Marc smiled, but it seemed bittersweet, perhaps because they both knew that they had to part ways sooner or later. “This has been the longest goodbye I’ve ever known. It’s not just the raging horn that makes us act like teenagers, eh?”
“Apparently not, but I’m the one dragging my heels.” Jamie hid his face in Marc’s chest.
Marc rubbed his back. “You know you can come back anytime, don’t you? Whether I’m here or not?. Um, you can sleep here too whenever you like.”
“I think I knew that before I dropped my arse off that ladder, but I have to learn to be on my own sometimes. It’s part of my recovery, I guess. Thanks, though. Sleeping next to you is the closest to happy that I’ve been in years.”
There wasn’t much else to say, and they finally parted. Jamie left Marc in his bedroom and escaped the house as fast as he could, without chickening out and running back to the safety of Marc’s arms. He wanted to score some junk and hide away in his flat until he could see Marc, chasing the scratchy oblivion that paled in comparison to busting his load all over Marc’s chest, until he could have the real thing again. The ludicrous logic of his craving struck him as funny, but then the pessimist that lurked on his shoulder reasoned that the blissful twenty-four hours he’d spent with Marc had been a dream, and that shooting up would be the closest he’d ever get to it for the rest of his life.
Fucking drama queen.Jamie chastised himself all the way home and let himself into the flat in a foul mood. The dust that had collected in his absence taunted him as he put his shoes carefully on the rack by the front door, and it took everything he had not to attack each room like a whirlwind until it was gone.
Instead he rooted out his headphones and blasted Metallica. Music was the one thing he missed when he was at Marc’s house. Sorting through piles of Marc’s mother’s possessions was a task that seemed to suit sombre hush, but he couldn’t handle that in his own flat. It was too small for silence, the walls too close. Without James Hetfield screaming bloody murder in his ears, there was no escape from his own head.
But he couldn’t pace his flat all day, especially if he had any hope of resisting his compulsion to wipe away the minute layer of dust. Besides, he had a meeting to go to—two of them if he didn’t get the calm he needed at the first—and at ten o’clock, he wrapped up warm and left the house. The bus stop was next to the river, beside the shack that sold sausages butties, but Jamie forwent breakfast. He’d recently discovered that being hungry was a good substitute for fractious cleaning, and without Marc’s soothing presence, he didn’t feel much like eating anyway.
The bus ride was long and bumpy, but Jamie had grown to enjoy the trip through the hills. The Peak District was beautiful and made him wish that he spent less time hiding indoors. After all, how much trouble could he get into with the wind and rain in his face on a barren hillside?Don’t answer that.Andfor once, the monster within obeyed.
Around midday, Jamie rocked up at the community centre that played host to the local NA meeting. It started at half past, but Jamie had got in the habit of helping Billy, the crackhead ex-copper group leader, set up. A circle of plastic chairs—always optimistically too large—and a trestle table loaded with a tea urn and some stale digestive biscuits. Rumour had it that the AA group that ran on alternative days got jaffa cakes, but the NA scummers, as Billy so affectionately coined them, didn’t deserve such luxury just yet.“First fucker who gives me three months clean gets a packet of Jammie Dodgers. Until then, hold the phone.”
The fact that Jamie had more than a year apparently meant nothing.“Need to see it with me own eyes, boy. I don’t give away biscuits for nuthin.”
Jamie finished setting up, then nipped outside for a ciggie. He didn’t smoke at Marc’s house, though he was fairly sure Marc wouldn’t mind, which meant the few fags he squeezed in elsewhere were all the sweeter. He was mourning the end of his second when the first of today’s group began straggling in. Mostly men, but a pregnant woman brought up the rear. Jamie stared at her, transfixed by her swollen belly. He’d never been sexually attracted to girls, but pregnant women fascinated him, all curves and glowing skin. This woman was beautiful, despite the tell-tale shadow of addiction dragging her down.
Inside, Jamie took his favourite seat: near enough to Billy that it didn’t look like he was trying to be invisible, but close to the door so he could escape anytime he wanted. By chance, he ended up next to the pregnant woman—Della, apparently, a smack-head from Belper. The baby she was carrying was her third; she’d lost the first two when social services had taken them away. She seemed to think it was for the best, but Jamie wasn’t so sure. Zac had told him horror stories about his time in foster care, which made Jamie glad he’d dodged that shit and headed straight for the streets.Yeah, ’cause that worked out so well for you.
“Jamie? You got anything you want to share today, mate? Last I recall, you were considering going to work for that bloke up on the hill?”
Jamie shook his head, knowing Bill would let it go. And he’d actually been back to the group several times since he’d told Billy that, but Billy didn’t remember every little detail about everyone. How could he, when Jamie rarely saw the same face twice? Today, it was only Billy and the grubby guy directly opposite that Jamie recognised.
The stories were the same, though. Della’s was particularly depressing. “Every time I relapse, my life spins out of control,” she said. “If you’re an addict, you’re either using, clean, or dead. There’s no in between, and that’s what’s so fucking hard to live with.”
Jamie couldn’t argue with that. Getting clean had saved him, but in turn his so-called life had become a dedication to his addiction—a necessary homage that he’d never be free of. He’d thought it would be easier to accept under England’s grey skies than it had been in the California sun, but getting close to Marc had changed all that, and exposed his weaknesses for what they were: permanent wounds that would never heal. There was no prosthesis for Jamie... Just this. Justhim. And it wasn’t enough.
An hour later, the meeting wrapped up, and outside with his faithful ciggies, Jamie found himself wishing he hadn’t deflected Billy’s gentle pressing. Marc was easy to talk to, but it wasn’t the same as spilling his guts to Billy and his carousel band of kindred spirits. Jamie got the impression that nothing would shock Marc, but that didn’t make his earnest understanding any easier to take.
Jamie wanted to sprawl out beneath him and fuck all night long, not confess that he’d happily destroy everything he’d ever held dear for ten more minutes of nirvana.
So why didn’t you fuck his mouth?
Because you’re a chickenshit, that’s why.
With considerable effort, Jamie pushed all thoughts of hooking up with Marc aside and pondered what he’d do with the rest of his day. The evening meeting wasn’t until six, and he usually spent the five-hour break in the nearby library, but he wasn’t in the mood for that today. For the first time he could ever recall, he was totally booked out, and lacking any better ideas, he drifted to the bench opposite the bus stop and sat down. It was drizzling lightly, but he didn’t mind. He’d found a North Face jacket in one of the rooms in Marc’s house, and Marc had all but forced him to take it home.“For your wanderings. No point getting the flu, is there?”Whatever. It was a few sizes too big, but it did keep him warm.
“Whatcha doing loitering out here, kid? Ain’t you got a home to go to?”
Jamie glanced up as Billy dropped onto the bench beside him. “What do you care?”
“Nice try, sunshine. Idon’tparticularly, but I don’t want you hanging around outside the hall looking like a vagrant that mugged a Boy Scout for his coat.”
Dick.Jamie pulled the too-big coat closer around him, but he couldn’t help grinning. Billy’s brutal humour was often the only thing that kept him going through a meeting. “I’m going to come back for the evening meeting. Just haven’t got round to leaving yet.”
“Two meetings, eh? Having a bad time?”
“Not really. I’ve had worse.”
“Don’t make what you’re going through now easy, mate. It means you’re a survivor.”
“Or a rash without a cure.”