Foxes (23 page)

I don’t even know what he’s talking about. My face is on fire, my fucking heart is hammering like the countdown to a bomb going off. His dick is small and neat and even though he’s half-hard, the folds of skin there look so, so soft. I have to physically turn away to stop myself looking, but not before I see the smile fixed on his face is one of those ones he gives when he’s hurt or hiding his real feelings.

I PACE
up and down the length of the swimming pool. Part of my brain has gone into overdrive, creating pictures that feature Micky naked as he washes in my room, while the other part—the part that makes me feel more in control—quickly erases them with efficient, determined ferocity.

When Micky comes out of my room, he’s damp and disheveled, and he looks kind of sad.

“I’ll wait here while you go and take a shower,” he says, pushing his still-dripping hair out of his face. I watch as he goes and sits at the edge of the swimming pool.

After I shut the door, I can hear him flinging bits of broken tile to the bottom of the pool.

“MORNING,” MILO
bellows, just as we’re about to leave through the plywood door. He hitches his false leg into place and hobbles out of his room toward us.

“Breakfast,” he says. “Courtesy of the wonderful Ms. Wong.”

“Who?” I say, staring at the plastic takeaway box Milo is holding out to me.

“Flower Lady. She’s taken to leaving me breakfast of a morning. Though from the amount she leaves, I suspect some of it’s for you.” Milo grins wryly.

“I need to say thank you to her,” I tell Micky as we walk away from the swimming pool.

We haven’t discussed it, but I’ve every intention of walking Micky home this morning, then perhaps going to see Donna.

I have my backpack with me too. I need to fix some phones in exchange for parts. I’m running low again, and I need to replace my phone.

The sticky-sweet dumplings are delicious. I hold out the box to Micky, but he seems more interested in looking at all the old rubbish dumped along the road, now covered in melting snow—the fridges, sofas, manky bits of carpet, the washing machine that’s set apart and seems to have been set on fire. This road is a dead end, so people fly-tip down here like nobody’s business.

“It’s a long walk,” I say, putting the lid back on the box when I realize Micky is not going to take one or eat anything. “I’ll save these for you.”

Micky nods. “Thank you,” he says softly.

We walk in silence, our feet slipping in the horrible slush. Generally, silence is fine, I’m good with it, but silence and Micky don’t go together. I keep glancing at him through my hair as we walk along. He looks okay, but maybe hiding how he’s feeling is his true superpower. And I wish mine was the power to see through it.

THE FLOWER
shop has a few customers packed inside it. I stand off to the side, out of the way, and wait for Flower Lady to see me, while Micky wanders around, smelling all the flowers. He seems a bit happier now, but somehow I know that he’s not really, but I’m not sure what’s wrong. Or even how to ask him.

I’m still thinking about Micky when Flower Lady pushes her way over to me and stands too close, with her arms folded across her chest. “You eat dumplings?”

I nod. “Thank you. And for the herbs for my shoulder.”

Before I can prepare myself, Flower Lady’s hand shoots out and grips my shoulder. I think it’s going to hurt, like Dollman hurt me, but surprisingly her touch causes me no pain. Micky is by my side in an instant, looking at me worriedly. I nod at him, wanting him to know it’s okay.

She prods my injury with her thumb. “Yes, healing. All good. Friend?” She gestures at Micky, and he gives her a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes.

I nod.

Her black eyes narrow as she scrutinizes us both. “This is lucky friend you work for flowers for,” she states.

Feeling a little helpless, I nod again.

She directs her gaze at Micky. “This is good man. You know that.”

“I know that,” Micky says quietly beside me.

“Okay. You go now. I have work to do.” She turns toward the back of the shop.

“Wait.” I swallow. “I’ll come on Thursday to help with the delivery. To say thank you,” I add.

Flower Lady nods once before disappearing out the back of the shop.

THE SKY
is beautiful. The snow on top of the buildings is blinding in the sunlight.

As we cross the bridge, Micky stops and leans over. Together we watch the murky water rushing away below us, and I wonder how cold it would have to be for the whole river to freeze.

“You bought flowers for me?”

“Yeah. The day I fell in the river.”

“Oh,” Micky says.

“I thought they’d make you happy.” I almost tell him flowers used to make Dashiel happy, but I stop myself at the last second.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

We’re silent for a while.

“What are you going to do today?” he asks.

I tell him about the basement phone shop that lets me fix phones, and how I might go and see Donna.

“I’d like to meet her. I’d like to meet all your friends,” Micky says, almost to himself.

I nod. I’d like that too.

I can’t say the same back because I’m not really sure I want to meet Jack properly and Micky is sort of friends with Dieter too, and I already know how Dieter feels about me.

“Diana has a restaurant near here.” She’s always been kind to me, so I guess she’s a friend. I hadn’t really thought of her like that before. “She’ll make you drink hot chocolate, though,” I warn him.

“That’s okay. I like hot chocolate.”

THE FIRST
thing Diana does when she sees us walk into the restaurant is shake her head at me and turn away. My stomach drops—I’ve no idea what’s wrong.

She disappears into the kitchen.

I hurry after her, gesturing for Micky to sit down at one of the tables.

In the kitchen, Diana hunches over the sink. Her shoulders are shaking. She jumps a little as the door between the restaurant and the kitchen bangs noisily behind me.

“You stupid, stupid boy,” she mutters, before turning around and engulfing me in her large warm arms and hugging me tightly.

Shocked, I pat her back, wondering how to comfort her and stop her from being so distressed.

Thankfully, after a few seconds, she pulls herself together. “You tried to save that boy on the bridge, didn’t you? You nearly drowned!”

“I’m okay,” I say weakly.

“That stupid heart of yours is going to get you killed one day.” She sighs heavily as though she’s exhausted.

I look away.

When I look back, she is peering into the restaurant through the small round window in the door. “So, who do you have with you today?”

“That’s Micky. A boy I met,” I add.

“You know that other kid has been in asking after you?”

I frown, trying to work out who she means. “Dytryk.”

Oh
, I think, unsure why he’d want to see me again.

Impatiently she ushers me out of the kitchen.

“Go talk to your friend. I’m going to bring you something to eat. He looks like he’s going to slip through the cracks in my floorboards.”

“He doesn’t eat much,” I tell her seriously. “He’ll have a hot chocolate, though.”

“If he doesn’t eat, he’ll die.”

Instead of meeting her gaze, I go back into the restaurant to sit with Micky. He’s pouring the salt and pepper onto the tablet cloth. He looks a little on edge.

When I pull my chair out, he scrapes the salt and pepper pile into his lap and looks embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Bad habit.”

“It’s okay.” I shrug.

“You know that night we lay on the grass under the London Eye and I told you what I was scared of?”

I push my hair out of my eyes and look at him properly. He told me he was scared of a lot of stuff.

“You know what I’m scared of most right now?” he carries on.

“What?” I ask, remembering he likes conversations where both people speak.

“I’m scared of messing this up…. I’m scared
I am
messing this up.”

“Messing what up?”

Before he can answer, the door to the kitchen swings open and Diana waltzes out of the kitchen with a tray in her hands. When she reaches our table, she places the tray down and pulls a chair out.

“Hot chocolate,” she says, pushing a cup toward each of us. “And biscuits.”

“Thank you,” Micky says.

I notice he avoids looking at the biscuits, but he picks up the hot chocolate and holds it in his hands, even though the tips of his fingers are red and it must hurt to hold something hot.

“I’m Diana,” Diana says, looking at Micky. “Though I expect Danny has already told you that.” She smiles. “So where are you from, Micky?”

“The US.”

“Oh, I have family out there. Whereabouts?”

“Arizona,” he says into his mug.

“You’re a long way from home, then. That must be hard.”

“Not really,” he mumbles, shaking his head. This is the first time I’ve seen him withdraw from a conversation. Even I can tell he wants Diana to stop asking him these sorts of questions.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Do you have family over here?”

“No.”

“Are you on the street?”

“I have a room.”

“I don’t mean where you live. I mean are you working on the street?”

I glare at her. I don’t know why she’s interrogating him like this. Micky is staring at the tablecloth so hard that I wonder if it’s going to come to life and wrap itself around him to protect him from having to answer any more questions.

“I need to talk to you in the kitchen,” I say, pushing my chair back and standing up.

I stride into the kitchen, where I stand facing the door, gripping the work surface behind me, as I wait for Diana to follow me.

“What on earth is the matter?” she says, peering around the door.

“Why are you interrogating Micky?” I demand.

“Oh, honey, I’m not interrogating him!” She steps inside and closes the door before she carries on. “Your friend is sick, Danny. I was just trying to find out some things about him.”

“He’s not sick…. Why do you think he’s sick?”

“He’s barely more than a bag of bones.”

“He’s just skinny. He doesn’t eat much.”

The pained expression Diana gives me ignites something in my chest. It’s not quite anger, more like a fierce protectiveness.

“If you’re going to start bringing people here for me to help, Danny, that’s what I’m going to try to do.”

“I didn’t bring him here for that. I brought him to meet you. He’s my friend.”

“Okay, okay.” Diana reaches out to touch me, but I flinch away. “I’m sorry. How much do you know about him? What’s his history? Why is he out on the streets?”

I don’t know his history
, I think. Just like I didn’t know Dashiel’s. Just like I don’t know Donna’s or Vinny’s or Dytryk’s or anyone else’s. Just like they don’t know mine. Because we’re not our pasts—because we’re more than that. We have to be. Don’t we?

“He’d know if he was sick. He’d do something about it.” He would. I don’t understand why what she’s saying is getting to me like this, or why I can’t accept she might be right—because a little part of my brain is telling me I should listen, but I can’t.

“Yes, maybe he would. Or maybe being sick is something he doesn’t want to deal with. I’ve seen it happen.”

Diana’s words echo in my head as I march back into the restaurant.

The table is empty. Micky is gone. His still mostly full mug of hot chocolate sits on the tray.

I head outside. I don’t think he’ll have gone far—he probably just wanted to get out of there, and I don’t blame him. Diana went overboard.

I glance down the street in both directions and then start walking back the way we came.

Micky is on the bridge again, staring down at the water. I spot him as soon as I turn the corner.

“Sorry I kinda vamoosed. I’ll wait here for you if you want to go back,” he says as soon as I’m next to him.

“It’s okay.” But I know it’s really not.

I lean on the metal railings and stare at the graceful way Micky holds his hands, knowing that it looks as though I’m staring at the river.

“Diana’s not usually like that,” I say. Though when I brought Dytryk in for her to help, she kind of was—and it seemed okay then. “I’ll walk you home now, if you want?”

“Are you still going to see your friend Donna?”

He probably wants to see Jack, rather than meet my friends, I suddenly realize. I nod, and we leave.

DONNA’S BLOCK
doesn’t look so bad in the daylight. It’s still a gray Lego brick of a place, but someone tends the garden out front, and there are no broken windows, no doors are boarded up, and the graffiti is kinda colorful and artistic, as though someone around here can actually draw and not just write their name in blocky letters over every available surface.

Micky has hardly said a word since we left the bridge. Whenever I glance at him, he tries to smile, but… I don’t know, something’s not quite right. Our pace has slowed right down too. But then, he must be running on empty. As far as I can tell, a couple of sips of hot chocolate are all he’s had this morning.

When we reach the door, I press the intercom. Donna shrieks wordlessly when I tell her it’s me and buzzes us in.

We barely make it up to the first floor before I hear this clatter of footsteps and Donna’s slight form flies around the corner, nearly knocking us down the stairs.

The fact that she’s wearing a guy’s oversized shirt is the only thing I notice before she takes me by the shoulders and hugs me. Just a quick, fierce squeeze and she lets go—as if she knows I’m not the most tactile person on planet Earth.

Except with Micky
, Dashiel’s voice whispers.

Yeah
, I agree. Except with Micky.

Micky, who’s being quiet and completely not himself, yet who actually smiles properly as he watches us.