24. BEFORE
There was something about home that no amount of luxury or grandeur could ever replace. Yes home was small and unheard of – practically in the middle of nowhere – and the internet connection here was terrible but he loved it. And he'd fucking missed it like hell.
Mammy was already at the door when his car drew up at the front of the house. He could see the driver trying not to look too surprised at the derelict state of it– when he was younger, this would've mortified him. Appearances were everything, after all. But now he could only breathe a sigh of relief because nothing had changed about Yieldfarm, not even his house which had brought so much shame to him in his earlier years. He'd dealt badly with change when he'd been set off to private school in London. All those snooty boys and the rules and the fanciness of everything. And no Adam by his side. Yes, that had perhaps been the worst of it all.
"James, oh, Jamie," Mammy whispered once he had gotten out of the car and found himself quite suddenly wrapped up in her familiar embrace. He flinched at the contact, at first, because how long had it been since his mother had hugged him like that? Or hugged him at all? But then, and perhaps this was more his heart urging him than his mind, he buried his face into Mammy's chestnut-brown hair and inhaled sharply, like how he used to when he was only a child who'd come running to her after a particularly bad thrashing from Herod.
"I've cooked your favourite tonight," she said when all of his suitcases were all neatly stacked together in his bedroom, where they belonged. "Chicken pasta."
At this, he smiled. James had spent the last five years in a posh private school eating fine dishes for lunch; glistening turkeys and chocolate strudels that tasted something akin to heaven itself. But chicken pasta? Well, that was on a completely different level of delicious.
"I can't believe your uncle's only letting you stay for a month!" Mammy sniffed quite suddenly in the middle of James's meal. He looked at her and shrugged sheepishly.
"Better than nothing," he mumbled and he quickly looked back down at his food, feeling Mammy's stare burning right through him.
"You're my son," she argued. I know, James wanted to say, I know goddammit! I've missed you too! But I'm not safe with you.
It'd taken him a while after Uncle Jonathan had taken him away from Yieldfarm, all the way to London, before James realized what his uncle had done was save him from a premature death – a tragedy, as the news would've called it – because his parents were, to put it simply, fucked up people.
He'd always known that but what child wants to believe their parents aren't good people? Herod was the one who started it all, of course, and Mammy had simply been influenced by it. Coerced, even. But Herod had died just over two years ago. His father was gone for good and now Mammy could make decisions for herself. She truly loved James – she wanted to change for him, he knew that. And wasn't she a changed woman now? Didn't she take her medication on time? Wasn't she in a stable job?
"Mum," James said – he never called her Mammy aloud because that was a childhood habit of his, one that he didn't want her to know was permanently stuck. "It's not that simple. I want to come back home for good, just as much as you do but – but –"
"The bastard's threatened you, hasn't he?" Her eyes narrowed into little slits and James felt his heart clench in fear. She won't hit you now, James, he reassured himself as his hands turned to nervous little fists under the table. She loves you. She's changed. And you've had all those defence lessons at school, his mind added which eased his discomfort a little.
"He hasn't," James argued, perhaps a little too meekly than he should've sounded. "Uncle just thinks it's better if I – if I stay with him until I'm eighteen. Then he says I can decide for myself what I want to do."
"You're not a baby!" Mammy sounded hysterical. "He's a powerful man, your uncle is, and does he know it! He thinks having a grand old house in some hoity-toity area in London gives him the right to snatch my child away from me, like I can't do anything about it! Well, we'll see about that, won't we? The courts will decide for us. That's it. I'm appealing straight away to get back custody over you. The nerve of that awful, ungodly—"
"Mum." James sighed and pushed his plate away, suddenly quite sick. "You might be ready to have me back but I –" His chin wobbled slightly. "I don't think I'm ready to be back."
"Oh." James felt a wave of guilt wash over him as he watched the expression on Mammy's face change to one of hurt. He couldn't believe he'd just said that. Hell, he hadn't even given this a single thought before Mammy brought it up. Did he really mean what he said? About not being ready to move back to Yieldfarm for good? It was home, wasn't it? Home, the smell of freshly mowed grass and corn, and cows. Lord, even the smell of cows gave him a sense of comfort. And Adam. Adam.
True it may be that the other boy hadn't wanted anything to do with him the last time they had spoken – James could only cringe at the memory – but, like his mother, maybe Adam had changed his mind now? Or, at least, maybe he would once James paid him a visit. He'd had it planned out for years now. A proper apology for the incident in the woods. A confession. I love you. That's what he would say. I love you.
There was no denying it now, how James felt about the other boy. He didn't care if the feelings weren't reciprocated, which they most likely wouldn't be. He didn't care if word spread in town that he, the son of a Christian priest, was about as bent as they came. His years in London had taught him that it was okay. It was okay. Everything was going to be okay. Seeing Adam would make everything okay.
"Mum," he said, deciding that this perhaps would be a good change in topic to lighten the mood. "How's Adam doing, by any chance?"
Mammy's face turned as white as a sheet and she seemed to freeze on the spot, unblinking.
"Mum?" James urged, confused at her reaction. Surely she remembered Adam?
"A-Adam?" His mother laughed nervously. "I—I don't know an Adam."
"I don't believe you!" James laughed. "Come on, mum. Adam. The Fernandes boy. You know, the tall kid with blonde hair? He came over all the time. In fact," he added, "you always made pasta when he was around. You adored him."
Mammy shook her head and James knew she was lying.
"I can't recall," she smiled unconvincingly. "It's been years now. He—he must've moved away to some other town."
Lies. But what for? But James knew better than to press on.
"Oh," he said. "I see."
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"Irene!" James's lips split into a wide grin as his friend threw her arms around him, squealing excitedly.
"I can't believe it!" Irene bounced in his arms. "You idiot. Why didn't you let me know you were coming back? I can't believe it. You—look at you! So tall and—and—" Her brown eyes cast him a flirty look that he tried not to wince at. "Handsome."
Ah, he'd momentarily forgotten that none of his old friends knew how superbly immune he was to women. "Well, how are you?" he asked before the air grew too tense with awkwardness. Irene squeezed his arm tightly.
"Wonderful now that you're back." Her cheeks flushed slightly. "I've missed you."
"Me too," James replied, meaning it.
"How come you never messaged any of us on Facebook then?" Irene pouted. "Or contacted us at all? Half of the gang gave up on ever seeing you again, you know. We thought you didn't want anything to with us now you were in London and making new friends with all them posh people."
"Er, yeah." He nodded sheepishly. "I was caught up."
Irene rolled her eyes. "Great excuse, mate." But she broke into a smile nevertheless. "Landon and Danny and the rest of 'em are down at the park. Probably high, as usual." She chuckled. "Come on then! The look on their faces when they'll see you, god, it's going to be priceless—"
"W-Wait, Irene, stop." James pulled his hand away from her grasp. "I need to, uh, pay a visit to someone."
"Pfft." Irene put her hand on her hips. "Someone more important than your own friends? Come on, James! Honestly, you've kept us waiting long enough! And your surprise arrival's probably the most interesting thing that's happened since that lad killed himself."
"Wait, what?" James's eyebrows furrowed. "Someone committed suicide? Is it anyone we know?"
"He went to my school," Irene shrugged. "Was in a couple of my classes, I think. Hang on, I might've spoken to him once or twice. Dunno. Anyway, come on, enough chatter, let's get a move on!" She tugged at James's jacket impatiently.
"Who was it Irene?" It was fairly warm outside but James felt as though the temperature had dropped enough to freeze him to death. No, no, it can't be. Everything seemed to be closing in on him. It's ridiculous. The ground was shifting. Was he falling? No, no it was the trick of the mind. It can't be, it can't be. But the way Mammy reacted...no, no, Adam...it can't be...ridiculous...I love you...Adam, it can't be...
"Adam." Irene nodded. "Yeah, think that was his name."
It can't be, it can't be. Lying. Lying, the lot of them. Liars.
Irene looked at James strangely. "You didn't know him or anything, did you?"
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"James." She moaned his name into his mouth, which prompted him to press his lips harder into hers while she raked through his black hair with her long fingers. James needed to make sure she didn't speak again because a human voice just broke the illusion for him. Kissing only kept it going; it distracted him from the roaring pain that threatened to rip open his brain and let the madness he'd never known was inside of it spill all over and destroy all that was left of him.
"James," Irene moaned again. Good god, how much could the girl talk? "I never thought you – never –" He tried to close in on her lips again but she wrapped her hands around his neck, which seemed to restrain him somewhat. "I never thought you'd be interested in a girl like me." She batted her eyelashes at him. He responded by leaning in and roughly crashing his mouth against hers. James had never kissed a girl before and this experience only made him wish he'd kept it that way.
Irene's mouth against his was uncomfortable and far too wet. But that distracted him. Distraction was good. Very good.
"Tell me." She broke off suddenly. "Tell me, is this serious?"
"Mm," he grunted carelessly. She let out a small shiver of pleasure as his lips brushed against her jawline before sliding down to the nape of her neck.
"Really?" Her eyes fluttered shut.
"Mm." He bit into her skin gently and she gasped.
"James," she rasped in a throaty whisper.
"What now?" he snapped.
"Some boy's staring at us."
James stopped and turned his head around. So there was. The boy, as far as James could make out, had brown hair and was staring at him with the oddest expression on his face. He frowned. He couldn't quite put a finger on it but he could've sworn he'd seen the boy somewhere before—why was he walking away like he'd just witnessed a crime scene? Before James could even think to call out to him, the boy was gone.
"Weird." He turned to look at Irene again.
"Ugh." She looked disgruntled.
"What?" He asked.
"I just realized who it is," Irene responded. "It's Matthew. I've always known he's been a little shit but I didn't know he was a pervert as well." She shuddered. "His best friend was Adam, you know the boy who jumped off the cliff? Wow." Irene shook her head. "Suicides really make people go mad, don't they?"
"Shut up." James pushed himself away from her. "Just shut the fuck up."
"Hey!" Irene called after him as he started walking away from her. "What the hell, James!"
"Matthew," James muttered to himself, the memories suddenly flooding back into his mind. Green eyes, brown hair. A surge of jealousy. Anger. A brawl. Adam's best friend. "Matt."
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