The Waif and the Stray

I almost roll away. "I didn't think you'd see them," I whisper.

"I can feel 'em, Lou. And besides, I've seen some of them before. When you, uh, when your shirts have ridden up. Just sometimes," he adds, not wanting me to think badly of him.

As if.

I sigh. "They're burns."

"Cigarette burns?"

"Yeah. Cigarette burns."

He raises himself onto one elbow. "Who did them?"

"Some kids. One of the homes I was in. Was more like a puppy farm than a foster family, if you know what I mean. Loads of us, there was."

"Kids did this to you? All of them?"

His vehement question confuses me. "No, not all of them. I don't think so anyway. I hardly remember, but it was just a couple of them that did it."

"But all of these scars? They did all these?" his fingers picking them out now, across my belly, along my upper arms, unable to reach the ones on my back and thighs. Faded now, but still there.

"Yeah. Honestly, I hardly remember it."

"But -- you must remember. How old were you?"

I shrug. "Five, six."

"Before you went to Debbie's?"

"Yes."

I hate the silence. Boil against it. "Don't pity me," I warn.

"I don't. I'm in awe of you, Lou," his reply swift as he tips down to kiss one of the burn marks on my chest.

I shiver. He reaches out, finding my shirt and wipes at my stomach, cleaning me up.

"Come here, girl, cuddle up and let's get some sleep. Build up my strength so we can do this all again tomorrow," winking, making me laugh. Always.

+++

But there wasn't a tomorrow. Jude's phone had started ringing at first light. We'd ignored it to begin with. But when it started ringing for the third time, Jude had fumbled his way out of bed, cursing and stumbling into our jumbled clothes on the floor. It had been immediately obvious the call was bad news from Jude's silence as someone -- a woman's voice -- chattered non-stop down the line at breakneck speed. He began picking up his clothes before the call was finished, saying very little, only that he'd 'be there' as soon as he could.

I'd sat up, pulling the sheet around me, suddenly frightened at the intensity of his movements.

"What is it?"

"It's my brother, Mal. Malachy. He's -- they're taking him into the hospital and I have to go."

I'd asked where, where did he need to get to, my concept of Jude's family as hazy as if they really did exist somewhere in the mist, watching him hop about, yanking his clothes on, mind and attention already elsewhere. Scarborough, that's where. I'd babbled out more questions, but he didn't have much else to add. His brother had collapsed as he got out of bed. They were at the horse fair (this said as though I should know the significance of this, which I did not). He was in a bad way. The family needed him. His ma needed him.

He'd knelt down in front of me, taken my face in his hands and kissed me, full of apology, but clear that he needed to go. There was no choice. He'd be back as soon as he could. I'd tried to smile, but I was too full of the fear to really believe him. And then he was gone.

Braving my housemates that day was painful, as they skirted around the subject of Jude's whereabouts, unsure what to make of his absence until I'd explained his brother had been taken ill.

"Oh thank God," Eliza had said, "I mean, not about Jude's brother, but that he didn't walk out on you in the middle of the night, Lou."

Which had made me blush furiously, uncontrollably, and I'd wanted to sink into the floor and out of sight.

All that was two weeks ago.

I heave a sigh, twisting around on the bed, unable to get comfortable. The windows are wide open but it's still an oven in here. I watch a bumble bee blunder its way into the room, dropping onto the window frame for a rest before taking off again to explore. I follow its lazy flight path. Waiting for Jude to call. Agony.

Contact from him has been erratic to say the least, playing straight into my most pathetic insecurities. When he has called, he's sounded distant. Even his voice, his accent, sounding different. Keeping it short, sometimes practically monosyllabic, it's been a protracted form of torture. Unable to see his face, to see what he's thinking and feeling about me. Scared to ask directly, and more so since he's been so remote.

I twist again, only the walls, ceiling, rainbow stickers to stare at. Nothing to prove he once lay here next to me. He's an hour late. An hour and nine minutes, actually. He'd promised to call at five. Each passing minute mocks me. I'm resisting the temptation to dial him. Experience has taught me that his phone is mostly switched off, and I don't think I can bear to hear that flat tone. Too much rejection to take.

I haven't felt as bad as this for years and the onslaught of emotional memory has been tough to take. Kevin has been giving me the dreaded sympathetic eye from across the office, and my housemates have largely avoided me, more and more the longer Jude's been absent. I'd practically begged Kev for overtime this weekend, just to avoid this very scenario. Me, curled up in bed, with nothing to distract me. Wallowing in what my therapist would call 'destructive thoughts'.

I think about the kids at that puppy farm of a foster home. Because, yeah, I remember. I might have been only five, but I remember those fuckers. Holding me down and burning me, for the fun of making me cry. Bickering over who'd given me the most burns. Counting them, gleeful. Boasting to the others at school. I chew my mouth where it's already raw, swallowing the urge to cry.

My phone jumps in my hand. I grip it, afraid to look. Probably a cold caller, not Jude. I breathe in and look.

"Jude?"

"Lou? Look, I ain't got much time, sorry. How are you?"

I nearly cut the call right then. He's never got much time. Swallowing hard, I muddle through the pleasantries, trying to interpret what little he says. His brother's been out of hospital a few days now. A heart attack. Lucky he'd been close to a hospital. Still young, only forty-one, needing to take it easy, but unhappy about it.

Finally, I ask him, "When do you think you might be able to come home?"

"Home?" his voice almost bitter. "Dunno. Ma needs me here, Lou."

It sounds final. "I see."

"Until Mal's back to strength."

"I miss you, Jude."

His silence hurts me. I try to imagine where he is, if he's in his mum's caravan, or standing outside in a field, having no real idea at all. I've looked up stuff online about Travellers but it's only made it harder to imagine Jude as part of that life.

"Look, I really gotta go, we're moving on tonight."

"Moving? Where?"

"Yeah, south. Sorry Lou. I'm not sure when I'll be able to call you next."

"But why not? Why can't you know that? How hard is it to call me once a day, Jude? I don't see why that's difficult at all," the words bursting out of me now, angry and desperate.

"Because I don't want anyone here to overhear us," exhaling.

"Why? Why not? What does it matter? I don't understand, Jude."

"Because -- because I haven't got round to telling the family about you, that's why."

"Why? Why do they need to know? You're not making any sense."

"Lou," his voice low, a warning note, "I really have to go now, no lie. Don't be angry, I'll --"

"No. Fuck, you won't. Don't --" my lungs gasping with anger and tears.

"Lou --"

"If you're ashamed of me, say so. Just fucking say it, Jude. Say it. Say you want nothing more to do with me. Go on." I pant down the phone, snotty and pathetic from the crying.

"I'm not --"

"Then why can't you call me every day? You don't even sound as if you want to call me anyway --"

"That's not true, Lou, it's just really difficult," he hisses.

I draw a deep breath. "Yes," trying to imagine it and failing again.

"They expect me to stay," again with that tone of finality.

"Forever?" embarrassed at how desperate I sound.

"I -- yeah, yeah, ok, I'm coming --," muffled, as if his hand is over the mic, then, "Look, I'm sorry, Lou, but that's Michael calling me. I gotta go."

"Fine, Jude."

"Lou --"

"I'm sorry, Jude. I hope Mal is getting better. But don't --"

"Yeah, he's tough. Look, I'll -- yeah, Mike, I'm coming -- Sorry, Lou."

I wilt over the phone as he hangs up. It's hours before I finally lurch downstairs, too hungry to sleep. Thankfully, it's only Eliza in the kitchen, pouring over a sewing pattern.

"Hey, Lou," barely lifting her head.

"Hi," opening the fridge without much enthusiasm.

"Heard from Jude today?" cautious in tone.

I shrug. "Yeah. Doesn't sound like he's coming back anytime soon."

When I turn to drop bread into the toaster, Eliza's got a sympathetic expression all over her face, and I hate it.

"Sounds shit."

I shrug. What am I gonna say to that, really? Although as I wait for the toaster to do its thing, I do think of something.

"Elli, did he do this before? You know, go off to be with his family like this?"

"Sometimes, yes. He's always been a bit of a stray cat. He's here when he's here, if you know what I mean."

I chew the raw bits in my mouth.

"Wanna help me with this pattern, if you're at a loose end?" she continues.

I sit at the table with her, working my way through the toast while she shows me what she's doing. It's a pattern she's designing herself, for a friend of hers.

"She's slim, like you. Would you let me use you as a model for a minute or two?"

I stand up, letting her measure and hold up the pattern and make alterations that seem miniscule to me. But it passes the time, and I'm grateful when I realise an hour has gone by, and it's almost dark enough to imagine being able to go to bed and sleep.

+++

Eliza, Piotr, Mo and me are lazing in the front room, telly on, sound off, an inane quiz show filling the screen; music on with Piotr controlling the playlist from his phone. Mo lying on the floor flicking through Insta and throwing out comments. All of us too lazy to clear away the dinner plates scattered around us. All of them except me drinking beer, trying to prolong the weekend.

I'm the only one looking forward to going into work, yesterday's awful phone call with Jude battering my mood. I'd woken up with a headache, grouchy and sad. And nothing's changed since. My phone has stayed in my room, switched to silent, and I've stayed as far away from it as possible. Because what's the point? He said he couldn't call me today. And, honestly, if he does, what will he say that'll be good to hear? It's obvious he can't or won't talk to me over the phone. Or at all, maybe.

"Where's my good-for-nothing brother? I'm running outta beer here," Mo holds up his half empty bottle in complaint.

"Thought he'd be back by now," Piotr agrees. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Eight-ish?" Eliza stretches out, long elegant arms over her head, and I can't help noticing the sidelong look Piotr gives her.

"God, I hate this show, why's it even on?" Eliza grabs the remote and flicks through the channels, failing to find anything to settle on, grumbling at the paucity of choice.

When the front door opens, Mo raises a small cheer.

"At last, brother, we're dying of thirst in here!" he salutes.

Except it's not Al who steps into the doorway. I stare, not trusting my eyes.

"Jude?" Eliza squeaks.

He's even more tanned, his hair darker, longer, than I remember, dropping a rucksack to the floor, weary, rubbing at his face, over a beard.

"Why aren't you answering your phone?" he asks, eyes hard on me.

"Jude, what are you doing here?" Eliza repeats, flapping a hand at Piotr to turn the music down.

But Jude's silent, still staring at me. I force myself to inhale. The moment turns awkward.

"Um, guys, we should probably leave --"

But Jude cuts Eliza's diplomatic attempt dead with an adamant flick of his hand.

"Lou?" he asks, his voice suddenly full of too many questions and emotions.

I lurch upwards, needing to get away from the audience.

He tips his head. "Upstairs."

I follow him, stepping over his rucksack left abandoned in the hall, an unpromising sign, and climb the stairs. His back and shoulders look rigid; angry and tired at the same time, an impression that strengthens the higher we climb. He smells of the road and someone else's laundry detergent. While my brain scrambles to come up with possible explanations for his sudden appearance, my emotions race through anger, curiosity, hope and dread.

There's nowhere else to sit except on the bed. He perches on it, gingerly, then catches sight of my phone on the floor.

"I've been calling you since this morning," he begins, sounding sharp even as his eyes seem soft.

I pick it up to see for myself, and yes -- a ton of missed calls. "But Jude, you said you weren't going to call me today. You couldn't, you said," my voice shaking, so I take a deep breath because I am not going to cry.

His forehead creases, starting to look as confused as I feel. Scuffing at the floor with his foot.

"I --"

"What are you even doing here?" I fling my arms out before wrapping them tightly around myself to control the shaking. "I thought -- you said --"

"Lou --"

"I don't understand what's going on. I thought --"

"Lou," more firmly, this time, standing up and taking a step towards me.

"You said you didn't want to speak to me," daring him to explain, to contradict me.

Fighting the cruel rise of hope, I step back. Away from him, in case he's about to break everything between us. Until this second, I don't think I've allowed myself to know how much he's come to mean to me, and I hate myself for being so delusional. The little bird pecks at my insides, callous in victory over my foolishness.

And then things go all dark and muffled because Jude's grabbed me into his chest, arms firm around my back. Done with such energy it makes me grunt with the impact, my own arms jammed uncomfortably into my diaphragm. I want to pull away, but I don't. Can't. But I am not going to cry. I refuse.

"Lou," his voice vibrating between us, "I've fucked up, I'm sorry."

I hold my breath, dreading whatever he's about to confess. Discomfited by the familiarity and the strangeness of him. How well I already know his embrace, the fit of him against me. And yet - the alien smell of his clothes, the tickle of his beard.

"You're frightened," said in surprise, loosening his hold to look into my face.

I shut my eyes, closing him out. Why doesn't he just get on with it? Say it and get out?

"Hey, Lou. Lou?"

"Just say whatever it is you've come to say, Jude," I growl, resisting the comfort of his hold.

His silence extends until, against all conscious effort, I look up and meet his gaze. I don't know how long we stand there. I lose track. By the time he starts to speak, my arms have relaxed, dropped to my sides, and the need to be close to him has overcome the mad desire for flight. It's the weirdest sensation, nothing I've ever felt before. The idea of him being able to see me, read me, just as I am, takes on a breath-taking certainty. I squirm with the acute discomfort of being reminded how intimately I've already let him in. That it's too late. He's already overcome all my defences.

"I'm no good at talking, Lou, you know that. But I've fucked up with you, and I'm sorry." He blows out a long breath that I feel from his ribcage. "I didn't understand until last night how upset you were with me."

"Angry," I offer, my self-esteem butting in.

"Ok, angry," his eyes bore into me some more, as if he can get any deeper.

"You don't want to tell your family about me, so --"

"I got that all wrong," he stops me. "Yeah, I got all of that the wrong way round, Lou."

He drops his arms and sits back down on the bed. Feeling a little calmer, I sit next to him and curl my toes to distract myself from thinking about us being here on my bed together again.

"Look, I thought I should wait til the right time, when things were back to normal, to tell the family about you."

He shrugs, pushes a hand through his hair, looking weary again.

"But?"

"There's no 'but', not really. Nothing was normal, was it, because Malachy's had a heart attack and they're all in fucking shock over it."

I fidget, needing more than he's telling to make sense of it. "Ok, so --"

"I don't know why I thought it needed to be the perfect moment to say anything. Ma overhead us anyway."

"What happened?" suddenly alarmed all over again.

He grabs my hand in both of his. "S'ok. It turned out ok, Lou. She's the one who told me what an eejit -- idiot -- I was being and to get back here to make it up to you."

"Your mum said that?"

"Yeah," a glimmer of a smile lifting his mouth. "Yeah, she did."

The fight and fear leach out of me, leaving me light-headed. "That's good, is it?" I have to ask, still uncertain.

He turns, then, looking me full in the face, his smile bigger, but looking done in. Tired eyes. "Yeah, it's good. So long as I haven't totally fucked everything up with you."

He looks hopeful. Puppyish, almost. My toes curl of their own accord.

"Sounds like there's more to say, is there?"

The smile widens and he runs a thumb over my cheek as if to collect the tears I'm not crying. "Yeah, but you know, I'm filthy. Been travelling since we spoke last night," he pulls at his shirt. "You mind if I clean up first?"

"Course not. Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

He presses my hand between his. "A drink'd be good, but I can get that for myself when I grab my bag from downstairs," eyebrows lifting in a question.

"Ok."

"Need anything?" he asks, pulling himself up.

"Nah, I'm good, thanks."

I watch him walk out of my room, the familiarity of his uneven gait an unexpected source of comfort.

And even though he takes his sweet time, I'm sitting in the same position as when he left. He's changed his shirt. Slings his bag to the floor, runs a hand through wetted hair before offering me one of two beer bottles out of his other hand.

"Brought you one anyway," he smiles, a little more lightly than before, taking his position next to me.

I watch him tip the bottle to his lips, swallowing. He can't have shaved for days. Maybe a week. It suits him, even if it's a reminder of the distance still between us.

"So."

"So," I agree.

There's a flash of his old charm as he acknowledges my challenge. Tell me straight, Jude, or not at all. God, he's a handsome bastard, even if it hurts me to think it.

"I really like you, Louisa," he says, nothing but honesty in his eyes.

And, well, that was unexpected. As is the nervousness that flickers across his face. He takes another swig of beer, wiping at his mouth.

"I wanted to tell the family about you, but I wanted to do it right. So they'd take me seriously."

I take my first drink, mostly as a way of breaking eye contact with him, needing a moment to make sure I'm hearing him right.

"I didn't want them to find out just from overhearing us. I dunno why, but that felt wrong. But I hardly got any time to myself. I forgot how full-on it is, being surrounded by them twenty-four-seven," he slides me a look that's funny and exasperated. "You never get a minute to yourself. And I didn't know how to say anything about us. Everyone's in such a state over Mal, it didn't seem right."

I try to picture it.

"Turns out Ma knew for days. Knew I was calling someone whenever I could get away for a few minutes, and last night, I almost ran her down I was so worked up after that call."

"What happened?"

"She pried it out of me. Said I was a fool for thinking I should hide it from them. Wanted to know all about you, actually. Told me to get back here to sort things out with you, and that they'd manage without me."

"Will they?"

"Maybe," less certain. "Either way, I'm back here for a coupla days. See how it goes, if they need me back or not. But not before we're ok," he touches the back of my hand. "Or have I wrecked my chances with you?"