Page 152 of Forever, Maybe
Ibiza, Tenerife, Prague, Dublin, Belfast—wherever they were headed, for one mad second, Mikey considered ditching his flight and tagging along. A weekend of sun, booze and absolutely no life-changing meetings. What was not to like?
A security guard materialised beside the ringleader, whispering something in his ear. Mikey tensed. He might be off duty, but once a police officer, always a police officer. The group had probably had a few too many already, and a drunken stag party could turn ugly in seconds. Instinct had him springing to his feet, ready to intervene if necessary.
But the ringleader merely turned to his mates and pressed a single finger to his lips. Instantly, the noise died down. No complaints, no protests—just a collective shuffle in the direction of Burger King instead of the bar.
Mikey let out a slow breath, tension draining from him like sand slipping through an hourglass. He sat down again and reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.
He studied the photo for what must be the hundredth time. He’d ‘met’ Nell on Skype already—an awkward, stop-start conversation full of overlapping sentences and hurried apologies.No, you first.No, you go.Both of them pretending not to stare, Mikey thrown by how young she looked—barely older than him—and searching for traces of himself in her face.
He couldn’t see it.
Nell swore he was the spitting image of Darren Hardy, his long-dead father. She didn’t have many photos— their brief teenage romance had happened in the days before everyone carried a camera in their pocket—but her father (his grandfather!) had dug one out. She’d scanned and sent it to him that morning.
“See what I mean about your dad? X”
In the grainy photograph, Darren stood in a doorway, dark shirt, jeans, cigarette hanging from his lips. One hand lifted absently, fingers brushing the frame. His eyes were red—“Cameras back then weren’t as good as even the most bog-standard phones now,” Nell had told him—but despite the poor quality, the image crackled with something real. A moment of pure teenage joy. That feeling when the world was yours for the taking, when you were untouchable, immortal.
Mikey’s vision had blurred then, the photo dissolving behind unshed tears. Now, on his hundred-and-first viewing, he held it together—just. But the past still pulled at him, a dull ache, like pressing on an old bruise.
Seventeen-year-old Mikey Gordon had once felt invincible, too. Right up until his so-called “brief wobble”. That was what his parents called it. Charitable of them, considering the wobble lasted almost a year.
The once-promising student, set for university, had stopped showing up to school. Instead, he spent his days holed up in his room or getting high in a cramped, smoke-filled bedsit with a couple who dismissed universities as nothing more than factories for the bourgeois elite.
They tapped into Mikey’s feelings about adoption—the bit where he felt rejected and in turn where he rejected the kind folks whom he’d called Mum and Pops from the time he could talk—loading him with a great big dose of insecurity coupled with entitlement.
By the time he came to his senses, the damage was done—no exam passes, university no longer an option.
Then came the police officer.
“Well, there’s another path you can take, son. Why not join the force,?”the man had said.“It’s a satisfying job. And we’ve always got room for people with brains.”
So he had.
Darren Hardy, according to Nell, had been a model student aside from questionable dalliances with underage girls. Scouts from Norwich FC had been sniffing around him, convinced he had a shot at the big league. His whole future ahead of him. Until the night he took a corner too fast, when the Audi TT he’d ‘borrowed’ from his father hit a tree and exploded on impact.
“EasyJet Flight EC4763 for Glasgow is now boarding. Please could all passengers make their way to Departure Gate 14.”
Mikey slung his rucksack over one shoulder. Two nights in Glasgow—hand luggage only. His phone buzzed as he joined the swarm of passengers heading for Departure Gate 14.
“Watcha.” Chrissie. “Nervous, bro?”
Mikey nodded automatically before remembering this wasn’t FaceTime. “Yup.”
“Mmm. There’s always the risk you won’t like her. Or maybe, and I wouldn’t blame her at all, she won’t like you!”
“Chrissie, for goodness’ sake! Give me the phone!”
In the background, the sounds of a scuffle—his father wrestling the phone from her grasp.
“Mikey, please ignore your sister,” his dad said, his voice warm, steady. “She is a terrible, terrible human being.”
Mikey wasn’t bothered. He and his older sister had survived—thrived, even—on banter. But that feeling hit him again. Panic, rising like a tidal wave. The urge to turn back, to run in the opposite direction. His dad and sister were at home.Hishome. The semi-detached on Aldar Street.
This morning, they’d insisted on making him a packed lunch. Chrissie, in the grip of one of her periodic health kicks necessitated by the cake-baking side hustle, had mashed avocado with lime, mixed it in with slithers of smoked salmon and finely chopped spring onions, and spread it on thick slabs of her home-made wholemeal bread.
“You’re off to Glasgow, home of the deep-fried Mars Bar,” she declared, presenting him with the foil-wrapped sandwiches. “No fruit or veg for two whole days. You’ll come back riddled with rickets and constipated!”
Their dad had swatted her. “Chrissie! That’s not true!”
