‘Please, let me finish,’ he held up his hand, ‘I don’t think you can have any idea how cruel and beautiful your words were. Cruel because it’s the dream, isn’t it, the one wish we all have, to get a bit more time with them. And beautiful because just the thought of it, to see my boy, to touch him, hold him, hear him… It would mean everything, and I would give the rest of my life, happily, willingly, for just a minute with him!’ His voice shook. ‘But please, think before you spread this garbage. Talk to someone, Chen, talk to someone who can helpyou.’
‘I promise you, Mikey, that I have never and will never tell you a lie!’
Turning slowly, Mikey made his way back to the van. He pulled out of the car park without looking back.
***
It was Saturday night, and Gemma hadn’t left their bed, just as he’d expected. He now sat on the sofa and, despite the tension in his bones and wishing he could ignore what the weirdo in the chemist had said, he found himself entirely seduced by the idea of fifteen minutes with his son. When would he choose? That was an easy question, the last time he’d seen him, exactly a year ago when Aaron had come home from the pub and Mikey had been watching the footy on TV. The last time he’d heard his son’s voice, without any hint of what was about to happen. He’d been distracted by the match and, when Aaron popped his head into the lounge and mentioned he and Georgia had finished, Mikey had leapt out of his seat to shout at a disallowed goal, arms flailing, voice loud,
‘Come on, Ref! You’ve got to be bloody joking!’
He had, over the last twelve months, replayed the phrase and the moment endlessly. By the time he’d settled back into his chair and the furore over the goal had calmed down on screen, his son had climbed the stairs and closed his bedroom door.
And that was the last time he saw him.
Alive.
He would give anything –anything– to do it differently, to try and rid himself of the nightmare. Not that it would change what he believed to be the unshakeable truth, that it was his fault.
Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and tipped his head back on the sofa. It was strange, the way his body almost instantly felt different, as if without the weight of grief his whole being was lighter and gone was the feeling that there was something sticking in his chest. He opened his eyes and the commentator on TV was yelling:
‘He is, he’s going for it! The ball’s moving to the forwards. It’s three yards out from goal in the middle of the six-yard box – there’s a tussle, the blues are defending, but too little too late, it’s over the line! And let me tell you, Anfield is making some noise!’
Mikey felt light-headed, high! It was unbelievable! Fantastic and unbelievable! A dream? Possibly, but it felt so real! He was back in the room, a year ago.
Five, four, three…
He stared at the lounge door, which was ajar, knowing the exact timing of his son’s entrance, having re-lived it night and day, day and night. Was he really going to get to see his boy? He placed his wide palm over his mouth to stop himself from calling out to Gemma, torn between not wanting her to miss it but also recalling what Chen had said,‘If you leave the room, alert anyone or the person themselves as to what is happening, your time with them will end.’
He couldn’t take the risk.
‘Oh, wait a minute, this doesn’t look good, the ref’s calling for VAR—’
Two… one…
‘Hiya,’ his son’s voice. One word that made his knees weaken, as emotion roared in his chest.
Mikey stood, just as he had, but this time he grabbed the remote control and turned off the TV.
‘Hi!’ the word a strangled whisper.
‘Just going to go straight up, Dad.’ Aaron pointed up the stairs.
It was hard to move, to function, to breathe!
‘No, come in, come in!’ Gathering himself, he walked over and waited as his son looked first up the stairs and then at the lounge before making the decision to step into the room.
Mikey, shaking, wrapped him in a rare hug. Holding him close, he breathed in his aftershave, the faint essence of lager, and minty gum. They rarely touched each other in this way, but tonight, Aaron, who Mikey knew would ordinarily pull away, shrug himself loose, make a joke, allowed himself to be held.
Mikey never wanted to let him go, content to stand there forever, but knew enough to keep things as normal as he was able, wanting those full fifteen minutes.
‘You alright, Dad?’
‘Yeah, just, you know, it’s been a long week. Sit down.’ He sat at one end of the sofa and Aaron the other.
He took the chance to take in every detail of his appearance, replacing the image that lived in his mind of that grey complexion, the staring eyes. Aaron was fuller in the face than he’d remembered, his hair longer.
He was beautiful. His beautiful boy.
