PROLOGUE
The boy on the streets was numb.
Set the scene: a Friday night in early April; nine o’clock, to be precise. Icy sheets of rain came falling around his body and a raging chill pulsed through his veins, but the only thing he felt, the only thing he knew, really, was a vast sense of nothingness. That and the occasional pang of sorrow, which would wedge itself into his heart before fading again, leaving behind a dull, familiar ache.
Whether it be a result of hypothermia or crippling starvation, he knew that he’d soon be dead. It was just a feeling, a sense of knowing that gripped him from the inside and warned him to try and make the most of his last few minutes; a feat that would clearly make no difference, because nothing in the world could make things better in these last moments of life, nothing on Earth besides perhaps his mother coming back to him or a millionaire walking by and dropping a roll of cash at his sodden feet. But no, the first was impossible and the latter would only ever happen in a world different to this one. So, perhaps the boy should simply wait. Wait for heaven, or for hell – the second being more likely, because he hadn’t exactly done good in his life; incidentally, the regret of all he’d done sat heavy in his heart, like a stone, a constant reminder of his abundant mistakes – or for whatever truly happens when you pass into the afterlife (if there really is such a thing; he hoped there wasn’t, because he wasn’t fond of the idea of having to deal with this pain and guilt much longer).
He was slipping in and out of consciousness, and seeing things before his eyes, colourful blurs and distorted images from his past colliding with visions of everything that could be happening right now and in his future if he wasn’t so screwed-up. He wondered if this was what death felt like. He waited for the peace, the blackness, all the while knowing that he deserved it. He deserved the rain around him, the sickening numbness of his mind contrasted against the silent ache in his heart, the ice-cold feeling in his fingertips and the desperate growl of his long-empty stomach. He deserved everything he was getting.
Crumpled up like fragile paper, his body smaller than it had been in years. Skin like tissue, clinging helplessly against his bones. Skeletal. He was a pathetic pile of bones and skin, no muscle, nothing of worth. All rational thoughts had now drained from his mind, and suddenly he was thinking of cheese sandwiches and grass, ice cream and his mother’s chicken soup. Now he was thinking of her eyes, those blue eyes; everybody always said he had her eyes. Right now, he was too weak to even miss her, but he still felt it. He always felt it.
He let out one final, strangled sob, which ripped at his throat on its way up like a piece of jagged metal. His cheeks were wet with tears and rain. Something flashed before his eyes: a prediction. Some unlucky passerby, finding his body, curled up and cold and hauntingly still in this little alleyway. He couldn’t help but hope that it was a nice person, an old lady perhaps, or a middle-aged man; nobody like those teenage chavs, who used to beat him for little money he had, cycling off on their ridiculous too-small bikes and chortling profanities at each other.
There was movement around him. At least, he thought there was. Things were still a little hazy. But it wasn’t the movement of the wind changing direction, or of the rain. It was the movement of a person. A boy about his age. He knelt before him, wrapping a heavy jacket around his shoulders. “It’s okay,” the boy said calmly, and he kept saying those two words over and over again, as if reassuring not only the boy on the streets, but also himself. He was holding an umbrella, and the pattering of rain on its sheer plastic was oddly comforting.
The boy on the streets -- Niall Horan, his name was; he often forgot that he had an actual name, because he often forgot that he was an actual person of actual worth – was hauled to his feet, his fingers gripped tightly around the handle of his guitar case, which he’d forgotten about until now. But he was still holding it as if his life depended on it, his knuckles white, the solid case banging heavily against his already-bruised legs on the way up. He almost collapsed again, but the taller boy supported him, half-carrying, half-dragging him along the dark, wet streets. The ground was shiny, dappled moonlight bouncing off the paving slabs, and the footsteps of the two were muffled by the sound of reverberating rainfall.
He must have lost consciousness again, because before he knew it he was falling through the open door of a taxi, landing with a thump on the soft plush seat. “Take us to the train station,” the other boy ordered, sliding in beside him; Niall scooted up and simultaneously lifted his guitar case onto his lap to make this possible, but the movement sent a course of pain racing through his body and he found himself wincing as the car whirred into motion. Niall kept his eyes closed, his head resting against the rattling window pane. For now, he felt mildly comfortable, but his clothes were still wet and a shiver still ran through him every now and again, and his stomach still growled, reminding him of how close he’d been to death. He wasn’t sure if he appreciated being saved. After all, he’d been ready. Ready to go. Ready to die.
Niall cannot recall how long the journey lasted -- it could have been half an hour, or mere minutes, or even less -- but at some point, they arrived at the local train station. Still, Niall was completely out of touch with reality; he barely reacted when the boy pulled him from the car, somewhat roughly. Then the boy disappeared from his field of vision and for a moment, Niall was lost again. He leant against a nearby wall, closing his eyes and letting the rain drizzle down his face as he waited. But waited for what exactly? For his saviour to return, or for death? He just didn’t know. He was so confused, and his head hurt, and his vision was blurred by rain or maybe tears, and he didn’t care anymore. He just didn’t.
The boy returned. He briefly waved two white-and-orange slips of paper in front of Niall’s face. Train tickets, he realised. Only then did Niall notice that the boy had a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder. It instantly clicked into place, the jigsaw pieces slotting together in Niall’s mind; the boy was taking him somewhere. Somewhere warm, Niall hoped, a shiver wracking his tiny body, and with lots of food, he added as his stomach let out an ugly gurgle.
Looking back now, he barely remembers the train pulling into view, but it must have at some point because before long Niall was stumbling onto the train and collapsing into a nearby seat. The kind stranger didn’t need to assist him with what he did next: he unzipped his sodden jacket, tossing it aside, and kicked off his scruffy trainers, before closing his eyes, letting sleep and warmth and everything else consume him.
●
When his eyes next opened, the train was rumbling along. Everything was unnaturally quiet. Everything was unnaturally normal. Niall shifted into a more comfortable position, his bones still aching but not as much. Only now, with weary blue eyes, did he get a good look at his surroundings.
He was sitting at a table, and the boy who saved his life -- it sounded cheesy thinking that, but of course, it was true -- was sitting opposite, eyes trained to the seemingly worn pages of a book called To Kill A Mockingbird. In each ear, the unmistakable whiteness of iPhone earphones -- Niall recognised them from posters he’d seen outside shops -- glistened. Besides him and Niall, the train was practically empty. Niall liked it that way.
He looked at the boy’s face, and the first words to come to his mind were youthful and handsome. Green eyes sat beneath dark, expressive eyebrows, and his curly brown hair was dishevelled and unruly, but in the kind of way that made it seem as if that particular hairstyle had taken time. This stranger was endlessly cool, with his tangled headphones and ripped skinny jeans and tattooed wrists, and Niall knew that if he were asked to imagine the type of person who would prevent him from dying and whisk him off to another world, it wouldn’t be a guy like this.
The boy caught Niall looking and grinned, closing his book and pulling out each earphone without bothering to switch off his iPod. His smile was kind. “You’re awake!” He said, brightly. “Good thing, too. We’re nearly there. How are you feeling?”
“Like I could eat a horse,” Niall replied truthfully. He’d never been one to beat around the bush.
“Oh!” The boy exclaimed. “You’re Irish. I didn’t realise.” Niall nodded and shrugged; he was usually proud of his Irish roots, and often relished the way people raised their eyebrows at his unique accent, but right now, food was more important. It was the most important thing in the world. Seemingly reading his thoughts, the boy added, “I think I have something you can eat. Hang on...”
He began to rummage around in his duffel bag, and Niall watched eagerly, saliva gathering in his mouth. He swallowed it away, inwardly telling himself to remain patient. Eventually, the boy pulled out a crumpled sandwich carton. “Here,” he said, reaching across the table to hand it to Niall.
Niall took it in his hands and ripped off the lid, the concept of table manners momentarily slipping from his mind. He pulled out the sandwich and sunk his teeth into the dry bread. It was like a party in his mouth, and chicken, bread, and crunchy lettuce were all there. He swallowed each mouthful and went straight in for the next, terrified that the boy would take the sandwich away from him, saying, “That’s enough”, or that this was all a dream and it would randomly disappear from his numb, calloused hands any second.
“Oh man,” Niall said, mouth full. “Oh shit, hmmm, this is good.” He chewed and swallowed as if his life depended on it -- and maybe it did. He even ate the crusts, which he never used to like -- his mother used to tell him off for that -- and licked the crumbs off his fingers. Before long, there wasn’t a single bit of proof that the sandwich had ever existed, besides the empty triangular-shaped box it had come in, which was strewn across the table. The boy picked it up and carefully began to fold it, tucking it neatly into the side-pocket of his duffel bag.
“Thank you so much,” Niall said when the boy looked up at him, green meeting blue.
“You’re welcome. I have something else for you, too,” the boy said. He pulled a crumpled twenty-pound note from the pocket of his black skinny jeans, and handed it to Niall. “When I saw you curled up in that alley, I had this grand plan in mind. I’d take you with me on the train and give you all the money I had, to help you get back on your feet. I mean, you were clearly in need of help. Anyway, so this righteous plan of mine backfired when we got to the station and I had to pay for your ticket as well as the one I’d already got. I’d forgotten that train tickets actually cost money -- bloody idiot. And the taxi fare was a killer, too. Plus I underestimated how much money I actually had in the first place. Bottom line: I’m a twat. Anyway, this is all I have left.”
Niall looked down at it, the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. He couldn’t help but feel like some kind of burden. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” He asked, uncertainly.
“Of course I don’t.”
He looked at it again. Just twenty pounds could buy him food for weeks; a packet of crisps every day would do, and those big multi-packs weren’t much. He could get a toothbrush, toothpaste. He could get soap and deodorant. He could actually have a shot at living, if only he found some place to actually do so; but still, they were going somewhere completely new, and with new places came new explorations, new discoveries.
Niall put the twenty pound note in his pocket and looked out the window. “Where are we going?”
“A city called Bournemouth. I go to Uni there,” the boy explained. “There’s a big beach and a great town, and lots of young people around. You’ll love it.”
Niall looked out the window again; there he was, reflected in the dark pane of glass, where raindrops drizzled downwards under gravity’s endless spell. The bags beneath his eyes were prominent, his face gaunt and pale, his hair greasy and thick. Beyond his reflection, he saw nothing but blackness.
The boy had one more gift for Niall: a bottle of Pepsi, which had already been half-drunk. Niall didn’t care. He didn’t mind about the potential germs he could receive from sharing a bottle with this stranger. Niall wasn’t one to fuss over things like that. He downed the fizzy drink gratefully, relishing the tingles it sent down his throat. Afterwards, they remained silent for a long while.
Before long, the train pulled to a slow. The boy, with his effortlessly cool demeanour and lazy grin, got to his feet. “We’re here,” he stated, smiling. “Come on.”
Niall pulled on his still-damp trainers, hastily zipping up his jumper. Excited for whatever adventure awaited him beyond those sliding doors. As he stood, he lifted his guitar case. Again, it banged against his legs. “Can I ask you something?”
The boy blew a stray curl from his eyes. “Sure.”
Niall shrugged. “Why? Why this? Why me? We don’t even know each other.”
“Well,” the boy said as the doors slid open, “It looked like you needed a fresh start, so here we are. When I saw you, it was a ten-second decision. I just saw you and knew that you needed to be saved.” Instead of stepping of the train, he turned back to Niall. “So. Take that money, and find someplace to stay for the night. Eat food. Get a job. Live. You’re young. The world is at your feet...” He trailed off, looking at Niall pointedly.
“Niall,” Niall told him.
“Right. The world is at your feet, Niall. Remember, you can be whoever you want to be.”
Niall was lost for words. “I... I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” the boy said. “See ya, mate.” He hopped off the train and began to stride away.
“Wait... you’re leaving?” Niall called, frowning. He climbed off the train himself, stepping onto the dry platform. It hadn’t rained here.
"I've got a life to live! And so do you," the boy shouted over his shoulder.
"But I don't understand! I can't just find someplace to live and... I can't just..." Niall groped around for some way to explain how he was feeling, but the words didn’t come.
"The smallest action can make a whole lot of difference, mate, and this is my small action," the boy replied smoothly.
It baffled Niall how cocky this stranger was; Niall always thought he was confident, but this was another level of that. "Would you stop being so damn philosophical and at least tell me your name?!" He exasperated.
The boy threw Niall a grin over his shoulder, his green eyes glinting. "Just call me your guardian angel."
He winked and disappeared into the darkness, whistling a little tune, and all of a sudden, Niall was alone again. He had a feeling he’d never see that boy again in his life. His slender fingers were gripping the handle of his guitar case tightly, and his heart was thudding against his ribcage. The boy's words rang through his mind:
You can be whoever you want to be.
●
And so, after sleeping on a park bench because he was too tired to find some cheap hotel, Niall Horan woke up bright and early and began his search for a place to live in this new, dazzling city. He trekked the streets of Bournemouth, up hills and across roads, until he found the perfect place. A place so discreet, so ancient and ruined and hidden-away, that he knew nobody would ever find him there.
But he was wrong. He was also wrong when he predicted that he’d never see the curly-haired stranger -- Harry, his name was -- again. Because now, just three months later, a beautiful girl just miles away from where he spends his days is waking up. And, little do either of them know, she's about to stumble across his imperfectly perfect little hideaway, and a chain of events are to lead to Niall meeting Harry once again. But, more importantly, it's to lead to him falling madly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with a girl named Anna Winters.
It’s funny how quickly your life can change forever.