How he wished he could press fast-forward and make it all happen more quickly.
‘One thing at a time, Paul,’ Julie had told him and he was really trying to heed her advice.
Julie was his therapist, a drug counsellor who had become his lifeline and who’d helped him make his lists and plan his future. Paul really liked Julie and he was sure she liked him too because she always talked to him for much longer than she’d scheduled him in for. She wasn’t like the others before who talked to him like he was just another one of the sewer rats, a hopeless case who didn’t mean anything he said. Julie believed in him. Paul loved that someone at long last believed in him.
But now, Julie was gone. She had moved to another city and Paul was struggling to make it through each day. He was struggling so badly that he even sat down one night and sent an email to that agony aunt from the newspaper who seemed to be able to help so many people who turned to her. Ruth Ryans, yes, that’s the one. She reminded him a bit of his big sister, Margaret, who was always so full of wise words and who everyone loved to talk to. But Margaret didn’t speak to Paul any more. Nobody from Paul’s family spoke to him any more. They were tired of trying, tired of giving him chances, tired of picking up his frail, white body off the ground when he’d collapse after a weekend bingeing.
Paul was tired too. He was so tired of hearing his mother cry for him, he was tired of watching her light candles and pray for him to get clean and to just come home and be the way he used to be. He was so tired of letting his darling mother down.
Paul’s mum always said he could have been anything he wanted to be in life. He was picked for the national soccer team when he was just sixteen and was tipped for the top. He was good-looking and super-skilled and the world was his oyster – but that all changed when he met Keith.
Keith was jealous of Paul, but still wanted to be his friend. He showed Paul what it was like to be in the spotlight and all the things that playing professional football was going to attract his way. Keith showed Paul what a good night out really was when you added a few lines of cocaine into the mix, and soon those nights became full weekends and then those full weekends became every day.
Paul didn’t play soccer any more. He didn’t do much any more, only focused on staying away from Screw, trying his best to save his money and make lists just like Julie showed him, to help him get out of here. Julie told him to write down all the positives in his life and to read them and add to them every day.
Paul had two positives on his list so far. He had the roof over his head in the hostel, and he had a new friend called Terence who made him laugh. Best of all, Terence wasn’t a drug addict. That was a huge bonus.
The hostel where Paul lived was clean and the lady on the desk, Sonia, always said hello to Paul by name, but apart from that, he didn’t really talk to anyone these days. Apart from Terence. Terence was cool, but sometimes Paul was afraid that Terence didn’t really understand what he was getting into with the whole drug thing. Terence didn’t know anything about drug culture and his parents would never have accepted the like of Paul into his life because Terence’s family didn’t know yet he was gay. No one knew Paul was gay, either. Maybe someday they could make it happen, but Paul had a feeling it was going to take a long time.
He looked at his watch. It was going to be a slow morning and he felt that old familiar itch again. Oh no. It was almost time for Screw to start his morning rounds.
He covered his ears and waited for that everyday sound to come his way.
And then it started. Bang, bang, bang.
Paul’s heart skipped a beat. His head dropped and he concentrated on his breathing.
If only it wasn’t so easy to say yes. If only it wasn’t so hard to say no.
Bang, bang, bang.
But he wasn’t going to answer. They’d keep coming though, they’d keep pushing. If he could only get to the other side of Christmas he’d be able to make that fresh start he’d been dreaming of, the one he’d made on paper, thanks to Julie. Focus on that, he reminded himself as the knocking and the banging continued. Focus on taking one day at a time.
Bang, bang, bang.
Paul closed his eyes and pictured his mum’s face when he’d turn up in just a few month’s with his new clothes, his longer hair, his skin and eyes clear and fresh and his new car in the driveway.
The banging on his door in the hostel got louder.
He closed his eyes again, tighter this time. He saw his mum’s smile, her arms open, and he felt the warmth of her body, the smell of her lavender perfume, the tears she would cry of pure joy at her baby boy coming back home. Margaret would be there too and he’d apologise for all the horror he’d put them through over the past few years. Margaret would forgive him and she’d finally let him see his baby nephew who he would teach how to kick a ball as soon as he got on his tiny feet. They’d have a great Christmas next year and he wouldn’t have to hear the knocking which was now getting louder and faster.
Paul put his hands over his ears tighter now.
Maybe the woman from the newspaper, Ruth Ryans, didn’t reply to everyone like she said she did. Maybe she was just busy and he was next on her list. He liked to think that might be the way. He was next. Everyone was busy at Christmas, and someone like Ruth Ryans had probably got hundreds of messages from hundreds of people like Paul.
The banging kept banging. The itch kept itching.
‘It’s almost Christmas, you little ponce!’ he heard Screw shout from the other side of the door, his voice like someone scraping their nails down a blackboard. It made Paul wince. ‘Be good to yourself, young Paul. Ho, ho, ho, Santa is here. Open the door, you wee shit. You know you want it. Come on!’
The girl from the newspaper would know what to say to Screw. She would know everything, if she would only just reply. Paul had listened to her on the radio. He had read her replies in the newspaper. She seemed like she was a really nice person. As well as his Margaret, she also reminded him of Julie.
If only she would hurry up and reply. Maybe he was next on her list.
Ruth
When Nora disappears into the busy city, I let out a long sigh and look at my phone. The café is quieter now but I’m not ready to leave just yet. I’ve ten new emails in my inbox since I left the house. Ten more problems to solve or at least advise on, yet I’ve no interest in dealing with any of them and no idea if I’ve the strength to either. A message from the Today boss, Margo, sits in my WhatsApp inbox along with another from a really old date, asking if I’m ready to join him for dinner again anytime soon. No meaning, no depth, no warmth, and I realise that, on my account, no interest. Social media ‘friend requests’ are queued up awaiting response. Smiling faces, happy lives . . . more people I’ve never heard of before who I have to keep up with in an online game of happiness.
I feel tears prick my eyes. I pinch them back and when I open my eyes, Gloria is sitting across from me. She moves Nora’s plate to the side and leans her hands under her chin.
‘Now, missy,’ she says. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on in that little head of yours, apart from the obvious? It’s a tough month for you, but you’ve got the eyes of this city on you and I hate to see you look so sad. You’re losing your sparkle, girl, and I can’t just sit around and let that happen!’
‘Please don’t be nice to me, Gloria,’ I say. ‘You know I’ll be a blubbering mess if you show me any sympathy and Nora has already told me I look like crap, so I don’t need to hear it from you too.’
She tilts her head back and lets out her bold, hearty signature laugh.
‘Me oh