“I should come here more,” Jevon said. “I’ve got cousins around here, and I’ve always loved it.”
“You’ve got cousins everywhere.”
Jevon laughed. “Big family, on my dad’s side, at least. My nan cooks Christmas dinner for thirty-plus people every year.”
“We banned my mum from cooking. She’s awful at it, and Harry didn’t particularly like eating for a while.”
Jevon shot Rhys a sideways look. “You never talk about your family.”
“We’ve talked about Harry loads.”
“Only because of Angelo.”
Rhys hummed and stopped to buy some hot, spiced nuts from the Bolivian bloke who always seemed to be opposite the hemp stalls. Cradling the warm paper cup, they set off on their aimless wandering while Rhys pondered Jevon’s words. “I guess I don’t talk about them much because there’s not much to say. Me and Harry were proper mummy’s boys growing up, but it evolved into something else after my dad was gone. We didn’t all need to protect each other anymore, so we didn’t. We split off to live our own lives.”
“Do you talk to your mum?”
“Not often. Harry does.”
“And you don’t talk to him either?”
“Idotalk to him, just not when he’s bugging me about stuff.”
“What stuff?”
Rhys flicked a cashew nut at Jevon. “Just stuff. What’s with the inquisition? You think my tragic childhood will make up for me being a wanker? Because it won’t. Sometimes I’m just a wanker.”
“No, youthinkyou’re a wanker, and you hide behind that when you don’t want to admit something upsets you. Like your dad. I know he hurt you.”
Rhys couldn’t deny it. Didn’t want to. But he didn’t want to dissect it either. He scooped a handful of nuts out of the paper cup and crammed them into Jevon’s mouth. When he was satisfied Jevon would be chewing for a while, he gave him the short version of the truth. “My dad was a nightmare. A big drinker, a bully... everything you don’t want in a father. He kicked the shit out of all of us, and he went to prison in the end for breaking my ribs... stamping on my fingers, but by then Harry had grown into the Hulk and started hitting him back, so it didn’t matter anyway. Happy now?”
Jevon swallowed. “I’m happy that you shared it with me. Not that it happened. Do you think that’s why you became a paramedic? To regain some control over caring for people? Protecting people? Because you couldn’t do it at home?”
“Not in the slightest. I told you before, it’s just a job to me.”
Jevon’s scepticism was as obvious as the chill in the frosty air, but he let it go. And Rhys was relieved. They’d constructed an unspoken agreement to make the most of the time they had left. He wasn’t going to waste a moment talking about his father or anything else he didn’t give a shit about.
They walked past the markets and under the bridge. When they emerged, they found themselves surrounded by the kind of street performers you only saw in London. Beat poets fought for space with mime artists, jugglers, and buskers. Jevon drifted towards an old man playing a banjo, sitting on the pavement, his back to the wall of a burger bar.
“Whatcha playing, mate?”
“Marley, son.”
Jevon eyed the collection of instruments piled up beside the man. “Got any bongos?”
Of course he had. The man seemed to have everything spilling out of his tatty bag. He supplied Jevon with a set of bongo drums and struck up a funky rendition of “Is This Love.” Jevon played along for a while. Then he swapped his bongos for a more portable drum and began to dance.
The sway of his hips was the sexiest thing Rhys had ever seen, and his smile was glorious. Infectious. A small crowd grew as Rhys moved aside to lean on a nearby lamp post. Children were drawn to Jevon. He beckoned them closer and said something to the old man, who nodded. Instruments were passed out, and suddenly the whole street was in motion—singing, dancing, laughing.
Jevon got up in Rhys’s face, brandishing a set of maracas, but Rhys shook his head. “I ain’t Bez from the Happy Mondays.”
Jevon’s laugh rang out even over the impromptu party he’d started on Camden High Street, and he danced away, taking more of Rhys’s heart with each step.
Three songs later, and Rhys had a chill in his bones that could only be shifted by a drink, a blowjob, or a hot dinner.
The burger bar offered two out of three, although the beer was the overpriced hipster slosh Rhys usually tried to avoid. “What’s in a Brixton bap?”
“No idea.” Jevon handed his menu back to the server. “Guess we’ll find out, eh?”
