Chapter 7 Reubyn
Reubyn
Reubyn waits to make sure the journalists have packed up and left before he gets out of his Mini.
Miles, the poor bugger, apparently had no idea there was a photographer papping him from a car window the whole time he was talking to that reporter.
Reubyn could’ve stepped in, warned him off, but he’s managed to go so long without getting caught up in this that it would be foolish to now.
He feels terrible that he hasn’t been in court every day to support his friend during his trial, but he’s worked so hard to get his channel off the ground, and now that it’s finally taking off, the last thing he needs is to damage his reputation by getting drawn into that media black hole.
Miles will understand that, of course. And now that he’s been acquitted, Reubyn can and will support him in any way he needs, just as long as it doesn’t result in his name being used under any unfavourable headlines.
The whole thing has been a complete mess – a nightmare for everyone involved – and now, the best outcome would be to draw a line under it as quickly as possible and move on.
Darkness has fallen, giving the windows an amber glow, and lining the street are orbs of light atop the cast-iron lamp posts.
It’s been a while since he last came here.
This is one of the grandest streets in Bristol, and his visits come with incrementally more powerful reminders that Reubyn inhabits a different social position to his peers from school.
His background was unlike that of the others at Holvine College, in that his family didn’t have an endless supply of money.
Reubyn’s place at Holvine was heavily subsidised because his mother was a teacher there.
When she died from a brain tumour, the school made the gesture of waiving all future fees for his education – including an option to start boarding.
His father, whose work was temperamental and involved long days, eagerly took them up on that offer, despite Reubyn’s protestations.
And so that was it: he spent almost his entire life at that school up until the age of eighteen.
Reubyn crosses over and presses the doorbell, followed by three heavy raps of the iron knocker to make sure he’s heard in the rear of the house.
Miles’s dad opens the door a crack and peers out, then swings it open and welcomes him in.
Reubyn receives a warm handshake and spots Miles waiting sheepishly in the hallway.
‘Mate!’ Reubyn jogs over and gives him a hug. Miles’s shoulders feel stony and fleshless through his shirt. ‘It’s such a relief.’
‘Thanks, man.’ Miles outstretches an arm, ushering him down the hall. ‘It really is.’
Reubyn follows him into the kitchen and finds it surprisingly full, given how quiet it is.
He is no stranger to social awkwardness, and he senses it the second he walks into the room; the air of discomfort hits him like a wave, invisible and silent, yet powerful – almost enough to knock him off balance.
It’s something to do with the journalist who was interviewing Miles on the doorstep just then, he reckons.
The media want more dirt on him. Even though the poor sod has had a light shone on even the most private aspects of his life.
Miles’s mum smiles at the sight of Reubyn. It’s a broad, unconvincing smile, the kind of beam you’d get from a used-car merchant who knows what he’s selling is a dud. She rushes over and pecks him on the cheek, filling the air around him with perfume. ‘How are you? Are you excited about the trip?’
‘I sure am. I’ve been looking forward to it.’
That last part is a lie; Reubyn wasn’t as confident as the others that a not guilty verdict was coming.
It was about six months ago that Polly sent the email around to a handful of his friends, explaining about the trip.
When he’s acquitted, she wrote – not if – like the whole thing was a formality and Miles only needed to show up to court and the charges would melt away.
It’s important to be optimistic in circumstances like these, Reubyn supposes, but he was never able to share in that optimism.
Not completely, anyway. But now that it’s all over, is he excited about the trip?
Damn right he is. Not only does he get to catch up with his old friends, but it’s also a free holiday courtesy of Miles’s parents and a brilliant opportunity to create content. What’s not to love?
‘So, you’re good to go?’ Miles says. ‘How soon can you leave?’
‘Yeah, whenever really.’
‘Good stuff,’ George says, appearing by Reubyn’s side and giving his back a firm slap. ‘Do we need a visa or anything?’
‘Sort of,’ Elis says. ‘But it only takes a few days to be approved. I’ll set up a WhatsApp group and put all the details there, so everyone is across it.’
‘No dramas, then,’ George says.
Miles’s dad stands between Miles and Reubyn and wings his arms around their shoulders. ‘No dramas – exactly. This is what life’s all about, you know; you stick together and look after each other. I’m proud of you lot. Just tell me what flights you want, and we’ll get them booked.’
A conversation begins about flights and the various travel options available to them.
New Zealand is bang on the opposite side of the world, so it doesn’t matter if they fly east or west, with stopovers in Asia or North America, it’ll take roughly the same amount of time – twenty-four hours, minimum – to get there.
No one seems concerned about the distance.
If anything, it’s pleasingly symbolic: their friend is moving on, leaving his past far behind.
Reubyn senses the mood in the room lifting at all mentions of it; voices are getting louder and gestures more animated, and hope soars all around – Miles is back, a new chapter is beginning, and soon they’ll be off on an adventure where untold freedom and wilderness await.
The conversation meanders on, covering everything and anything concerning New Zealand – is it true sheep outnumber people ten to one?
– until all their knowledge of the country, whether verified or supposed, has run dry.
After about an hour, various threads of conversation fragment, and Reubyn finds himself in a corner talking to Elis.
There was a short while when he saw Elis at least once a week, but this is the first time they’ve spoken since Miles was charged.
They discuss the trial and Elis’s stint in the witness box.
It’s all a bit heavy, and Reubyn is glad when he changes the subject. ‘How’s the channel going?’ Elis asks.
‘Good, thanks,’ Reubyn says. ‘It’s really been taking off in the last six months or so.’
‘I saw that one about the abandoned theme park. Didn’t it get like half a million views?’
‘Yeah, that one did well. You never know what people are going to like, I guess.’
Reubyn’s being modest, of course. He’s been a content creator for years now and has developed a pretty good feel for the kind of videos that are going to fly.
When he first saw images of the derelict Wonder Park, with its broken rides, crumbling towers and rotting kiosks strangled by climbing weeds, like some post-apocalyptic hellscape, he knew he had to go in there and film.
It was a tad risky, but it was worth it: the visuals were incredible, and it all fitted in perfectly with the emerging themes of a rebellious spirit and oddball sense of adventure found on his channel.
But really, it was all in the selling. He didn’t title the video ‘Abandoned theme park’, as summarised just now by Elis.
Reubyn has learned to be more creative than that.
When he made the thumbnail, he manipulated the colours in the image, making the gaudier shades of the broken roller coaster brighter and the sky a steelier grey, and overlaid a cut-out of his own face contorted into a Munchian scream, along with the words: Is this the creepiest theme park on Earth? Who wouldn’t click on that?
‘Are you going to be filming while we’re away?’ Elis asks.
‘I hope so.’
‘Like a travel vlog kind of thing?’
‘No, not exactly,’ Reubyn says. ‘That’s such a crowded space.’
‘So, what then?’
‘I’m thinking I might do a little wildlife thing.’
‘Wildlife? That’s a bit twee for you, isn’t it?’
‘This won’t be.’
Elis raises his eyebrows – an appeal for further details.
Reubyn waves a dismissive hand. ‘I don’t like to discuss stuff like this when it’s still in the planning stages – I feel like I might jinx it, you know? I do have an awesome surprise for Miles, though. For all of us, actually.’ He scans the room for Miles but can’t see him.
Elis tilts his head. ‘What is it?’
For a second, Reubyn considers telling him. But, no, it can wait a little longer. Especially as the agreement isn’t completely finalised yet. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
‘This is like trying to get blood out of a stone.’
Reubyn laughs and checks the room again for Miles. He’s distracted by the buffet on the sideboard, which is lined with trays containing remnant quantities of crostini and tartlets and other glistening gluten-y lumps that he can’t touch because of his allergies.
Elis starts up again, talking about rock climbing and a trip he took to the Dolomites last summer.
Reubyn is still scanning the room, half listening to something about limestone and the sunny side of the Alps.
He nods along for a couple of minutes and then cuts Elis off, raising his voice in no particular direction: ‘Has anyone seen Miles? He’s been gone ages. ’