It’s been a long time. Almost ten months, but the story resumes. Harry Oldham is an author whose last book bombed. He has been encouraged to return to Sheffield and write about his past. His agent finds him an apartment not realising that it takes Harry closer to his shocking past than she realises. Will his readers want to know the type of person he used to be? (Parts 1-6 are available to read in the menu)

Part 7

It had been months, and I hadn’t added any new chapters to the book. Meghan was horrified. She didn’t understand that the creative process could be painful. I’d opened my notes several times, but I couldn’t bring myself to go any further. Instead, I wrote anonymous blog posts that nobody read.

Winter turned to spring, and Sheffield seemed cleaner and brighter. By the time June came, I was also alarmed. I had until the end of the year to submit the first draft and I’d barely scratched the surface.

But something happened. 

I had walked into the city centre and called at WH Smith. I remembered it as being a vibrant place, but on that sunny morning there was barely a soul inside. I didn’t get what the shop was supposed to be. There were only so many pens you could buy, the choice of magazines had diminished, and it was a place that didn’t sell my books. You also had to serve yourself, and if I’d been a young lad, I wouldn’t have paid for anything.

On the way home, I cut through the station that was empty because the train drivers were on strike again, and I bought the latest copy of Granta at the news stand because WH Smith didn’t stock it. I decided it might give me the inspiration to write, because everything in it was better than mine. 

I walked over the footbridge and saw a young guy walking towards me. He seemed vaguely familiar and made eye contact. As we passed, I smiled, and he blushed. I looked around and realised that he’d done the same and quickly turned away.

I climbed the steps and sat on the grass in South Park. From here, I could look at the skyline with its cranes and emerging tower blocks. I lit a cigarette and thumbed through the magazine. Then I found a vape in my pocket and puffed on it. I was alternating between smoking the cigarette and the vape, but the sweetness of grape edged out the harshness of the tobacco.

I saw the guy walking up the steps from the station. He wore a grey hoodie and sweatpants and looked about eighteen or nineteen. Grey sweatpants are always an attraction. I sensed that he’d sat on the grass behind, and I resisted the urge to turn around. I began reading a story, it was written in strong Glaswegian about a young kid caught up with gangs that I found hard to understand. Londoners had once struggled to understand me too.

The young lad had moved and was sitting to my right. I looked across and he held my gaze. Those anonymous blog posts are about moments like these, the brief encounters that I embellish with happy endings, when they rarely are. 

“I know who you are,” he called. “You’re Harry Oldham.”

I’m never recognised and the fact that he knew me was disconcerting because I’m more comfortable as a name and not a face. 

“Have we met?” 

“Yeah, we have, and you owe me a cigarette.”

He shifted to my side, and I gave him the cigarette he wanted. He had short blonde hair, blue eyes, and peachy stubble.

“What’s your name?”

”Tom.”

“Does Tom have a surname?”

“Everybody just calls me Tom.”

“Are you always shy?” He coloured up, his crimson cheeks glowing on a pale complexion.

“I’m only shy in front of people I’ve just met.”

“But you know who I am. Have you read my books?”

“‘I’ve read all of them. I suppose I know a lot about you. I’m not scared. Just curious.”

“I’m curious about you too. Tell me about yourself.”

“There’s nothing to say. I’m me.”

He looked down like he’d done once before, and I remembered that he’d once given me a cigarette.

”There are times when you have to tell somebody something.”

“I think you’re approachable, but you can tell me to fuck off if you want.”

“It’s not often I get to meet my biggest fan.”

“I didn’t say that I liked the books. I’ve just read them, that’s all.”

“Why read all three then?” He didn’t answer.

“I thought you and your two mates were going to mug me.”

“That wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have let it.”

“When I was your age, me and my mates would have sat outside the flats and been up to no good.” 

He didn’t reply straightaway and seemed ill at ease. He blinked in the sunshine and concentrated on a passing tram. “We’re not all bad. No threat to you. Park Hill’s not a bad place.”

“Do you live there?”

His answer was decisive. “No!”

“Where do you live?”

“Hillsborough. I caught the tram.”

“Cool,” I said, and felt like a dork for saying it. “I once knew someone who lived there.”

“I won’t know them.”

“No, you won’t, because he’s been dead a long time.”

Tom looked inquisitive.

“He was called Paolo and one of the most beautiful boys I’ve ever known.”

“Old people die all the time.”

“I’m not that old, but yes, they do. In my mind, Paolo isn’t old. He never was. He still looks the same. Like James Dean… ”

“Like Heath Ledger?”

“Yes, like Heath Ledger. They’re frozen in time, but we get older, and they don’t, and we remember them from movies and photographs, except with Paolo there are no photos. He lives in my head, but I’m afraid that each time I think about him, the memory is more fragile.”

“Are you a faggot?”

“Yes, I am, but it takes another faggot to recognise one.”

“Not me, I have a girlfriend.”

“And what’s this girlfriend called?”

He hesitated. “She’s not important, and I want to hear more about Paolo.”