Chapter Ten On This Day in History
chapter ten
On This Day in History
The rain didn’t let up.
It hammered the windscreen in relentless sheets as Jude guided Warren into a narrow car park overlooking the seafront. The wipers strained to keep up, smearing across grey as the storm raged on.
Outside, Worthbridge Beach was nothing but a ghost. Sea and sky blending into a single wall of mist. Streetlamps shimmered in the puddles pooling along the promenade, their glow broken by gusts of wind toppling bins and sending chip papers cartwheeling down the pavement like soggy confetti.
Somewhere, a seagull screamed its disapproval into the storm.
Warren squinted through the downpour. “This the place?”
Jude nodded. “Yeah. Best fish and chips in town.”
Warren raised a sceptical brow. “Says who?”
“Me. And the Year Elevens who bunk off every other Thursday for chips and emotional damage control.” Jude shot him a sideways glance. “Also, it’s the only chippy on the front with a license.”
And fuck did Jude need a drink.
It wasn’t the best idea, but it was the only one he had. Dull the edges. Blur the lines. So when he went back home to Callum, he might not be so fucking scared all the time.
Warren snorted. “Hence the appeal to those not technically old enough to drink.”
“Exactly. And I’m fairly sure the owners don’t know what a legal ID looks like.”
“But we, as responsible educators, shouldn’t be encouraging that.”
“We’re not.” Jude reached for the door handle. “As soon as we walk in, it’ll send them scattering.”
Warren rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. Let’s ruin some teenagers’ night and save a few liver cells while we’re at it.”
They made a run for it, Jude ducking his head, shielding himself with an elbow as the rain came down in buckets.
Warren laughed beside him, nearly sliding on the stone, then slid a hand on the small of Jude’s back, guiding him inside.
It was steady. Warm. And right over the place Jude kept covered.
Where the ink lived. His one private truth, buried under cotton and silence.
For a second, his muscles tightened, preparing to flinch away, anticipating the sharp push that used to follow.
Like when he’d been dating Freddie for that short time, and he’d slipped his fingers up his shirt during a kiss, Jude had instinctively eased away.
But this time, the push never came. There was only sustained, grounding pressure.
And something in him reacted in a way it hadn’t in years.
Alive. Exposed. Seen.
Fuck.
He felt as if he were on fire.
The small shopfront glowed like a beacon in the storm, golden light spilling onto the rain-slick pavement.
The Golden Galleon was spelled out in flaking gilt letters above the window, proud despite the wear.
Inside, it was all tiled walls, laminated menus, steamed-up glass, and the sacred scent of deep-fried everything.
And as they stepped through the door, Warren finally let his hand fall from the small of Jude’s back.
The absence hit like a cut. Sharp, sudden, senseless.
Ridiculous, really.
And so painfully, disastrously ill-timed.
The place was half-empty. Only one older couple in the corner, sharing a pot of tea and watching the rain beat the glass.
Warren stomped water off his trainers. “Proper British summer holiday vibes. All we need now is a wasp and a cancelled train.”
They slid into a booth near the window, the plastic seats sticky from vinegar and years of overuse.
Rain pummelled the glass beside them, the sea wall barely visible beyond it, spray crashing up in bursts.
Thunder rumbled somewhere out to the east, low and threatening.
Jude stared out for a moment, watching the wind carve across the coastline.
Home.
Not the home he’d imagined as a boy, but the one he’d built. Fought for.
And now, it was starting to feel exactly like the prison he’d once escaped.
He knew that was on him. He should be fighting harder. Standing firmer. Braver. Not slipping back into silence. Not shrinking. He’d sat through the workshops. Attended the therapy. Delivered safeguarding seminars on this very thing. Coercion. Manipulation. Abuse.
He could define it. Spot the signs. Say all the right things in a classroom.
But living it?
That was different.
Warren’s voice pulled him back to the present. “Alright, History. What’s the order?”
Jude blinked, refocused. “Uh—cod and chips. Mushy peas if you’re brave. Definitely curry sauce if you’re northern.”
Warren wrinkled his nose. “Not sure I can do mushy peas. Bit too green.”
“They’re a delicacy. Pea purée for people with no Michelin stars and very strong opinions on vinegar.”
Warren chuckled and stood to order, leaving Jude briefly alone with the window and the rumble of the storm.
The smell of salt and fryer oil filled the air, comfortingly sharp, soaked into every surface of the little shop.
For once, it made Jude feel as though he was somewhere else. Someplace ordinary.
Warren returned with a numbered plastic stand in one hand and two cans of Dandelion and Burdock in the other.
“Points for authenticity,” Jude said, taking one.
“I also came prepared.” Warren grinned and pulled two bottles of Peroni from the deep pockets of his shorts. “Didn’t think Pinot would pair well with battered fish.”
“You’d be surprised with the ones they serve in here. Same acidity.”
Warren laughed and slid into the booth, eyeing the beers as if waiting to see what Jude would do first. So Jude tried to twist off the cap. And failed. Spectacularly.
Warren snorted. “Alright, hand it here.”
Jude passed it over, and with a move so casual it had to be practiced, Warren hooked the cap on his molars and popped it clean off.
“Don’t ask how I learned that.” He handed it back. Then did the same with his own.
“Teenage rite of passage in South London?”
“Something like that.”
Warren tilted the neck of his bottle towards him. “Cheers.”
Jude clinked his with it. “So what brought you to Worthbridge, Mr Bailey? Other than the world-famous fish and chips, of course?”
Warren swallowed a mouthful of his drink and thumped his chest with a cough, as if the carbonation had hit wrong. Then, “Inherited a house.”
Jude widened his eyes. “Nice. Lucky. Property round here’s going up fast.”
“Yeah. Lucky.” Warren shrugged. “Or, you know… as lucky as it gets when someone dies and leaves you their place.”
Jude winced. “Ah. Shit. Sorry. Were you close? I mean, I guess you must’ve been if they left you a house.
That’s… a big gesture.” He trailed off, realising how clumsy he sounded.
“Shit. Sorry,” he muttered again, cringing inward.
“That was a crap thing to say.” And maybe it was the embarrassment, or that it was easier to offer honesty when he was already off-balance, but the next part slipped out before he could stop it.
“I don’t have much frame of reference when it comes to… family stuff.”
Warren took another sip of his drink, as if giving himself time to think, or giving Jude time to brace.
He didn’t look away, though. Those eyes stayed on him.
And God, they were deep. Not just in colour, but in how they held Jude there.
As if Warren could see straight through the carefully stitched layers Jude wore.
Not to strip them away, but to see them. And he didn’t back away.
Jude’s chest tightened.
“Nah,” Warren said, setting the bottle down.
“We weren’t close. My uncle was a bit of a recluse.
Didn’t see him much. Then, out of nowhere, he leaves half the house to me.
Youngest of three. The other half went to my cousin.
She’s the youngest in hers. We figure we were the last names he remembered. Last ones out, easier to recall.”
He gave a small shrug. There was no bitterness. No wounds disguised as humour. Just quiet acceptance. As if grief didn’t have to be dramatic to be real. That he didn’t need a tragic backstory to feel the ache of something unspoken.
And somehow, that hit harder than anything else.
Jude blinked once. Then again. The lump in his throat catching him off-guard.
He turned back to his drink, tightening his grip around the glass.
“Still,” he said. “He left you something. That’s got to mean… something.”
Warren didn’t answer right away.
And Jude didn’t look up to check if he was still being watched.
He already knew the answer.
He felt it.
And for the first time in a long time, being seen didn’t feel like exposure.
Jude smiled, small and genuine. “Sounds like he thought of you, I mean. Not everyone has that.”
Warren held his gaze. Then shrugged. “Or maybe he just flipped a coin.”
“And some people don’t have the coin to flip. Or a person to flip it.”
“Yeah.” Warren inhaled, his bulky chest rising. “That you?”
The food arrived then. As ill-timed as this whole thing.
At least the battered cod crisped to perfection, thick-cut chips glistening beneath a splash of vinegar sharp enough to curl his tongue and curry sauce made up for much of it.
Jude tried to relax, let the warmth of the meal settle him.
And he watched Warren across from him, shaking salt over his plate, tearing open a sachet of tartare sauce, then picked up a chip and dip into Jude’s curry pot. He gave it a taste.
“Okay…” Warren nodded thoughtfully, chip still in hand. “I could get on board with this northern stuff.”
“Feel free to slather it on. No judgement here. I won’t tell your southern softies.”
Warren chuckled, drowning his chips in sauce with zero remorse. “So, you’re from up north, we’ve established that via condiment choices. Where exactly?”
“Leeds.” Jude speared a chip. “Originally.”
Warren cut into his fish. “That where your family are, then?”
Jude took a breath. Measured. Careful. Of course, he was always asked the question when he met new people. Never made it any easier to say.