Chapter 16
NOWHERE TO RUN TO BABY
MICHAEL
Never was I more grateful for the fact that I lived so close to the salon than when it was pissing it down.
Pulling up the collar on my coat, I ran out of the hairdressers, down the street, and across the Hallfield estate.
On the concrete stairs, the wind and rain could still reach me, so I ran as fast as I could to my front door.
Where Mick was huddled on the doormat. What the Hell?
Next to him was a large battered suitcase, a milk crate full of unidentifiable soggy stuff and several very nice suits.
Or they had been very nice before they’d been destroyed by the rain.
He was sitting on the floor in front of my door, in a thin shirt that was so wet it was almost transparent.
The walkway that joined all the flats was technically sheltered; there was a concrete roof and a wall. But the wall was only waist height so the space was still at the mercy of the elements.
The rain was so fierce–and going sideways–that it was coming in through the space between the low wall and the roof. Poor Mick looked like he’d fallen in the Thames. What on Earth was he doing here?
“Mick?” I croaked. He looked up at me, and my heart fell out of my body. He looked broken, soaked to the bone, and his eyes were red and puffy like he’d been crying. Abject misery emanated from him, and all I wanted to do was fix whatever had happened.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.” He reminded me of a small child, scared of being told off.
“I went to Tommy and Eric’s place first, but their pipes have burst. It was a mess.
Eric didn’t see me, and I don't think he knew it was raining or he would have let me stay. But I couldn’t stay because they were dealing with the flood, and I didn’t think I was up for helping.
And he said their spare room was under two inches of water.
So I couldn’t stay there. And I thought maybe I could stay here.
Just for tonight? I’ll find somewhere else to go tomorrow, though I don’t know where.
I don’t want to bother Frank and Sissy, what with the baby on the way.
And Alan lives at home and Davey does too, and we’re not really that close anyway.
And I didn’t know what to do. So I came here. I’m sorry.”
I reached a hand down to help him up. As he stood, I pulled him into my arms. It didn’t matter that he was soaked and I wasn’t.
It didn’t matter that we were out in the open and anybody could see us.
The only thing that mattered was Mick was hurting and I would do whatever I could to make the pain stop.
He sank into me, and it was all I could do to stop from crying myself.
I wanted to hunt down whoever had made him feel like this and make them pay.
What on Earth could have happened at home to have him traipsing across London in this Godawful weather?
The urge to protect him burned through me.
Whatever had happened to put him here, must have been huge, and he needed someone to be there for him.
Selfishly, I was glad he’d been forced to come to me.
I wanted to be the person he turned to first, but I would take being someone he trusted enough to come to at all when he was this vulnerable.
“Come inside and tell me all about it.”
I unlocked the front door, then I grabbed his suitcase in one hand and the ruined suits in the other. He picked up the crate and went inside.
“Put that on the dinner table. I’ll put these in the bathroom. We’ll let them dry and then see if they can be salvaged.”
It was a sign of how torn up he was that he didn’t even seem bothered about the clothes. Mick, the clothes-horse that I knew, would be beside himself if a tie got a mark on it. He was beyond caring, and that terrified me. What had he been through?
I came into the kitchen, and he was just standing there, motionless and silent, not looking at anything, or fidgeting like he normally did.
His stillness made me feel uncomfortable.
I loved the movement and energy he usually exuded, like an excitable greyhound.
He was dripping wet and shivering like you wouldn’t believe.
The thin shirt he wore was stuck to his skin, which was visibly red underneath.
“You must be freezing. Let’s get you out of those clothes before you catch your death of cold.”
“That’s a myth.”
“Pardon?”
“Pat said it’s a myth that being wet gives you a cold. But I don’t feel great. I suppose being wet might cause other problems. Just not a cold. Apparently.”
The non-sequitur was very like him, and it reassured me a tiny bit. It was delivered in such a lacklustre way, though, with none of the silliness or pizazz he would usually employ.
“Alright, well you can’t stay like that at any rate.”
He didn’t move. I needed to take charge if I wanted to look after him.
I went to the bathroom first, plugged up the bath and turned on the hot tap.
It was the middle of the afternoon, so we might be lucky and get a whole tub of hot water.
I tended to be very conservative with how much I used, being mindful of all the other people that one boiler served.
Mick needed it more than anyone else, and I didn’t give a shit about any of them at that moment.
The water ran hot, and I poured in some of my nicest bath salts.
With that going, I went into my bedroom.
He’d brought a suitcase, but I didn’t want to bother him to unpack it right now, nor did I want to rifle through his things without his permission.
Such a large suitcase also presented a lot of questions that I didn’t want to bombard him with.
Sure I’d be able to find something he could wear, I dug around in my chest of drawers. He was broader than me, but shorter; it was going to be hard to find something that fit. Still a better option than the ominous suitcase.
I remembered some flannel pyjamas that my Aunt had bought me years ago. They were far too big, but I didn’t tell her that. I had planned to give them away to the homeless shelter, but then she went and died and I just couldn’t part with them. Ever the sentimentalist.
Reaching into the back of a drawer, I found them and sent a silent prayer of thanks up to Aunt Agatha. I discovered a baggy grey jumper next to it, another Christmas gift from long ago. Those would do. I found a pair of wooly socks and picked up my fluffiest towels.
After depositing them in the bathroom and turning off the water, I went back to the kitchen to find Mick. The suits could wait until he’d finished in the bath. They were probably unsaveable anyway.
Back in the kitchen, I was relieved to see that he wasn’t standing stock-still in the middle of the room anymore. Upon closer inspection, I wished he had been.
Slumped over the table, he was sitting on one of the dining chairs with something in his hand. I couldn’t tell what it was, but I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep from exhaustion. With the intention of waking him and nudging him towards the bath, I stepped closer.
Faint sobs were coming from him, and the sound damn near broke me. I placed my hand on his shoulder as gently as I could, but he still jolted. He was holding an envelope filled with drawings–the kind made by a child.
What had happened? Something awful, obviously. God, had a child died? I didn't know of any children in Mick’s life, but I didn’t know everything about him. The death of a child would explain why he was so desolate.
I didn’t want to press him. Whatever it was had been very traumatic.
“They kicked me out. Mam and Dad. They found… they found out… about me. And they kicked me out.”
Oh, shit. No wonder he was so upset. That explained why he had a suitcase, a box of his stuff, and his suits. It was all so neatly packed, which meant that he hadn’t been kicked out in a fit of rage.
No, this had been calculated. They’d taken the time to pack away all his belongings before they threw him out of his family home. My blood began to boil. Who the hell would do that to their own son?
I looked again at the pieces of paper he was holding. I’d been right; they were children’s drawings. A crayon scrawled message was partly visible. It might have said “Happy Birthday, love from Mick.” No. No, that couldn’t be. Nobody would be so cruel.
“She gave me back my drawings.” He unclenched his fist, and I could see a drawing of a cat under the writing.
He dropped all the sheets of paper on the table, and I realised there were dozens of drawings.
I picked them up and carefully flicked through them.
Each one had a message of “Happy Birthday” or “Happy Mother’s Day” or “Merry Christmas.”
“She kept them. She cared enough to keep them. But not enough to keep me. And when she had to get rid of me, she gave me these. She must have known how much that would kill me? Surely she knew, Michael?”
He looked up at me, sadness covered every inch of his face.
“How can learning one thing about me make her hate me so much?”
I felt my own eyes start to prickle.
“I don’t know, love. Some people… some people are just like that.”
He let out an audible sob. Creeping closer to him, I rubbed his back.
Flinging his arms around my waist, he buried his head against my shirt.
The tears came thick and fast as he wailed with grief.
I could feel the warmth of them through my shirt.
Putting my hand on his head, I patted his damp curls, trying to offer some semblance of comfort.
But what could I do? The people who were meant to love him no matter what had disposed of him like yesterday’s potato peelings, like he meant nothing to them.
As far as I was concerned, that was true. If they loved him, if they had ever loved him, how could they put him through this? He was right about the drawings. She must have known. She must have realised that putting them among his things would be like a knife to his heart.
His hands around my waist slackened as his sobs faded.
“It’s alright, sweetheart.” I let the words fall from my lips without meaning to. The last thing I wanted to do was put the pressure of my feelings on top of everything he was going through.
“You’re safe here. You’re safe with me, I promise. You can stay here for as long as you need. I promise.”
I attempted to demonstrate the unconditional love that his parents should have shown him, though I knew it wasn’t enough, nothing compared to a mother’s love. Or so I’d been told. I’d love him enough to make up for the awful people abandoning him, in whatever capacity he would have me.
Leaning back in his chair, he looked up again, and I would have done anything for him at that moment. Anything to wipe the sorrow from his face. Anything to show him what it meant to be loved without restrictions. That included bottling up my own feelings and just being what he needed.
“I’ve run you a bath. I put some salts in it, too. Stay in there for as long as you like, or until the water goes cold. There are some things for you to put on when you get out. I’ll make us something to eat while you’re in there.”
I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me, but after a moment, he got up and plodded to the bathroom.
“Put your wet things in the washing basket, and I’ll deal with them later.” I pointed to a plastic bin in the corner of the room. He started undoing his shirt, so I turned to go.
“Michael?” He spoke so softly I might have missed it. I turned back to him as he was taking his shirt off.
“Thank you.”
“Of course, love. I’m here for you. You did the right thing coming to me. Now get in the bath before you die of pneumonia.”
He opened his mouth to speak.
“I know, I know it’s a myth. But warm and wet is better than cold and wet, so do as I say.”
The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been the beginning of a smile. “Yes, Sir.” He even offered a tiny salute. The glimmer of the real him shining through gave me hope that he would be okay.