“My mother was a good woman,” Saint told me. “She’d be disgusted with the way I turned out.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” I said. And I was surprised at my own conviction.
“How do you know?”
“Because…because good people are never disgusted by somebody just…being themselves. You’ve not done anythingwrong, Saint.” Okay, that was a lie; he’d done a whole lot of things wrong, and if he hadn’t been a peer of the realm, there’d probably have been arrest records to prove it. “You’ve lived a life that’s a bit…different, is all. Different isn’t bad.”
Nodding a little distractedly, Saint got to his feet. “Thanks,” he said, and he seemed to actually mean it. “You’ve…you’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“No problem.”
“And…”
I didn’t know what I was expecting from thatand. But I got a fucking miracle.
“And you know what?” Saint went on. “I think I’ll keep the fucking beetle charity. At least until I can work…you know…work my shit out.”
“That’s very kind,” I said, only partly insincerely. “I think your mother would be proud.”
For a moment, it was like Saint didn’t know what to make of that. But in the end, he decided to believe it. “You’re a good man Luc Fl—Luc O’Donnell.”
Smiling at me, he threw up the devil horns one last time.
And he walked away.
* * *
Seven hours later, CRAPPstonbury was in full swing, and honestly, I was more stressed than I’d been at any point over the whole process. Previously, my biggest concern had been that the whole thing just wouldn’t happen. Now my biggest concern was that I had ten thousand people standing in a field, all of whom had paid a decent amount of money to get in, all of whom would want to be fed, entertained, and not trampled to death because I’d missed something on a health and safety briefing.
But apart from that, it was a good atmosphere.
As the Real Original Skenfrith Male Voice Choir made their way onto the stage to a much warmer reception than I’d have expected from a crowd who mostly hadn’t been following CRAPP events for half a decade, I took a moment to slip backstage—okay, backfield—and take a breather.
I sat down on one of those square boxes with knobs on that I was beginning to suspect might not be amps actually and reminded myself, very firmly, to breathe. I’d got the reminder bit down, the breathing bit not so much, when Oliver stepped out from behind a different big box with knobs on whose level of ampness I couldn’t even begin to guess.
“There you are,” he said, resting a soothing hand on my back.
“Fuck. What’s gone wrong now?”
“Nothing. I just meant that I’ve been looking for you because you’re my boyfriend and I wanted to see you.”
“Oh.” That made sense. “Where’s Jaz?”
“With our dog and our friends. She’s fine.”
“And Maisie?”
“Left some time ago. Also fine.”
“Oh,” I said again. Honestly, without something to panic about, I had nothing.
After a moment or two of dealing with my nothing, Oliver sat down beside me, which made things a bit bum-over-the-edgy but was worth it for the closeness. “You’ve done a good job, Lucien.”
“Thanks. I guess I did, huh? And Saint might even let us keep running.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But you know it was never your job to save the entirety of C.R.A.P.P.?”
“Wow. I wish you’d told me that months ago, before I did all this.”
