“You did that?”
“Yep. Fucked my back up for a month twisting in that position for hours at a time, but it was worth it.”
“He was your dog?”
“Yep, my childhood puppy. My dad's really, but when he couldn't walk him anymore that became my job. He would always sleep in my room for some reason. Probably my superior taste in music and films.”
Benji laughs gently at that although he can't seem to take his eyes off my arm.
“My point is, if I can dothison my own arm, I think you can have faith I won't fuck up three words on your forearm.”
Benji’s eyes lift to mine, and I curse myself for not looking away quickly enough. That swirling blue really is very alarming.
“So shall we begin?” I ask as I roll the equipment closer to me.
Benji nods and I get to work.
We don't talk much while I'm doing the tattoo, which frustrates me as much as it’s a relief.
I have a million questions I want to ask—Have you just come back because of your mother's passing? How long are you staying? Where have you been the last fifteen years? Did you make it as the Premier League footballer everyone said you'd be? Are you married? Got any kids?—but I don't ask a single one. It feels like it would be disingenuous to ask a question about him when I already know so much.
Well, no, not so much. We only spent a year of our lives orbiting around each other and most of that was spent on less than excellent terms, but Benji Smith was somebody I was always aware of for some stupid reason.
So I'm grateful the tattoo is a very quick job. Fifteen minutes and it's all done, ready for dressing. I check one lasttime that I'm happy with it, pulling and stretching at Benji’s skin as I wipe it with a paper towel, then I move back.
“You're done. Take a look.”
Benji Smith looks down at his arm, and much to my horror, he begins to cry.
SIX
DION
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO - DECEMBER
It’shard work being a grinch when you secretly love Christmas. But the greens and reds and golds hardly match my black and black aesthetic so I keep my enjoyment of all things festive to my time at home. The making gingerbread houses with my younger siblings, Lyla and Devon. The decorating the tree under Dad’s direction from the sofa. The making as much of Christmas lunch in advance so Mum doesn’t have to worry about it all on the big day, if she has it off, which she does this year, a Christmas miracle all of its own. And then there’s all the time we spend at the nursing home, the one Mum manages, singing carols, making Christmas cards and passing around mince pies. If Dad’s well enough, he joins us, sitting in his wheelchair in a corner with Lyla on his lap. I can never tell if he really enjoys coming or if he spends the whole time feeling like he has more in common with the residents who are twice his age but often have a lot more mobility and stability.
But that’s MS for you. That’s any chronic illness, Iguess. It doesn’t discriminate. Old, young. Rich, poor. Parents or not. It doesn’t care what your responsibilities are, or your hopes and dreams. It just is and it will just be.
“Oh my God, look over there.” Raquelle grabs my arm. With her other hand she points across the school playing field at one of the makeshift market stalls, which in essence is just a fold-up wallpaper table with a paper tablecloth thrown over it. “Miles and Ben Smith are doing a kissing booth.”
That spikes my attention. “A what?”
“You know,” Raquelle explains. “They sell kisses.”
“For fuck’s sake.”
“Oh shit, they really are doing it,” Raquelle says and her voice has dropped, probably because we’re both watching Miles lean over the table and give a girl I vaguely recognise from Year 11 a long, slow kiss.
“Jesus Christ.” I roll my eyes. “I thought the whole point of this Christmas Market was to sell handmade goods. You know, crappy paper mâché decorations, knitted gloves with six fingers and homemade sugar cookies that will make us all chuck our guts up before the night’s done.”
“I guess technically their kisses are homemade,” Raquelle concedes, her tone a little lighter now Miles has detangled his tongue from the Year 11’s. “And it’s all for charity, isn’t it?”
I don’t notice how Raquelle has led us in the direction of the kissing booth until it’s too late and we’re standing in front of the table. Ben and Miles are dressed almost identically. Big, black puffer jackets over tracksuits. Ben has a Bristol City FC hat on while Miles is going for a more international option, Real Madrid FC. Their hands are shoved Deep into their pockets and they both bounce their legs as they chat together. It is a freezing evening.
“So, how much is a kiss?” Raquelle asks and I have to physically restrain myself from dragging her away. This boy has made her cry twenty too many times over the last six months. I am not in the mood for a repeat performance tonight.
“For you, a quid,” Miles says. Next to him, Ben’s eyes bounce from Miles to Raquelle to me, where they stay.
