customers.
“Hey, what would you like? They have ten
different sorts of bagels. Look!” Chris sounds like
he’s thirteen and just discovered a treasure cave.
Alex has to smile at Chris’s enthusiasm, but he
doesn’t want bagels. He surveys the sweet treats.
When he was training, he had to be extremely
careful with his diet. The occasional buns were fine
since they all burnt up in the hard work. Now that
he’s not boxing, he wants to indulge instead of
counting his calories and worrying about his body
shape.
“Hmm, I’ll have an iced finger.”
Chris gives him an eye-roll and hollers to the
young staff behind the counter, his voice carrying
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above the bustle of the bakery. “Can I have two
onion bagels and two sesame seeds, and may I have
cream cheese in one of the onion ones? And an iced
bun, please. Thank you.”
When Chris detaches his hand from Alex’s so he
can pay, Alex misses the warmth and the connection
straight away.
They wind their way outside again. Chris gives
Alex his iced finger and takes out his cream-cheese
bagel and bites into it. He chews and swallows with
glee.
As they resume their walk, Chris glances at Alex
and his bun. “Yuck!”
“What’s wrong with it?” Alex speaks with his
mouth full of sweet dough.
“Mum used to feed me them. She said it was good
for my figure. I swore never to have them again.”
“How’s this good for your figure, though?” Alex
devours the bun in three mouthfuls.
Chris rolls his eyes again. “If you don’t eat
anything else, that is.”
Chris shares Alex’s experience of always thinking
about food and what’s allowed or not. Their
appearance suggests a certain polarity, but they
have a lot in common and Alex is happy about the
discovery.
“Well, I’ll never eat another iced bun in front of
you. I promise.” Alex holds up two fingers like a
pledge.
Chris giggles. “You don’t have to do that. As long
as you don’t make me eat it, I don’t care!”
As they walk along, Alex wishes Chris would hold
his hand again, but he doesn’t. Chris marches
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through the edge of the large public park and onto
the footpath that was a railway track.
“This used to be the train line to Crouch End,” he
tells Alex as if giving information to a tourist.
Alex stayed in London when he trained here, in
between going to his Essex home and Sam, but
they’d put him in soulless serviced apartments and
hotels, usually in Central London. The only things
to do were watching TV and porn in the room,
which Alex didn’t care for. He couldn’t go out and
get pissed if he was training, and he was too famous
to wander around by himself too much. Alex’s
training days were nothing but hard work and
otherwise full of unfeeling, faceless encounters that
left him cold. Remembering those days fuels his
guilt like a burning fire inside of him.
“Alex?” The way Chris says it sounds like he’s
been calling out to him for a while.
“Oh, sorry.”
“It’s okay. You look like you zoned out for a
moment.” Chris hooks his arm around Alex’s and
walks along as if they are a couple, making Alex feel
content and relaxed. The sun is low now, leaving the
late-afternoon air cool. They meet fewer and fewer
people on the way. All Alex can hear is the
crunching of fallen leaves underfoot and the distant
hum of traffic. Along the disused railroad, a scent of
musky decay fills the air, which he finds oddly
soothing.
A couple of graffiti artists are already out tagging
under one of the railway bridges, and Alex and
Chris stop to watch one of them. After a few
minutes, she turns and smiles at Chris. “Hey.”
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“Hi. How’s it going?” Chris replies.
“Wanna have a go?”
“Yeah, sure.” He approaches.
The artist has drawn letters with black lines. She
holds out a can of silver paint to Chris. “You can fill
that letter out with this if you want.”
Chris takes the paint, and the two of them work
together for ten minutes or so. The heady chemical
smell surrounds them. Chris fills out a letter under
the artist’s instruction and converses with her along
the way as Alex watches from the sidelines.
When they’re done, Chris says, “Thanks so much
for letting me do that.”
The young woman smiles. “You’re welcome.
Thank you for doing a good job. You’d better go
back to your man.”
In the approaching dusk, Alex may have imagined
Chris blushing.
“Oh, my friend…yes.” Chris glances at Alex, then
runs back to him. His genuine joy reminds Alex of a
time of innocence. Chris’s broad grin is so bright it
helps Alex to focus on the here-and-now, though.
“That was such fun!” He winds his arm around
Alex again and they walk on.
“Do you know her?” Alex asks.
Chris shrugs. “Sort of. I’ve seen her around a few
times, and we’ve chatted. We don’t know much
about each other—not even names.”
Chris relates to people easily, perhaps as a result
of his job, and Alex wonders if he’s reading too
much into their budding friendship. Chris’s
friendliness towards a new flatmate doesn’t mean
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he’s interested in him. Why would the drop-dead
gorgeous Chris want me, with my broken nose and
complete lack of tact?
They have walked half a mile or so along the
disused railway line when Chris stops.
“There you go. My favourite thing in the whole of
North London.” He presents a lichen-covered wall
to Alex with a flourish and a playful tilt of his lips.
“Huh?” Alex looks around and can’t see anything
other than the disused track and overgrown banks.
Chris tightens his grip and tugs his arm a couple
of times. “Look up!”
Alex does. Under the rail arch, peering out from
above, is a gargoyle, observing them with a
mischievous grin. Its arms are outstretched as if to
support itself on the wall, its only leg perched high.
It’s covered in moss that issues a mysterious green
hue. In an instant, the magical atmosphere envelops
them in a timeless and eerie fashion.
All sounds stop in a dramatic moment.
“Wow!” Alex marvels.
“I call him the green man. Very original.” Chris
laughs.
Alex wants to capture Chris’s laughter and put it
in a can. When he feels blue, he can open it a little,
like a music box.
They stand there
, admiring the strange sculpture
and sharing a fairy-tale moment. Chris nudges Alex,
who reluctantly tears his eyes away from the statue
and refocuses on Chris’s dreamy face. Chris glances
away as if he’s too shy because of Alex’s interests.
When they start walking again, Alex asks, “So,
you come here often, Chris?”
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“Cheesy chat-up line.” Chris pushes him. “You
can walk all the way to Highgate Woods, then Ally
Pally, but it’s too late today. It’ll be dark soon. Let
me take you to the cemetery in Highgate another
time.”
The joy in Chris’s voice is infectious, so Alex
giggles. “Okay, if you say so.”
“Lots of famous people are buried there. It’s one
of my favourite London places.” Chris takes out his
phone. “Type in Highgate Cemetery and famous
boxer.” He hands the mobile over.
Alex does and gives Chris the search results.
He squints to read the text slowly, the faint
backlight illuminating his face. “See? Tom Sayers,
famous boxer. Did you know him?”
“Who?” Alex raises his eyebrow and grabs Chris’s
hand to read the screen. “He died in 1865! Did I
know him…” Alex can’t help but chuckle at Chris
while their faces are close, hovering above the small
text.
Chris loads the Wiki page on Sayers and strains to
read. “Look. He was only a small guy…bare…”
Alex helps out. “Bare-knuckle prize fighter. He
was a national hero…who won the first world
championship. Okay. I’ll be sure to check the little
guy out when you take me to the cemetery.” Alex’s
shoulders go up and down as he tries to suppress
his laughter. Chris joins him.
After another few minutes, they come to the
platforms of the old Crouch End station.
Chris stops. “Well, we’d better head back.”
Dusk has fully descended, so they turn around.
Alex almost deflates with the end of their stroll.
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Chris brings out a small torch.
“You’re prepared,” Alex observes.
Chris shrugs. “I’ve done this a lot.”
Alex gazes at Chris’s profile. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t only mean the walk. He’s grateful to
Chris for making him laugh, for allowing him to
forget what a sorry state he lives in and the pressure
from his family.
“You’re welcome.” Chris squeezes Alex’s arm as
though he understands.
~~~
Alex arrives at work—a drab and soulless modern
building in Islington. He has been covering the late
shift from eleven to six. Mike, his boss, is packing
up to leave, so he must have swapped shifts with
someone since the manager rarely works late.
“Whale. Evenin’.” He looks behind Alex as if he’s
expecting someone else. “Where’re the paps?”
Alex wishes he could deck the guy like an
opponent in the ring. Mike’s been doing the same
joke every time he sees Alex, but there’s no point
rising to the bait. Alex takes a deep breath. “Just
me, Mike.”
Mike puts a pile of papers away and locks them in
the metal cabinet. As he passes Alex, he instructs
him, “The control room’s a bit messy. Would you
mind cleaning it up, ready for the daytime crew?
And the toilets are a bit, you know, unsanitary.”
“Yes?” I am not a fucking janitor. Alex hopes
Mike isn’t serious about the staff bathroom and
scowls as a kind of threat.
Ignoring Alex’s displeasure, Mike crosses his
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arms. He’s not a tall man, but he’s muscular and
tattooed, and he’s likely been in security for a long
time—one of those bouncer-turned-manager types
who enjoys his ego-games far too much. “Well, the
cleaner is off on holiday for a week. We have to
muck in.”
Then why didn’t you fucking do it?
“Fine.” Alex’s reluctance drips off him.
His line manager shoots another look his way and
bids goodbye. Mike’s enjoying his power trip, and
Alex has to give it to him. He can only escape this
drudgery by getting a better job, and he promises
himself he will do it soon.
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CHAPTER 6
BOXED
CHRIS STEPS INTO the flat to face a hell of a shock.
Their mother and Alex share the sofa. She clings
onto Alex, pretty much sitting on his lap and
smiling like an infatuated teenage fan, gazing at the
boxer with her big blue eyes.
Chris prises her away from Alex’s arm and face as
though they are unsticking chewing gum from the
furniture. “What the fuck are you doing here,
Annette?”
She looks up, but her eyes are glazed. Shit.
Annette is in her early fifties. Chris looks like her, a
fact that hits them every time they lay eyes on their
own mother because Chris doesn’t want to end up
like her in twenty years’ time. Her hair appears
artificially ironed to a peak at the top and reminds
Chris of a pile of dry straw. She has been crying, so
her dark eye make-up has smeared. With the rather
thick blusher and bright orangey-pink lipstick, she
looks like a Barbie wannabe, trying to reach some
kind of impossible beauty standard. Annette was
once a beautiful young woman, and Chris has seen
plenty of evidence in photographs and videos, but
today their chest tightens watching her.
Chris grabs hold of her arms and tries to drag her
up. “It’s two in the fucking morning. Move.”
Chris is embarrassed to let Alex see their family
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like this—their sorry excuse of a mother. They’ve
stuck with her all these years, even though they
were the one earning money a lot of the time when
they were growing up and should have been
studying and being a kid. Chris never complained,
though, not about the work, cooking and, later on,
paying the damn bills in case Annette had forgotten.
All Annette wanted was to find boyfriends or
husbands who would take care of her and her child.
Three times she’d married, and they’d all failed her
and left. The bastards. Why would anyone want to
be their meal ticket? At six years old, Chris learned
they needed to rely on themself, and that is what
they have done for twenty years. The young Chris
never believed in fairy tales when the reality had
always been grim.
Chris doesn’t know any alternative ways to make
a living, and when it comes down to it, they are used
to having sex with strangers. Most of the time.
Clearly, Annette’s latest conquest hasn’t worked
out. Now, that’s a surprise.
Alex shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, making a
crinkly noise. Chris can see the pink lipstick marks
on his cheek and neck like a child has been let loose
w
ith a crayon on his person.
Annette struggles against Chris’s grip and falls
into the space between the coffee table and the sofa
in a heap. “Oh, give us a hug and a kiss, Chris. I
haven’t seen you in ages.”
The longer the better. Chris puts money in her
bank account every month. Not much—five
hundred. Two fucks. They sometimes wonder why
they’re still doing it and when this life as they know
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it will ever stop. Do other people’s parents grow up?
“I didn’t know you lived with Alex Whale!” Trust
her to recognise Alex and know the celebrity gossip.
She tries to stand up and reaches for the arm of the
sofa for support.
“Mrs…” Alex stretches his arms to support
Annette.
Alex helps Annette up, and as soon as he’s done
that, she clings on to his strong arms again. Chris
takes a good look at her now. She’s still in one
stiletto, and the dress is so short and small it almost
reveals her arse. Most of her breasts are visible
under the flimsy red straps that are barely holding
them up. Around her chest and neck, the skin has
sagged so grooves gather, and her tan clearly comes
from under the lamp rather than the natural sun.
Even from a couple of feet away, Chris can smell
the alcohol. They want to scream at her, but their
anger bubbles and fizzles, as always. Twenty-odd
years of rage turns into resignation. They had tears,
wondering if it’d been their fault, if they’d deserved
a childhood like theirs. After a while, the exploited
and ignored child was all out of tears.
Chris scowls at Annette, clenches their jaw and
prises her away from Alex again. “Time to go home.
Now!”
Annette’s pupils dilate like a cat entering a dark
room. “Oh, you see. I’m scared. Jimmy thinks I’ve
got a job on, and he’s jealous. He chucked me out
this afternoon. I can’t go back there until he’s
calmed down.”
Chris fails to keep up with Annette’s boyfriends,
and they don’t want to. One thing they’re sure
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about: Annette has no job on. She probably hasn’t
had one for fifteen years, even though she fails to
recognise that the career of a porn actress and adult
model is extremely short. Their mother is delusional
when she’s drunk or high…or both.
“No. No.” Chris starts to drag her away from Alex
again. Their eyes meet above Annette’s head, and an
acknowledgement flickers between them. Annette is