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Authors: Erin Kelly
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ready to let. Always has. This one’s been here a while, though. Look how short that phone number is. OK if I leave you here for now? I’ve got to get home to Dad. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, let you know what’s what, all right?’
When she hugged him goodbye, Luke fought the sudden urge to beg her to stay.
He went out and got supplies – milk, bread, beer, fags, that day’s copy of the Argus – and settled in for the evening, too exhausted to explore the city, too raw to meet anyone new.
His dongle picked up a decent internet connection, and Luke surfed through the dusk. Emboldened by his flight from Leeds but still with trepidation, he typed his own name into the search bar, then let his finger hover over the Enter key. He had stopped self-Googling a long time ago, even before he’d met Jem, unable to bear the version of himself, the episode of his life, that the web presented. He struck the key and was relieved to see that the cream of his work – longform features for the Observer , the Independent and the Yorkshire Evening Post well as his work for Coming Up – had risen again to the top of the results. It looked like the storm that had devastated his career was finally back in its teacup, and from this he took comfort.
He clicked on a few local listings websites and history sites, knowing that tomorrow must bring with it some kind of structure and purpose if depression was not to descend again. He was too tired and wired to process any of the words or pictures that appeared before him, and decided to do it the old-fashioned way. He made a longhand list of museums, libraries and bookshops that he could visit tomorrow, and took down the names and details of a few amateur local historians and one professional. Jem was still calling and the texts kept coming thick and fast. After dark, their pitch changed in a way that suggested he had opened a bottle.
Going to keep walking the streets till I find you
Luke sighed and knuckled his eyes. He should at least send one reply to put Jem’s mind at ease. If ever there was a time to be cruel to be kind, it was now.
I’m sorry Jem. It’s over. I don’t love you any more.
I’ve left you and I’ve left Leeds. Please stop texting me.
Abruptly the tone of the messages changed.
Going to report you for theft. I know about all the cash you’ve taken plus Cartier ring & the laptop marked with my postcode. I own the clothes on your back.
Police will find you even if I can’t.
The accusation jabbed his conscience. No matter how much he tried to justify taking the money and the ring, it still felt as wrong as leaving had felt right. Even saving his allowance now felt like theft, even though Jem had given it freely and never questioned where it went. How feasible was this threat of calling the police? He closed the laptop and looked at its casing. There were no visible markings but he knew that Jem had most of his electronics marked with a UV pen.
Not like I even need the police. Got money, I can pay people to find you.
Luke shivered. This was true. Jem could pay an army of investigators to track him down. Luke reflected that there was nothing he could do about that, and hoped it was the booze talking. There was half an hour’s silence then, at around half past eleven:
Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry. Just desperate to know where you’ve gone.
Never meant to hurt you. Want to hold you.
Flat hollow without you. Miss you so much.
Before his guilt could worsen, the tone flipped again.
If I can’t have you no one can.
Luke winced at the cliché. After that the texts stopped coming. Luke pictured Jem passed out on his sofa. He never could stay up past midnight.
Chapter 10
Temperance Place was four minutes’ walk from the beach. On this stretch of the seafront, the lampposts were the old-fashioned, wrought-iron kind, with turquoise paintwork that matched the railings on the esplanade. The spaces between the lanterns were
When she hugged him goodbye, Luke fought the sudden urge to beg her to stay.
He went out and got supplies – milk, bread, beer, fags, that day’s copy of the Argus – and settled in for the evening, too exhausted to explore the city, too raw to meet anyone new.
His dongle picked up a decent internet connection, and Luke surfed through the dusk. Emboldened by his flight from Leeds but still with trepidation, he typed his own name into the search bar, then let his finger hover over the Enter key. He had stopped self-Googling a long time ago, even before he’d met Jem, unable to bear the version of himself, the episode of his life, that the web presented. He struck the key and was relieved to see that the cream of his work – longform features for the Observer , the Independent and the Yorkshire Evening Post well as his work for Coming Up – had risen again to the top of the results. It looked like the storm that had devastated his career was finally back in its teacup, and from this he took comfort.
He clicked on a few local listings websites and history sites, knowing that tomorrow must bring with it some kind of structure and purpose if depression was not to descend again. He was too tired and wired to process any of the words or pictures that appeared before him, and decided to do it the old-fashioned way. He made a longhand list of museums, libraries and bookshops that he could visit tomorrow, and took down the names and details of a few amateur local historians and one professional. Jem was still calling and the texts kept coming thick and fast. After dark, their pitch changed in a way that suggested he had opened a bottle.
Going to keep walking the streets till I find you
Luke sighed and knuckled his eyes. He should at least send one reply to put Jem’s mind at ease. If ever there was a time to be cruel to be kind, it was now.
I’m sorry Jem. It’s over. I don’t love you any more.
I’ve left you and I’ve left Leeds. Please stop texting me.
Abruptly the tone of the messages changed.
Going to report you for theft. I know about all the cash you’ve taken plus Cartier ring & the laptop marked with my postcode. I own the clothes on your back.
Police will find you even if I can’t.
The accusation jabbed his conscience. No matter how much he tried to justify taking the money and the ring, it still felt as wrong as leaving had felt right. Even saving his allowance now felt like theft, even though Jem had given it freely and never questioned where it went. How feasible was this threat of calling the police? He closed the laptop and looked at its casing. There were no visible markings but he knew that Jem had most of his electronics marked with a UV pen.
Not like I even need the police. Got money, I can pay people to find you.
Luke shivered. This was true. Jem could pay an army of investigators to track him down. Luke reflected that there was nothing he could do about that, and hoped it was the booze talking. There was half an hour’s silence then, at around half past eleven:
Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry. Just desperate to know where you’ve gone.
Never meant to hurt you. Want to hold you.
Flat hollow without you. Miss you so much.
Before his guilt could worsen, the tone flipped again.
If I can’t have you no one can.
Luke winced at the cliché. After that the texts stopped coming. Luke pictured Jem passed out on his sofa. He never could stay up past midnight.
Chapter 10
Temperance Place was four minutes’ walk from the beach. On this stretch of the seafront, the lampposts were the old-fashioned, wrought-iron kind, with turquoise paintwork that matched the railings on the esplanade. The spaces between the lanterns were
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