This chapter contains a recount of illegal and unsavoury things. So this is a warning for that. Sorry.
Jones was seventeen when his mum died. He didn't cry, they hadn't been close, but it was still a shock. His dad had died years back - hit and run by a drunk driver - and in the wake of that, his mum had lost it. She'd been like some sort of junkie caricature, littering the house with needles and bringing people home to do things for easy cash that had given the young Jones nightmares.
Jones had opted to leave when he was sixteen after discovering two ragged crack heads shooting up on his bed, where they'd obviously just had sex, but he hadn't had anywhere to go. He'd bunked on friends' couches and floors and slept in doorways and tube stations and learnt how to fight and how to avoid a fight. It had been like a nightmare but he didn't get to wake up in the morning to sunshine and breakfast.
The nightmare just kept going, like one of those days where you could feel the rain building and the air felt like sandpaper but it never actually happened - you were just stuck with the dry need for rain, and muted sounds, like a flute stuffed with cotton wool.
What ended it was finding out through the bloke at the newsagent that his mum had overdosed.
He'd had to identify the body and no one had thought to ask him if he was ok, or if he was coping with all this. He'd been sat down with a social worker and a solicitor to explain that the house was his but so was the debt that come with it. His mum'd still had a job at the pub when she'd died and had, somehow, maintained her life insurance and there was enough of that to pay off the mortgage but not much left after.
He'd been informed that since he was seventeen he could live there, didn't need to go into state care, was basically an adult as far as anyone cared. The social worker had asked him if he wanted her to ring a friend to take him for the night but Jones couldn't think of any friend close enough so said no. He got the keys to the house from the duty sergeant at the police station and walked home, wondering if the nightmare might have been better after all.
He'd managed to stay in the house for two whole hours. He'd thrown the needles and lighters and spoons and pipes into a bin bag but couldn't open the fridge without gagging and couldn't go into either of the bedrooms without starting to hyperventilate. He tried to make up the couch to sleep on but accidentally discovered a collection of sex toys under a pillow that looked like they hadn't been properly sanitized - ever - and promptly burst into tears.
He'd run out into the street, not caring that it was nearly midnight and that it probably wasn't the smartest thing to do, and sat on the step, clutching his head and sobbing.
He woke up several hours later, just as the weak sunlight was peaking over rooftops and chasing away the shadows, with a throat like a mucous slip'n'slide from all the crying and a thick coat on his shoulders.
"I checked the house."
Jones jumped at the sound of someone speaking so close beside him and the man doing the talking jumped too. He had a soft voice and seemed a bit unsure of himself. Jones liked it. He sounded like rainy days and mist and warm mugs of tea and when he looked up he saw a bloke not much older than himself, though with a beard that made him look older and shoulders so broad that people had probably mistaken him for thirty even when he was fifteen.
The guy smiled, awkward and brief, and Jones tried to smile back, but it didn't work, so the bloke kept talking.
"I checked your house," he repeated. "I thought there must have been a dead body in there or something cos why else would a kid be sitting out on a stoop at night, bawling like a babe. But there's no one in there. Looks like shit. Smells like a coffin, but..."
"Me mum died in there this morning, well, yesterday morning now, I suppose," Jones whispered into the silence that had grown up around them. "I thought I'd be ok to sleep there. Better than the street, right? But apparently not."
"Shit... Sorry."
Jones did smile then. It was the most sincere remark he'd heard in a while. But the smile made him want to cry again, and he stared into the sun to try and scare the tears away.
"Thanks," he whispered, and felt the man nod.
"Dan, by the way. That's my name, I mean. Dan Ashcroft. Just because, introductions and all that. I don't want to seem like a pedophile, picking up some poor, lost kid. Shit."
Jones nodded and felt the smile creeping back. As if anyone could suspect this guy of anything underhanded.
"Jones," he said, holding out his hand for Dan to shake.
"Just Jones? Nothing to go with that?"
Jones shook his head.
"My first name's Tom. M'mum said I may as well be Tom, Dick or Harry for all she cared. My last name's Pearce, same as her, but I don't want her name no more. My middle name's Jones, cos that was me dad's mum's family name, and he liked it. So I wanna just be Jones from now. That ok?"
The guy, Dan, smiled and nodded, less awkwardly this time and pressed his shoulder against Jones' in a comforting sort of way.
"Not up to me, but I'll call you whatever you want me to call you. Your name's what makes you feel like you. Jones suits you. Nice to meet you, Jones."
They sat in silence for a while longer, watching as the sun began to take over more of the street, banishing the shadows to the alleys and corners for another day, until Dan stood and stretched his arms and neck, groaning like an old man. Jones figured he probably had some place to be and started to take off the jacket but Dan stopped him.
"Leave that on. You're all bones and skin, you'll freeze or fall apart or blow away if you don't have something solid holding you together."
"But I thought-"
"Mmm, well. Other things can wait. My job's shit anyway. Right now we both need coffee. Then we need to stop at the minimart down there and get disinfectant and sponges and bin bags and other cleaning junk. And gloves. We're definitely going to need gloves."
Jones stood up and looked at the man who seemed to have swooped down from grunge-rock heaven to be his personal guardian angel and tried to figure out why anyone would want to help him.
"But, why?" he asked when he couldn't find the answer written on Dan's face.
"Because," Dan told him, stuffing his hands in his pockets and beginning to walk swiftly toward the cafe at the end of the street. "I am a master procrastinator and need something big to distract me from the fact that my girlfriend has dumped all my worldly possessions on the steps of my work. My work which I hate but never leave. Happy?"
"No," Jones said simply, keeping up with Dan's long strides as best he could. "Not really."
"Good," Dan replied. "If you were happy right now you'd be an idiot. Happiness is overrated. But coffee is not. So we'll start with that."
Dan hadn't been kidding about the coffee, Jones had never tasted anything so genius in his life and they'd shared a plate of eggs and beans and Dan had actually listened to him, just sat there and listened to a seventeen-year-old whine about how he didn't know what to do with himself and was scared that he was going to die alone cos he had no money and didn't know how to cook.
"Tell you what," Dan said slowly, when Jones had eventually talked himself to silence. "How about, when we've got that place clean, I rent one of the rooms off you? I need a place to stay and you need a bit of cash." He spoke carefully, with a lot of pauses, like he wasn't sure that the thoughts in his head were going to sound the way he wanted them to, which Jones could understand all too well. "I'm not trying anything on, I promise. I need to find somewhere or I'll be on the streets as well, and I don't think I want to leave you in there on your own."
Jones felt himself nodding, even before he'd properly processed what Dan had said. Despite the fact that he mumbled and seemed hesitant and unsure about everything he said, there was something about Dan that made Jones want to agree and be his friend. He wondered if it was a trick that worked on everyone or whether he was just really simple but then a waitress came and refilled their coffee cups free of charge and blushed when Dan grunted a barely audible 'thank you' so Jones decided that Dan Ashcroft just had a gift.
"Why would you be so nice to me though?" Jones blurted out the question that had been hanging over him for the last hour. "You don't even know me."
Dan huffed and ran his fingers though his scruffy hair, which looked in need of both a wash and a trim.
"I know that you are Jones," he began looking down at his coffee as he spoke as if giving eye contact just wasn't something he was physically capable of. "I know your mum died yesterday and that your dad died when you were younger and that you are only seventeen. You've been living rough, you've had your nose broken at least once, and you're scared. And," here he did look up, and Jones tried to look worthy of his gaze. "And you make interesting pictures when you talk. That is, the images you create with your words. I like it."
"I do? I mean, I did? I mean, you do?"
"Yeah. You said you liked this cafe because it sounds like a slow Wednesday afternoon even though it's a Friday morning. And that sun through a greasy window looks the way a toddler playing a xylophone sounds. I like that."
"Wow," Jones whispered, gulping his coffee to hide the furious blush that had just hit his cheeks. "You were actually listening."
Dan gave a low, rumbling chuckle and rubbed his hand over his stubbly cheek. It made a delicious sound and for once Jones didn't feel embarrassed at being distracted by the noise.
"I'll warn you now, though," Dan told him, doing that funny half-smile again like he understood exactly what Jones was thinking. "I can be a right moody bastard to live with. Reclusive, rude, and I hate doing dishes."
"That's alright," Jones replied, almost smiling himself. "I don't know what I'm like to live with really. But... you don't just want to fuck me or fuck me over do you? Cos I'm rubbish at telling the decent people from the crooks most of the time and, well..."
"No!" Dan leant back in his chair and Jones felt the blush creeping further up his face but Dan rushed on and Jones noticed that he was going a little red too. "I am not trying to fuck you over, Jones. Truth is, if my mum found out that I had seen a young person in need and just walked on by, she'd belt me. She's big on the whole 'Love thy neighbour' bullshit. But I'm not trying to fuck you over. And I'm not trying to fuck you. That is... I'm not... men... well, I am... you know..."
Dan sighed and closed his eyes for a count of five. Jones tried not to fidget while he did it but it was hard to keep still. He'd never met someone who wasn't straight before, as far as he knew, and that was a bit exciting. And he now felt pretty sure that Dan wouldn't just steal what little he had, beat him and leave him for dead. Which was a pretty good start. Dan opened his eyes and tried again.
"I am attracted to men but you, Jones, are seventeen, and in need of a shower, and food. And you're seventeen."
The smile was back and Jones couldn't stop it this time. Dan smiled too, embarrassed and still blushing behind his facial hair as he soldiered on with his reassurances.
"I am not going to try anything on with a seventeen-year-old kid who's just lost his mum, and I will beat the shit out of anyone who tries to. D'you understand? Besides, I really do need somewhere to stay. If my stuff stays out on the street in front of SugarApe much longer it'll start disappearing and I'll have to endure the idiots I work with wearing it 'ironically'. I'm actually being selfish in offering to help you."
Jones actually laughed and Dan seemed satisfied but then Jones realised where he'd seen Dan's name before.
"SugarApe? The magazine?" he asked excitedly, wriggling in his chair when Dan nodded. "I knew your name was familiar. You write the music reviews and band interviews and stuff, don't you?"
"That I do," Dan said, smiling into his coffee cup. "You like music, Jones?"
"Are you kidding? I love music!"