AllFreeNovel
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My phone pings twice, and I have to lean against a townhouse railing.
Hayden:I did go home.
Hayden:Made it here safe and sound.
I have no idea how long I waste reading those two sentences. A third one gets me moving.
Hayden:Wish you were here with me.
It isn’t too late. Icouldbe there for him, and for what I guess he won’t be able to hide from people who really know and love him.
Like I want to.
Like I already do.
I shoulder my portfolio again, and?—
“Lewis Raeburn?”
I don’t know the owner of this clipped, posh accent. I turn and see someone at the front door of my destination. He isn’t what I expect a lord to look like. Or an international banker who heads a charitable foundation. He’s as scruffy as any other project worker who I’ve shared camps with. He even wears the same T-shirt.
Safe Harbour is printed across his chest, and isn’t that what I’m here for now Reece Trelawney has pulled strings to make this meeting with the head of his play project happen?
I want a safe harbour for more kids.
That’s always been my driver. Right now, it’s a riptide pulling me in the wrong direction, but I slide my phone away and make myself focus. “Yes. That’s me, Lord Heligan. But I’m Rae?—”
“To your friends?” He smiles tiredly. “You certainly have plenty of them. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He extends a hand. “And I’m Rex to mine. Thanks for coming at short notice,” he says, as if I’m the one doing him a favour. “Come in. We saved some supper for you.”
“I’m sorry I’m so late.”
“It’s never too late for a bedtime story.” His gaze is as soft as butter, a real Hayden reminder. It also twinkles. “And I happen to be a huge fan of happy endings.”
He’s surprisinglydown to earth for a real-life lord. We sit in a study dominated by a massive painting of an island castle, and he tells me about his project while I eat the best curry I ever tasted.
“Safe Harbour started as a small operation. A passion project. I’ve been hard to pin down because I’m transitioning away from banking to run the foundation full time. That means the bank is extracting its pound of flesh while it still can.” He tilts his head to a suitcase. “At least I won’t need that tomorrow. Edinburgh is a short hop. I can be there and back in a day.”
His husband Devesh flicks through my sketchbook. “I remember this time capsule being excavated. Seeing what you’ve done with the contents is fascinating.” He neatly summarises my images. “You’ve compared postwar journeys.” He traces a light finger between pages. “One old path comes from Poland. The newer one from Kabul. Both children were promised safety for their parent’s service. Only one of them received that protection.” He pauses over a drawing of barbed wire around an old Cornish encampment. “Or, at least, they did after a fashion.Do you know where this old Glynn Harber student ended up or what he did for a living?”
I shake my head. “I couldn’t find Olek’s full name. The school lost the records after a fire in the 1960s.”
He touches the edge of a stadium I’ve drawn where two boys play in front of a crowd of thousands. A giant holds a trophy, and Devesh says, “At least his descendants were successful.”
“Hayden?” It’s gutting how saying his name makes something clench so hard inside me that breathing is an effort.
He should be here with me.
No.
I should be there with him.
I’ve never felt so pulled in two directions. It’s a mind fuck that leaves me raspy. “I don’t think he really is one of Olek’s descendants. I mean, his surname doesn’t start with a W. But yeah, he’s a good example.” Fuck anyone who says he isn’t. And fuck everyone who judges him for taking a shot that misfired. I’ve had plenty of time on the way here to Google Tramadol use in soccer.
It’s fucking endemic.
An epidemic.
Someone else supplied it—prescribed it—put him in a position he wouldn’t have chosen, and I know addiction. Have lived and breathed it. Never say never, but there’s a world of difference between seeking drugs and what news article after news article all describe as standard operating procedure to help him play while injured.
