Banjo
Alena needs an operation.
‘Fuck,’ Banjo says instantly when he arrives in her hospital room and finds out.
Alena laughs. ‘Don’t worry!’ She beams from where she’s packing her things. ‘I’m happy! This is good news. Plus I get to go home!’
What?
‘Whut?’ Banjo blinks. ‘Yer going home?’
Alena grins. ‘They don’t have the specialists here. It’ll be at Queen Elizabeth University Hospital, but they need to arrange it for a few weeks’ time. So I can go home and wait!’ She really is buzzing about this: happiness flushed in her cheeks.
‘So … this’ll make ye better?’ Banjo tries.
‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘Much better.’
*
Banjo does a little research. Ileostomy. That’s the name of the operation. He scrolls through the images of inflamed, ulcered intestines online. She’ll have a stoma: a little bit of intestine coming 215out her belly. To see the visible proof of her illness makes the idea of it worse. He finds himself rubbing his abdomen with a grimace.
It’s as he’s watching a video by one of these gastro specialists that the message comes in.
Hey :)
It’s nearly 2 a.m. She should be asleep.
Get to bed, he answers. Full stop.
:)))) is her answer.
Banjo smiles but doesn’t reply.
:((((( Alena sends a couple of minutes later.
Banjo huffs and rolls on to his stomach.
What’s up? he replies.
Working tomorrow? she asks.
Nope, Banjo writes, but realises that’s a little blunt. He puts an x, but then realises that’s romantic. Nope :-), he edits.
was gonna ask if u wanted to go swimming?
Banjo looks at the message for a minute. Then he’s hit with an onslaught:
just thinking about what I’ll miss once I get the stoma!
I can still swim, but with a bag
totally ok if u don’t want to
Banjo frowns at that. Course I want to.
Yay! Alena replies.
Banjo grins again. Where? he asks.
I can get mum to drop us off :D
Good plan, Banjo writes because his eyes are getting tired, and turns over in bed. He shuts his eyes, gets comfortable, drifts off. 216
Bolts upright.
‘Fuck me, I cannae swim.’
*
This is how Banjo finds himself on a Saturday morning, backpack on one shoulder with a borrowed towel from Paula and Henry. He felt about four years old skulking up to them last night.
‘Whut d’ye take to go swimming?’ he asked.
‘Alena?’ Paula guessed with a smile.
Banjo nodded, a strange warmth caught in his throat, like the fact she knew was both embarrassing and nice. They dropped him off a couple of times at the hospital and noticed he’d been over there for dinner. They were paying attention.
If Banjo sits down and thinks about that, he starts getting indigestion, so he doesn’t. Plus there’s other fish.
Such as the fact he’s going swimming. Swimming.
Of all his bad ideas, this is sure to be the best.
Julie answers on the first knock.
‘Banjo!’ She smiles. ‘Alena’s just getting ready.’ She waves him through as if he needs a physical invitation like a vampire. Banjo smiles helplessly.
It’s weird, but at the same time it’s not. Julie asks Banjo about school, and running, and it’s the way it’s always been. Easy. Then Alena bursts into the room, rucksack on, wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans.
They all pile into the car. Banjo realises he’s never been in Alena’s car before. It smells like leather, seat belts, and clean fabric. Nice. Homely. 217
‘So what’s the plan?’ Julie asks.
‘To swim!’ Alena replies with a fist pump, sending him a smile from the passenger seat.
‘Fff – eck yeah!’ Banjo almost swears. Julie and Alena laugh. It feels as though the whole car lifts with the sound.
Of course, then they get there. Banjo didn’t know what to expect. Maybe just a building with swimming baths. Instead it looks like a bloody water palace.
There are slides coming out the building and snaking back into the wall. Some are half-open and Banjo sees people sliding down, fully giving up their lives for a minute of fun. Coming out of the building.
Out. Of the building.
Banjo gapes.
Alena jostles him with an elbow as they clamber out. ‘Okay?’
Banjo closes his mouth and nods.
But one step through the entrance and Banjo’s instantly hit with the smell of chlorine, salty sweat, and plastic. His feet falter. His heart does something very fucking similar to vomiting.
‘Banjo?’ Alena peers at him.
Banjo swallows and plasters on a grin. It’s just water. It’ll be fine.
‘Here we go!’ Alena gestures to the cubicles.
Oh. Right. Banjo needs to take his clothes off now. In the midst of being preoccupied by water, that somehow slipped his mind.
‘Right,’ Banjo states.
So now he’s standing in a cubicle with a pair of Henry’s old 218swimming trunks. Getting naked feels like a violation of the laws of nature.
Honest to Christ, Banjo strips off his T-shirt and feels as though he’s peeling off his fucking soul. There’s something about it – the strange place, being in a cramped cubicle, hearing voices and laughter all around him – that makes him feel pried open.
Banjo’s on his tiptoes to avoid touching any of the damp, soggy tiles growing an undiscovered bacteria, but it still doesn’t erase the nakedness of being naked in public.
And then he’s not naked, and it’s okay because the trunks fit (thank fuck). Banjo exhales as he glances down at himself. There’s not much he can change in the space of a few seconds. It’ll do.
‘Banjo?’ Alena’s voice floats over. ‘Ready?’
Banjo unlocks his cubicle, steps out, and focuses on walking the narrow path of un-wet floor.
‘No’ a fan, Ena.’ His eyes are on his feet. ‘They no’ clean the floors?’
Banjo looks up.
Alena’s staring at him.
Banjo blinks. He feels blood rush all the way to his head as if he’s been tipped upside down.
Alena’s wearing a bikini.
For some reason, something about Alena and bikini never registered in his brain. Never formed to create an image. Banjo doesn’t know why. It’s not as if Alena hasn’t appeared in various ways inside his head, but never in a fucking bikini. 219
Even when she suggested swimming, Banjo’s first thought was Alena in a swimsuit. But this.
An endless stretch of sun-soft olive skin. Alena’s arms and legs and waist are all exposed, the small point of her belly button, the curve of her hip. He feels as if he’s never seen her until this moment.
And then Banjo can’t help it, doesn’t even choose to do it, his eyes just keep moving—
Banjo looks at her boobs.
Fuck.
His eyes fly to meet hers, open mouth at the ready.
Alena’s gaze is stuck somewhere at his navel.
‘Oh,’ she says. One word.
Oh.
Oh?
Banjo looks down, confused. Her gaze was trained on the line of his fuzz tapering down his belly button.
Banjo blinks.
‘I—’ Alena stutters. ‘Sorry. You ready?’ Shit, now she’s blushing: ears red, face red, total embarrassment.
Banjo doesn’t know what happened, what is happening, and how to proceed from this situation. ‘Whut? It’s fine?’ he blusters.
Alena’s probably just shocked by his ginger trail. Banjo doesn’t like to think about it most days. If he were confronted with it in his face, he’d likely have the same reaction.
As they’re walking to the pool Banjo bumps her shoulder.
She laughs and bumps back.
‘I’ve gottae admit some’hin,’ Banjo starts as they edge closer 220and closer to the pool. Because she’ll find out eventually soon as he starts splashing.
She stops instantly.
‘I cannae actual swim,’ he states.
Alena stands, unmoving, eyes wide. ‘Are you joking?’
Banjo tries to swallow. It gets stuck somewhere in outer space. ‘Uh. No.’
Alena blinks. Then she laughs, a warm sound. ‘God, Banjo, only you!’ She takes both his bare shoulders. ‘Don’t look so worried!’
Banjo’s cheeks are hot, seeping down his throat. Her hands are on his skin, fingers wrapped around his bony shoulders. It’s bliss. He crosses his arms over his chest and curls around himself to contain the feeling.
‘Naw, I jus’ never learned,’ he croaks.
‘Why didn’t you say!’ she cries. ‘We could’ve done something else!’
Banjo swallows again with a little more success. ‘Ye wannae dae it, though.’
Alena gives him a hard look. ‘Banjo. Do you want to go somewhere else?’
Well. They’re here now. Seems a bit pointless.
‘Naw, I – I mean, I jus’—’ Banjo waves a hand. It will sound ridiculous. It is ridiculous. ‘Ye could. Teach. Me.’ He coughs at his feet and burns hotter than a planet.
Then Alena smiles, squeezes his arms. ‘I’d love to.’
Banjo breathes. ‘Cool.’
When Banjo and Finlay were at St Andrews they went to the beach. It was summer, it was hot, and it was going to be great. It was 221a full hour’s journey on the bus. They packed trunks, towels, lunch. They had it signed off and everything. Finlay was newly sixteen: he’d made a route, he’d planned the bus times. A whole day of freedom.
I’ll teach you to swim! Finlay laughed. Come on, it’ll take two minutes.
It didn’t take two minutes. It took three hours, because every time Banjo got a little further in he had to stop.
I don’ fucken wannae! Banjo’s voice was reedy and thin. Can we no’ jus’ stay here?
Finlay changed. Sure. He made a show of lying in the shallow water, resting back on his elbows. We’ll stay here. It’s nicer, anyways.
They had their lunch on the beachfront, got ice cream, and splashed about with their feet. Banjo never went any deeper than his knees.
When Banjo climbs down the side of the pool, it’s the exact same. Because anything that makes him feel out of control, that makes him feel powerless, just fucking terrifies him. Even after all this time.
Alena floats behind him.
‘Ena,’ Banjo says. That’s all he says.
‘You can stand here,’ Alena replies. ‘Look. Look at my feet.’
Banjo looks. Below the water, the lapping waves, he can see her feet touching the bottom. The water gets colder as he progresses. It engulfs his toes, his legs, his waist, until he’s just left holding the bars of the ladder, white-knuckled and unable to let go.
Alena waits. 222
‘Alena.’ His voice actually wobbles this time.
Alena comes closer, her presence a warmth at his back. ‘Hey. Watch this.’
And then she’s gone. She ducks underwater for a moment, a blurry shape, then resurfaces.
Her hair is plastered to her head, soaking wet, but she just wipes it away with a huge, sparkling grin.
Banjo laughs.
Alena does it again. She holds her nose before she ducks back, only this time she’s gone longer before she bursts free.
‘See?’ Alena holds out her arms after she resurfaces. ‘Not a scratch.’
Banjo presses his forehead to the cool metal bars of the ladder. He breathes, in, out, and then he steps in.
There’s a moment when he enters the water. A completely weightless moment, a complete nothingness. The whole world is struck off.
And there’s a flash of scalding panic, a boiling bucket of ohfucknofuck.
Then his feet find the world again.
Alena’s grin is waiting for him. ‘You did it.’
Banjo’s whole chest expands and unfolds out. ‘Did it.’
Alena flicks him with water.
Banjo gapes, shocked, and does it back.
Alena flings a handful at him.
‘Aay!’ Banjo shouts. She ducks underwater again and hides from him. 223
Banjo follows her. He can’t really see, because everything is murky. He resurfaces to the sound of laughter hitting his ears when water falls out.
‘You look like a wet cat!’ she shouts, both hands flattening Banjo’s hair. Her touch is gentle, but it still makes Banjo’s organs explode. He does the same. Then they’re just standing in the shallow end of the pool scuffling like little kids, and Banjo’s laughing in the water, in a pool. His nose stings, his skin is wet, and it feels good.
‘Do you want to go further?’ Alena asks.
Banjo looks at the people weightless and floating. He nods.
She swims out slowly. Banjo walks after her, but reaches out a helpless hand, grappling. She takes it. Banjo really wishes he could appreciate that a lot more than he does. As it stands he’s too busy noticing how far the water rises, lapping at his chest, his neck, his chin, until he can’t stand any more. His feet can’t touch anything.
‘Just float!’ Alena nods in encouragement. ‘We can just float. It’s nice.’
We can stay here. Finlay’s head tipped back, grin content, his whole upper half dry. As if an hour in a bus was worth it. As if the people having fun in the water didn’t matter. So many things Finlay did for Banjo. A bitter ache twists sharp in his chest.
Banjo lifts off the ground.
Alena’s grin is worth it. ‘Look!’ she cheers in victory, shakes their joined hands. She’s so fucking close. ‘You’re swimming!’
Banjo knows he’s probably crushing her fingers. ‘Yeah,’ is all he says. Because he’s not. He’s fucking immobile.
But then Alena releases him. Banjo’s untethered. He bobs on 224the water, but suddenly it’s easy. He knows he’s beaming: knows it probably looks maniac, wet-haired and wide-eyed, but Alena is too.
He’s swimming. He barks a strange sound, which he’d be embarrassed about if Alena didn’t give a little whoop. Then they’re both whooping and flapping their arms like seagulls.
*
They swim all day. Alena touches him a hell of a lot more: jumps on his back and makes him carry her around, and then forces Banjo to get on her back. Alena being on his back is fine: it makes Banjo feel as if he’s lost his mind, but that’s all relatively normal. Being on Alena’s back? The fuck does he do with his hands? His legs? Anything?
Eventually they find themselves at the edge of the pool, feet dipped in, hair dripping, hands splayed on the tiles behind them.
Babies are all flailing around like oversized fish, chubby fists and wrinkly arms trying to survive, but their parents celebrate every second of it. Banjo can’t help focusing on this dad in particular. Just this regular nobody but for the total exaggerated excitement on his face. He lifts his little kid and squishes them with the wee armbands crushed to his hairy chest. The baby is none the wiser, won’t even remember this moment, the look on their dad’s face.
‘I’ll miss this,’ Alena murmurs as she gazes out at the crowd.
Banjo frowns. ‘Whut d’ye mean?’
Alena clears her throat, cheeks faintly glowing. ‘Swimming. I can’t do it for a while after the surgery, but even once I’m healed it’ll be – weird. With a bag.’
Banjo tilts his head. ‘How so?’ 225
Alena casts a look at him. ‘I … poop in the bag, Banjo.’ She says this like it’s news.
Banjo frowns. ‘So? Everyone’s in their fucken underwear here anyway, Ena.’
He’s not expecting Alena to laugh. It’s this big, beautiful laugh. And he joins in, same as he always does, high on the rush it gives him.
Alena calms down enough to inhale and say, ‘Very true.’
Banjo swallows. He fixes her a look. ‘So dinnae think like that. Ye hear?’
Alena swallows. She lifts a pinkie. Charmed, Banjo hooks them together and squeezes. That one little contact burns through his veins. He releases her quickly.
Alena has this soft expression on her face. ‘Banjo.’ Her voice is fond. ‘Are you ever going to ask me out?’
The whole universe zeroes into this one second. It zooms until it’s Banjo’s heartbeat in both hands gripping the wet ledge of the pool, pulse in his throat, the backs of his ears, hot blood in his mouth.
Alena’s eyes widen. ‘Do you not—’
‘No!’ Banjo shouts, loud enough that some people glance at them. ‘No, I never—’
Alena covers her face with a laugh, but it’s so choked, so embarrassed. He’s mucking this up, he’s actually mucking it all up.
‘Ena, wai— wai— wait.’ Banjo is unsteady and frantic, but takes her wrist in a trembling grip and tugs it gently from her face. ‘Ena, I thought it wus aw me.’ 226
Alena’s hands fall. ‘All you what?’ She’s so close it almost feels as if they’re touching, the heat of their skin pressed.
‘I thought,’ Banjo rasps, his tongue stuck, ‘I thought it wus jus’ me that wanted … more.’ His face burns.
Alena leans closer. ‘I’ve wanted this the whole time.’
Banjo stares. It can’t be true. It’s too good, too much. ‘Why?’
Alena smiles, her pink lips shining damply. ‘Because I like you.’ Her eyes are warm. Sincere. Is this what light-headed means? Banjo didn’t even think you could get dizzy while sitting down.
‘How?’ he chokes.
Alena shrugs with a laugh. ‘Just do. You’ll have to accept it, sorry.’
‘Aw right,’ he manages. His voice is strangled.
Alena leans back a bit. ‘Good. Glad we cleared that up.’ She beams the Alena Lekkas smile, full blast. And at this proximity as well. He near has heart failure.
Banjo swallows. His face an oven. Now or never. Now or never.
Pick up yer bloody balls.
‘So, like. Would ye. Will ye be – like tae be. Ma girlfriend?’ Banjo mangles it to all hell. But he holds his ground.
‘Very much.’ Alena leans in to bump their shoulders.
Banjo nods sharp, once. It doesn’t feel real. He probably passed out. Maybe he drowned in the pool. Because he’s got a fucking girlfriend. And that girlfriend is Alena. 227
When Banjo finds out that Finlay is leaving because he’s landed a foster placement, he doesn’t talk to anyone. Least of all Finlay. He doesn’t react. He helps Finlay pack in silence. St Andrews is only a stopping-off point for the disruptors and the delinquents – a means to an end to get people into the real homes. This is a good thing. Banjo can believe that this is a good thing.
They’re stiff with one another. He wants to go to the bathroom and lie down, but there would be no point now.
Finlay says his goodbyes to the staff, nodding and chatting, so Banjo makes his escape.
He goes back into their room and crawls under his bed so he won’t have to face it. It’s what he used to do when he still stayed with his parents. When he just wanted to fucking disappear.
It takes five minutes. Finlay comes in and walks over slowly. He must be able to see Banjo’s feet.
Finlay gets to his knees and squeezes into the cramped space. Banjo doesn’t look at him. His eyes are squinted on the mattress above.
They’ve known each other less than a year. It hardly matters if Finlay leaves. It hardly matters if it feels as though Banjo’s known Finlay his whole life. This was always going to happen.
‘Half an hour away. Half an hour,’ Finlay tries, voice gentle. It makes Banjo soft and he hates it. He twists his back to Finlay.
‘Won’t be the same,’ he states. 228
‘We’ll make it the same,’ Finlay promises. Banjo doesn’t believe him. Every part of him aches to turn around because Finlay’s leaving, but he can’t make himself move.
After a beat, Finlay crawls out.
Banjo stays where he is. He doesn’t know how long for. Something builds in his chest. It squirms and writhes until it just breaks free. Banjo scrambles up and rushes out the room—
‘Banjo!’ Douglas calls, because Banjo smacks into him in the corridor. ‘Careful!’
‘Where is he?’ Banjo whips around. ‘Where’s Finlay?’
Douglas frowns. ‘I think he’s gone, pal.’
Banjo goes numb. He wants to hit himself, tear at his hair, slap his face, but he also wants to slap Finlay, fuck sake, couldn’t he have waited another minute? Couldn’t he have forced Banjo to turn around, hugged him from behind, done something?
Love me, just love me, even if it’s hard and painful and I’m being shite, please just do it, Banjo thinks. He needs Finlay to be the one to do it.
He needs to run. He needs to run until he fucking collapses. Banjo storms outside, about to take off and do just that, until he sees someone.
Finlay is sitting on the concrete steps leading up to St Andrews. Waiting. He stands up when he sees Banjo.
Banjo looks past him and sees Lucy helping an older couple put Finlay’s bags in a car, chatting away easily.
Banjo looks back at Finlay.
Finlay smiles. ‘I thought you might come out.’ 229
Banjo takes a few steps. He swallows. He doesn’t know what to do.
Finlay looks as if he understands, and nods. Then he turns to go.
Before he can, Banjo grabs his wrist.
Finlay stops. ‘What—’
Banjo yanks him in. Their foreheads knock together in a headbutt. But Finlay doesn’t pull away when Banjo reaches with both hands and holds Finlay’s head tight. He just does the same.
Banjo sleeps in Finlay’s bed that night before it’s stripped.