjo laughs. It’s not funny, but sometimes Banjo laughs when he’s around her because he’s happy. Their shoulders almost touch they’re sitting so close together. His fingertips pulsate again. He’s not been this close to someone in fucking forever.
‘Right. We need a profile picture.’ Alena reaches under her bed 125and brings out her camera. ‘I think I still have the ones from the café. They’re actually really good.’ She crosses over to her laptop and connects the camera with a little wire plug.
Banjo watches her fiddle about. ‘How long ye been taken photos?’
Alena shrugs her back at him. ‘Picked it up, really. Just always loved it.’
‘Yer brilliant,’ Banjo blurts, then blushes to his roots.
Alena turns with a smile. ‘Thanks. I don’t really know what to do with them, though.’
‘Well. Plenty ae ’hings tae dae wae them,’ Banjo begins. ‘Can stick ’em on the wall, fur one—’
‘No, I mean in the future.’ Alena laughs as she comes over, holding a scrapbook she picked up on her desk. As she sits down, something flutters out the pages.
Banjo bends to pick it up.
‘What—’ Alena scrambles.
Banjo pauses. Because it’s him. He’s looking at himself.
Hanging up in the café is the one with Banjo grinning wide to the camera. But this one is Banjo hunched in laughter, hands in pockets, body twisted away.
‘I just – I make collages with all the photos I take, it’s not—’ Alena starts babbling.
Banjo squints. There are words scrawled along the edge.
Happiness
Charm
Dignity
Humour?? 126
Pride
‘I have a hard time naming them, I know it probably sounds stupid but I like to get it right.’ Alena laughs again, but she tugs on the edge of the photo with no little insistence. Her face is so red Banjo can feel the heat. It makes Banjo go hot and clammy, but a smile unfolds on his face, big and, dare he say, fucking bashful. She kept a photo of him. That’s something.
‘Why’d ye keep it?’ he asks, his voice croaky-soft.
Alena’s mouth drops open. Banjo’s actually making her flustered. Christ but it’s a feeling.
‘It’s not as if there are hearts on it!’ she cries.
Banjo’s eyebrows go sky high. ‘Hearts?’ He’s even louder.
Alena grows even more frantic. ‘I just mean this looks weirder than it is—’
Banjo laughs, a freer sound than normal. ‘Ena, chill.’ He doesn’t even register the fact he’s given her a nickname.
‘Ena?’ Alena grins, and Banjo goes to explain until she says, ‘I like it. Sounds edgy.’
Banjo grins back, glowing at this point. ‘Ena it is.’
Then he stands, strolls over to her desk, and snatches a highlighter. He uncaps it with his teeth, holds the lid there, and circles the word happiness.
‘Got it right the first time.’ He speaks around the cap and points the end of the pen at it.
Alena’s eyes crease in a smile. Banjo flushes hot and cold like he could run a mile just for the sake of it. He wants to speak. He caps the pen. 127
The sound of thundering feet startles them both. There’s a slam.
‘Jace!’ a woman – Banjo assumes Alena’s mum – shouts.
‘What?’ a girl cries. She sounds young, maybe not even teens.
‘Slamming!’ Alena replies.
‘Need the loo!’
Banjo bites his lip to keep from grinning. Alena turns to him.
‘’Ello there!’ This time the voice in the hallway is distinctly older, and clearly male.
Before Banjo can react, a man pops his head round the door.
‘What’s going on?’ he asks. His shirt collar is undone, tie pulled down. He looks like Alena. His hair is darker, shorter. His eyes are the same. This is clearly Alena’s dad. Banjo’s pulse kicks up.
‘Jace slammed the door,’ Alena tells him.
The man looks from Banjo to Alena. ‘Right.’ He raises his eyebrows.
‘Dad, this is Banjo,’ Alena starts, as though rehearsed. ‘He’s a friend from work, we’re just.’ She turns to Banjo with a grin. ‘What are we doing? We were supposed to be setting up your account.’
She laughs, then waits. Does she expect him to answer?
Banjo lifts his shoulders helplessly. ‘Dunno, jus’ got sidetracked wae the photos—’
‘Oh, so he gets to see them?’ Alena’s dad glances at Banjo playfully. ‘That’s how it is, then.’
Alena groans. ‘Dad—’
‘No, I’m just saying.’ He holds up his hands. ‘I mean, Ben—’
‘Banjo,’ Alena interrupts. 128
Her dad’s eyebrows skyrocket. ‘Banjo, right,’ he says. ‘Very unique. Any Greek?’
Alena covers her face with her hands. ‘Dad.’
Alena’s dad pulls all kinds of innocent expressions. ‘What! I knew someone called Banjo once—’
‘Sure,’ Alena scoffs.
‘It’s true.’ Her dad winks at Banjo.
He winks. Banjo doesn’t even know what to make of it.
‘Oh my God, Dad, you can’t wink at people any more!’ Alena cries.
‘This another thing that’s uncool?’ He looks to Banjo for help.
Banjo can’t help grinning.
‘No, it’s just weird,’ Alena says.
‘Well, if that’s the case,’ her dad heaves a long sigh, ‘I suppose I’ll just go.’
‘Please,’ Alena groans as if it’s killing her.
Banjo’s cheeks hurt. He grins at Alena’s dad. Her dad grins back before he shuts the door. His chest is warm.
‘I’m so sorry about that,’ Alena says once he’s gone.
‘Why?’ Banjo laughs. ‘I love him. Think he’s fucken awesome.’
Alena goes still. She doesn’t even blink. ‘Literally nobody’s ever said that in the history of the universe.’
Banjo laughs again.
*
Once they’re called for dinner, Banjo skips downstairs to the smell of cooked food filling the air: warm steamed vegetables, hot meat, fresh bread, mingled flavours. 129
Banjo hovers as he takes in the scene before him. There’s a table in the middle of the room, chairs lined up neat underneath. There’s a lace tablecloth covering it, and in the corner of the room there’s a sofa.
And this is where Banjo meets Alena’s mum. She’s placing bowls on the table: buttered bread, potato skins. There’s so much. There’s too much.
‘This—’ Banjo swallows.
Alena’s mum looks up. She’s wearing a soft-looking jumper, her short hair lighter than Alena’s. Her skin is a little lighter too, with a thin nose and a kind mouth. There’s something of Alena there. She waits patiently.
‘Is this all – just. For dinner?’ he manages. It looks like a spread at St Andrews where there was twice as many people.
‘Of course! I’m feeding a small army.’ Alena’s mum laughs.
Banjo can’t take his eyes off all the things on the table. It’s like a restaurant.
‘I – I,’ Banjo tries, jerks a thumb to the door. It’s just them in the room; Alena’s in the kitchen. His voice goes low; he’s trying not to be overheard. ‘I can – I have money? Like, in my bag, if you—’
‘What?’ Her eyebrows shoot up. ‘Don’t be silly, it’s just dinner! You’re welcome any time.’
Banjo’s throat is doing that weird thing again. He swallows thickly. ‘Uh. Thanks, Mrs Lekkas.’
She smiles. ‘Please, call me Julie.’
Banjo’s face is probably as red as his hair. ‘Rh – right.’ 130
Then Alena comes through and sets three glasses of juice on the table.
‘Careful, this isn’t work,’ Julie tuts.
Alena huffs. ‘Please, I’ve carried twice as much in work.’
‘Maybe so, but you don’t need to here!’ Julie calls after her.
‘There’re only two left!’ Alena’s voice floats from the kitchen.
Banjo stands in the middle of the room, a bit bereft and not entirely sure what to do.
‘Can I – there anythin’ tae do?’ Banjo says, then edits that whole sentence because he can hear how thick his accent is. ‘Is there anything I can help with?’
‘Nope, you just sit down.’ Julie waves.
Banjo scans the table. ‘Cutlery!’ he shouts. ‘I’ll do cutlery, I can—’
‘It’s Jace’s turn,’ Alena swings around the doorway to say.
Julie chuckles. ‘Really, don’t feel as if you have—’
‘I want tae,’ Banjo states, and his voice is clear.
Julie smiles, nods her head towards the door. ‘Well then, we’ll need cutlery.’
‘It’s Jace’s turn,’ Alena repeats.
‘WHAT IS IT?’ Jace cries, tumbling down the stairs and storming inside.
She can’t be any older than twelve, thirteen at a push. Just a younger, scrawnier version of Alena. Everything is there: brown hair, brown eyes, light brown skin. Her hair is cropped close to her head, fringe tufted up. She looks a little harassed, and she must play football because she’s wearing a school strip with muddy 131socks all the way up to her knees, grass stains along her front and on her nose.
‘Jacintha, get changed; you’re not sitting in that,’ Julie says.
‘I was changing, then you started shouting my name!’ Jace/Jacintha says defensively, until her eyes round on Banjo.
‘Who are you?’ she asks.
Banjo freezes.
‘This is Banjo,’ Julie explains. ‘He’s Alena’s friend. He’s over for dinner.’
‘What?’ Jace pulls a frown so hard it’s a grimace. ‘Since when does that happen? She’s never—’
‘Jace, it’s your turn,’ Alena hisses, giving her sister some kind of severe look, but her cheeks are scarlet.
Banjo’s heart leaps out his chest and through the ceiling. She’s never had someone over. It must mean something? Or maybe it means friends.
Jace huffs at Alena and tramples towards the kitchen.
Banjo darts in front. The kitchen is cluttered with all the evidence of a good life, a lived life, pots and pans, fridge magnets and mugs hanging on some little metal tree. He yanks open some random drawer and like jackpot finds all the cutlery in trays.
Jace frowns at him. Banjo gathers a pile of forks and nods to the stairs she came down.
Go. Make your escape.
Jace blinks, but slowly she starts to grin, creeping towards the staircase as if she’s some vigilante spy.
Banjo smiles, then goes into the living room to set it out. 132
Alena rolls her eyes when she sees him, but she’s smiling. Banjo knows he is too: feels the overworked muscles of his cheeks ache.
They move around one another like they do in work. They could be in that dingy back room right now, sweating with a million dishes to wash and another million orders to sort through. But this is better.
Jace reappears in a matter of minutes, wearing a T-shirt and shorts. Her fringe is damp as if she’s just splashed her face. She sits down and reaches for a roll.
‘Patience.’ Julie taps her hand.
‘I’m starving, it’s one roll,’ Jace moans.
Julie gives in with a sigh. Jace pumps her fist in victory.
Banjo watches. He tries not to look weird about it, but also can’t help it. It’s sort of fascinating. He’s stayed at a lot of foster homes since he was ten, but most of the dinners were frosty and silent. He was an impostor. Some of them were nice, of course: people just wanting to help out an unfortunate case like himself. An endless circus of Paulas and Henrys. They smiled every few seconds, as if to show any other emotion would make Banjo flee. More often than not, it just made him uncomfortable.
Sometimes Banjo wonders who he’d be if he had parents. Someone better at school? Would it give him a reason, if he had people he wanted to make proud? If he had people that cared whether or not he was getting enough sleep or if he’d brushed his teeth that morning?
Julie runs both hands down Alena’s shoulders as they pass 133one another, just letting Alena know she’s there. Banjo’s never had that. Natural, unspoken touch. Even when he had Finlay. It looks so simple. It looks so nice.
‘Banjo.’ Alena motions to the chair beside her.
Banjo’s throat is sore, picturing a pair of hands on his shoulders like that. He nods and tries to twist his face into a smile.
‘Right, then, are we all set?’ Alena’s dad claps his hands as he enters. He’s changed too, pristine collared shirt and tailored trousers swapped for a soft T-shirt, joggers, and fluffy slippers. He looks comfortable. Everyone looks so comfortable, as if this is their regular everyday.
Alena’s dad gives Banjo this beam. Banjo thinks that’s probably where Alena gets hers from. There are so many little things that make up Alena, so many people that created her. It feels a little unreal to watch all the evidence.
Banjo’s quiet. He leans close to Alena. ‘Uh. Alena, whut,’ he whispers. ‘Whut’s yer da’s name?’
‘Dad, Banjo wants to know your name,’ Alena says.
Banjo near chokes. ‘Wh—’ he splutters.
‘Ah, Banjo, the age-old question,’ Alena’s dad begins, as if he’s about to tell a story. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten. Every dad does at one point. They just become “Dad”.’
‘Please just tell him.’ Alena closes her eyes.
‘Carlos,’ her dad laughs. ‘You can call me Carlos.’
Banjo bobs his head a few times. Then he pokes Alena in the leg. ‘Total threw me under,’ he mutters.
She just grins. 134
Julie appears. ‘Right!’ she says, and starts piling Banjo’s plate with food.
First chicken, then vegetables, then potatoes, but then she doesn’t stop. She’s piling his plate for years. It becomes a small mountain in front of him.
‘Uh, ye don’t – I don’t,’ Banjo stutters.
Julie stops, spoon mid-air. ‘Too much?’
Banjo shakes his head quick. ‘No, jus’ – I mean, thank you.’ He looks at her as if to really show it.
Julie laughs, and then she shakes her head. ‘You don’t have to keep thanking me, sweetheart.’
Banjo’s cheeks explode with fire. He’s never been called fucking sweetheart. It makes his insides go weird.
Something brushes his leg. At first Banjo thinks it’s Alena shifting in her seat, and he shifts over to give her some space.
Alena’s knee touches his again. It’s not moving away.
He freezes.
She must be able to feel his knee. She must know that’s his knee.
‘Well, then, let’s eat!’ Carlos starts.
Julie takes a seat, and then everyone’s eating.
It just happens. As if on cue, everyone lifts their cutlery and digs in.
Banjo doesn’t really know what to touch first.
Most of the food he eats doesn’t require cutlery. Pizza, chips, sandwiches. Not a fully home-cooked meal.
As soon as Banjo tries a bit of chicken, all manners fly out his 135head. When he’s hungry and starts eating, it’s like starting to pee. There’s no stopping it. He scoffs it down, one arm leaning on the table while the other shovels food in as fast as possible, until he feels silence descend on everyone.
Banjo glances up, mouth full. All eyes are on him. Alena’s fork is mid-air.
He swallows. ‘Sorry, jus’.’ His cheeks sting, and he swallows. ‘Hungry,’ he manages.
Julie blinks. She holds up the bowl of wedges. ‘Do you want some more?’
Banjo looks down at his plate. It’s virtually finished. He nods. ‘Yeah. ’Hanks.’
‘I think we should have Banjo over every night,’ Carlos states. ‘He could help with the food waste.’
The tension disappears. Banjo cracks a grin, everyone laughs, and then they’re back to eating. Food waste, Banjo thinks wildly. Who the fuck is wasting this?
‘So, Banjo,’ Carlos begins. ‘What do you want to do after school? Any ideas yet?’
Banjo looks at them: their bright faces, their excited eyes, and for some reason he wants to tell the truth. He wants to give them something more than I don’t know. ‘Eh.’ He scratches his eyebrow. ‘Always quite fancied racing cars.’
It probably sounds bizarre. But it looks fun. Who the fuck doesn’t want to have fun and get paid?
Alena rounds on him because he’s never mentioned this a day in his life. 136
‘Really?’ Julie lifts her brows.
‘No way!’ Jace says, instantly intrigued. ‘For real?’
Banjo nods, a bit embarrassed now at his left-field reply. ‘Yeah.’
It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? What he says is all fantasy and make-believe. Banjo will never do anything more than shovel chips into foam boxes or some other minimum-wage gig. What he actually wants to do is null and void.
‘So how do you do that?’ Carlos asks.
‘Uh.’ Banjo swallows, because truthfully he has no clue. He hasn’t exactly thought that far ahead. ‘Learnin’ how tae drive might be a start.’
Everyone laughs. Banjo feels a warm flush of happiness spread over him.
‘Other than that, somethin’ tae do wae runnin’.’ Banjo jerks a shoulder. It feels strange to admit this. To actually speak the words. Nobody’s really asked before. ‘Am on – I do athletics. Am oan the team.’ It’s not a brag, it’s just a fact. But it makes his face hot when Alena whistles and Jace goes, ‘Cool!’
‘Whoa! So, something sporty?’ Carlos asks.
Banjo nods. ‘Yeah, I – yep.’ He grins. ‘Gimme sports and Ah’ll be happy.’
‘You wouldn’t think it from looking at you,’ Julie notes.
Banjo laughs, surprised.
Alena’s eyes widen. ‘Mum.’
Julie shakes her head frantically. ‘Oh, no, I just—’
Banjo laughs again. Alena’s family are quite funny. ‘It’s aw’right, I hear it lots. Bit of a scrawny wee—guy.’ Banjo just 137manages to stop himself from swearing and clears his throat. ‘But, yeah, kindae the whole point in runnin’.’
‘Well, you don’t really see many bulky runners,’ Carlos adds in support. ‘They need to be quite slim, don’t they?’
‘Yeah, ’sactly,’ Banjo agrees.
‘So what do your parents do?’ Julie asks.
Banjo doesn’t know why he didn’t expect this question. It’s a valid question. It’s something people ask any day of the week. Sunday afternoon talk. What do your parents do?
But Banjo stiffens. He doesn’t say anything.
‘Wu—’ he waffles, racking his brains. Mortification burns his face like a flat iron. Banjo picks up his glass and swallows down some diluted juice. Everyone is watching. Waiting.
He couldn’t tell them the truth. I don’t know. I haven’t seen them since I was ten. They were in prison and now they’re fuck knows where.
But nobody can reply they aren’t sure about their own parents.
‘Uh – teachin’. They’re teachers,’ he croaks. ‘Primary.’
Does it sound like a lie? A bald, naked lie? He can’t look at Alena.
‘Oh, really? That’s nice,’ Julie says, and everyone hums, and the conversation takes a turn to politics.
And it’s that easy. Parents mean nothing. They’re nothing.
*
‘Please, am so serious—’
‘Banjo, you’re not washing the dishes!’ Alena hip-checks him. ‘Get out!’ 138
‘Ena, I spend enough ae ma life washin’ dishes Ah never even eat.’ Banjo nudges her back, thrumming with that small contact. ‘I ’hink I can clean the ones where I did.’
‘Don’t—’ Alena guards the basin, both arms spread.
‘If he wants to help, let him!’ Julie calls from the living room. She’s clearing the table. Carlos is taking the bins out. Jace is upstairs.
It’s just the two of them in the kitchen, the soft linoleum glow catching in Alena’s hair, the warmth reflecting in her eyes. She’s smiling. So is Banjo. He flicks her nose with soapy water. It makes her laugh. They wash up in relative comfort, the same way as always.
Only it’s not the same – not really, because in the back room they’re metres apart, and both harassed out their heads. Banjo practically flings dishes her way, and Alena stacks like it’s an Olympic talent.
This is softer. Warmer. They wash side by side. Her body heat seeps into Banjo: their shoulders brushing with every movement.
Banjo barely knows what to do with himself. He barely knows how to use his hands.
Alena’s hair smells faintly of flowers, like fields during the summer. Banjo’s hair mostly smells of grease and dandruff and hair. He’ll never know how girls do it. Some magic.
‘You have a good time?’ Alena’s gaze is warm, voice quiet.
I don’t know how to have this and not ruin it, Banjo thinks.
Banjo thinks about Finlay almost daily now. That’s the problem with opening up a crack, with unsewing a poorly-fucking-done stitch. All the rot and the pus comes out too. All that pain needs to flush out. 139
Banjo finds himself picturing Finlay at the table. He finds himself looking for the spot where Finlay should be. He’s been ignoring that spot – that supermassive hole in his life. It feels as though he’s edging closer to it every day.
But Banjo can’t say any of that to Alena. He just smiles, and nods, and keeps his balance at the edge.