Page 140 of Pansies

That wasn’t letting Fen down? Or thinking only of himself? Or proving every bad thing Aidan thought about him was right?

“Last time I came here with Mum,” Fen said, “I mean to the beach, there was this moment when…we’d just been talking, I can’t even remember what about, and then I…I had this feeling, it was so eerie, that she wasn’t with me. And then she was looking at me. And she said, ‘Who are you?’”

“Oh pet.” Bundling up every other thought like dirty socks for the laundry basket and putting them firmly out of mind, Alfie turned his head and nuzzled the edge of Fen’s brow. “I’m sorry. That’s proper rough.”

“It sounded like her but not like her at the same time. And she was backing away from me going, ‘Who are you? Who are you?’ over and over again. And I don’t know if she knew where she was or maybe even who she was. And it was late, so there was only us there. On this beach that must have looked like an alien planet or something. And I was suddenly a stranger and couldn’t help.”

“What happened? Was she all right?”

“Yeah. I followed her until…until she came back. What’sreally strange is that I’m not even sure she remembered forgetting. But when she didn’t know me, it was like she knew she didn’t know. She looked so…so scared, Alfie. And my mum isn’t scared of anything.”

It was one of those very northern sunsets—shredding the sky silver and gold, and gilding all the grey waves. Fen’s fast-falling tears too. Alfie kissed them away. Held him until both tears and sun were gone.

Then Fen opened the lid of his box.

“You sure?” Alfie asked. There were so many letters in there, squashed and creased and packed in tight.

“Yes. I’m ready.”

A shake and the first few papers broke free. Another and then more. And then more again. The wind caught some of them. Swept them away over the flat, black sea. Made them dance like pale moths against the shadow of the distant rock.

* * *

“I know this probably sounds bizarre in context,” said Fen, as they made their way back to the car, “but I’m starving.”

“Naw. Emotions are like sex. They work up an appetite. You want to go somewhere for dinner?”

“I’m not sure I can face sitting in a restaurant with my nose all runny and my eyes bright red.”

Alfie kissed the nose in question. “Proper Shields date, then?”

“McDonald’s?”

“No, you doylem.2 Chips doon Little Haven.”

“That’d be absolutely perfect.”

As far as Alfie was concerned, there was only one chippie in South Shields. Colmans—of the Seafood Temple—was famous, rightly or wrongly, and got visited by all the celebrities and wonall the awards, but Alfie’s family had always got their fish ’n’ chips from a little red hut near the pier. Over the years, the little red hut had grown, and now it even had its own premises—still called the Red Hut—on Ocean Road.3 He parked down a side street and nipped inside, emerging a few minutes later with a newspaper-wrapped package tucked under his arm. Back in the car, he passed it to Fen for safekeeping and drove them to the Little Haven beach. The tang of batter, salt, and vinegar was so intense in the confined space of the Sagaris, he couldn’t quite tell whether he was smelling it or tasting it.

God, he’d missed this. Proper chips. Thick and golden and fluffy as clouds inside. Not American-style fries or herb-crusted, truffle-oiled potato wedges or whatever other crap they served in London. And they ate them the way chips were meant to be eaten: with fingers, out of a polystyrene carton, while wandering the scrub-speckled dunes.4

It was cold enough to mist their breath, but the night was very clear, full of pinprick stars and this gleaming circle of a moon, drenching the smooth sea and the wet sand in silver, until they shone like polished things.

When they were done, Alfie took the empty chip box out of Fen’s hand, wadded it up, and stuffed it into his pocket until he could find a bin. Then he pulled him close. “Hey, can I show you something?”

“Your big surprise? Absolutely.”

They headed down Sea Road to the South Pier, which curved into the North Sea for nearly a mile of rough, white-grey stone and marked the end of Little Haven and the beginning of Sandhaven. The pier itself was sealed up for the night, though Alfie and Kev had slipped round the gates on many occasions. Which, now he thought about it, was just as fucking stupid as therest of the stuff they’d done as teenagers. There were no lights or barriers, and the sea could get pretty rough sometimes—he’d seen the waves surge high enough to swathe the lighthouse in a cloak of white water churned as fluffy as ostrich feathers.

Alfie led Fen past the dark amusement arcade to the funfair. It was shut down for the winter season, and the front gates were locked, but since it backed directly onto the beach, you could basically walk round. Something he hadn’t considered, though, was how dark it would be without the hectic lights of the arcades to guide them. And how quiet without the laughter and the screams, the rattle and swoosh of the roller coaster, and the music blasting. Strangely eerie, with the stilled carousels and most of the rides nothing but metal frames.

“Oh my God,” whispered Fen. “This is like something from a Stephen King novel. Are we even allowed to be here?”

“We’re notnotallowed.” Alfie groped out blindly and found some random bit of Fen he then used to locate his hand. “Look, it’s fine, I used to work here during the summer.”

“I know. You used to do the Waltzers. And you used to take your shirt off when it was hot.”

Alfie squirmed in the darkness. “The things you remember.”

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