Page 122 of The Art of Loving You

Outside the sun is shining. It will be good to feel it on my skin. Because of the seizure I am still not allowed to drive but a walk will do me good. ‘Blow away the cobwebs,’ Sid would say.

Momentarily I consider bringing my camera but I dismiss the thought. I don’t want to feel my emotions through a lens, particularly when I’m still figuring out what they are.

Grief is ever-present, in my stance, my gait. I walk down the lane, slower than I did before, all too often staring at the potholed track in front of me, every now and then forcing myself to look up. To see the sky, a fresh ice blue. Watch the flap of wings as a flock of birds takes flight to pastures new.

What would it be like to feel that freedom?

The fields are still clinging on to their summer green despite the leaves of the trees crisping to autumn orange. It’s so beautiful here. Me and Jack had such hopes, such plans. Despite his life insurance pay-out taking away the urgency to decide what I want to do with the rest of my life, I know that eventually I’ll have to. I glance back at the house – our house. It would break my heart to sell it but perhaps a fresh start is what I need. I’ll talk to Mum about it. We’ve become so close, the once fragile relationship with her now strong as steel. I appreciate the lengths she has gone to, still goes to, to help me navigate my way on this dark and lonely path I’ve found myself thrust onto.I’ve realised it isn’t always about what you say or don’t say, what you do or don’t do. Sometimes as a parent it’s enough to just be there. Show up.

She always shows up.

My energy is low and it is too far for me to walk but still my feet make their own way to the churchyard. I have such a lot to tell Jack. Ask him. It isn’t quite the same talking to him at home now he no longer replies. Here, at least, I feel close to him still.

The hedgerow rustles its hello as I push my way through the wrought-iron gate.

I see his profile, sitting cross-legged on the place where Jack sleeps his last sleep.

Liam.

His mouth is moving but I can’t make out what he’s saying.

But he’s crying.

My heart aches for him.

Its unsettling to hear a teenage boy so distressed and I don’t know whether to let him know I am there or not.

‘So …’ He gulps back his tears. ‘It’s all gone to shite. Libby ain’t working on the house no more ’cos she’s sick. Not that I want anything to do with Noah now. It’s all his fault you’re … you’re … I hate him and I miss him and then I hate myself for being a twat because he was only being nice to me and Libby because he felt guilty. And I thought … I thought he liked me.’ There’s a gut-wrenching sob before his broken voice continues. ‘Me dad’s back inside and me mum’s new fella is a complete wanker. He makes out he’s me mate, shakes my hand and stuff when he comes round but really he’s squeezing it too hard. He ruffles my hair but he pulls it. I told him he’s a dick and Mum said if I can’t be civil I can’t stay under her roof but where can I go?I’ve got no one else. My college course is rubbish, we hardly ever paint. Not that a talent for painting will get me far but you were the only one who believed in me, Jack, and … and you fucking well went and left me—’

It’s raw and personal and I desperately want to comfort him.

‘Liam,’ I call as I walk slowly towards him, giving him time to wipe his face, his nose with his sleeve. I kneel beside him and wrap my arms around him. His body is shaking with grief.

‘It’s going to be okay,’ I soothe, stroking his hair.

‘How?’ His voice is muffled against my shoulder.

‘I don’t know yet. But it just is.’

While he cries I think of the way he’d been written off by the teachers, the authorities, even his own mum but with me he is kind, hardworking, gentle. I’d noticed while he worked on the house that he carried a bag of cat treats in his pocket, saw the way he tenderly stroked Socks. I think about the other kids Jack had wanted to help. I think about all of it. All of them. Can I help them?

Can I help Liam?

He deserves it.

The boy who graffities walls, the boy who had stolen my laptop and purse is worlds away from the optimistic helpful boy who had painstakingly, gently, moved the snails from the back garden so they wouldn’t eat the plants.

There are different sides to us all, aren’t there?

Eventually Liam stops crying. We sit, backs against Jack’s gravestone, legs stretched out before us.

‘It wasn’t Noah’s fault.’ I’ve come to accept this. ‘Jack was … he chose to help because that’s the sort of person he was.’

‘But if he hadn’t—’

‘You can’t dwell on the what-ifs. It will drive you mad. Jack would want you to forgive Noah. You need good people in your life, Liam.’

‘Why?’ He looks sideways at me. ‘Are you … are you going to die?’

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