Foxes (9 page)

I’m so engrossed with listening to him and staring at our feet trying to match our strides together that I almost miss our turning. I want to avoid the crowds, so I’m taking Micky the shortcut route down the back alleys and side streets.

The alleyway is gloomy and cuts out the noise of the streets beyond as soon as we step down it. I’m pretty positive no one is looming in the shadows, but Micky grows quieter and every few steps he glances this way and that. He looks scared of every shadow, and if he speaks at all, it’s in a whisper. It makes me wonder how long he’s been doing what he does on the streets. The longer you’re out here, the less obvious you are about your wariness. It becomes second nature—you look like you belong even if you don’t feel like you do.

It’s not a bad thing, but Micky doesn’t look like he belongs here. I don’t want him to belong here. Dytryk didn’t belong either. There is a sort of easy sweetness some people have. Maybe it’s trust, I don’t know. I think you can easily lose that way of being, though. I must have lost mine a long time ago.

Somewhere a dog is barking on and on and on. The sky is a million miles of gray above us.

We pass out of the alleyway into a busier backstreet with a warm-looking Turkish restaurant that smells like heaven on the corner.

To my relief Micky brightens almost immediately.

I decide we’ll take a detour down this street instead of going down the next alleyway. It doesn’t make too much difference to the distance.

Micky stares around. He seems fascinated with buildings in particular and chatters on about how he loves the quirkiness of London. How it’s not uniform.

The more Micky talks, the more comfortable I feel in his presence. Comfortable enough that when Micky pauses to catch his breath, I voice the thought I’ve carried in my head since we left the café.

“What did you mean about me coming out of left field?”

For a millisecond Micky’s eyes widen in surprise. Then he smiles and looks at me with the same crazy, conspiratorial expression he had on his face when he asked about shark hunting.

“It means I like you,” he says simply.

My steps falter, but I force myself to keep walking.

“Everything in London is so close together, isn’t it?” He carries on as if he hasn’t just stopped my heart with five simple words.

London
, I think.
London, London, London.
London is all I know. Not Micky. I don’t know Micky. I don’t know why he said that.

I like you too
, I think helplessly. It’s not just stupid hormones I can’t control, I actually
like
him. He’s lovely—sweet and trusting. I didn’t expect him to be like this. But he shouldn’t trust me after I’ve broken his phone and lied to him about it. I wish I had the guts to tell him the truth.

“Are you American?” I force myself to ask before I lose focus entirely.

Micky nods. “I grew up in Arizona.”

It’s a nice word,
Arizona
. I say it to myself again and again, trying to slow all the other words filling my head.
Arizona
sounds so completely foreign it might as well be another language.
I like you
is another language, one I don’t understand. Why would he say that? Doesn’t he know I could get the wrong idea? No. He doesn’t know me. How can he like me if he doesn’t know me?

Arizona. Arizona. Arizona
, I think.

“Big skies, you know,” he says, looking at the ground. And although he’s smiling, I get the sense that talking about this is making him sad.

I shake my head. I don’t know. The sky seems pretty big everywhere.

“This is the scenic route to the clothing bank, right? I’ll have to remember this one.” Micky is still smiling, but even through the jumble of thoughts in my head and a hundred Arizonas, his change of subject is abrupt. And obvious.

WE ENTER
the clothing bank via the back entrance past the bins. Before the clothes are put out on the shelves, they’re always washed. The back door is always open to let out the sweet-smelling hot air from the tumble dryers. I love the clean scent of the washing. I could probably live quite happily in one of the massive warm tumble dryers. My washing never smells so good when I hang it out to drip-dry in the shower cubicles.

My head is still so full. I’m considering just taking my pad out and writing everything down even if Micky is with me. Maybe he’d understand—maybe this is like him needing to talk. I don’t talk much, but the words still need to come out of me somehow.

But I can’t. We’re spotted before we even take three steps through the door.

“What the—! Danny!” Lou exclaims, appearing out of nowhere.

My stomach drops a little. I was hoping to get through without seeing anyone, especially Lou.

I blink, unsure what to say or what his greeting even means.

The floor vibrates as the washing machines spin in tandem. The tumble dryers make the warm air hum.

Lou has been at the drop-in center for as long as I can remember—he calls himself a volunteer, though I’m not sure what he actually volunteers to do apart from hang around. I think maybe the center just lets him come here as he has nowhere else to spend his days. I wouldn’t be surprised if he actually did live in one of the tumble dryers. Except he probably wouldn’t fit. His tall stocky form would probably only fold inside so far.

I’ve never been sure whether he likes me. Dashiel just said it was
his way
, but Lou was always a lot nicer to Dashiel than me, and now Dashiel’s not here. I take a deep breath.

“We’ve just come for the clothing bank.”

“You can’t come in this way.” Lou shakes his head and frowns. “This way is just for people dropping clothes off. You need to go around the front.”

The clothing bank is just a room in the drop-in center. The door to it is just behind Lou. I stare at it. Is he really going to make us go all the way around?

“We’ll be really quick,” Micky says in a gentle voice. “I bet if you blink, you won’t even know we’ve gone in.”

He smiles at Lou. The warm smile that makes my heart trip over itself. I can see his sharp teeth.

It doesn’t surprise me that Lou is blushing. He lowers his head and stares at his hands, while Micky gives me a questioning look as if to say “Come on, where do we go?”

Micky has a magic that must work on just about anyone.

LOU DOESN’T
try to stop us as I lead the way past the three industrial tumble dryers to the clothing bank door.

“Danny, eh?” Micky whispers as we reach the door.

I close my eyes. Bang goes my air of intrigue and mystery.

Micky’s elbow connects with my side, and he smiles as though we’re sharing a secret and it pleases him deeply.

THE CLOTHING
bank is like a big cupboard, with a couple of small cupboards that act as dressing rooms off to one side. They have towels and sheets and sometimes sleeping bags, as well as clothes on the shelves.

We’re not the only ones here. Helen, as usual, is sitting behind the desk knitting colorful squares that will be made into blankets for some cause or another. I have one of her blankets back at the swimming pool. She must have made thousands of squares in the years she’s been here. As we go in, she stops knitting and hands us a ticket. It states how many items we can take. If you’re really desperate, they let you take more, so I think it’s just to stop people being greedy or from taking clothes to sell on.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asks us without looking up.

“Two coats,” I say.

“We’re a bit short on coats. It’s the weather. Might be one on the far shelf.” She points to the other side of the room.

The coat is a dark blue quilted jacket. It’s short but it looks warm, though it smells a little musty. I guess coats can’t be washed as easily as other clothes.

I take it off the hanger and pass it to Micky to try on.

He promptly hands it back to me. “You brought me here. You should have it.”

“I have another coat. It’s pretty ripped, but I can wear it,” I lie, while thinking,
You wear hot pants and a see-through shirt when it’s snowing
,
and you faint
,
and you have to deal with people touching you where you don’t want them to touch you
.

And you make my heart beat faster and faster.

“Are you sure you have a coat?” Micky draws his eyebrows together and looks at me. Really looks at me.

He looks at me until I look back at him.

My heart beats like a hummingbird’s wing. His eyes are bluer than any sky. I can see my own dark eyes reflected within them, like storm clouds over a sea.

For a moment it feels as if he can see right through me, as if I’m made of glass and every lie I tell is written out for him to read. It makes me sad, as sad as I’ve ever been, because I wish things were different. I wish it with everything in me—the thought sharp as a spear in my heart. I don’t normally let myself think like this, but right now I’d give anything, absolutely anything, to look ordinary. For him to look at me and see an ordinary boy looking back at him. I wouldn’t ask to be beautiful.

I can’t let myself think like this so I look away and nod. “Please take it.”

It fits him well enough. When he zips it all the way up, his face just about disappears inside the warm hood.

He looks at me unhappily. It’s the same face he pulled when he didn’t want to take my phone.

I wish I knew what to say to make him smile.

BEFORE WE
leave I spot a fleecy hooded jumper on a nearby shelf. I want it, but I don’t want my lie about having another coat to become so obvious.

Warmth wins out in the end and I take it. I pull the jumper on over the top of the one I’m wearing. Micky doesn’t say anything. Helen nods at us as we leave, keeping one eye on her knitting. The clock above her desk says 1:30 p.m. I’m so tired. It was after four when I got back this morning after following Dollman. I want to go back to my shell and sleep before tonight.

We walk out through to the drop-in center. It’s always pretty busy. They have a café and a warm television room. I’ve curled up on the sofas in the television room a few times in the past.

Micky looks around, taking it all in.

“Would you come and have a cup of tea or coffee with me?” he says. I see a flash of sharp teeth as he worries his lip.

His lips look so soft. I want to touch them.

I concentrate on breathing.

“I can’t.” My response is automatic. I wouldn’t know how to say yes to a question like that.

I should go now.

“Okay.” He shrugs and looks away.

A BLAST
of cold air greets us as we step outside.

The sun is shining. Somehow it’s managed to burn its way through all those thick clouds.

Micky leans back against the red brick wall just beyond the doorway and closes his eyes. The sunlight shines on him. I stand next to him, closing my eyes too and feeling the faint flickers of warmth on my face.

“I miss the sun,” he whispers.

I’m not even sure he’s saying those words to me. I think he’s just saying them, because sometimes things need to be said even if no one is listening.

When I open my eyes, I’m startled to find Micky looking at me. He doesn’t smile—his expression is serious, and he doesn’t look away, embarrassed, like I would do if he’d caught me staring at him. He just keeps looking. I feel uncomfortable.

“Danny suits you,” he says after a few heartbeats—though if we’re counting in my heartbeats, it’s quite possibly a few hundred.

He leans in closer. I imagine I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek, hear the slow, strong beat of his heart. The thought makes me dizzy, breathless, and I can’t meet his gaze.

“I’ll still call you Loki if you want, though.” Micky cocks his head. “Who’s the shark hunter, Danny or Loki?”

I don’t think he’s making fun of me, his expression seems too genuinely curious.

I shake my head, feeling suddenly stupid. About everything. Especially the Loki thing, especially after last night with Vinny. It all seems so clear now—everything seems so clear. He probably thinks Dieter’s right that I’m creepy and weird. Maybe creepy and weird is all I am.

I shrug, and it sort of hurts.

All I can hear is the quiet of the sky and the quiet inside me. The sounds of the city have become muffled, unimportant, too familiar to distinguish.

“Forget Loki. It was stupid,” I hear myself whisper. “Dieter calls me Loki to make everyone laugh…. I guess I wanted to play games and make people laugh at me on my own terms. I know it’s stupid.”

“Hey—” Micky looks oddly distressed and shifts uncomfortably, his shoulder rubbing against the wall. “—I didn’t mean… I wasn’t making fun of you.” He tries to smile, but it looks like a painful one.

“I know.” I look at him, trying to make my expression open. I don’t want him to feel bad.

“If this is a game, I like playing it with you,” he whispers.

I frown at my feet. I’m not sure this game can still be a game if we’ve admitted to it. I’m not sure if the rules have changed. The stakes definitely have.

“I like pretending too,” he says. “It’s not stupid.”

All at once I feel sad again, like I did last night with Vinny. Has he been pretending this whole time?

“I should go now,” I say.

“Wait, we need to arrange something—like how I’m going to pay you back, for everything,” Micky says quickly, pushing himself away from the wall. “We need to sort that out. What’s your mobile number?”

“I’ve not got it on me.” I don’t want him to pay me back. I don’t want him to feel like he owes me. “Bye,” I say. I have this sudden and inexplicable urge to run.

So I do.

“Hey, wait!” Micky darts after me. He’s quick, faster than me, and he jumps in front of me so that I either have to stop or run around him. His hood has fallen down—his hair shines in the light. “Don’t disappear like this.”

He reaches out to put a hand on my shoulder and I automatically step away. He drops his arm to his side.