The younger boy leans in through the car window, and he smells of cigarettes and cheap body spray. “I’ll tell you what, pal,” he says, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. “I will definitely tell you, because I know Nev, I do. His kid goes to my school. Moved here a couple of years ago.”
His kid. Him and his little one. My hands are shaking so I hold on to the steering wheel.
“You see those lads over there?” He points to some older boys on BMXs across the road, and I nod. “Right, if you don’t give me another one of them fifties, I’m gonna tell those lads you just offered me fifty quid for a BJ.”
He smiles a sweet cherubic smile, as if he is having his picture taken at school, and I know that I am being had, but I don’t see how I have any choice, so I take out another note and press it into his palm.
He smiles and puts the money loosely into his pocket. “You’re very close actually, pal,” he says. “Just around the corner. It’s got a red fence, and there’s an old Fiesta in the drive.”
“Thank you.”
“Fuck off, you posh nob,” he says, and they walk away laughing, swigging from their can.
The boy was right. I was about thirty seconds away, a vast rectangle of grass, surrounded on all sides by run-down row houses. On the grass, there are piles of rubbish, large industrial containers and a bonfire surrounded by a black halo. In the corner of the green, there is a bricked-off section with patches of paler concrete, where the slide and climbing frames used to stand.
I can see Nev’s house, the Fiesta in the drive, the broken red fence, a St. George’s Cross hanging from his neighbor’s window. As I’m parking the car, some children who were playing football on the green stop and stare at me, scoping me out. I stare back, puffing myself up, so they might think I’m the debt collector, someone not to be messed with. And then, just as I am about to turn away and go through Nev’s gate, I see him.
I know instantly that it is Josh. He is playing football and his blond hair flows behind him, as he ducks and weaves and spins, head and shoulders above the rest. He looks out of place in the group, hunched under their hoodies, pinching drags between goals. I cannot stop watching as he rounds three players and then fakes out the goalkeeper before effortlessly sliding the ball between two gas cans.
I have looked at his photos enough times to know the exact color of his hair, the shape of his slightly rounded shoulders. Even though he has grown, I recognize his shy smile, how his hair flops over his face as he walks back to his teammates.
I have seen that smile before. A photo of Nev and Josh standing next to the Angel of the North. I have to stop myself, but I want to walk up to him, to see and touch this miracle boy. I want to hold his face in my hands, to feel the warm flush of his skin. I wave to him, but he doesn’t see me, doesn’t wave back.
The gate to Nev’s house is broken and needs to be lifted off the ground before it will open. I ring the doorbell and wait. Next to the door, there are some children’s shoes, trainers and blue rain boots, mud encrusted on the soles. Him and his little one.
I recognize the man who opens the door. It is definitely the Nev I have spoken to, who I have seen in the photos and videos, but it is not the Nev I remember. His face is drawn, unshaved, his body gaunt, like a malnourished alcoholic. His jeans hang loosely off his hips, and there are holes in the elbows of his gray Fruit of the Loom sweatshirt. He seems thinner, older, like a man in his seventies wearing the clothes he wore when he was young. His lips are dry and chapped, and he swipes specks of dandruff from his shoulders.
“Hello, can I help?”
His accent is thick, much thicker than I remember when we spoke on the phone. I notice his eyes flicker over my shoulder, toward the kids on the green.
“Nev?”
He pauses, and I think I see a flash of fear in his eyes.
“Yes, can I help you, mate?” Maaate. Long Lancashire vowels, a reminder that I was far from home.
“It’s Rob, Jack’s dad,” I say brightly. His face does not change, and I am not sure he remembers me. “Would you mind if we talked for a few minutes?”
Nev looks me up and down. The porch smells a little musty, like a greenhouse, and in the corner there are stacks of free newspapers and a crumpled delivery cart.
“All right then,” Nev says, holding the door open.
Inside, the house is immaculate, a little oasis from the street outside. A worn but clean sofa, a fireplace and a mantelpiece, without a speck of dust. There are children’s books neatly piled in the corner, and through the doors to the kitchen I can see a child’s painting stuck to the fridge.
I sit down on the sofa and Nev takes a small hard chair in the corner. For a moment we don’t speak. Behind him on a shelf there is a collection of marble-white figurines of angels and galloping horses. They are arranged in perfect symmetry, like a silent ceramic army.
“I don’t remember you... I don’t think so, I don’t think I do,” Nev says. He looks diminutive in the corner, forlorn, like a man captured on film by a pedophile hunter.
“It’s okay. I know you wrote to lots of people. We spoke on the phone once a couple of years ago and exchanged emails. My son was Jack.”
Nothing, not even a flash of recognition. I know he wrote to lots of people.
