This is Part 16 of What Happened to Trunkin. If you missed the beginning, start here:
“Yes.” Stuart managed a smile, though a frail one. “And then I left. Off to uni. Looking back, I think getting away was probably the best thing I could’ve done. A change of scenery. A fresh start. Mam is right about the therapist, though. Dr. Templeton. If I told her even a fraction of what had happened, she’d have had me committed. I don’t hold it against you, hiring her. I’d just lost one of my best friends. It was the natural thing to do.”
“Two of your best friends,” his father amended.
Stuart coughed. “I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead…”
“Tom Firth and Stuart’s gang weren’t close.” His mother, displaying Buddha-like restraint, did not add: “Which you’d know, if you’d paid any attention.”
“Oh.” Mr. Jenkins frowned.
“Tom was…” Stuart began, before his mother rescued him a second time.
“Tom Firth tormented Stuart from primary school onwards. Aided and abetted by that no-good best mate of his, Dafydd Roberts. You’ve no idea how many times Stuart came home from school in tears over something those boys had done to him. It lasted right up until Iain had his growth spurt, after which they didn’t dare lay a hand on him for fear of having their heads knocked together like a pair of coconuts.”
Stuart’s father nodded slowly. “I went to school with Iain’s uncle, Mark. He was five or six years older than Iain’s father. The whole family is full of big men. I remember seeing Rob—Iain’s dad—at some school event, our graduation maybe, back when he couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. He was already bigger than I was. Wound up playing lock forward for the school team, as I recall… But if Tom Firth was a bully, why was he there that night on the ferry?”
“Because he was Merry’s boyfriend,” Stuart said. “That is, he had been. They were on-again, off-again to start with, and by then they were thoroughly off. Tom being Tom, you know. But he knew too much. We couldn’t have left him out without him blowing the lid off of everything. Though in hindsight it might’ve been better if he had… He was alright in the end. I wouldn’t call him a friend exactly, but…we got on. I’m sorry he’s gone.”
Stuart’s father hummed.
“Iain though, I don’t expect he’ll ever forgive Tom, unless he’s found religion. He may have. I haven’t seen him in years.”
Stuart’s father cocked his head. “Forgive him? He’s dead.”
“Iain fancied Merry,” Mrs. Jenkins explained. “Since they were small.”
“Ah. And I take it she did not reciprocate.”
“No,” said Stuart. “Merry thought of Iain as a friend, but never anything more.”
“I see Iain from time to time,” said Mr. Jenkins. “He still lives in town. Trained up as a welder. Works for the family business. He’s always polite, and waves when he sees me, but there’s a sadness hangs about him. Like a shroud. I suppose he never got over that night.” He wondered for the first time in far too long what lasting trauma his son’s experiences might have done him.
“Perhaps I should say hello,” Stuart mused. “The last time I ran into him, he shouted at me. But perhaps enough time has passed…”
Ran into was the word for it. It’d been nearly ten years since that last chance meeting. Before his reunion with Trunkin and his subsequent transformation. Stuart, home to visit, had gone downtown to the bank for some tedious paperwork that had proven even more tedious than he’d anticipated, the sun a distant memory by the time he was done. He was supposed to have been dieting, but the first bright bakery window he’d passed had got the better of him. He’d popped inside with a silent promise to buy something moderately nutritious—a curry roll, perhaps—only to find himself at the door again in possession of a chocolate croissant. Powdered sugar, sliced almonds, and a sprinkle of guilt.
His memory of the collision was a series of impressions. A man in a blue car yelling out his window. A woman on the sidewalk yelling back. Obscene gestures from both parties. He’d continued walking as he watched, captured in an absent sort of way by the unexpected drama. Too late he registered the shadow looming in the corner of his eye. The massive chest and massiver belly. The jumper—Swansea RFC—rapidly increasing.
The croissant disintegrated as the hand holding it was sandwiched between its owner and a solid wall of flesh. Stuart bounced, staggered, stammered an apology; received curses in return—curses in a voice he recognized, even slurred. Raised his eyes and sure enough, there he was. A blond-haired, ruddy-cheeked, bleary blue-eyed mountain of a man.
It wasn’t till Stuart said his name that Iain properly looked at who he’d collided with. And when recognition arrived on his face, neither cheer nor celebration came with it. Iain saw Stuart as Scrooge saw Marley. Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?
“Stuart?”
Mam, her voice tinged with concern.
Stuart shook himself. “Sorry, I…where was I?”
“At uni.” She studied him with narrowed eyes.
“Right. Trunkin. I actively avoided him when we first moved in together—which is by no means a reflection on him. He was only ever friendly, but I wanted to be left alone. I was still too wrapped up in the friends I’d lost to think about making new ones. Those days, when I wasn’t in class or with Dr. Templeton, I spent most of my time hiding out down by the Ouseburn with Henwen.”
“The Ouseburn?”
“A small river that flows into the Tyne. There was a particular stretch I found not far from school, hidden by trees, with steep, muddy banks that made it hard to get to even if you knew it was there. It was quiet, secluded, and perfect for foraging, which I soon discovered was Henwen’s favorite pastime.” The familiar snuffled in her sleep, dreaming off her Christmas dinner. “I don’t know how she does it, but she has a way of finding things. Things you’d never believe could be hidden under a pile of rotting leaves, or in a tangle of bogbean. I’m half-convinced she conjures them up on the spot and only pretends to find them.”
“Such as?” Manky, mud-caked boots, used toothbrushes, and car tires clogged the river in Mr. Jenkins’ head.
“Wait here.” Stuart held up a finger before jumping up and dashing out the door. When he returned a minute later, there was a book in his hand and a frown on his face. “There’s a tarpaulin on my bus.”
His father coughed and pretended to examine the carpet. “I err—thought it better not get snowed on.”
Thanks for reading.
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