TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) Read online

  As I neared my home away from home and edged closer to the river, the smell of dank, stale water grew strong. A large rainfall a few days ago created a swell in the river, the air alive with odours that verge on sewage. Soon, the city will flood and pubs and bars that are enjoyed now will be out of action until the waters subside. Like I say, modern mantras must adhere to the rules set by a historic city that refuses to conform.

  This brings me to now as I procrastinate outside the blue, wooden door of the pub I've spent far too much time in. I can see the two gentlemen I've come to meet at the other side of the bar, the two people I assign the title best friend. I don't wish to be here, and my feet seem determined to walk in the other direction, away from the pub and to somewhere alone and far away. It's futile, though, as my phone will continue to buzz and vibrate as it has done for the past hour, the relentless nature of Wilbur Day refusing to back down.

  I've known Wil most my life, the two of us always in the same class at school. The person opposite him is his anti-self, my cousin, Ethan Knight, the son of my mother's sister.

  The two of them couldn't be more different: Wil an energetic, eccentric sociopath; Ethan a rational, compulsive old male in a twenty-three-year-old body. Where Wil lives life on a whim, Ethan lives it in the knowledge of consistency. One wears the same navy suit each day—complete with white shirt and plain-coloured tie—whereas the other showcases a flamboyant set of old, worn chinos; tattered, beaten moccasins; and tight, fitted shirts—although they must always be plain in nature, as any pattern is only worn by a tasteless fool, so he says.

  I'm stuck in the middle, not quite one, not quite the other. If it weren't for me, they wouldn't be friends, but as it is, we are, and we have been for nearly twenty years. I tell these two gentlemen everything. They knew of my first kiss within minutes, were downstairs as I experienced my first time, and have listened to me share insecurities and worries and dreams of what might be. Although I want to be on my own, I don't, and although I can't imagine telling anybody about what I've learned today, I feel I must. If I can't tell these two, who can I tell?

  The chill digs deeper as the breeze flows from the river nearby. The pub is busy but not hectic, and if I don't make a decision soon, I'll surely be seen by one of them, most likely Wil, who's perched on the edge of his seat and waving his hands in front of Ethan—describing a story we've both no doubt heard countless times before.

  With a deep breath, I push on the old door and enter to the smell of fish and chips. It's a delicious aroma, but the thought of placing anything in my stomach is repulsive.

  "Dante, m'lad, how are you?" says Wil as I approach the table, reaching across and taking me in a half-embrace, half-handshake-type movement. "Sit down, sit down—wait, no drink—well, we can't have that now, can we? Sit down, sit down. I'll gather some beverages so we can start this night in style."

  He's gone before I have a chance to say anything, and, on turning my attention to Ethan, I notice he's analysing me with deep thought. "Hey. You okay?" I say, his silent leering still focussed on me.

  After a few awkward seconds of nothing, he arches his neck. "Of course, what about you? You seem... worried."

  I'm not sure if I should say anything yet, or indeed how, but I doubt I can keep it hidden from Ethan. Wil is another matter—he doesn't sense anything other than himself—but Ethan has always been able to discern my inner turmoil.

  He's only a year older than me, but his maturity suggests otherwise. His rational brain keeps him focussed, allowing him to be near perfect at school and work, despite the fact he isn't what you would call naturally intelligent; and his compulsive diligence makes him a structured, consistent fellow to rely on at all times.

  My parents and I used to stay at Ethan's house every Christmas, and it was here where I discovered just how peculiar he is. I knew of his quirks, but it isn't until you see how he lives in the privacy of his own home that things click into place. As I sat watching Christmas films, he ironed his clothes ready for the next day. This wasn't a grownup, but a fifteen-year-old boy, and on completion, he hung, folded, and positioned his attire in the same place as the day before, ready for the morning to arrive and require his service.

  We'd finish the night talking about music and what the future might hold: I would imagine travelling and becoming rich and famous, he would talk about getting his degree, being an accountant, and having a house and family. Again, this was a fifteen-year-old boy, and his obsessive structure has only intensified over the years.

  He shaves every morning, even though his near-invisible blond whiskers take a week to come through, and he gets his hair cut on the same date each and every month, asking for the same short back-and-sides as he has done since he was six-years-old, carefully adding a distinct parting and gelling tightly towards his right ear.

  He's less a cousin and more a father, and it's because of this he devours my thoughts right now, prodding and probing for answers below the surface.

  "So, are you going to tell me what's wrong?" he asks again.

  "I'm fine, so you can stop doing that." I should tell him now and get it over with, but at the moment, there's nothing to tell, and since I have no idea how I feel, how can I expect to explain it to others?

  "You're not fine," he says, sipping his beer.

  "Yes I am."

  "No, you're not. You know I'll get it out of you. Did something happen at Doc's?"

  "There's nothing wrong—"

  "Yes! There is. Just tell me and get it over with," he says, as Wil arrives back at the table with hands full of glassware.

  "Ah gentlemen, let us drink to life—and what's this about something being wrong? Why, Dante, all is well, isn't it, for if it isn't, we should fix it—and with that, let us drink tequila and settle our thoughts."

  "Why did you buy tequila?" asks Ethan.

  "The question should be, why didn't you?"

  "It's Tuesday. Not all of us squander the day away creating art, or whatever it is you do."

  "Ah yes, for accountants never drink, do they? Why, I think I read somewhere that the majority of alcoholics are, indeed, accountants, which makes you an alcoholic in waiting, my friend."

  "You made that up—"

  "It's my job to make things up—"

  "Jesus, will you two stop it," I snap, my head already pounding. After so many hours of lonesome thought, being surrounded by others is proving difficult.

  Taking his shot glass between two fingers, Wil walks around the table and rests on my shoulders, pressing down with firm hands. "Ah, Dante, m'lad, what's wrong with you? You had a stressful day?"

  "No, it's fine. Just a long day in the office, that's all."

  "But you weren't in the office," he says, moving back to his own stool. This statement makes Ethan put down his glass and lean towards me. "I rang earlier and some nice lady named Sarah—or was it Sally... or Sue... or Andrea... hmmm, well, anyway, she told me you never turned up."

  "I knew it," Ethan says, narrowing his gaze. "What's happened? What happened at Doc's?"

  Sighing, I close my eyes and rub my temples. Never has my brain been so chaotic and unsettled. It rushes and swirls, as if drunk and high at the same time. How am I supposed to explain this when I don't understand it myself? "He gave me my results." I can't look at them, so clench my eyes tighter. "It isn't good, guys. It isn't good."

  "What, what happened?" asks Ethan, his usually tedious tone cracking a little.

  "Right, well I don't know how to say this exactly, so I suppose I should just come out with it? They found a tumour... in my brain. It's big, and in a bad place, and they don't think they can operate, which means things are pretty bleak."

  Silence follows, the bustling sounds from the bar around us more prominent; the faint linger of jazz music, I think, no doubt Wil's handiwork.

  "You're going to be okay, though," blurts Wil.

  Finally opening my eyes, I see them, both their jaws agape. This is too hard, and if this is what it's like telling
my two best friends—the individuals I've always been able to be honest with—how am I going to tell my parents—the two I've always been awkward around? I picture my mother's face again...

  "I'm not sure, guys." I say, sighing and rubbing my temples again. "You should have seen the look on his face."

  "Doc?" Ethan asks.

  "Yeah. He isn't just a doctor, he's a family friend. That smile..." I look at Ethan. "You know the smile. He always has it, but this morning," I sigh again. "It was like looking at a stranger."

  "He's only a GP," Ethan says. "It's not like he's a specialist—"

  "I know, and he wants me to have more tests and speak to specialists, but he's been doing this for over thirty years. He was hiding something. He was holding back. I'm no ordinary patient to him, and it showed. He knows something. He knows." I taper off at the end, speaking to myself more than anything.

  "You've just received big news," says Ethan, fidgeting with his pint glass. "You're bound to be unnerved, but we'll sort this. We'll research it and figure it out. We don't know anything—"

  "I know, and that's exactly why I didn't want to say anything to you. I need to get my head around this, and see what these specialists have to say. There isn't much point in telling anybody until then, is there?"

  "You're going to tell your parents, though."

  I turn my attention to Wil.

  "Dante, you're bloody telling them," repeats Ethan, pushing his hand in front me of and clicking his fingers.

  "How?" I ask. "What do I tell them? Until I know more, why put them through the worry?"

  "Dante!" he says, clenching his fist.

  "You know my mum. She'll be a mess."

  "She's your mum."

  "I know..." I close my eyes and picture her again. "Look, I can't think about that right now. I've spent all day walking around trying to decide how I feel, and I feel nothing whatsoever. I'm empty and drained and none of this is real. It feels like I'll wake up any minute. So, please, just leave it, okay?"

  Standing up, Ethan approaches with an open embrace, wrapping me up in a tight grip. "Of course. I'm sorry."

  "Thank you," I say, stealing every ounce of warmth from him, tightening my arms and hands and fingers around his jacket. "I woke up in such a good mood today, too," I laugh, spluttering each word.

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. Last night I decided to start writing again. Today was supposed to be a new journey, but not this kind."

  "Stop it," he says, tightening his own grip. "We don't know anything yet."

  Nodding and unlocking my arms, I sit back down on the uncomfortable stool. I turn to Wil, his pupils darting around the room like a bird searching for food. He's been quiet all this time. "What do you think, Wil?"

  With his continuing, dancing gaze, a grin spreads across his face, that seductive charm already on show despite the pathetically dire situation. "I think... I think this is a bad day, possibly the worst of days, and if there's ever a time to drink and drown one's sorrow, well, it's during the worst of days."

  With that, he nudges a shot glass in my direction, the sharp smell of tequila rising from below. I hold it, and look at it, and twist it around in circles. This isn't the answer, but then again, what is?

  21st September—York:

  Recommended Listening:

  Helplessness Blues—Fleet Foxes

  Worms—Beth Orton

  Angel Eyes—The Czars

  The Drying Of The Lawns—The Tallest Man On Earth

  The warmth from the cup comforts my frozen digits, each one eking out heat from the steaming mug of black, rich coffee. The smell seduces my tastebuds as it rises up my nose, the caffeine a welcome addition despite that it’s still too hot to consume.

  I'm not sure why, but my hands are unable to warm. It gets cooler as each day passes, autumn creeping forward and leaving summer behind, but the air is still warm, only the breeze adding a chill. My fingertips remain frozen stubs at all times. Is it through worry, my blood rushing to my brain in a bid to figure out the constant roving questions? Is it my body's way of saying the end is near, and with it, useless parts like fingers and toes are neglected?

  Maybe it's that I'm more conscious of myself, and it might be this why my headaches seem to have gotten worse. I'm now equipped with pills and pain relief, which are soothing and welcome, but my mornings—before I push the bitter tablet into my mouth—are painful.

  As I wake, I experience a serene peace for a second or two, but then the throb comes forward and brings a striking bolt of agony with it. I squeeze my eyes shut with force, the darkness easier, but only for a few seconds until the pain finds a new way to penetrate my defences. It's unlikely the headaches have become worse in a matter of days. It's surely a case of mind over matter now that my body's aware of the deeper issue at hand. The daunting part is they'll get worse, and I've been told to expect an array of potential worries as this process draws on, although the specifics remain hazy. Nobody knows what to expect from this apparently rare case.

  Then again, this new realisation may be due to the constant reminder of my mother's face the moment I shared the news. I didn't want to tell her. I wanted to find out more information, to take more tests and visit more specialists.

  "You have to tell them," Ethan insisted. "They're your parents. They deserve to know."

  Of course he was right. He's always right. I'm their only son, their only child, and to hide something so important from them isn't fair. But I've never been fair on them. I love them, but can't remember the last time I told them. I owe them so much, but have I ever said thank you for loving me, caring for me, standing by me despite keeping them at arms length, always? Hell, it was six months until I introduced them to Danii, and it was Danii herself who called my mother when we finally broke up. They both loved Danii so much, but did I care enough for them to hear the news from me?

  Walking up to the house I grew up in, my stomach rumbled with an anxiety far greater than the pain devouring my forehead. Taking a deep breath, I walked through the door, my mother stopping dead in her tracks with a steaming dish in hand.

  "What a lovely surprise," she said. "We're about to have dinner. Come and join us, sweetie."

  I hated myself, the smile on her face so lovely and genuine. 'When was I last here', I thought. 'The first time in weeks, and I'm here to share such news. I'm horrible.'

  I don't wish to remember any of the evening, but I do. Each second hung, trickling by as the hush consumed all three of us. Only the tick of the hallway clock—tock, tick, tock—, the squeaks of cutlery on plates, and chomps and mushes of food in mouth made a sound. They must have known something was wrong, they must have. It was so quiet, as though we were all terrified of what words might bring.

  I remember too much of it, especially my cough and clearing of throat, which brought an end to the squeaking plates and chomping food. Breathing deep, I looked at them both because they deserved that much, and I told them everything: the headaches, the news, the everything.

  Tears fought an intense battle behind my eyes, but I wouldn't let them through. If I let a single tear enter the conversation, I knew that would be it. More would follow, many more. I couldn't do that to my parents, but if I focussed on my mother, I wouldn't be capable of keeping them back. So I stared at my father instead. And he stared at me. Dozens of memories flocked forward of the two of us chatting about music and sport and an array of unimportant subjects. I've never seen my father cry, and thankfully I didn't then, either. But I knew he wanted to. His eyes fought the same battle as my own, but no matter how much he needed to sob and let everything spill out, the need to keep it in was of greater importance.

  The rest of the evening is hazy, but still I remember too much: questions from my father, insisting he know every single detail despite my inability to shed clear light on anything in particular; hushes of everything will be alrights, and me nodding and agreeing and allowing myself to believe it; my mother scrubbing and cleaning after dinner, me unable to look
away.

  I remember too much, but the worse is the side-by-side comparison of my mother: her smile the moment I walked through the door, compared to the red raw eyes, pale cheeks, and jolted breaths after sharing my news.

  I'd love to say it's been easier since, that telling my parents was the hardest part. It hasn't. Lonesome moments are filled with my mother's agonising face, and those spent in groups are flooded with questions to which I have no answers.

  The only people who know are my parents, Doc, Ethan, and Wil, but that's enough to fill my days with phone calls and texts. Ethan finds a new insight each evening, and my mum and dad insist on hearing my voice every few hours. As for Doc, well, my return visit didn't quite fill me with hope.

  "I've arranged some consultations for you over the next few weeks," he said, handing me a piece of paper with random names, addresses, and telephone numbers. "I know it requires a lot of travelling, and before you ask, yes, there are a lot of tests and questions involved. But these are some of the best specialists in the country. They won't leave a stone unturned, Dante. I promise."

  "Is any of this going to help?" I asked, doubting how one specialist would differ to another.

  "Of course. There are several options, and I want you to have everything at your disposal."

  I said nothing.

  "I know this is hard, Dante," he said, taking my arm. "But stay strong. You can do this."

  But I still missed his smile. His red and tired eyes told stories his mouth refused.

  Staring at the cooling coffee, I pucker my lips and ease the bitter glory into my tongue. My love affair for coffee is an old one, and each year I desire a darker, richer, fuller blend. In the last few days, I've desired a coffee so bitter it'll numb my throat. "Nope, not yet," I whisper into my still steaming cup.

  "Dante, m'lad, how are you feeling, my good man? Do you have a headache or a throb or an after taste to those medicines you pile into your system—oh, you have a drink, right. Well, I'll go get one myself and be back in a jiffy," says Wil, already gone before I have chance to breathe a hello.