Much Smaller Things, page 2
“I’m not going to. But please, just hand that over. My dad’ll kill me if any of his stuff is missing.”
Those eyes shone wider with shame. “I’m sorry.”
The boy let his clenched hand loosen. A handful of screws dropped from his palm onto the workbench. Tom squinted at them.
“I didn’t take anything else, I swear,” said the boy. He couldn’t seem to meet Tom’s eye again.
Tom tried a tiny smile. “You know those are practically worthless, right?”
Finally, the boy lifted his head completely, unshed tears shining beneath long lashes and a mess of caramel hair. A glare had replaced the shame. “What’s your name?”
“Huh?”
“Your name. What is it?”
“Oh, er… it’s Tom.”
“Hmm, yeah… that suits you.”
Tom let out a nervous chuckle. “Um… thanks, I guess.”
A hint of a smirk played at the corner of the boy’s mouth, and Tom’s heart did an inexplicable flip.
“You’re welcome,” said the boy.
Using Tom’s momentarily flustered state to his advantage, the boy made another run for the door. Tom only just managed to block him in time, though it was more out of habit at this point.
They stopped chest to chest, so close that if either of them moved another inch, then they would touch. The boy was shorter than Tom but not by much. His hair looked softer than he’d expected, and up close, those eyes were like oceans of sapphires.
Heat rising in his cheeks, Tom took another step back.
“Please,” said the boy. “You’ll never see me again. I promise.”
Something like dread dropped into Tom’s stomach. The sensation was so sudden he could only stare, incredulous, at the source of his blossoming confusion. He took in the sorry but beautiful human in front of him and couldn’t help but feel… something…
Then the boy rolled his eyes, and the heat in Tom’s cheeks spread right through his chest to gather around his heart.
“Either call the police or don’t,” said the boy. “But please don’t trap me in your shed like some kind of weirdo.”
“I’m not going to do that. I’m not a weirdo.”
That smirk at the corner of his mouth grew then, and Tom’s stomach flipped over. No, he told himself. You are not a weirdo, remember? You don’t know this boy.
“What were you doing out here alone, anyway?”
“Oh, um…” Tom shrugged. Not the coolest thing to be found doing on a Friday night. “Nothing really.”
“You were meant to be out with your family. I thought you were meant to be out.”
“How do you know that?”
Tom wanted to take his question back at once if it meant this boy wouldn’t look so guilty. But also… this boy had been trying to steal from him, hadn’t he? Tom was the victim here, wasn’t he?
The boy kicked at the threshold, shoulders tense. “Yeah, s-sorry. It’s not personal—stealing from you but… Look, you don’t know me. I don’t know you. I’m really sorry for trying to steal from you, but it’s just that I’m… I really need some money right now and don’t have a lot of options at the moment, so…”
Tom needed no more explanation. “Okay,” he said.
The boy looked up, aghast. “Wait. Really?”
Tom nodded, smiling as kindly as he could. He found it wasn’t difficult in the slightest.
“You’re not going to call the police?”
“Nope.”
And with that, Tom took one last step backwards, leaving the way clear for the boy to exit the shed once and for all. A gust of snow engulfed them and, before Tom could move to touch it, the door clattered shut. He flicked the latch closed, then gestured for the boy to lead the way across the garden, towards the side gate.
“Thanks…” The boy seemed confused by his sudden freedom.
Tom gave a reassuring nod, and the boy started through the falling snow. The tips of his hair were already half frozen.
“Wait!”
The boy turned as if he’d expected this—for his freedom to be merely a trick.
Tom hurried after him but kept his distance. “You’re freezing. Do you not have a coat?”
The boy shrugged.
“Well, I was gonna sell it but…” He shook his head. “I have a spare one. You could have it… if you like?”
The boy stared at him. “Why would you do something like that? For me?”
“Maybe then you won’t have to steal?”
The boy’s gaze fell to his boots.
“Sorry,” said Tom. “Forget it. You probably wouldn’t want… I overstepped. I’m sorry…” He started toward the back door, cursing himself. He reached for the handle.
“Hang on…”
The boy chewed his lip. The wind whipped his already messy hair away from his forehead. Jesus, this boy was adorable.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll take your coat. But if you try anything, I’ll stab you.”
3
Alfie
Tom held the door open, but all Alfie could do was blink up at him. Why on earth would this boy let an actual thief into his home? Was he crazy?
The whole plan had been ruined. Alfie had meant to get in, steal some tools to sell, and then get out again as fast as possible. Like he’d done at every house he’d visited over the past few weeks. But it was also a relief because, of all the people who could have caught him, Tom was probably the most harmless.
“Come on, then,” said Tom. His tone was calm and gentle. Kind.
Alfie hesitated.
“Don’t you want to come inside?”
Alfie let himself study this boy’s face. He had met bad men. He knew bad men. He knew the dangerous glint they got in their eyes, knew their primal rage. Their thirst for prey.
Tom had none of that. His movements were hesitant, awkward even. From up close, Alfie could see how wrong he’d been before. This boy was not just cute but beautiful. And through the dining room window, Alfie had missed the considerable broadness of the boy’s shoulders. But now he saw. Jesus, he definitely saw.
Despite his bulk and height, Tom somehow still managed to be all soft edges. Though his cheeks were pink from the cold, his eyes held a definite warmth. His hair was tidy and dark beneath melting snowflakes. A few still clung to his lashes and—
“I’ll...” Alfie swallowed. “I’ll just wait here.”
“Are you sure?”
Alfie nodded, trying not to look up for fear of his attraction being painted clear across his face.
“If you’re sure. I’ll be quick.” Leaving the back door open, Tom hurried away into the house.
Alfie folded his arms over his chest and tried to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. But they were being very persistent.
Stupid. He’s probably straight, anyway.
Alfie peered through the sliding door into the kitchen beyond. A large wooden breakfast table stood lined with two long benches. Hardwood floors glimmered in the dim light.
Warmth was trying its best to seep out into the night but wasn’t getting very far. The wind continued to blow through Alfie's measly layers, chilling him. He was shivering so violently that he’d stopped feeling it. Had he been doing that the whole time? How pathetic.
Alfie screwed his eyes shut, swallowed his pride, and stepped inside.
As soon as the door snapped shut behind him, heat began to thaw his limbs. With a single inhale, a whole host of lovely scents caressed his nose. Cinnamon, freshly baked bread, dried fruit, vanilla…
A dishwasher rumbled nearby. A decorative clock ticked on the wall above a sideboard. But apart from that, all was still. All was peaceful.
Even the colour palette was warm and cosy, Alfie realised, as his eyes roved around the room. A large farmhouse sink, a microwave, a toaster, a kettle. Pastel tea towels and oven gloves. Several colourful aprons on hooks by the door. One of those fancy stand mixers, well-loved and pride of place on the counter.
On the table, a vase of fresh flowers, lilacs and white roses, lovingly arranged.
It wasn’t difficult to imagine Tom growing up here, happy and safe, eating breakfast at the table every morning before school.
Alfie’s stomach rumbled. He eyed the cupboards… But then, a pair of hurried footsteps came thundering down the stairs, and Tom skidded back into the room.
“Oh,” he said, eyes wide. “You came in.”
“S-sorry,” said Alfie.
But Tom was smiling. It seemed genuine, too. It had seemed genuine every time he’d done it so far.
“Don’t apologise,” he said. “I did say you could. You’re half frozen.” And he handed over a lump of navy blue.
Alfie held up the coat. It was thick and hefty, the fabric soft. Nicer than anything Alfie had owned in a long, long time. He glanced at the label. A name tag had been stitched over it: ‘Thomas Rowland.’
“Rowland…” he murmured.
Now these people had a name. It was odd. Of course they had a name, but… things had been a lot simpler when they had been mere obstacles in the way of Alfie’s goal.
“I forgot that was there,” said Tom. “I can probably find one without a tag, if you’d prefer. Let me just…”
“No,” said Alfie. “It’s fine. It’s great, actually. Thanks.”
Tom rubbed the back of his head. “That’s okay.”
And Alfie’s heart did a confusing little swoop.
They fell into silence for a long moment until Alfie spied a fruit bowl and felt his stomach twist. A question, a shameful question, stuck in his throat.
But then Tom asked, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Alfie blinked in surprise.
Tom’s face lit up. “It’ll only take a minute, and it’ll help warm you up.” He was already halfway to the kettle. “You can sit down if you like.”
Alfie realised he had indeed been standing by the door like a lemon. He watched Tom go to a cupboard and take out two mugs. It was too tempting. He really shouldn’t be doing this, but he really, really wanted that tea—and at least the sugar and milk would fill a small gap.
He slipped off his boots, then sat down at the table, trying to touch things as little as possible, if he couldn’t avoid touching them at all.
A paperback had been left open, face down beside him, the pages dog-eared. He wondered who it belonged to.
“Milk? Sugar?”
Alfie folded his hands on the table to stop them from shaking. “Yes, please. Two sugars.”
Tom had a nice voice, too. Calm and warm and cheerful. Not at all judgemental. Alfie didn’t hear many voices like that, and never were they directing all that goodness toward him.
As they waited for the kettle, Alfie found himself relaxing just a little. He was used to cramped flats and abandoned buildings, so this was a welcome change. All the sounds around him were small and soft enough to let his brain sigh with relief.
Steam lifted from the pale green mug, which was pushed in front of him. Alfie looked up to see Tom standing on the other side of the table, his own mug in his hands.
“So,” said Tom, “are you, like… homeless?”
Alfie swallowed his gulp of hot tea and impressed himself by not immediately choking it back up. He had been waiting for a question of this sort, though he hadn’t expected Tom to ask it so plainly.
Now Tom really couldn’t meet his eye—but all Alfie saw was genuine, curious concern.
Alfie sipped his tea while he gathered his thoughts and, as the sugar hit his tongue, he realised that Tom was nice. Of course a sheltered boy like him would be a good person. It wasn’t a bad thing. It was just different.
“I’m not… homeless homeless,” he said. “I’m kind of between places right now.”
“Where do you stay then?” Tom settled onto the bench across from him, his attention gentle but complete.
Alfie shrugged. “Around.” He chanced a look up and found Tom watching him, borderline angelically. “I do have some friends I stay with sometimes, but some nights they don’t want me there, so I have to improvise.”
“What do you mean improvise?”
“You know… find somewhere else to go. A bed. Any bed.”
Tom’s frown deepened, as if his brain had allowed him only halfway to where Alfie had tried to lead it.
Alfie sighed. “Abandoned buildings and stuff like that. The area around Peterborough Road is mostly fine. There are a few empty houses there. Some of them are decent inside.”
Tom’s eyes dulled. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You didn’t have to tell me any of that. I’m sorry if I’m asking too many questions, I just…”
“Hey, no, it’s okay.”
And Alfie was surprised to find that it was okay. Somehow, talking to Tom was unlike talking to anyone else. Maybe he was being stupid, being so open and comfortable with a stranger. Was this not exactly the sort of situation which had fucked him before? But then their eyes met again, and nothing about those dark eyes made Alfie doubt any of this boy’s goodness.
Maybe he was being naïve, but maybe he didn’t really care.
All the heat was from the steam, right?
“So, what’s your name?”
“Alfie.”
Tom smiled. Was that a blush appearing on his cheeks?
“And your name’s Tom.”
“Yep. Short for Thomas, but no one really calls me that.”
“Maybe I’ll call you Thomas.”
“I’d rather you didn’t, but okay.”
There was no doubt about it. Tom was definitely blushing now.
Alfie wasn’t sure whether it was that or the sugar, but butterflies had taken flight in his stomach again. He tried to tamper them down. After all, after this, they would likely never meet again.
Tom had zoned out, staring into his tea—and Alfie suddenly felt very strange, sitting there alone with this boy he had tried to rob. And then, all at once, he remembered his original mission. Tom had, very efficiently, distracted him.
The tea was lovely, but it wasn’t going to make him any money. He considered scouting for a new family, a new garden to break into. A different shed. But that would take too long. And apparently, he wasn’t as good at it as he’d thought.
There was only one option now. But could he get away with it? He had to at least try.
“Tom?”
He looked up at once. “Yeah?”
Alfie’s stomach tightened. “Please could I use your loo?”
“Yeah. Sure. Of course. It’s by the stairs.”
“Thanks.”
Before he could second guess himself, Alfie got up and went out into the hall.
The only light filtered through the stained-glass window in the front door, casting pinks and purples onto the floor. Alfie crept along, observing the collection of items strewn across the sideboard. A stuffed letter rack, a bowl of mismatched keys, a small ceramic dog, a framed photograph of a couple on their wedding day sixty or so years ago.
Excitement rose inside his chest. He hated himself for even thinking it, but could this be the massive jackpot he’d been seeking?
He glanced toward the stairs. Quiet and still, they beckoned him upwards. Perhaps Tom’s mother had some nice jewellery…
One foot on the bottom step, he noticed a neat row of photos arranged on the wall going up. Alfie peered at the nearest one. An eight or nine-year-old Tom was holding a football trophy, grinning toothily up at the camera in his muddy kit.
Drawn like a magnet, Alfie glanced to the next frame along. All four Rowlands stood on a beach underneath a bright blue sky. The mum was smiling, the dad’s arm securely around her shoulders, both their cheeks sunburnt. Looking about twelve, Tom stood tucked under his dad’s other arm while his older sister pouted to one side as if she’d rather be anywhere else.
They looked happy. Peaceful.
Innocent.
He took a step back, away from the wall of smiling faces. Breathless and sickened, he staggered away further until his back hit the sideboard with a clatter.
He couldn’t do this. He’d have to find another way.
Alfie skittered across to the toilet door, slipped inside, and shut it behind him. He sank onto the closed lid and tried to regulate his breathing. He would not break down. Not here.
Keep moving. Keep distracted.
When would he next have access to luxurious facilities such as this? He might as well use them while he could. Still, as he flushed, the decorative candle on the shelf swam before him. He used the smallest amount of fancy hand wash possible. It smelt so nice. Like honeysuckle. It was almost enough to make him cry—but it wasn’t. It wasn’t.
He glared at himself in the ornate mirror for only a second before he had to look away. He reached for the soft, embroidered towel and dried his hands, hating how pale and thin they appeared.
Alfie shut his eyes and took a long, deep breath. He knew he should go back out there again soon. Before Tom got suspicious and yelled at him to leave. Let him know he had outstayed his welcome. But then Alfie’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
The name ‘Fin Morton’ glowed on the screen, and Alfie’s heart leapt.
He answered the call.
“Fin?”
“Hey, Alfie,” said Fin. “Listen, I’m calling to warn you. I’m really sorry, mate, but you’re gonna have to stay away from our place for a while, okay?”
“What? Why? What’s going—?”
“It’s Liam. He’s back.”
When Alfie came back to his body a few seconds later, he was surprised to find himself still standing upright—because his insides had buckled.
Liam.
From the darkest crevices of Alfie’s mind, cruel eyes stared right back at him. He could feel Liam’s hands around his throat, feel his hot breath across his lips…
“Alfie?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.” He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. “Does he know where I am?”
“No. No, I don’t think so. You’re safe. Just… find somewhere else to go, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Your stuff’s in my car. I’ll bring it to you soon.”
“Okay.”
“I’m really sorry, mate,” said Fin. He sounded exhausted. “You know we’d help you if we could. If it were safe.”
