The Lost Boy - Chapter 6 – part one - Greyfriars

As I mentioned at the end of Chapter 5, I’d met a girl. And somehow, somewhen, I ended up living in Northampton.

We’d spent so much time chatting online that it became its own little world. Back then, MSN Messenger was our meeting place — and the excitement it gave me was electric. I don’t recall the notification that would show when a new message came through, but I do remember the names of people online and the ones offline being underneath and separate, and I do remember the excitement of logging in and seeing her name in the list above!!

There was a strange comfort to it — that little rectangle on a screen becoming the doorway to connection. I’d wait for her to type back, and I’m not sure, but I think MSN would show “so-and-so is typing” at the bottom of the chat window. Sometimes it was light, flirty back-and-forth. Sometimes it was deeper, about where we’d been in life, what we wanted next. The fact she had a job and a two-year-old son meant her time was limited, but I’d take whatever I could get. Every conversation felt like a thread being pulled tighter between us, one late-night message at a time.

Eventually, the talk turned into plans, and the plans turned into me booking a coach to Northampton.

I can still remember that journey: the low hum of the engine, my legs bouncing, and my reflection in the window — not because I was vain, but because I was nervous. At the time, I was missing one of my front teeth from that fight I spoke about earlier — the one where my brother got arrested.

And as I write this now, I’ve just remembered the day after it happened. I went out looking for my tooth — or any clue at all about what had gone on. I’d told myself I’d probably fallen and hit my mouth on a curb, knocking the tooth clean through my lip and ripping it out root and all. I went searching along the street, scanning the ground like I might just spot it lying there, but of course I never found it. The truth of how it came out was as missing as the tooth itself.

Smiling had since become an art form, my top lip curling over just enough to hide the gap, or my hand casually covering my mouth when I laughed.

Aside from that, I felt alright about my appearance. I’d dropped a lot of weight from my heaviest days — some of it thanks to that last speed binge, which left me slim but not exactly healthy.

And writing this now, another speed binge comes to mind — not that one, but one all the way back to after prison. I won’t go into the full details, but there was a whole part of that chapter with its own speed-fuelled side story. I was sponging off whoever I could, and when I could, I’d fund it myself. Speed was cheap and had real bang-for-buck value, and some people were more than happy to share. It was a blur of wired nights, buzzing conversations, and the gnawing edge of come-downs, all stitched into that period of my life like its own messy subplot. Still, by the time I got on that coach to Northampton, I’d left that one behind.

When the coach rolled into Northampton, the first thing I noticed was this massive, ugly brick building — Greyfriars. I didn’t remember the name at the time, but I had to look it up, and when I saw the name and the picture of the building online, the memory became even clearer. I hung back while the pushy ones got their stuff from the undercarriage first, watching them yank at bags and drag cases onto the pavement. The smell of exhaust fumes mixed with cigarette smoke hung in the air, sharp and heavy, clinging to the back of my throat.

I stood there for a moment, bag finally in hand, not quite sure which way to turn. People hurried past with the kind of focus that makes you feel like the only one without a destination. I remember scanning the faces, my mind flicking between excitement and a gnawing self-consciousness about my missing tooth. And then — as if someone had skipped a scene — I was sat in her car.

The plan was to spend a couple of days with her, then head to my dad’s for a bit, and then back to hers before returning home to Southampton. But even in those first hours, I sensed a shift. She was polite, friendly — but distant. At some point, she suggested I either head to my dad’s earlier or stay there longer. Whether it was nerves, second thoughts, or just not feeling the spark, I couldn’t say at the time. But it felt off. She’d later confess that she thought I looked weird. Not ugly, not physically unattractive — at least I don’t think — but I got the gist she meant the nerves I carried made me look off, awkward, and that in turn had put her off.

That feeling must have been worked through somehow, because this Northampton chapter would end up lasting around two years. I did spend some time with my dad that trip — or at least, I know I must have.

It’s strange though, because I can’t pull that visit back at all. I know I ended up living with Dad for a bit before living with this girl, so that discussion must have happened — or at least been approached — somewhere around here. I remember little bits and bobs from that time, but not seeing him on that particular visit. It’s an odd feeling, almost like the absence in my memory is heavier than the presence would have been.

The last clear memory I have of speaking to Dad before all this was years earlier, maybe when I was about sixteen. I’d been drinking, and I was on the phone — my brother might have been there, or my sister-in-law, my eldest brother’s wife. I’m pretty sure I was at my brother’s in-laws’ house when it happened. Dad was trying to tell me what I shouldn’t do, and I gave him a short, sharp “fuck off,” something about him not getting that privilege after being absent for years. I remember him going quiet — shutting up, or maybe shutting down. And I’ve noticed he’s never really tried to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do since. Instead, he makes suggestions, and I respect him for that.

I’m not sure how this led to me living there fully. I don’t know how long I went to Southampton for before returning — or even if I did. I don’t remember the conversations around me deciding to stay, and for some reason there’s a real pattern to that. Rarely a clear memory of those huge moments that shaped my life, as if they were just another day for a lost boy running from one place to another.