Harry Oldham is writing a novel based on his criminal and sordid past. To do so, he has returned to live at Park Hill, where he grew up, and the place that he once left behind. That was then and this is now, in which the old world collides with the new. (Parts 1 to 13 are available to read in the menu)

Part 14

July 2023

It was Thursday night, and my mobile rang. I didn’t recognise the number and considered ignoring it. But curiosity got the better of me and I answered.

“ It’s Tom,” said the voice. I’d given him my number, but I never expected to hear from him. “Can I come around?”

I’d met Tom, eighteen and anxious, outside Sheffield Station, and had been flattered that he knew about my writing, even though he hadn’t liked my books. 

When the doorbell rang, I buzzed him upstairs, and when he didn’t appear, I presumed that he’d changed his mind and left. Fifteen minutes later, he apologised for losing his way. Tom didn’t seem the kind of person to apologise.  

He was dressed once more in matching grey hoodie and sweatpants, smartly finished with flashy white Nike trainers. His blonde hair had been cut short and for the first time, I noticed the faint trace of a scar that ran down his right cheek. .

“Hello faggot,” he said.

“In view of the fact that you’ve not brought your girlfriend, I presume that I can call you a faggot too.” He blushed and sat on the sofa. His eyes wandered around the apartment, taking in the books and magazines, and the laptop that was open on the table.

“There are no pictures,” he observed. I couldn’t be bothered to explain that they weren’t allowed in the apartment. He looked through the large window that framed the city below. “You’ve got a nice view and must be loaded to live in an apartment like this.”

“I don’t know many writers who are rich,” I replied, “and the apartment’s not mine, it’s rented, and that’s about all I can afford.” 

“Do you mind if I smoke?” He moved a copy of A Rabbit’s Foot on the coffee table and put his feet on the glass top. If I did mind, it was too late, because he’d already lit a cigarette and offered it to me. He lit another one and blew smoke into the air. He was the first visitor since I’d moved in, and he’d made himself comfortable. “Have you been writing?”

“Would you like to see it?” 

“I’m not really bothered,” he replied, but I saw a flicker of interest.

“Why are you here?”

“I thought I might be able to find something to steal.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” I said, “but I might have to throw you off the balcony if you did. Where have you been tonight?”

“Out with my mates, but I got bored and remembered that you’d given me your number, and I thought that seeing as I was in the area, I’d look you up.”

My thoughts turned to Andy and Jack, and all the time, years ago, when I’d made similar comments. That was another lifetime.

“Would you like a glass of red wine?” 

“I don’t drink wine,” he said.

“Then go without, because that’s all I have.”

He turned his nose up when I gave it to him, and then nursed it, not quite sure what to expect.  

“What are you writing?”

“I’m writing that book I told you about.”

“The one with the Italian guy in it? The one you fell in love with. What did you call him? 

“Paolo,” I replied. “But he’s only a part of it. Lots of things happened.”

“Care to tell me about them?”

I passed him the laptop and invited him to read it. I watched his facial expressions to determine whether he approved, or not, but he didn’t give anything away. He occasionally drank his wine, and each time he did so, he winced. 

I made myself busy and left him reading, always keeping an eye out, because I didn’t trust him, and then I asked myself why I’d even let him read it in the first place. He was too young to understand the importance of it; the people, the places, and the stories, all from a different time. It wasn’t likely to interest somebody his age. Yet, I realised, I was still seeking his approval.

Tom kept reading, stopping only once to ask for more wine,  until it was after midnight, and he shut the laptop. “It’s time for me to go.” 

He was unaware that his lips and mouth were stained red, and I thought that only a short time ago, these would have been the lips of a small boy who had been drinking his Ribena. 

“Well? What do you think about it?”

“I don’t know what to make of it. It’s about you and your mates, and how you were a complete nightmare, and should have been locked up, and then you start to get all faggoty with an Italian, who seems like a snowflake, and there are parts that I don’t understand at all.”

“Such as?”

“Like what you were doing in those people’s houses that seemed so bad.”

“It’s late,” I agreed. “You can sleep on the sofa if you want.” 

He kicked off his Nike’s and I noticed that there was a hole in his white sock.