Finlay
There’s a dry field, cold stone porch steps, a high-rise council flat, the sour odour of plastic bins, burst pipes, and a fridge that’s gone off. He’s inside Glasgow, its smells, sounds, rushing creatures. Traffic lights and chip shops and loud pubs, cobbled pavements littered with wet rubbish. Banjo’s there. Finlay sees his red hair in crowds, do you mean cappuccino, regular or large. His heart hurts with homesickness for nothing, the taste of boiled eggs, clumped-together noodles, rickety beds, ache in his joints, can you do the six to eight the ten to six the eight to four? A voice resonates across a room. It sounds like Banjo, and Finlay hopes it’s Banjo. But a flock of birds pass over the window and it’s gone.
Finlay jolts when he wakes.
When he checks his phone, the email headline is the first thing he sees:
Urgent – Academic Supervisor Meeting – Please Reply. 175
*
‘So,’ Grace begins.
Finlay clasps his hands so he can hide the trembling.
‘Two extensions in two weeks for one essay. What’s going on?’ She presses her mouth sadly.
You won’t stop emailing me, Finlay wants to respond, but of course he doesn’t. ‘I know, I’ve been really snowed under with my placement, and my other job —’
‘Finlay, you really shouldn’t be working right now,’ Grace tells him.
Finlay squeezes his hands together so he doesn’t explode. Of course, really need to quit my obsession with work, should try to enjoy other things like sleep.
‘I need to work,’ he tries.
‘There’re other ways—’
‘I don’t qualify for any other scholarships because I already have one; I don’t qualify for a bursary because I don’t have children, and I don’t qualify for Universal Credit because you can’t be attending university full-time, but even if I wasn’t, I still wouldn’t get it because you need to be out of work.’
Grace stares.
Finlay’s heart hammers. Was that too much? Finlay can’t really remember what a normal conversation sounds like. He’s running on instant coffee and four hours’ sleep. Despite the fact the construction work is finished, having what amounts to a full-time job alongside part-time work, plus throwing academic studies on top, has turned him into some kind of lifeless undead, capable only of basic motor functions. Finlay knows he’s not 176seen the girls in a full week. That he allowed things to end with Akash. His life is work, eat, sleep, repeat. He would say rinse but sadly can’t remember the last time he showered.
‘Finlay,’ Grace says, voice softer. ‘I can … appreciate all that. But I still need some evidence that you understand the learning outcomes. I was only going to say that there’s other ways to manage your time – maybe talk to people on the course and see if there’s a study group. You need to learn to ask for help, Finlay.’
Finlay grits his teeth. It sounds so easy.
‘I spoke to your placement mentor, Rhonda,’ Grace begins.
Finlay goes rigid. He keeps it off his face.
‘She can do nothing but sing your praises. You’re capable, Finlay, and you’re smart. Don’t throw it all away.’
Finlay swallows around a strange, hard pressure in his throat.
‘I can give you till the end of the day for the assignment.’ Grace sighs. ‘Best I can do.’
*
Finlay hunts for the library. If he can find a computer, he’ll find the sloppily written essay and maybe live to see another day at university. He can’t go back to his flat without passing out. Everything is starting to look a little surreal and fuzzy from sleep deprivation, funny and frightening simultaneously.
If I don’t get this submitted today I’m out, Finlay thinks, but that’s hilarious, and his fingers are numb.
The West End in autumn is stunning. Everything tinged a little orange and pink, the air crisp with the wet mulch of dead leaves and dirt, the salt-smoke of frost and ice. The stone pavements have 177a thin sheet of white along their surface. The trees along the street sprout out from under the cobblestones and shed their leaves like shrugging off a thick coat, their bony skeletons bare.
It’s not Glasgow’s city centre: not the crowded line of curry houses, chip shops, and pubs along Sauchiehall Street. Not Merchant City with its stone pillars and archways, busy Buchanan Street with the carnival of cafés and retail stores, George Square’s concrete monuments with traffic cones on their heads. There’s no rushing current of life; rather a quieter stream. The West End is leafy suburbs and bohemian delis, antique stores and indie bookshops. It’s sandstone houses and tiny community gardens.
Although nerves churn his stomach into mashed purée – his body desperately propelling him to panic – Finlay’s mind can only float through the mapped route open on his phone, completely disconnected and on a flight to a faraway country.
Then he passes the window of a hip little coffee house and spots Akash reading.
Finlay halts right there.
Akash is so engrossed. Coffee half-full on the table, back bent over the book on his lap, ankle resting over one knee. The crusted rim of sugar and foam around his cup lip signifies the length of time he has been there. A few seconds pass and his eyes keep scanning. He looks so peaceful in his own company, totally lost to the world.
Finlay needs to go to the library. He needs to finish this essay. Everything hangs in the balance right now.
Yet the thought of leaving without speaking to Akash is unbearable. Finlay hasn’t seen him in over two weeks. And every 178reason why he should deny himself the pleasure of Akash’s company disappears.
Maybe it’s lunacy. But before Finlay knows it, he’s dipping inside, creeping up behind Akash and laying two hands on his shoulders.
‘Blink twice if you’re being held hostage.’
Akash spins around. His whole face comes alive with happiness. ‘Finlay!’
Finlay’s powerless to that welcome: feels his own face sing with joy. He slides into the seat opposite.
‘Fancy seeing you here.’ Finlay leans both elbows on the table and links his hands.
‘I know!’ Akash laughs, and then pokes Finlay’s chest. ‘You never texted! I’ve been looking for you!’
Finlay’s whole body flushes hot and cold. ‘I—’ he stutters, heat rising to his head.
He has no answer for Akash. No reason for avoiding him. At least not any that make sense out loud. You terrify me a little. Your easy confidence, your ability to be alone, your complete acceptance of yourself, it’s beautiful and terrifying.
Akash smiles as if he can see through Finlay. As if he somehow has access to the deepest, most intimate parts of him. Finlay wants to shy away but at the same time wants to submit himself to it: this wonderfully raw, oversensitive feeling.
Akash lays his book down on its stomach. Clinically Oriented Anatomy.
Finlay nods to it so he can break eye contact. ‘Any good?’ 179
Akash runs a hand through the front of his hair, putting an elbow on the table. They’re practically inches apart.
‘It’s for an assignment, but somebody wrote it to hurt me.’
Finlay laughs, now understanding Akash’s focus. Akash watches him laugh; eyes creased with his smile, every detail of his face pleased. Finlay’s stomach flutters wildly.
‘I can’t believe you picked medicine.’ Finlay leans in again, helpless to the pull when Akash is so close. ‘Traitor.’
‘We will remain mortal enemies until one prevails.’ Akash narrows his eyes at Finlay.
‘How will we judge the winner fairly?’ Finlay lifts an eyebrow.
‘A classic duel,’ Akash says, and raises both hands as if gripping a sword. Finlay pretends to clash with it.
Akash laughs, abandoning the façade. Finlay laughs too, totally endeared to him. It’s silly, and Finlay should feel embarrassed, but not with Akash. That’s what’s terrifying.
‘Don’t ask me why I picked medicine.’ Akash exhales. ‘Family of doctors. That’s the short story.’
‘So, not the vocational type?’ Finlay asks.
Akash leans so far forward that he’s pressed against the edge of the table. ‘Don’t tell anyone this, but.’ He motions with four fingers for Finlay to lean in too.
Finlay’s breath hitches. When Akash puts his face close to Finlay, his consciousness leaves him. Akash’s lips part, his gentle breath rests on Finlay’s nose, his clean smell clouds Finlay’s senses.
Finlay has spent his whole life on the edge of human contact. In all that time he never fully realised what it meant to live alone, 180struck off, isolated from touch. But now, mere centimetres away from Akash, every particle in his body is desperate to bridge the gap.
There’s a beat before Finlay realises Akash isn’t speaking.
‘What?’ Finlay whispers.
Akash stares for a long pause. ‘I’m horrifically squeamish.’
Finlay’s laughter booms out of him. He’d almost be self-conscious if it didn’t feel so good. Akash’s whole body shakes when he joins in.
‘I know the feeling,’ Finlay manages when he’s calmed. ‘I’m—’ He doesn’t know how to say it. Basically failing the course. ‘Struggling.’ He exhales.
‘What with? Placement?’ Akash blinks gentle eyes. ‘I’ve heard it can be intense.’
Finlay shakes his head. ‘No, placement’s fine. It’s the assignments that are … destroying my will to live.’
‘What!’ Akash’s eyes widen. ‘You should’ve said!’
Finlay frowns. ‘Uh …’
‘I can help!’ Akash explains. ‘If it’s anything clinical, my brain’s bursting with it. Let me be of use!’ He stretches both arms wide as though to demonstrate his own existence.
‘Um,’ Finlay tries again. The thought of Akash reading his horrendous essay makes quitting university actually appealing. But Akash looks so hopeful. And Finlay is exhausted. You need to learn to ask for help.
‘… Okay.’
‘Great!’ Akash beams, blasting Finlay with it. Then he stands. ‘First things first: coffee.’ 181
Finlay watches Akash cross over and get served instantly because there’s no queue. He takes a hold of the counter to push up on his tiptoes and see what’s available. He’s wearing washed-out blue jeans and a thick black sweater, a gold ring on his thumb. Finlay can see the edge of a pink T-shirt peeking out at his collar. Something hot and strange unfurls inside Finlay’s chest. It feels like violent fondness.
Finlay wants to leave. This was a mistake. But as quickly as the feeling takes hold of him, Akash returns with two takeaway cups in hand. ‘I got you a latte.’
‘Oh.’ Finlay takes it, dumbstruck, and instantly reaches for his wallet.
‘No need. On me.’ Akash pushes the coffee at Finlay’s chest.
Akash is being kind. He doesn’t understand the significance. But it’s the flippancy of the act that pierces Finlay.
Finlay pulls out some coins and offers them to Akash.
Akash looks at Finlay, then huffs and takes them. His fingertips skim Finlay’s open palm. It sends a small shock wave through him.
‘Thank you.’ Finlay clears his throat. He sips the bitter caffeine. It warms him after walking in the Scottish autumn air.
‘To the library!’ Akash declares with a finger, and it’s so incredibly dorky Finlay has no choice but to laugh.
*
It turns out Akash is a seasoned visitor. They navigate through the IT area to a desk that’s been booked. When Finlay opens his mouth, Akash gives a wry smile.
‘Today’s my revision day. You’re in luck.’ He powers the 182computer up and stands back. ‘All yours.’ Akash waves to it and sits on the chair opposite, splaying his legs. His belt buckle glints, the muscles of his thighs evident.
‘Finlay?’ Akash prods.
Finlay sits quickly and busies himself with logging in. Akash tucks his hair behind his ears, and he’s wearing earrings, square plaques with little floral designs on them.
Pull yourself together, Finlay thinks. He manages to find his essay after concentrated effort.
‘Okay,’ he warns, nodding to the screen. ‘I am fully aware this is a mess.’
‘Let’s see.’ Akash slides closer just as Finlay leans away. Akash reads over his shoulder, mouthing the words a little. His breath is on Finlay’s throat. Finlay could weep.
‘Okay. Okay.’ Akash nods once he’s finished. ‘So – see this?’ He points to the screen, stretching an arm around Finlay as though in an embrace.
‘Mm?’ Finlay rasps.
‘You just need to explain your evidence. You’ve got a great case study, but just relate it back to the question. I can show you.’ Akash smiles.
And he does.
They write for hours. The more they write, the more Finlay realises he does know this. He does have the mental energy, he does have the skills. He’s just been avoiding it. Pushing it further and further away so he won’t have to face the outcome of submitting something only to fail. 183
He was just trying to delay the inevitable of losing everything: university, friends, career, security. Now he realises how counterproductive that thinking was.
*
‘And now you’re finished,’ Akash says as Finlay types the conclusion.
‘Oh my lord, thank you,’ Finlay babbles, euphoria rushing through him. He turns to Akash, about to throw himself across the distance – but stops himself, adjusts his glasses, and swallows. ‘I owe you my life.’ His voice goes quiet.
‘Well, then, it was worth it.’ Akash’s voice is soft, almost tender.
Finlay glances away, a nervous quiver to his hands and his heart, as though something just transpired when all they did was look at one another. He focuses on emailing Grace with the essay, takes a breath, and presses send.
It doesn’t matter that it hasn’t been graded yet. A pressure flies away from him as his lungs finally open up. Finlay exhales all the way down to his toes.
‘Do you want to come to mine?’ Akash asks, completely at random. ‘I’ll make us something to eat: it’ll be cheaper than the West End.’
‘Oh, no, you don’t have to.’ Finlay shakes his head. He’s already taken up so much of Akash’s time.
‘I want to!’ Akash’s hair shifts from behind his ears to frame his face when he looks at Finlay. ‘I’m two minutes away. Seriously.’ Akash tilts his head, ever responsive to Finlay.
His face is so expectant as he waits.
Finlay can leave at any point. He still has all the power. But 184more than that, he can’t bear to let any small unhappiness mark itself upon Akash’s face. Not just from the instinct to people-please. The thought of Akash being upset causes an ache in Finlay’s chest.
Maybe that’s an excuse, though. The truth is Finlay adores Akash’s presence. He wants to bask in it for as long as he can. But he ignores that fact.
‘Sure.’ He smiles.
‘How d’ye dae it?’ Banjo asks on the toilet seat, face bloody and clothes ruined from his latest fight. He’s been getting into more lately. He’s still going through withdrawal, and Finlay knows that’s his main reason for lashing out. He wishes Banjo would let Finlay tell the staff – let him ask for proper help, rather than just riding it out – but he also knows Banjo would only see that as a betrayal. He’d likely refuse their assistance in protest anyways.
‘Do what?’ Finlay murmurs as he picks tiny pieces of gravel and dirt from Banjo’s chin. He never asks what happened. He never wants to know.
‘Avoid fights,’ Banjo clarifies.
Finlay goes silent for a bit. ‘I don’t really need to. When Marco took Mr Black … that was my boundary. Fighting is my last response.’ Not because of a moral high ground, obviously. But because Finlay’s smaller and skinnier than most people his age.
‘It’s ma first,’ Banjo admits, voice small, eyes downcast.
‘Everybody’s different,’ Finlay tries. 185
Banjo laughs until he winces, doubling over. He’d been punched in the stomach, then. The confirmation always causes some kind of corresponding pain in Finlay.
‘You need to learn to pick your fights,’ Finlay says as he dabs some salve on to Banjo’s jaw. Banjo won’t let any of the staff do this. They all know that the only way to treat Banjo’s wounds is through Finlay. ‘Nobody bigger than you is worth it.’
There’s quiet breathing.
‘It’s jus’ worse fur me,’ Banjo says.
‘What’s worse?’
Banjo goes quiet. ‘Am so fucken angry aw the time,’ he manages eventually. ‘I feel as if it’ll burn me up if I don’ get it out. Am angry at nothing sometimes. Absolute fuck aw.’
Finlay holds out a hand for Banjo’s T-shirt. Banjo grimaces as he pulls it off. Finlay sets to work on it at the sink.
‘I feel that way too,’ Finlay says eventually, rubbing the soap bar into the material as the hot water makes the blood run. Bitter metallic salt fills the air. His voice goes quiet. ‘I feel so angry I almost want to take it out on everyone. I want them to hurt, because I’ve been hurt.’
There’s a soft bump to Finlay’s side.
Finlay looks down, confused.
Banjo is resting his head against Finlay’s hip.
Finlay stays very still, as though a wild animal has unexpectedly given him their trust. Despite the fact Banjo lets Finlay clean him up like this, he never initiates touch.
Until now. The tap runs on. Finlay works on Banjo’s T-shirt. 186
‘I never get that way aboot you,’ Banjo murmurs.
Finlay is going to do something. Touch his head. Reach out. But Banjo pulls away. Every muscle is tense, prepared to fight. Finlay keeps washing. Slowly, in his peripheral vision, Banjo relaxes.