Chapter 15
Kaden’s throat had healed. There seemed no point in a follow-up appointment at the hospital, so he cancelled it.
He hoped the police didn’t call again. It wouldn’t be good for Jalis to be caught up in anything.
Though he hadn’t forgotten Jalis had said the injury was his fault.
Until he remembered, Kaden wanted him close because there was no way this gentle guy had deliberately hurt him.
They sat on the train back to London, their thighs pressed together, and when Jalis fell asleep and his head dropped to Kaden’s shoulder, it had felt so right that Kaden’s heart had twisted in his chest. He’d become used to Harris’ harshness and being with someone…
soft, made him reevaluate what he wanted in a boyfriend.
Jalis was interested in everything. Harris was only interested in himself.
Jalis was lightness and curiosity. Harris was the opposite, unless it had something to do with microbiology or biochemistry.
But then Jalis had broken Harris’ nose. So not always gentle.
Even though he’d done it to protect Kaden.
Kaden eased his phone from his pocket without waking him and searched applying for asylum UK.
He knew a fair amount already from watching the news—enough to be aware that recent rules mattered.
Apparently, if Jalis went to a police station, they’d take his fingerprints, photograph and ask difficult questions.
Then they’d refer him to the Home Office’s Asylum Intake Unit in Croydon.
So Jalis might as well go straight there, but not without booking.
Now Kaden had to delete his search, just in case.
Jalis didn’t need an interpreter, but Kaden could stay with him anyway—pretend to translate, or maybe act as a support person.
They’d need proof of address. The letter.
The bill in Kaden’s name. Evidence that Jalis was welcome, wanted and safe.
Kaden would provide a roof over his head but if he couldn’t afford to feed him too, Jalis could claim a subsidy from the government.
Kaden assumed they must have discussed all this, but…
Where was he from if not from Afghanistan?
He looked up where in the world is Pashto spoken. The answer was Afghanistan, Pakistan, the UAE, Iran, Tajikistan and India. But if it was one of those places, why not tell him? If Jalis didn’t say the right thing to the authorities, he might not be allowed to go home with him.
Kaden sent a message to one of his contacts about an article to do with fossil hunting, either as an activity with kids or maybe an unusual first date.
His heart gave a little thump. He replied to a few emails, nudged two people who still hadn’t paid him for work he’d done, including the day-in-the-life article that he didn’t remember writing though he had an email receipt from the newspaper, and also arranged to see Alistair.
Alistair had messaged him about his amnesia and Kaden had reassured him he was fine. Though he wasn’t. Not yet.
While he was online, a response landed in his inbox from Hoopers, a comedy club in London where he’d applied for a slot.
They were offering him a place on the open mic night next week.
If he got lucky, a booker might be in. If he got really lucky, things might finally start to tilt in his favour.
Regular bookings meant regular income and he could rent a place big enough for the two of them. He swallowed hard.
Jalis exhaled and burrowed closer.
Kaden found it hard to believe he couldn’t remember him because Jalis was unforgettable with his scruffy hair, flawless skin and thick, dark eyelashes. He let himself look, properly, while he could. Not a freckle marred his skin. Nothing. Did he not even need to shave?
“Stop staring at me,” Jalis murmured.
Kaden chuckled.
Jalis opened his eyes and gazed at him with such unnerving focus that Kaden’s smile faded.
He didn’t need to glance around to know they were alone in that small bubble of carriage space.
Jalis seemed so familiar and yet Kaden couldn’t remember.
He lifted a hand and traced the line of Jalis’ jaw.
Brushed one finger across his mouth. His lips parted and Kaden’s finger slipped just inside, feeling the warmth of his tongue.
When Jalis sucked gently, Kaden’s breathing faltered.
Jalis released his finger, licked his lips and smiled. “Hello.”
“Hello. I wish I could remember you.”
“I wish you could too.”
Kaden took a deep breath. “You said we messed around.”
“A bit. I’ve never… You’re the first person I’ve ever done anything with. Including kissing.”
Oh my God. “Would another kiss wake me up like Sleeping Beauty?”
“Who’s Sleeping Beauty?”
Kaden huffed, but did Jalis really not know? “I wish I could kiss you now.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Because I don’t think I’d be able to stop and we’d get arrested.”
“For kissing?” Jalis sat upright, looking horrified.
“Not for kissing, but for what it would lead to.”
“Oh.”
The announcement for the next station crackled over the speakers.
Kaden swallowed hard. “Nearly there. While you were sleeping, I did some research. You need to be interviewed at a place in Croydon to make a claim for asylum.”
“You told me to go to a police station.”
“Did I?” Kaden frowned. “I don’t think there’s any point. They’ll just send you to Croydon. I can make you an appointment. Maybe for today. I’ll stay with you. You said you weren’t from Afghanistan, but are you still going to claim that you are?”
“Yes.” Jalis took a deep breath. “What if they don’t let me go home with you?”
“They will,” Kaden said, trying to sound surer than he actually was. “We won’t give them a reason not to.”
Kaden made the call. They could see Jalis that afternoon.
While they ate lunch, Kaden laid it all out carefully, what Jalis should say, what not to volunteer, how to answer without panicking.
“You don’t need to remember everything,” Kaden said. “You just need to tell the truth you do have. Afghanistan. Dead parents. Cruel relatives. Threat of murder. Afraid all the time. A friend who was killed.”
Jalis nodded. “You’ll be there?”
“Every second.” He’d insist, but whether he’d succeed was another matter.
The Intake Unit was quieter than Kaden had expected.
Plastic chairs were lined up under bright fluorescent lights, and there was a faint smell of disinfectant and burnt coffee.
Everyone waiting looked worried. No one was talking.
Jalis sat close enough that their knees touched, and Kaden hooked his foot around Jalis’ ankle like an anchor.
When Jalis’ name was called, he was slow to get to his feet. But once Kaden was allowed to go with him, he perked up. The interviewer was calm, neutral and professional. The questions were asked slowly though there was no need.
Name. Jalis. Using just one name was common in Afghanistan.
Date of birth. They’d decided that together. Fourteenth of May. The same year as Kaden.
Country of origin. How he’d arrived in the UK. Where he’d travelled through. What happened on that journey. Why he had no papers. Why he couldn’t return. What education he’d received. What he did for a living. How he knew Kaden. What games they’d played. How long they’d been doing that.
Jalis stumbled, faltered on that question, mumbled, “About…” then looked to Kaden.
“Over a year,” Kaden said. What was another lie?
Jalis nodded and kept going.
When it was over, the interviewer closed the file and looked at Kaden. “I’m impressed you can speak Pashto and that Jalis’ English is so good. That will stand you in good stead. Don’t forget you can’t work, Jalis.”
“I can volunteer, though,” he said quickly.
“Yes. You can do that. I hope you find something worthwhile to do while you await a decision. I’m able to make an immediate assessment. There’s no point sending you to a detention centre, only for you to leave again in a day or so. You can return to Kaden’s place today.”
Kaden’s exhalation was louder than Jalis’. They turned to each other and smiled.
“An ARC, an Application Registration Card, will arrive at your address within a couple of days. It’s a credit card-sized plastic photo ID that confirms you’ve applied for asylum and are permitted to remain in the UK while your claim is pending.”
“In case you need to prove who you are,” Kaden said to Jalis.
“That’s right. You’re also entitled to ￡49.
18 per week to help pay for things you need like food, clothing and toiletries, as Kaden isn’t fully able to support you.
The payment will be loaded onto a debit card, called an ASPEN card, each week.
You’ll be able to use it in a cash machine.
If your circumstances change—if Kaden can no longer give you somewhere to stay, or if you change address—you must get back in touch with us. Okay?”
Jalis didn’t move for a heartbeat. He just sat there, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white, his eyes fixed on the desk as though the decision might change if he blinked.
Then the tension left him all at once, but he straightened his shoulders, put his hand on his heart and looked at the interviewer. “Thank you.”
Outside, the air felt strangely different.
Lighter. As if the world had quietly shifted while they were indoors and forgotten to tell them.
Kaden was pretty sure he was as dazed as Jalis.
Although he’d thought everything would be okay, it had been impossible to be sure.
And not just because inside all that was said, there were so many lies.
Where did Jalis come from? Why couldn’t he tell the truth? Why can’t I fucking remember?
“Do I know the truth about where you’re from?” Kaden asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You should remember you were pleased about that. About knowing, I mean.”
Kaden frowned. Why did it matter so much where Jalis came from?