The Lost Boy - Chapter 6 – part three - Buffets, Bottles, and Breaking Points

Living with my girlfriend in Northampton… a lot of it is blurred. The timelines don’t quite match, and I have no memory of the actual moving-in day. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t one. I can’t imagine young Gareth sitting down for a proper, grown-up conversation about the situation.

I’ll tell you how I imagine it happened: I was probably there a lot already, spending days together, staying over occasionally. Then, as soon as it was even vaguely possible, I would have got my feet firmly under the table. Before anyone knew what was happening, I just… didn’t go anywhere.

Like I said, I can’t remember the details — but that’s how I picture it. And it’s not to say it was an intentional master plan. If that is how it played out, I’d have had some idea of what I was doing, sure. But mostly I’d have been floating through it, enjoying our company. There would have been a seed of “what this could become” in my mind — and I liked the idea enough to quietly manipulate it into being, rather than manifest it with any real clarity or intention.

This whole section of time is just snippets of memories — no real timeline apart from a mixed-up middle and a fucked-up end.

So let’s start with the middle.

And let’s start with the fond memories… well, sort of. The first fond one leads straight into a shitter. How about that? I have to laugh now, although at the time there was nothing funny about it.

We used to go out occasionally. I don’t think she was a big drinker, but me? I’d take any opportunity to drink and lap it up — literally. The one night that stands out, we walked into a bar/club in Northampton. It wasn’t very busy, and we hadn’t had much to drink yet, but I was definitely not sober. Well on my way.

I don’t think we stayed long, but long enough to get a drink. I was standing with her, pint in hand, when she bumped into someone she knew — a lad, smaller than me, that’s about all I remember.

“This is my boyfriend, Gareth,” she told him, nodding towards me. I did the polite thing — offered him my hand. He took it. Quick handshake… and then everything went sideways.

Before I even knew what had happened, my face met his head. Quick as you like — bang! Sharp pain, and the realisation that the little fucker had headbutted me.

He still had my hand, my other hand still holding a half-full pint glass. Headbutting him back wasn’t an option, walking away definitely wasn’t. So before even I knew what I was doing, I smashed the glass into the side of his head — ear and temple, I think. I didn’t see any blood, didn’t have time to look.

Next thing, she had me by the arm and was dragging me out before anyone knew I was involved. At 5ft nothing, she hauled me out quicker than any bouncer could, and sure enough, as we left, the bouncers were heading the other way towards the scene.

We were practically running up the road, and she’s shouting at me. Shouting. At. Me.

“What the fuck was I supposed to do? He fucking headbutted me!” I remember saying, genuinely shocked I had to explain this.

“You don’t know what you’ve done! They don’t just leave that!” she warned.

Fast forward a bit — there’s a phone call. Either the guy himself or his mates. She’s on the phone smoothing things over, apologising, telling them I was sorry. Pft. Was I fuck. In my head, I wanted him and his mates — round two, please.

Looking back, maybe she was right to be worried. Maybe they were dirty fighters. Maybe I could have been stabbed. I don’t know. What I do know is she managed to de-escalate it, nothing more came of it, and somehow we didn’t even fall out over it.

I also remember breakfast buffets. I loved a breakfast buffet. Always told myself they helped me recover — probably did help the hangover a bit, soaking up the booze and sending me into a food coma. Either way, it was a fond memory. Food always was.

We’d sometimes go to a world buffet too. Just as lush, just as coma-inducing. Thinking back, the food was probably shit, but it was all-you-can-eat for one price — and I’ve never been one to do things by halves, especially when it comes to indulgences.

There was a holiday in there somewhere as well — Sharm el Sheikh. A full week in the sun. And it was so damn hot. We’d gone in the height of their summer and even the Egyptians were struggling.

We met another family out there and got on really well with them. Me and the bloke managed to score some hash — we were chuffed with that. Smoking weed, drinking, and puffing away on shisha pipes in the evening. I’m sure I remember a water park, and we definitely swam with dolphins. There’s a picture somewhere of me getting a smooch from one — proper cheesy grin on my face.

And then there was the proposal. It wasn’t a surprise — we’d already looked at jewellery together and chosen the ring. But I remember the moment feeling really awkward. Not because I didn’t mean it, but because I felt nervous and almost silly. That probably said more than I realised at the time. I didn’t get down on one knee. Instead, I slid the ring onto her finger in some kind of ritualistic way, rather than romantically.

She had a two-year-old son. He was funny for the most part, and a right little terror for the rest. I wanted to rule a toddler with discipline — that’s what I thought was right. She preferred a calmer approach, but would sometimes let me take the lead.

Bedtimes were a nightmare. Drove me nuts. That was adult time, and he was ruining it. Selfish, insolent little shit. I never coped well with toddlers — mine or anyone else’s. I thought kids should do as they were told, no questions asked. I know where I got that from — Dad was ex-military, and even though he left when I was young, I guess some of that stayed lodged in me.

I was probably a bit rough with him at times. I’d manhandle him to where I thought he needed to be — and not gently. I did smack his bum once or twice. Not a hiding, but still not okay. Not because I’m saying smacking a child is always wrong — though it wouldn’t be my choice now — but because I did it when his mum didn’t know. She wouldn’t have been okay with that.

I’m not proud of how my parenting style has been over the years in some ways, though I did soften with each one of my own children.

He was mixed race — which didn’t and doesn’t matter — but I remember one night when I was drunk, I ended up in a conversation with his dad. I’m not racist, I can assure you… but that night, I was. I made racial slurs towards him and tore him down as a father. Another one of my lowest points — something I’ll never forget and never repeat.

The next day he got a call with an apology, but you can’t undo that sort of thing. He wasn’t confrontational at all. If he’s reading this — know that I was, and still am, truly sorry. I had no right to badmouth you the way I did. It was disgusting.

And there it is — what was supposed to be a section of fond memories turns out to be a catalogue of fond moments leading straight into shit ones. I don’t think that’s a fair reflection of the whole relationship, but it’s a fair reflection of me, and who I was at that point.

Not every bad memory came from a fond one. Some were just shit from the start — raw, real, and horrible.

There’s one that stands out because, for the most part, I didn’t see myself as abusive in this relationship. I may have shouted and screamed at times, but I never got physical and I wasn’t controlling, at least from what I remember. She was fiery herself and difficult at times, and I’m sure she’d own that now — we’ve spoken occasionally over the years, so I can say that with confidence.

I don’t remember the trigger or even the subject of this one argument, but I do remember her sitting on the sofa and me, in a fit of rage, throwing a cushion at her. She jumped back and cowered slightly before giving me a smirk. It might not sound like much, but it stuck with me. Because I really did love her, and I didn’t want to mistreat her like that — not that I ever wanted to mistreat anyone. But the fact it stayed in my memory tells me it mattered.

Another moment that’s stuck with me is me sitting with my head in my hands — I’m pretty sure I’d even hit myself in the head a couple of times in frustration. She was standing nearby, looking down at me, and mocking me:

“Look at you, you fucking weirdo!”

And she was right. It probably was a bit weird — a young man completely unable to channel his emotions into anything intelligent, trapped in the confusion of knowing what I wanted to say but not being able to express it in a way anyone else could understand. That frustration built into rage, and the head-in-hands was my way of trying to contain it.

Those moments — the cushion throw, the head in my hands, the heavy breathing that almost turned into frothing at the mouth, or breaking down into tears — they weren’t one-offs. They were relived in multiple relationships over the years. It was the same struggle every time: the inability to communicate what I felt in a way that could be understood, in a way that didn’t come across as anger and trigger an angry or defensive response, and the emotional overload that came when I failed.

I did manage to get and hold a job down whilst living with her. I started with an agency, and the company I worked for were so impressed they took me on directly. I worked in the stores department for a company that made machines to measure pollution — in a nutshell. My job was to pick parts for the engineers, check the quality of items we machined, and keep the storeroom well organised.

I loved it there. I loved the team. I felt like I belonged. I felt valued. I still carry that feeling with me now. I mattered there, for some reason — or at least I felt like I did. The job came with healthcare, a reduced-price gym membership, and a decent salary. I even got myself a nice bike through the cycle-to-work scheme.

Some days I’d cycle to work and then to the gym after; other days I’d run to work and run home. I don’t know how long I kept that routine up, but it felt like a while. I enjoyed running too — I got quite quick. My best time for 3 miles was 21 minutes, and I’ve never forgotten that.

But somewhere along the line, there was a decline. With money came freedom, and for me, freedom back then meant drinking more. I’d get a bottle of Southern Comfort and four bottles of ale, and sometimes go back out for another four in the same night. I think it was just weekends, but maybe more — I’m not sure. I am sure, though, that this was the start of the decline.

And in the same style, trend, and pattern I was threading into every section of my life — running into the next thing as I ran away from the very thing in the previous part — I started the cycle again.