Salvation

Dark. The dark underbelly of society, the man thought, that's where I am now, appropriate, because it matches the darkness in my soul. It was a dark evening, as well, especially in the narrow street behind the main line London railway station. Why am I here, the man wondered, I could be murdered at any moment. He knew, of course, why he was there. He was searching, trying to find a way of extinguishing the wanting that had followed him all his adult life, before life was extinguished in its entirety. There was, he considered grimly, nothing left for him to lose apart from his life anyway, everything else had gone already. That assessment had removed the shackles, he'd wasted his life, as he saw it now, in self-denial, in pretence, in evasion, in hiding, and he wasn't going to waste the last dregs in the same way, of that he was determined. He was ill, he was overweight, unattractive, worn out. He knew the only way he was going to achieve his long-held and most cherished ambition was to pay for it, putting himself at risk of arrest, assault, disease or who knew what else, but he just didn't care anymore. He squinted to try and see as much as possible in the gloom, peering into the shadows, there was no-one there, this must be the wrong place....then a voice shocked him into almost catatonic rigidity.

"Looking for business?"

The man was completely disoriented, he had no idea from which direction the words had come. As he regained control of his muscles, he turned this way and that as though under the influence of some mad puppeteer, trying to find the owner of that voice. Then he noticed a movement, saw the vapour of someone's breath diffusing into the cold night air. The figure stepped forward half a pace or so, from the shadow of an archway, but still seemed, to the man's eyes, to be ill-defined, almost ghostly, in the dim light. A small, slight figure, hands thrust deeply into the pockets of a winter anorak.

"Mister, you looking for business?" A high, clear voice, a boy's voice, undoubtedly, not a local accent, though, more like his wife's accent, north Midlands, Derby, Nottingham, somewhere like that.

"Uh....y....yes....I think so," the man stammered. A little smirk appeared on the boy's face.

"First time?" The man nodded. "Don't worry, I don't bite. Unless you want me to."

"Er....no....no, I don't think so....biting, that is." The boy smirked again.

"You got somewhere to go?"

"I....I've got a hotel room."

"Not near here, is it? Most of the reception people know me, they'd probably call the Old Bill."

"No....no, it's in Putney, near the bridge."

"Good, I haven't been down that way before. I can pretend I'm your son, or something, if anyone asks. You wanna go, then?"

The man's terror at the implications of picking up a prostitute, and an underage boy prostitute at that, seemed to be frozen by the boy's insouciant self-confidence. Maybe this madcap plan of his, this desperate expedient, was going to work out after all.

"Yes, if it's alright with you."

"Yeah, it's fine by me. Just one thing, though?"

"One thing?"

"Yeah - dosh. I'm not doing this for the fun of it. A boy's gotta make a living."

The boy's directness hit the man like a slap in the face. All the hurt of the last few months, the way his supposedly comfortable, secure life had disintegrated, flooded through him. He found himself engulfed by the hopelessness of his situation, and struggling to hold back the tears that seemed to be surging behind his eyes.

"S....sorry, I think I might have made a mistake. I....I'll pay you something for your time....I'm so sorry...."

The man's words were choked off as emotion overwhelmed him, and he could hold the dam in place no longer. He knew how pathetic he must look, but that knowledge couldn't suppress the childlike sobs that racked his body, tears streaming down his face. The boy couldn't believe what he was seeing. He'd experienced many things, good and bad, in the past year and a half since he'd run away from the foster home where he'd been treated so badly, once they'd found out about his....secret, but he'd never seen anything like this, a grown man crying like a baby. Instinctively, the boy stepped towards the man, and took his hand.

"Don't cry, please don't. I didn't mean to upset you."

The man was stunned by the boy's action, his words, the empathy from this street kid who'd seemed so cool and businesslike just moments earlier. He dragged in a ragged breath, trying to pull himself together. The tears subsided, he pulled a tissue from his pocket, wiped his eyes, blew his nose.

"I....I'm sorry. It's not....not you, it's just....everything. It all caught up with me, I suppose."

"Don't worry, I know what it's like. I know I'm just a kid, but I really do know what it's like. Like you said - just everything."

The man looked down at the boy, saw unmistakable care and concern in the young eyes.

"Yes, I'm sure you do know. Look....I know I came here looking for something, something you were....selling, to be blunt, but, if I pay you what you normally....charge, will you just spent some time with me this evening. I don't want to be....on my own, I've had too much of that lately. I don't expect you to pretend to be my best friend, or anything, but I really need some company. Will you come and have a coffee with me, something to eat, whatever you want?"

"Yeah, sure, I'd like that, really. Not round here, though, like I said, too many people know my face. Let's go down to where you're staying. We can catch a train straight there from here."

****

Ten minutes later, man and boy were on a suburban train, sitting opposite each other in a bank of four seats in a relatively quiet carriage.

"If we're going to spent the evening together," the man said, "we should at least be on first name terms. I'm Sammy."

"I'm Jake - well, that's my middle name, really, but that's the name I use when I'm....working."

The man chuckled a little. The boy looked quizzically across at him.

"We're both still hiding, sort of, aren't we? Sammy's my blogging name, my pseudonym, whatever you want to call it. My real name's...." The boy cut him off.

"Let's stick with our 'pretend' names, shall we? Less complicated."

"Yes, I guess you're right, Jake. 'No names, no pack drill', as they say."

The train journey was short, around a quarter of an hour. Sammy and Jake walked up the steps from the platform, through the automated ticket barriers, and out into the bustle, even at this mid-evening hour, of Putney High Street. They were swallowed up in the swirl of metropolitan passers-by, hiding in plain sight, looking just like any other anonymous father and son making their way home. Except that neither of them had a home, anymore.

"What do you fancy to eat, Jake? There are quite a few places round here."

"I dunno. Just McDonalds, or something, that would be fine."

"I'm sure we can manage something a bit better than that. There are a couple of steak bars down near the bridge. Let's at least have a burger that tastes of meat, if it's a burger you want!"

Jake laughed. "Go on, then, you've twisted my arm! It's your money, after all."

Yes, Sammy thought, might as well spend it on something worthwhile. I won't be needing it much longer, anyway.

The meal was very pleasant, if typically, London-style, overpriced. The conversation had been inconsequential, mostly about music and the internet, Jake being slightly surprised by how up-to-date Sammy's knowledge was, especially about the net, for someone easily old enough to be his father, maybe even his grandfather. Sammy, in his turn, enjoyed the fact that the boy was obviously intelligent, and able to hold up his end of an adult conversation. How had such a bright, personable lad ended up on the streets? It didn't seem to make sense.

Sammy paid the bill, and they re-emerged onto the now somewhat less busy street.

"What do you want to do now, Jake? Anything in mind?"

The boy shook his head, mutely. In most cases, his interactions with others, especially men like Sammy, ended up in bed, using his body to make money. The concept of spending time with someone who simply enjoyed his company was, certainly in his recent past, an alien one. Like the man had earlier, he felt waves of emotion welling up inside him. Why couldn't he live a real, normal life, like anyone else, have a real dad, someone like Sammy, maybe, who cared about him? No sound came from his lips, but moisture began to trickle from the corners of his eyes. The man noticed immediately, and steered the boy to a little public area with a bench or two, next to the church. He sat down, and drew the boy into his arms. Jake buried his face on the man's shoulder, and began to sob. Sammy stroked his hair, spoke gently into his ear.

"Oh, Jake, let it out, sweetie, I'm here for you. I want to help, if I can. You're too good for this kind of life, you deserve more, a lot more. Tell me to mind my own business, if you want, but if there's anything I can do for you, that you'll let me do for you, I will."

Something stirred, deep in the boy's heart. But how could he ask? He'd only known Sammy for a couple of hours, having met him in circumstances most people would consider filthy, disgusting, how could he ask what was in his heart? In a moment, he decided to throw caution to the winds, and the words gushed out of him.

"I want....I want you to be my dad!"

Sammy was dumbstruck, for a few seconds, but instinct told him he had to reply, as soon as he could, so the boy didn't take his silence as rejection.

"Oh, Jake, that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me! Jake, I'd love to be your dad, I don't know how we can make it work, but, if it's what you want, we'll try and find a way!"

****

So it was, that four months after their meeting in a cold, dark London back street, suicidal man and lost boy, now redeemed from their former lives, found themselves in the sunshine of Mallorca. Sammy had a friend who owned a bar there, and who owed him a favour or two, they'd made their way to the island by somewhat nefarious means, hitching a ride on a yacht across the channel, then making their way through France by train and bus, before simply walking across the border into Spain on the outskirts of Hendaye. More public transport across northern Spain, and a ferry from Barcelona, saw them arrive in Palma to be met by Eleanor, Sammy's bar-owning friend. A morning with an expatriate British lawyer, another friend of Eleanor's, and visits in his company to the British consulate and to the comisería, regularised the paperwork, so that Jake was officially recognised, certainly as far as the Spanish authorities were concerned, as Sammy's stepson.

Happy ever after? Who knows? But happier than before? Oh, yes!

****

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B