Chapter Twenty-Two Zig
“You can tell me anything,” Si had said.
Like it was so easy, baring his heart so that Si would hold him again. Kiss him again.
But if you tell him, at least you’ll know. And fuck, what kind of a cunt was Zig, trying to get Si to love him again without telling him the truth?
He’d lain awake half the night on Si’s sofa, thinking about how right it’d seemed, coming home with him. How he’d yearned to put his arm round Si as they sat on the sofa drinking cocoa. Wanted to kiss him. Take him to bed.
He’d stopped himself from trying any of that, partly because he’d been scared to break the mood if Si wasn’t up for it. But mostly because he didn’t deserve it. Seeing Adam again last night at the pub . . . it’d brought it all home. Made it real. Si and his mates, they were decent people.
Not like Zig. He belonged with people like Trent and bloody Dad.
“Ain’t you ever wondered what I’ve been up to since you last saw me?” Zig asked, his tone rough in his own ears. “I know what you were up to. Learning a trade. Making a life.”
“I s’pose I reckoned you’d been doing bar work?
” Si said slowly. “You know. Learning how to make all them fancy cocktails. Juggling with shakers like in some eighties film.” He smiled weakly, like maybe he was expecting Zig to carry on the banter.
Tell a few funny stories about working behind a bar.
Zig couldn’t stand it. “I was in prison.”
Si stilled and pressed his lips together. He didn’t say anything. No swearing, no gasp of horror. His eyes didn’t widen. Like Zig’s news came as a jolt, yeah, but maybe not a surprise?
Which, why the fuck would it be, moron? Si must have known Zig was dodgy. Him, and his dad, and the blokes he hung around with. He’d as good as confessed they’d done over Adam’s dad’s place, way back when. How much of a stretch would it be to imagine him ending up doing, hah, a stretch?
Fuck, Zig hated himself. “Ain’t you gonna ask what for?” It came out bitter.
“You wanna tell me?” Si asked, his tone cautious. “Cos, like, you don’t ’ave to.”
“Not worried you’re sharing your flat with an axe murderer?”
“Nah. You’d’ve got longer than six years for that. Least, I’d bloody well hope so.”
Zig laughed, despite himself. “You’d be surprised. Robbery.”
Si nodded absently, like he didn’t know he was doing it. “Got unlucky?” he asked in a horrible, fake cheerful voice. Zig could feel him drawing away, closing himself off. Reminding himself Zig was no good. Would never be any good.
Zig hated that even more. “No,” he said harshly.
Si blinked.
“There was this job,” Zig forced himself to say, each word like acid in his throat. “Not long after you left London. Construction company. Who’d have thought it, eh? Didn’t go quite how we planned it.”
He swallowed, then took a deep breath and started his tale.
It was just Zig, his dad, and Trent on the job. Dad had fallen out with a couple of the other guys—accused them of having sticky fingers, which was fucking rich—so he’d kept them out of the loop on this one.
It was supposed to be easy, mind. Quick in and out. Trent had been scoping the place out, said the security was shite. And true enough, it was a piece of piss getting in.
Everything was still and quiet, which was what you’d expect at 3 a.m. The management had left a few lights on to make it look like there was someone at home, but they weren’t fooling anyone with that tired old trick.
Dad was sorting something out in the van, so Trent and Zig went on ahead. None of the internal doors were locked. Nothing to keep them from getting to the good stuff.
“I’m gonna start here,” Trent whispered, his eye on some sweet, sweet tech in a large open-plan room. “You check out the director’s office.”
“Got it.” Zig left him to it and set off down the corridor, resisting the urge to whistle cos he knew it’d get him a bollocking.
He rounded a corner, and his stomach lurched.
There was a guard there, an older bloke with grey hair and a paunch. Zig froze, panicked. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone here.
Shit. Time to get out of sight—
“Oi! What are you doing in here?” The guard stomped towards Zig, flat-footed and fumbling at his hip for something.
Zig couldn’t move. Christ, it’s all going wrong.
Out of nowhere, Trent darted in, fist swinging.
The old guy went down heavy, his head bouncing off the desk on the way to the floor.
Trent barely broke stride, making for Zig and grabbing him by the shoulders. He gave Zig a good shake. “You stupid fucking idiot. Do you want to get caught?”
Zig tore his eyes from the still body on the floor. “Is he dead?”
“Who gives a fuck? Come on, you moron.” Trent strode off without looking back. Like Zig was his dog and would walk to heel when ordered.
The old guy wasn’t moving, and there was blood on the desk where he’d caught his head. Zig’s heart was trying to beat out of his chest. Christ, that could be someone’s grandad.
Without consciously deciding to, Zig knelt down by the body.
Pulse, pulse, how the fuck do you take a pulse?
He reached out a hand, half-afraid to touch the old guy.
When the man shifted and groaned, Zig nearly shat himself.
The guard didn’t open his eyes, though, and his head was still bleeding, thick and red. He needed help. Now.
This wasn’t what Zig had signed up for. Nicking stuff, yeah—from posh wankers who had way too much already, and would claim it all on the insurance anyhow—but hurting people?
Zig had always wondered if he had, like, a moral compass.
Something to show him where the lines were.
Turned out, seeing that old man lying on the floor .
. . Zig remembered Ray, his gran’s old boyfriend.
He’d cried at her funeral, and Zig hadn’t known how to handle it.
Because grown-ups didn’t cry, right? Especially blokes.
Dad never cried, and he hated Zig crying.
Shed a tear and get a smack round the ear. That was how it worked.
But Ray had wept like it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, and he’d given Zig a hug so tight it’d hurt.
That had been the last time Zig had seen him, cos he’d moved to Sussex to be with his family.
He was probably dead now, but Zig could still remember his face.
And it wasn’t much different from this bloke, lying on the floor in front of him, bleeding from a head wound one of Zig’s so-called mates had given him.
That was it. That was the line.
There was a device on the old guy’s belt, the side he’d been reaching for. It was smaller than a phone, black plastic with just two buttons. One had a telephone symbol; the other SOS.
Zig hesitated. If he pushed that button, the guy would get help . . . and Zig, his dad, and Trent would get caught.
If he didn’t, the old man might die.
Zig pushed the button. Then he scrambled to his feet and walked slowly after Trent.
Zig came back to the present to find Si was gripping his hand, tight. It felt like an anchor.
“Was he okay?” Si asked. “The old man?”
Zig nodded. “Yeah. Maybe he’d have been all right anyway, but I couldn’t— I couldn’t risk it.”
Si’s whole body had relaxed. “No. No, course you couldn’t.”
Jesus, how could Si just say that? Like he knew Zig was always gonna do the right thing?
That was more than Zig had known. Way more.
Si smiled crookedly. “Guess I know why you and your dad had that bust-up.”
“Well, yeah, but I never said anything. I let ’em assume the guard had set off the alarm before Trent decked him.”
“You didn’t try to make a run for it? Get away before the police turned up?”
Zig stared out of the window and into the darkness. “Think I wanted to be caught. Wanted Trent to be caught, anyhow.”
“Always knew he was a bastard,” Si said. “You did a good thing, there.”
“Got me own dad banged up.”
“And yourself.” Si’s tone strongly suggested he didn’t give a monkey’s about Zig’s dad.
Zig shrugged.
“What was it like?” Si asked softly. “Being inside?”
It was shit, was the first response that sprang to mind, but that had been down to what had been going on inside his head as much as prison life.
“Wasn’t great. No booze, and I didn’t wanna touch the drugs.
You never knew what you were getting into.
You lose all control over everything—what you eat, what you do most hours of the day.
And you’re stuck inside with all these other bastards, half of ’em blokes you’d cross the Thames to avoid on the outside.
Can’t get away from them, even the ones who’re fucking psycho.
Safest thing is to keep your head down. Not get noticed.
” Zig laughed bitterly. “You wouldn’t have recognised me in them days.
Had me hair natural colour and everything.
” Some days, he hadn’t even known if he was still him or if he’d actually turned into the drab, colourless drone he saw in the mirror and would stay like that forever.
Si squeezed his hand. “Sounds rough.”
Was that pity in his eyes? Zig didn’t like it.
Didn’t deserve it. He lightened his tone deliberately.
“Could have been worse, though. I went to a better nick than me dad or Trent did. First offence, see? There were lots of educational courses you could sign up for. Read a lot of books to pass the time after lock-up.”
“Yeah? What did you read?”
“Old books, mainly. Classics.” Zig found himself smiling.
“Stuff like me gran used to read. Oh, she liked her Mills and Boon, don’t get me wrong, but she had a load of books by Dickens and Thomas Hardy, Jane Austen, Laurie Lee—that sort.
Got them all in them cheap editions they sell for a quid a throw.
She reckoned they weren’t that different, a lot of ’em.
All about love and marriage. Only in bigger words, and more of ’em. ”
“You didn’t have one of these modern prisons, with a telly in your cell?”
“Oh, we had a telly. Me cellmate didn’t read, though, so I let him choose what was on. Then I’d open me book and tune it all out, cos there’s a limit to how many reality shows I can take.”
“He didn’t read, or he couldn’t read?”
“He could read a bit. But not enough to want to read a book, you know? Dunno if he was dyslexic or what. He was older, older than me dad, so maybe he never got diagnosed. He used to get me to read stuff to him—letters and that.” Zig laughed.
“Asked me to read from me book, one time, but it was Jude the Obscure so I wasn’t that surprised he never asked twice. ”
Si scratched his head. “Not read that one. Too obscure?”
“Too bleedin’ depressing, more like. It’s about a bloke who never gets to live his dreams. Only worse. I’d tell you the worst bit, but then you’d be depressed and all.”
“I’ll pass, ta. What are you reading now?”
Heat rose in Zig’s face. “Pride and Prejudice. For like the six millionth time.” So he’d felt the need of a comfort read. So what?
Instead of the derision Zig had half expected, Si cocked his head to the side. “I remember my mum watching that on the telly. Have you got to the bit where he rips half his clothes off and dives in the lake?”
“Hate to break it to you, but that’s not in the book.”
“No? Ah, well. Probably works better on screen anyway.”
“You’re not wrong there.” Zig paused. “Are you okay about this, then? Me being an old lag?”
“You ain’t that old,” Si said vaguely, like he was still considering the question.
Then he took a breath and looked Zig in the eye.
“Way I see it, you done your time, haven’t you?
Paid your debt to society, all that bollocks.
And you saved that bloke’s life, maybe. So yeah, I’m okay with it.
Long as you’re out of all that now?” His eyes turned pleading, and he swallowed.
Zig’s heart clenched so hard he could barely breathe. “Yep. Well out of it all.” And he was. He was never going back to that life, not even if Dad turned up on their doorstep and—
Nope. Not gonna think about it, cos that wasn’t gonna happen. How would Dad find him here? Zig forced his body to relax.
Si was smiling at him, and that helped. It helped a lot.
“Well, then. Reckon we’re okay.” He reached over and squeezed Zig’s shoulder.
“Now, I’d better call me mum before she sends a search party, but it ain’t likely to take long.
How about I take you out afterwards? We can head off on the bike, get some lunch out somewhere. ”
Zig’s smile came easier now. “Sounds great. Apart from the helmet hair.”
Si laughed. “If there’s anyone who can make it work, it’s you.”
Zig’s insides warmed. “You call your mum. I’ll sort this lot out.” He picked up their plates—the remains of their breakfasts now cold and congealed to the point he’d probably need a chisel to wash up—and headed into the kitchen.
“You don’t have to—” Si started.
Zig shoved both plates into his left hand so he could flip a middle finger up at the daft bastard with his right. “I think you meant, ‘Cheers, mate, you’re a star.’”
He made plenty of noise filling the sink and clattering the pans around, partly to give Si some privacy for his call but also cos he didn’t fancy having to listen to Si’s side of the conversation.
His mum would most likely be giving Si grief over Zig’s continued presence.
The thought of it was enough to harsh the buzz he’d been feeling since telling Si the worst and not being chucked out on his ear. But only a little.
And he wasn’t gonna feel guilty. Si knew everything now, and he still wanted Zig around.
Okay, maybe he felt a little bit guilty. Because Si deserved so much better.
But he was a grown man, now. Capable of making his own decisions.