My stomach clenches.

Dreaded those words, hadn’t you Alf? So what are you going to do now? Panic’s rising up hot and suffocating and you just can’t look him in the eye, can you?

Coward, Alf. Absolute, yellow-bellied coward. You’re as spooked as one of those ponies in the field, and that look in his eyes, Alf? That look, like you’re some kind of wild animal? That just shows he thinks you’re not quite human. You’re not, are you? Planning to up and leave like this – planning to let everything fall apart and leave Dad to rot in his own filth. Doesn’t sound human, does it? Well done genius; it’s not.

Everything’s gone narrow, blurry, all at once and echoing like the inside of seashell, or maybe that’s the waves still roaring in your ears.

Just get out of here. Just do it. You can’t explain all this, and if he knows... If he knows, he’ll make you stay because the man’s your responsibility, just like he always has been and it doesn’t matter what you think you can take, what you’re fed up with, because you have to. There isn’t anybody else who should. So you just have to. There won’t be any getting away at all if Ryan knows everything.

“Hey, Alfie!”

Trip over feet trying to get away too quickly, sucking in air that won’t come fast enough. You can’t do this Alf. You can’t.

Gravel in my palms, dirt slicked with sweat. Hair’s still damp from the sea, and I’m chilled right through, but there’s no time to think about that. Scrabble up again.

Move. Leave before that thickness in your throat comes out of hiding. Don’t you cry Alf, you spineless waste of space. Don’t you dare.

“Alfie, fucksake. It’s ok.” All calm and concern, and God, you’re making it worse, can’t you see that? He’s making it worse. Doesn’t even know he hasn’t got the full picture, but when he has it you’re screwed, so stop trying to bloody give it to him.

His fingers dig into my shoulder and it’s nothing good at all.

“So what if you live there? So fucking what?”

He likes playing hero. He must do – holding you here, daring you to trust him, even though you’re glaring – telling him to back off.

“You think I believe all that shit about your dad?”

He knows. He really knows.

Try to keep it numb, unfeeling. Don’t let it turn accusing, bitter, but that edge is close after so many years listening to every gossiped word.

“Everyone else does.” Everyone else.

His face is serious and his steady eyes say it all.

Not him.

It turns to a staring match because I can’t just-

It would be stupid, Alf, to trust him on the strength of that, no matter how much you want to.

“Trust me, Alfie. Jesus, please?”

I break like he’s shoved me off a cliff, with a sudden shredding gasp, full of lactic acid build up from holding onto that breath in my lungs forever. It’s as though he’s got me weak points mapped. He’s cruel to ask me that when it’s all I’ve wanted for so long. Not from him, just from anyone.

Well done Alf. God, you’ve blown it now – snivelling like a fucking girl.

Bite my tongue off - should have done that, because now it’s all warmth and arms around me and his lips on my fucking neck and my voice that hurts to use and tears stinging my eyes closed.

So pathetic, Alf. So fucking pathetic. When are you going to grow up and deal with life yourself?

It can’t be like before. It can’t be like after my birthday, when I stumbled past him, drunk, half drowned. But he’s rubbing at my arms the same way – hard and fierce, like he’s never letting go.

“He’s ill.” Words spring like a gushing leak I can’t damn up. “Really ill and I can’t do it anymore. I’m leaving. I’m leaving. I have to leave. He’ll die. I’ll come home and he’ll be dead, and I can’t... I can’t.” Can’t face that, can you Alf? Maybe that’s the real reason for all of this. You’re such a self-serving coward. All because you can’t face finding him stone cold in the kitchen chair. Can’t face being alone like that, so sudden, so starkly.

What would I do then? What the hell would I do then?

He’ll stop me. He’ll tell me I can’t go. He’ll try to keep me here. And God, I should have shut up. Why couldn’t I shut up? Because if I leave, it won’t be so bad. It won’t be.

Ryan’s eyes voice stays level despite my panic. “Woah, woah. Ok? Cool it Doggie. You’re getting out, you’re leaving. That’s fine.”

But it’s not, is it? How can it be? He wouldn’t say that if he really understood.

“Come on. Look, let’s get you home.”

Awkward, isn’t it? Of course he wasn’t expecting that. Get yourself together Alf. Just breathe in and do it. Neither of you needs this.

Pull off and get it together. Walk fast and keep breathing.

He follows me down the lane, hanging back a little way, keeping the gap between us constant. I don’t look round, but I can hear his feet on the gravel and the stray twigs snapping under the thick treads of his boots. Time goes too slowly. In the deep shade from the overhanging trees, it’s cold. The sun’s weak and cool now, even when you’re directly in it. I stop at the gate because I know he’s coming in. Of course he is, he’s not turned back this far. Everything’s unravelling now.

Hinges creak. The gate needs oiling and the latch is rusted and difficult to work. The enamel paint flakes off in jagged strips that splinter under nails all too easy. Weeds pushing up through the cracks in the flags are waist high, but I’ve kept a narrow path clear. It’s only obvious if you know it’s there, which is better than getting rid of the whole lot. This way the house looks derelict, so when the local kids come ghost hunting they don’t stay all that long. Any sign of movement is enough to send them running for their lives because they think no one’s here and signs of life are only demonic.

The toads living in the covered-over bog patch that used to be an ornamental pond help, with their creaking, groaning noises and the way they twitch the grasses when they’re disturbed into jumping out.

In winter when there’s smoke coming from the chimney, or steam billowing out from the boiler, when it’s working, they’re not out in the woods anyway, just like they aren’t at night, so they don’t see the lights come on when I’m home. They’re not good hunting woods and they’re not good foraging woods – they’re just trees dense enough to keep most people out.

Ryan squeezes my hand and I tug out of his grasp because I can’t take that. I know what he’s thinking – how could he not be wondering how anyone could live here?

I push through the front door. The lock at least is good and solid – a heavy iron latch that’s always stiff to turn but with a standard door lock that runs are smoothly as it always has done. Inside, all we can smell is damp. Dry rot in the plaster bubbles up mottled spots on the walls and mildew coating the lining paper turns the corner up to the ceiling that used to be white so many years ago. This damp smell is better than it could be. The back stairs of the hotel smell just the same.

Still can’t look at him though. I know this isn’t what he wanted to see.

The curtains are drawn like they always are and I switch on a lamp rather than opening them. The material’s thick enough, where the moths haven’t got to it, that from the outside it always looks like nobody’s home. The main light’s blown but I daren’t replace it. In the storms water drips down from the ceiling rose, along the cable and off the end of the bulb.

There’s a pile of laundry left by the door to the kitchen that I hadn’t had the time to run upstairs – huge. Because I’d done everything I could get my hands on – made the most of a day warm enough to dry things fast enough to stop them smelling musty. It’s been sitting there the best part of a fortnight and even though he can’t know that, I wish it wasn’t there for him to see.

It proves it. Proves I livehere.

But I don’t use this room at all. It’s stacked full of junk, piles of newspaper for soaking up leaks and jamming into cracks, jam jars full of screws, books that the damp’s already started eating through, sheets over the sofa and chairs.

He slips a hand across my shoulders, rubbing at the tendon in my neck and I’m so glad the kitchen door’s closed. If it wasn’t, he could glance through, down the dark corridor to glimpse the back of Dad’s head.

“Stay there.”

I have to check on him, so I have to leave Ryan here – have to trust that he won’t move, won’t snoop, won’t wiggle his way in further to things he should keep his nose well clear of. When I look at him, that feels like asking just a bit too much. No one likes secrets. Ryan’s already set on figuring out mine.

“Chickens need feeding?” he asks through a weary smile. The upwards shift of his face makes it look like he was expecting that kind of lie. He’s letting me have it.

I shrug, gnaw my lip, but don’t get into it. “Yeah.”

Walking away, I only open the door enough to slip through and make sure the catch bites firmly with a slight twist to the handle when I pull it closed sharply behind me. No sense leaving him the opportunity to sneak in further.

For once, Dad’s alright. I gather up his breakfast and lunch things and slip them into the sink for washing later. A bit of water and a drop of soap in the bottom stops the food from drying on, but I’m not leaving Ryan longer than I have to.

A few minutes digging about in the back of the cupboard brings up tinned ravioli, so I dump it into a saucepan to heat through, ignoring the way the tomato sauce and minced meat smells make my hollow stomach gurgle. I can eat later, once Ryan’s gone. This is just to stop Dad wandering, doing something stupid, coming out and babbling in Italian – making a scene with anything from shouting at us to get out of his house, to not realising or caring that he’s not got clothes put on right. Ryan doesn’t need to see that.

There’s a clean bowl at least. I always wash my own dishes up as soon as I’m done with them, so Dad has mine to use. If I really needed them there are others in the cupboard too, but they stay packed away for the most part, unless something gets broken. The more things about, the more there is for him to knock over, smash, the more there is to hurt himself on, and the more I end up having to clear up. And you can’t eat out of more than one thing at once anyway.

He barely notices me. The telly’s got him sucked in deep and that’s just fine. As long as he eats, that’s great. I don’t have to talk to him – don’t have to reassure him that everything’s fine – that I’m no one, so he doesn’t have to bother racking his mangled brain to figure out who I really am. Sometimes he tells me things anyway, almost like a normal conversation – the things he’s seen, what he was watching, but when you try to say something it throws him, and I realise that all he’s doing is speaking his thoughts out loud – things he’s been mulling over all day that don’t really make sense to him, and I could be anyone, or maybe he’d have the same conversation with an empty room.

I dish up and double check the gas is off, pour him a drink of water from the tap and turn a lamp on in the corner. It can’t be good for his eyes staring at that tiny screen all day long. Duty done, for now, but I feel guilty slipping back out into the corridor without a word, after I press my usual dry kiss to the top of his forehead.

“Eat your dinner, ok?”

I hate him for getting to a state where he doesn’t even realise I’m patronising him. He’s not supposed to be this way.

The pastry chef is where I left him, standing still by the stairs, letting his eyes track into the dark corners and along the cracks, the way that people usually browse belongings and book titles, but they’re never so careful not to touch. I heft up the laundry and make it up the stairs without a word. Don’t know what to say, it’s not done out of spite.

Ryan follows without invite. My ears burn a bit, because with the haste of his steps I get the feeling he doesn’t want to stay down there longer than he has to. I can almost hear him praying that some part of the house is better.

The corridor upstairs is dark and the floorboards creak along it. I don’t switch the lights on because the damp’s got into the wiring along here as well. I didn’t replace the fuse to this section when it blew. There wasn’t any point.

My bedroom door is thick and solid, even though the fit in the frame is crooked. When I open it, the corridor seems to widen in the light. I get the last of the afternoon sun in here, but that doesn’t stop the warmth leaving as soon as it sets.

The ironing board is open with a scant pile of uniform shirts on one end. I need my day off, because that woman on reception en’t going to tolerate crumpled shirts as well as my scuffed up shoes, and even in this new pile, I’m running out of clean ones. Kitchen’s hot enough you’re sweat soaked and stinking by the end of the day, every day.

It’s messy, I’ve not brought people back here since before Dad started slipping, but Ryan lets out a small breath, laced with relief, when he steps inside.

“Boiler’s dodgy. Water’s not hot enough for a shower,” I apologise, missing out the fact that it never is – that most of my washing in the last six months has been with boiled water from the kettle, or at Peter’s house.

He shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Maybe he is, but I’m cold. I shrug, slipping out of my work uniform again, but eyes away from his to show him that I get it – I’m not trying to push anything he doesn’t even want. Waistcoat needs hanging up, and tie putting somewhere safe. I slip my trousers off and onto a hanger to keep the creases minimal and fish out jeans, a shirt and jumper.

He sits on the edge of my bed and half way through doing up my fly, I realise he’s watching me the way Peter used to, with that glow in his eyes he gets before he kisses me.

“I’ll give you a lift to work in the morning.” His throat takes some clearing before his voice comes out right and I just don’t get him at all.

I feel my eyes narrow even though I don’t mean them to, and somehow all my frustrations edge out on a short sigh.

“You want me now then?” It’s not flirtatious. I should have been.

Now there’s a bed rather than a beach, and there’s a roof and walls, even though they’re crumbling and full of holes, I’m sure he feels less guilty, but the deal’s still the same. He gave me a good time and now I owe him, but he doesn’t have to feel bad, because he’ll make sure I get in on time. He won’t leave me here to walk in without my bike; that’s more consideration than I’m used to lately.

I almost smile, but it sticks a bit. Had myself conned into thinking he wanted something special.

But I can do this, so it doesn’t matter about all that sentimental garbage. I get to have Ryan, and that’s what I wanted, isn’t it, even if it’s just like it was with Peter? I get to have the pastry chef who’s full of jokes and always has a smile and a clever comment to go with everything he does, large as life and good and sweet – someone I can steal a little strength from. And I just won’t look at the burn on his leg, and I won’t think about the scar through his eyebrow and I won’t think about Greg, because he doesn’t want me to, not really, and he doesn’t really want to know me either. And that’s fine, because he’s not going to stop me leaving. He’s not going to make me stay.

Smiles are easy enough to fake and eyes are easy enough to dip low and deepen, especially when everybody already thinks there’s something animal about you anyway.

I seduced Peter before he knew he liked cock. Giving Ryan what he wishes he was too good to ask for isn’t going to be an issue. He doesn’t even need to like me, really, does he? The only thing he needs is that I’m not Greg.

My fingers pause on my buttons and I look up at him before I reverse my actions so smoothly I’m sure he doesn’t realise until I let my jeans drop and step towards him. I’m very good at not being anybody at all.