Chapter 22 #3
He said he would be here. He said he needed help, that he was desperate.
He said he wants a sponsor. I had to quickly google that before I replied.
I took myself through the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous in about thirty minutes – just in case.
The twelve steps are not something I loved (there’s a lot of apologising), but I now know enough to help him through it, if he wants, which is what a sponsor does.
Finding Mo – or should I say Mark (as he has become in Slay) – was a stroke of luck.
He is now growing to be a fairly important character in Liam’s story.
A vehicle for the danger, the peril that Stanley asked for.
He is the opposition – the baddie in layman’s terms – and he will give Liam the opportunity for character development and growth.
I am still figuring out Mark’s intentions and motives, but I am gaining a clearer picture of how he will present.
I get up the Grindr app and look at my message stream with Mo. It dates from last week, after I was hiding (observing) outside his flat. The blue and yellow messaging bubbles are now less terrifying to me, more a familiar form of useful research.
Hi sxy
Oh hey. Not seen you on here before
I’m new to the area
Oh yeah? Niceeeeee
Welcome
You’re hot!
Thanks – you too. What I can see of you
Any face pics?
;) maybe, if you play your cards right
Hard to get. I like it
What are you into?
Ha!
That’s funny?
How new are you?
I’m new to the area, but not to this
I see
How old are you?
33
Meh. I prefer early twenties
Twinks
Oh
Not that you look old
You look good
Well your body does
Thanks! Why twinks
They’re more enthusiastic
Ha!
They love it
Love what tho? ;)
Depends on what I want
What do you want?
Many things
Lol
You still there?
Yes sorry phone died
U a top? Dom top?
Yes I am
Nice
You can come play if you want
Domination nation!
But I’d need to see your face first
What kind of things do you get them to do?
Mo stopped replying at that point.
‘Mandy?’
I look up from my phone, back into the café.
It’s him. Liam. Leo.
The first thing I notice is the trembling.
His whole body vibrating so intensely that I feel it move immediately into the pit of my own stomach.
Eyes bloodshot. Skin grey. He has his hood up over his head, the cuts that Brick left now less swollen and red, but still there, infection lingering in their edges.
‘Leo,’ I say. ‘Are you OK? Has something happened?’ He doesn’t answer. He just stands opposite me, jittery, scratchy, panting. Tears in his eyes. I realise I am now stood up. ‘Can I get you some water?’
He nods, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Yeah, go on.’ As he sits in the seat opposite me, I notice the smell. I do all I can not to gag. His clothes look damp. Why? ‘Jesus,’ I whisper. ‘Do you need food?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘Wait here, I’ll get you something.’
I make my way to the counter and can’t help but scan the occupied tables as I do.
Four elderly women playing cards. A man on his own with scruffy hair and a half-eaten sandwich, typing frantically on his laptop.
Two teenagers in school uniform – probably skiving – laughing and flicking baked beans at each other.
A lady with an anorak and four dogs at her feet, with a perpetually apologetic expression.
‘You ready then?’ Chloe says, still seemingly annoyed by my mere presence.
‘Yes. Yeah. Could I get a...’ Damn it, I didn’t ask him what he wants. I turn back to the table to see him now sat, holding his head in his hands. Chloe glances over too and raises her eyebrows. ‘He’s OK,’ I say. Then, to avoid any confusion, ‘I’m his therapist.’
Chloe couldn’t care less. ‘Right. So what do you want?’
‘Two glasses of tap water, a hot chocolate, an Americano for me and...’ I glance at the black board above her head. What would he eat? Anything? Nothing? He looks like he wants to vomit. ‘A baked potato with cheese.’
‘Salad?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Do you want salad with the potato,’ Chloe says slowly like I’m a dog, or like I’m thick.
He probably should. His face is the colour of the floor. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Salad would be good.’
She punches something onto an iPad. ‘Nineteen pounds eighty please.’
I hold out the twenty-pound note leftover from Elaine’s therapy session. She looks at it like it’s an ancient relic, then back to me. ‘You not got card or Apple Pay?’
‘Oh, sorry, just this,’ I say, as cheerfully as possible. ‘Keep the change, though!’
I watch her struggle to open the till – something she clearly has never used – take out a twenty-pence piece and sarcastically make an oh wow face at it, then put in the pocket of her apron with her vape. ‘Very generous.’
I don’t have time for Cuckoo Chloe. She hands me two glasses of lukewarm tap water, no ice, and I take them back to the table, sit in front of Leo and hand him one. ‘Here,’ I say.
‘Cheers,’ he replies, and I watch him gulp it in one.
His fingers are thick with dirt. There are what appear to be dark-green stains all over his damp clothes, and his fringe is stuck down to his head – I presume not a fashion choice.
He keeps shifting in his seat agitatedly, glancing at the door, pulling his hood down further, trying to make himself smaller. And the smell...
‘You’re wet...’ I say.
‘Canal,’ he says.
‘Sorry?’
He looks me dead in the eye. ‘I got thrown in the fucking canal, OK? Someone tried to drown me.’