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Scotland was far too cold. From the few days that Simon had spent in Glasgow, that was the only thing that he had decided about the place. Sure, it was cold in Manchester where he lived in with his parents and brother, but nothing compared to here. He was only here because his father had dragged him along to some metal music festival, having decided that forcing the 13-year-old into mosh pits and among crowds of screaming people throwing beers and smoking would ‘put some hair on his chest’.
But for now, it was peaceful. His dad was at a bar and had left Simon at the motel room with an order to look after himself until he returned. But Simon couldn’t stand being in their motel room that already smelled strongly like alcohol and weed. So, as soon as he could, he slipped out and descended the stairs out into the carpark. He shivered slightly, only being covered by a t-shirt and jeans, as his father had neglected to get him any warmer clothes. He glanced around nervously, sure that someone was going to notice him and call the police, or worse, his father. Satisfied that nobody was around, he started walking quickly.
Simon didn’t know how long he walked for, his scuffed and broken shoes occasionally slipping on the icy pavement. They were uncomfortable, the soles having disconnected themselves from the main shoe months ago. His socks were soon soaked through with the snow he was trying hard to avoid. He rose to walk on his tiptoes, before remembering his father yelling at him to stop walking like a baby, and regretfully sank back down to walk properly. He shivered, tucking his chin towards his chest. Passers-by stared at him, a small boy with scars littering his face and arms walking alone and cold in Glasgow.
Soon, he came to a park. It was sparse, with a few swing sets, a slide and a small cubby house, as well as a few trees. A couple of kids and parents hung around the park. He stood awkwardly for a moment, before it started to snow lightly. The frozen snowflakes drifted gently to the ground, and Simon shivered as snowflakes landed on his bare arms and sandy blonde hair. But he would rather freeze than go back to the motel, where his father had undoubtedly returned in an angry drunken haze, most likely having lost a few bets. No, he would rather sit here and shiver than become the man’s punching bag again.
After a few minutes, most of the parents had ushered their kids out of the park, and only a few remained. Simon didn’t feel like playing, he hadn’t felt like playing in a long time.
So, he shifted to sit underneath the slide, curling up into a ball. Wind swept through the park, and he shivered again, tucking his face into his arms and scrunching up his eyes to stop himself from crying. Only babies cried, and Simon wasn’t a baby. He was a man. He was a man and men don’t cry. The mantra didn’t stop tears from beginning to slip down his cheeks, burning hot against his frosty skin.
He just wanted to go home and run to his mother, he would even play with Tommy if it meant he could go home. He could feel the part of his lip where a chunk had been taken out of it, torn from around half a centimetre above his lip, looking almost like a cleft lip which had healed wrong. But no, it was from the fangs of a snake which his father had shoved in his face, biting down and tearing his lip. It pressed against his arm, only making him cry more.
He scowled as he felt more tears roll down his cheeks. Why was he so weak? Why couldn’t he handle being away from his mum for a few days? Why couldn’t he just enjoy the crowds and the music and the fact that his dad had paid for them to come here? He was just a spoilt little brat. All Simon could think about was how he had to stop crying before he was back with his dad, or he’d give Simon a real reason to cry.
“Hello,”
Simon flinched at the sound and curled further into a ball, peeking between his arms to see a boy about his age crouching in front of him. He had wild brown hair and grey eyes, and Simon could see that he was missing one of his canine teeth through the grin that the boy was giving him. His grin faltered slightly when Simon shied away from him.
“Hey, it’s okay! Ye don’t have to talk if ye don’t wanna,” the boy said, sitting down cross-legged, making it clear he wasn’t going anywhere. Simon peered up again and they made eye contact before Simon quickly looked away at the uncomfortable feeling that it brought. The boy stuck his tongue through the gap in his teeth absentmindedly.
“I’m John MacTavish, and nobody’s allowed te call me Johnny, but I think you can, if ye want to,” the boy- Johnny said. Simon nodded minutely, which made Johnny’s face light up again.
“Where are yer parents? I’m here with my sisters, they think they’re the boss since they’re older, but Abbie’s only in P7!” Johnny said with a scowl.
Simon flinched at the mention of parents, and Johnny noticed immediately. It was weird, other people seemed to always be able to tell what other people were feeling, but Simon never had. His face also didn’t move the right way most of the time. His mum always told him he looked like a statue, never smiling much, or even frowning, but Johnny seemed to be able to read him easily.
“I’m in P5 by the way, and next year Abbie is goin’ to secondary school, and I’m gonna have the whole school to myself, I cannae wait,” Johnny said with a wide grin.
Even if Simon wasn’t entirely sure what Johnny was talking about, he liked listening to his voice, it gave him something to focus on that wasn’t his dad, or where he was, or how cold he felt.
“My other sister is Clara, she’s already 16! She isn’t as bossy as Abbie though,” the other boy continued, and Simon felt himself relaxing at the sound of his voice.
“I’m 10, how old are you?”
Simon stiffened slightly; he didn’t want to talk. Johnny seemed to understand that because he kept rambling about whatever. When he started talking about the train set he had bought with his pocket money, Simon noticed that his hands started to flap up and down, and he was swaying slightly from side to side, seemingly so full of energy that he couldn’t sit still. Simon frowned slightly. He sometimes flapped his hands and rocked back and forth when he started to feel things too much, and his father always snapped at him, and told him he looked retarded. But when Johnny did it, it only added to his air of excitement and joy. Maybe it was okay to do that.
“Oh! I dinnae remember asking yer name,” Johnny said, and leaned forward slightly, expectingly. He was looking at Simon’s cheek though, not his eyes, which Simon was grateful for. He had taken his face out of his arms and was sitting up normally as Johnny talked.
“Simon,” he muttered, then winced, his father hated mumbling.
“Yer English?” Johnny asked, tilting his head. Simon nodded.
“Woah! I’ve never been anywhere ‘cept here,” he said.
It was then that a cold wind blew through the park and Simon shivered violently.
“Are ye cold? Of course, ye are, yer only wearin’ a t-shirt,” Johnny said, and he pulled off his jacket and handed it to Simon. He was wearing a hoodie underneath. Simon looked at him nervously, holding the jacket gingerly as though he expected it to bite him.
“It’s alright, I dinnae get cold easy,” Johnny said.
Keeping his eyes on the boy, Simon pulled the jacket around his shoulders, immediately feeling Johnny’s leftover body heat. It was big on him as Johnny was clearly taller and bigger than him, despite being a few years younger, which he hadn’t noticed as they were both sitting down. Simon heard someone shouting from out from under the slide where they had been sat, and Johnny listened intently.
“Hey, I’ve gotta go, do ye wanna come back to my house for a bit? I live right across the road,” Johnny asked, crawling out from under the slide and standing up.
Simon bit his lip, unsure, but the decision was made for him when Johnny stuck his hand out to help Simon to his feet.
When Simon stood up, Johnny’s jacket swamped him, coming down to his mid thighs, and the sleeves covered his hands.
“Why’re ye so short?” asked Johnny, cocking his head.
“Am not,” Simon grumbled, his words causing Johnny to smile again, tongue flicking through the gap in his teeth.
“John, c’mon!” called an older girl from the other side of the park. Clara, Simon presumed. Johnny grabbed his hand and ran towards her. Abbie was also standing at Clara’s side.
“Who are you?” Abbie asked blankly, staring at Simon.
“His name is Simon, he’s my friend,” Johnny said defensively, squeezing Simon’s hand. Normally he didn’t like being touched, but the texture of Johnny’s gloves was nice, plus the pressure was reassuring.
He was slightly taken aback by Johnny calling him his friend. They had only met around half an hour ago after all, but he found he didn’t mind. It felt weird, having a friend, most kids at school picked on him for being small, or poor, and those that didn’t steered clear.
“He’s coming over for a bit,” the other boy continued.
“Where’re his parents?” Clara asked, looking around the park for them. Johnny just shrugged.
“He won’t be over fer too long, c’mon Clara, please!” begged Johnny. Clara finally sighed and nodded, and once again Simon was being dragged by Johnny towards a house on the opposite side of the road. They weren’t in the central areas of the city, so it was a standalone house. Johnny kicked off his boots before bursting in the front door, so Simon toed off his shoes as well before following, much more quietly into the house.
He was instantly hit with a wall of warmth and the smell of cooking. Family photographs and paintings, each signed with a ‘CM’ (Clara’s, he assumed) lined the walls, and various possessions were strewn around, no doubt the result of having three children in the house. Johnny led him to the kitchen, where a woman was cooking.
“Who’s this John?” she asked, glancing at Simon, who shrank into himself.
“A new friend, I found ‘im in the park,” John said casually, as though bringing home random kids off the street was normal for him, and maybe it was, Simon didn’t know.
“Does this friend have a name?” Ms MacTavish asked, stirring a pot that was casting delicious smells throughout the room.
Simon felt his stomach pinch. He hadn’t had a proper meal in days, surviving off whatever snacks were sold at the festival. He hadn’t eaten all day, despite it being around 4 in the afternoon.
“His name’s Simon,” Johnny said, hopping up onto a stool at the counter and pulling off his gloves and scarf. Simon waited until Johnny gestured for him to do the same.
“Well Simon, d’you want some soup?” she asked, ladling some into a bowl to push in front of Johnny.
Simon debated with himself for a second. On one hand, he was starving. On the other, he didn’t want to be rude to someone who’s house he was intruding in. In the end, his stomach won. Maybe it was greedy, but sue him, he was hungry.
“Yes, please ma’am,” he said, staring at his socked feet.
“Of course laddie, no need for that ma’am business, just call me Sophia. But I wish my John had half of yer manners,” she said, turning to dish up more soup.
“-ey!” Johnny protested through a mouthful of the bread that Sophia had also provided.
Instead of being yelled at or hit for his rudeness, Sophia merely laughed, and Simon frowned. His father would have backhanded him across the face by now. His face was something, he had now realised, that none of John’s family had commented on. Usually, it was the first thing other kids asked him about, but none of them said a word. It was nice.
He dug into the soup almost immediately, it was delicious, warming him from the inside out. Most of the food he had at home comprised of ready meals or whatever he and Tommy managed to throw together for themselves.
“Growing lads need their food,” Sophia said, placing a plate of buttered bread in front of Simon as well.
“Yeah, ‘cause he’s kinda short,” Johnny said, causing Simon to blush and scowl at him.
“You watch out John, I reckon one day Simon’ll be taller than ye,” Sophia said.
Soon they were finished their food, but it was beginning to get dark outside, and Simon knew that he had to get home. Johnny seemed to realise this too and followed him when Simon slipped towards the door. He stood awkwardly in the threshold, staring anywhere but Johnny’s eyes.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and glanced up to see Johnny’s face light up.
“Hey, even if ye hafta go back to England, maybe I’ll see ye again someday,” Johnny said, punching him lightly in the shoulder, Simon didn’t flinch away like he normally did.
“I’ll need to show you that I’m taller,” Simon replied, the most words he’d managed to string together all day. Johnny laughed.
“Away an’ bile yer heid,” the boy said with a smile.
He pulled Simon in for a quick hug before the smaller boy could argue, and he found himself enjoying the touch instead of shying away from it.
“Bye Johnny,” he said with a smile, stepping out into the frosty air.
“See ya Simon,” Johnny said, shutting the door behind him.
It was only on the way back to the motel room that Simon noticed that he was still wearing Johnny’s coat, but he snuggled into it, basking in the warmth it provided him. Even if it had only been for an afternoon, he felt at peace.
It was many years later when he was told the name of the Sergeant he’d be working with. And when he finally saw John MacTavish, he was pleased to note that he was, in fact, taller.