Chapter 11
ELEVEN
BENJI
NOW
“Benji,” he steps back, letting me go, and points at my arm. “It was in your mum’s letter. I’m guessing that’s your preferred nickname.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t …” I don’t finish the sentence. I’m being paranoid. And stupid. Because he’s right, the name was in the letter. I didn’t think he’d even looked at that part, the beginning, but I must have got that wrong.
“Is it not your preferred name?” he asks.
“It is,” I admit. “But people around here mostly know me as Ben.”
“Around here?” he questions, and I realise he’s asking me to explain.
“My uni friends, they know me as Benji, but when I used to live here, growing up, I was always Ben.”
“Right,” Dion says and his eyes darken a little as they hold onto mine. He seems momentarily lost in thought, one particular thought or several, I can’t tell. But then he blinks and starts to move.
“Well, it worked, anyway,” I say as I watch him walk back to the counter and start typing on the laptop there.
“What worked?” He doesn’t look up.
“It calmed me down.” I take a seat on the sofa that’s pushed against the wall next to the window.
“That’s … good,” he says, distractedly. I guess he must be doing something important.
Hopefully something that will get us out of here.
I wait, hoping he’ll update me or at least tell me what he’s doing, but he keeps typing, and then he bends over and starts counting cash in a small metallic box.
Eventually, he takes it into the backroom and while out of sight I hear some doors close, drawers being opened and closed and some other noises I can’t place.
“So what do we do now?” I ask when he’s back at the counter, his phone in his hand and he’s busy typing again.
He looks up at me and it’s almost like he’d forgotten I was here. He looks a little stunned and very preoccupied. And then his face goes blank, those full cheeks softening and some life returning to his dark eyes.
“I guess I could make you a cup of tea,” he says on a sigh.
Suddenly, I’m gasping for exactly that. “That would be great. But do you have non-dairy milk? Lactose and me are not friends.” I rub at my stomach.
He gives me a look that borders on condescending. “We’re a queer tattoo studio full of plants and recycled vintage furniture. What do you think?”
I smile. “Right. Cool.”
“Oat, soy, almond or rice?”
“Wow, okay, that’s … oat, please.”
He turns to go back to the other room.
I push up to stand. “Shall I come with you?”
“No!” he calls out and it’s not a response I think I should disobey.
Sitting back down, I take in the space again.
The floors and walls are painted white, and Dion is right, there are several plants on display all looking like they’re in great condition.
I turn and admire some of the art on the walls.
A hodgepodge mix of photos of tattoos or tattoo artists in action, illustrations demonstrating different tattoo styles, I believe, and some abstract art that captures the attention but doesn’t distract from the overall eclectic feel.
A strange thought occurs to me as I admire it all; maybe I could have a wall of framed art like this in my mother’s house. No, my house.
I really have to try and get used to that.
“Do you take sugar?” Dion says as he returns with two steaming mugs in his hands.
“No,” I say, taking the mug he offers me.
“Thank fuck,” he says and then carefully sits back in the armchair next to the sofa. “Because I can’t be arsed to go back there and get you some.”
I smile at his honesty. It’s refreshing.
I take a leaf out of his book. “I’m sorry for freaking out. I get … anxious about being away from home. Or more specifically, away from a toilet.”
He blinks those long lashes at me, slowly. “We have a toilet here.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess you probably do.”
“Hasn’t the colostomy bag helped with that … side of things?”
I look to see if he looks disgusted or uncomfortable talking about this but he’s simply looking at me while taking a tentative sip of his hot tea.
“Yeah, it does. But I still get anxious. I can’t explain it. Old habits die hard, I guess.”
“That can be true.”
“So, are we really stuck here? All night?” Maybe it’s the tea, maybe it’s the adrenaline leaving my body, maybe it’s the fact that Dion is the first person I’ve talked to about my Crohn’s who doesn’t seem remotely perturbed by it, but I finally feel ready to face this truth.
“I think so,” he says. “Even if we break the window or door to get out, I’ll have to stay here to stop kids or criminals taking advantage. And with a smashed window, it will be bloody freezing. At least this way we’ll be warm and dry.”
Dion nods at the window and I see raindrops lashing against the glass. I hug my mug in both hands. I almost feel cosy to be inside while the dark rain pitter-patters outside.
“And we have enough vegan milk to keep us in tea,” I add.
One side of Dion’s mouth twitches. “Yeah, we do. Also the fridge has food in it. Mostly sandwich-filling type stuff, but enough to keep us alive.”
His phone buzzes and he pulls it out of his pocket. His shoulders fall as he reads whatever’s on the screen and when he speaks again his voice has more ease in it. “Don’t you need to let someone know where you are?”
“Someone?” I ask after swallowing some tea.
“Yeah, a wife or a girlfriend?”
I suppose I shouldn’t be stunned by him assuming that, and yet, I am.
“Oh, I’m not married. Or in a relationship. I’m single. Very single.” I blabber and feel more foolish with each word.
“Right. So nowhere to be tonight?”
“Nowhere to be,” I confirm. “You?”
He glances at his phone. “No, I’ve messaged to explain.”
That has me thinking. Is there a boyfriend, a girlfriend, a partner that he’s not going to see because of this mess?
“Not wanting to be a dick, but, isn’t it a fire risk to not be able to open the door from the inside?”
“Yeah.” Dion stares at the door like that will magically make it open. I have to admit I’d tried to do the same earlier. “But that’s why we always have the keys behind the counter.”
“But Mari took them?”
“Yeah, I don’t know why they did that. I think they were just eager to get out the door. They’re heading to Amsterdam for a tattoo convention and they’ve been all excited and nervous energy for weeks.”
“Amsterdam,” I muse. “That will be nice.”
“You ever been?”
“No,” I admit. “I haven’t travelled much. France, yes, with my mum. But Crohn’s doesn’t exactly lend itself to backpacking.”
“I guess not,” Dion agrees. “I also haven’t travelled much. Just to Spain a few times with my family. Once to Trinidad and Tobago for my great-grandmother’s funeral. And I went to Paris once.”
He holds my gaze and the light seems to change in the room. It brightens. And the air thickens. There really is something about his eyes. Their liquid darkness. Those perfect eyelashes.
“Did you like it? Paris?” I ask. I guess talking is one of the only ways we’re going to pass the time and I don’t hate it. Not at all.
“I liked the art I saw there. Especially in the Louvre.”
“Oh, yeah. The Louvre is great. If you can put up with the hordes of tourists.”
I think briefly about my first time to the Louvre, about walking around the sculptures unabashedly admiring the marble forms of men and women. And then D— flashes into my mind. The girl from my French class. That afternoon we shared together.
“I saw the Mona Lisa there. Did you know that some people believe she is actually based on Leonardo Da Vinci’s gay lover?”
I wait for Dion’s curiosity, his amazement, his follow-up questions. But he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me over the top of his mug and his eyes sparkle. His mouth is hidden but I’m pretty sure he’s smiling.
“What?” I ask, feeling immediately self-conscious. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “So, you said earlier that you’d moved back here, because of your mum. Where were you before then?”
“Birmingham,” I tell him. “I went to uni there, undergraduate and then did my teaching qualification there too. When I was doing a placement at a school, a permanent position came up and so I applied. I really liked the school. After a few years, I met a local girl and fell in love, and well, that was me for the next eight or so years.”
“But you broke up with the girl?”
“Yeah, when I moved back here,” I explain with a wry smile. “We tried long-distance but it didn’t work.”
I hope he doesn’t ask me any more questions about Sandra. It’s so much easier to say that long-distance broke us up when in reality, I think our relationship had run its course. That sounds so sad.
“So you’re a teacher? What do you teach?”
“PE. Sports. Whatever you want to call it.”
“So that explains the tracksuit.” Dion nods at my attire.
“Yeah.” My self-consciousness returns.
“And where are you teaching now?”
“At the local secondary school. At St Edwards.”
Dion spits out a mouthful of tea. “You’re teaching there?”
“Yeah, why?” I frown at him.
“Oh, nothing. No reason. I just,” he holds eye contact for a beat, “I went to school there.”
“Oh, really? What year did you leave?” Maybe that’s why he looks so familiar. Maybe he really was in the year above or below.
He opens his mouth to answer but then his phone rings.