Page 78 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“I try to write when I can.”

“I know you do.” He took a long drag, exhaled slowly. “You look tired, son. Different tired than before.”

“It's been a long year.”

“They're all long now.” He was quiet for a moment, staring at the shelter like it held answers. “Whatever's eating at you... it doesn't have to eat alone. That's all I'll say.”

I looked at him. His profile was shadowed, expression unreadable. But there was something in his voice, some gruff understanding, that made my throat tighten.

“Thanks, Dad.”

He nodded, stubbed out his cigarette, and went back inside without another word.

That was it. That was all he'd ever give. But somehow, it was enough.

I layin my old bed, which was too short for me now, feet hanging off the end, and listened to the familiar sounds of the house settling around me. Alfie's breathing from the cot across the room. Rose humming to herself down the hall. The distant rumble of the city that never quite went quiet.

I thought about Art. About what he'd say if he knew I was here, talking to my family about things I could barely admit to myself. He'd probably be terrified. Would assume I'd revealed too much, put us both at risk.

But I hadn't. Not really. I'd spoken in hypotheticals and half-truths, tested the waters without diving in. And what I'd found...

Rose didn't care. Would love me anyway, was already planning to interrogate my “mysterious person” at the first opportunity.

Alfie was uncertain but loyal. Would stand by me even if he didn't fully understand.

Mum would come around. Eventually.

Dad would pretend nothing had changed, which was its own kind of acceptance.

It wasn't perfect. Wasn't the wholehearted embrace I'd dreamed of in weak moments. But it was something. A foundation. A place to stand.

And standing on that foundation, looking back at the man I'd been and forward at the man I was becoming, I felt something loosen in my chest.

I still didn't know what I was. Still couldn't put a name to the wanting that had taken up residence inside me. But I knew it wasn't wrong. Knew it wasn't broken. Knew it was just another part of me, as real and as valid as any other.

Art had said that once. That this wanting was the truest part of him. The part that existed despite everything working against it.

Maybe it was starting to become the truest part of me too.

I fell asleep with that thought, and for the first time in weeks, I didn't dream of blood and snow and all the faces of the men I'd killed.

I dreamed of grey-green eyes and ink-stained fingers and a voice teaching me words in a secret language.

SIXTEEN

SNOWBOUND HEARTS

ART

London at night was a different creature than London by day.

The blackout made navigation difficult, streets swallowed by shadow, buildings reduced to looming shapes against a marginally lighter sky. But I'd learned these routes years ago, back when I'd first discovered there were others like me. Back when Julian had taken me to my first theatrical afterparty and I'd heard Polari spoken openly for the first time.

The pub was in Soho, down an alley that looked like nothing, through a door that had no sign. You had to know it was there. Had to know the knock. Had to know what to say when the slot in the door slid open and suspicious eyes peered through.

“Bona nochy,” I said quietly. “Looking for a bevvy.”

The eyes assessed me. Then the door opened.