The Lost Boy - Chapter 6 – part four - Barefoot in the Park

As I’ve said before, my memory from these years is hazy — and this part is one of the haziest. I don’t remember everything, and what I do remember comes in fragments. What I’ve written here are the most important pieces, and the clearest memories I still hold.

If anyone reading this was part of these times and remembers things differently, please believe me when I say: I am not lying. I am simply telling it as my memory serves me now.

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As you can imagine, this became another catalyst.

By this point the drinking had started to escalate. I had money coming in with the job, and with money came freedom — and that freedom I gave to drink. One night there was a gathering with some neighbours we’d become friendly with. They were a couple with a young son, about the same age as my girlfriend’s son, and now and then we’d share drinks at their place. That evening there were five of us: me and my partner, the couple whose house it was, and a female friend of theirs.

I don’t remember much of the night — just laughter, words being thrown around, too much alcohol. The details are gone. What I do remember more clearly is that my partner went home, and I stayed behind. I ended up upstairs in an unfinished room they’d built onto the house. It had a high vaulted ceiling, an en-suite, and a bare mattress on the floor. I wasn’t in that room alone. I was there with their friend, and we were making out. We didn’t sleep together, but it went further than kissing.

The rest is hazy, but the next day — hungover and guilty — I learned my girlfriend had been told something had happened. Worse, the story relayed to her was that I had forced myself on this woman.

There was exaggeration in what was said about me. That much I know. The way it reached my girlfriend made it sound like I had violently forced myself on this woman — and that wasn’t what happened. What did happen was two people making choices they shouldn’t have, blurred by drink, and me not stopping when I should have.

I can say that now without needing to defend or deny. At the time, though, I grabbed hold of the exaggeration as if it was the whole problem. I told myself the story was unfair, that I was the victim of lies. And while yes, the story was twisted, the truth was still enough to condemn me. I had betrayed my partner. I had crossed a line.

I don’t remember the details clearly enough to tell you exactly what happened afterwards. What I do know is that I wasn’t welcome in that house anymore. And I remember the anger that rose in me toward the girl. In my mind, she had fabricated the whole story — even though she had walked into that room with me, even though her friend knew we had gone upstairs together. I felt betrayed, exposed, and humiliated.

What I didn’t give a second thought to at the time was my girlfriend’s feelings. My focus was on defending myself, blaming others, and resenting the fact that the story had come out at all.

From here, the memories blur even more. I don’t remember whether I stayed living with her straight away or not. What I think happened is that I managed to persuade her into some version of events that made it just about acceptable for her to move forward with me, to try and work through it together. But it’s also possible that the next set of events came directly out of this incident. I can’t be sure.

What I do know is that somewhere along the line, I started spending time with the next-door neighbour. She was a young woman living in her mum’s house — her mum had met someone new and was barely around. There was another lad who used to be around there too, maybe her brother or a friend. I remember him having a white German shepherd, and at that time he was seeing an escort. Strange company, strange energy. I remember the drinking, the weed, and a bit of cocaine if I’m right.

It wasn’t long before Gareth showed up again. I wasn’t there often, but the time I was there was enough. I ended up sleeping with that girl. From what I can piece together, that was the nail in the coffin for my relationship.

My memory is vague around the details — blurred like much of that time — but the few things I do remember are clear enough.

One thing I know: my girlfriend hated that neighbour. They never spoke. I don’t know what had caused the tension between them before, but it was there, and it was strong. Almost hatred. So for me to sleep with her and then go and tell my girlfriend… there’s no dressing that up. That was deliberate. That was me choosing to cause her pain.

But that was me. Not always horrible — I could be loving, funny, even gentle at times — but right at my core I carried the capability to be a cunt. And when I felt wounded or cornered, that side came out sharp and deliberate. Sleeping with the neighbour and telling my girlfriend wasn’t just weakness or drunken stupidity. It was calculated. It was me choosing to hurt her, to punish her, because I could.

The next memory I have is of standing in a park. No shoes on. Waiting for the police to arrive after a massive row with my ex-girlfriend.

I don’t remember what led up to it, no details of the argument, nothing before — just the park, bare feet on the ground, and the waiting. The police arrived, but I wasn’t arrested. Instead, a friend came to collect me. A friend from Birmingham.

That would be the next place I’d call home. The next chapter of my life. Not a long one, but a chapter all the same.