Page 50 of Mayfly

“To London?”

“To England.” He hangs his head. “I can’t do it. I want my life to start from now, but it has to happen somewhere else.”

“Me too,” I tell him, and stroke his cheek. It’s not a lie. I want our past to be irrelevant, too. There’s literally nothing in the world I want more than to be by Curren’s side, but I work for England. I’ve put my body on the line for this job more times that I can count. It saved me ten years ago and gave me a reason to keep going. So I’m not sure I’m willing to just walk away from it.

But there’s plenty of time to talk about that later.

Tomorrow.

After my next job.

I numbly step into the back alley of a dark residential street, my gloves back on and my satchel hanging heavy on my shoulders.

It’s not even six am yet.

I had to get out.

Not because I wanted to, but because lying there next to Jude, counting down the minutes I had left, was torture. Best to put myself out of that misery and just leave.

He knows no better.

I’m Jekyll again to the Mr. Hyde that seems to exist only with him.

I wonder if he’s different, too? Or if he’s always a teddy bear in the suit of a well dressed criminal; all front and no follow through when it comes to those he cares about.

Only he’s not a criminal. That burden is mine. A low life can pick another out in a crowd from kilometers away. But there’s something inside me—so deep down I don’t know what to call it—that just knows he’s good.

I think he’s a cop. Maybe a detective.

It’s sweet.

He was always my hero…

I don’t know why I’m here; why I felt it necessary to return to ground zero.

There are no street lights in the alley, but my feet know where to go as intrinsically as my body knows how to breathe.

The back fence is painted grey, now. The broken pickets Jude kicked in after he heard me in the shed still haven’t been replaced. Instead, the broken boards are just nailed back into position beside the other palings.

We fell asleep in the park that night.

We drank Baker’s gin.

I used Jude’s chest as a pillow like he did mine last night.

No one cared when we returned. We were more of a hindrance to them, anyway.

I wish we could have lived together back then. But whose house would have been better? The batterer, or the rapist? There’s no correct answer.

Until Jude, the only thing I had to grab onto was my origin story. The one I'd made up. My mother had no choice but to leave me at the fire station when I was four, because she was a spy. An undercover agent needed back in Russia—or Ireland, I can't remember what I told myself. And it had nothing to do with her new boyfriend not wanting a kid around.

Looking back, that night under the park table was the first time I knew I loved him. Loved anyone.

Jude offering me his chest and wrapping his arms around me was the first time I’d ever felt safe.

Two boys.

Alone.

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