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CHAPTER 1: Going Home

The morning was like all the others. The college’s erratic heating system came to life at five with it’s usual fanfare of crashes, bangs and whistles, waking John from a less than perfect slumber. Having recovered from that ordeal and returned to the land of nod, he was woken again at two minutes to seven by his body clock. Some people have the luxury of getting out of bed and making it to the warmth of the shower before consciousness kicks in, but not John Dixon. At two minutes to seven every morning he would suddenly wake, alert and cold. The radio would be counting down to seven, when it would be allowed to automatically inflict Radio 1’s latest arsewit of a breakfast show host on the country, and the local magpie would always be squawking in the tree outside, seemingly laughing at John’s misfortune. He would lie there shivering, waiting for the radio to turn on like a lamb before the slaughter, hoping that it’s all a bad dream. He longed with all his heart to wake up in a warm bed in Basingstoke, preferably Steven’s. Of course, that never happened, and so at seven o’clock he pulled back the duvet and hurried across the room to smash the stereo to bits. That was always the intention, though in the end he would just fumble around trying to find some switch, any switch, to save him from Steps. He would then stand there, thinking of a different radio station that the dial could be set to, but the cold would wrap around him, forcing a dash into the pokey but private shower room. The suffering would usually end in there, thanks to the wonders of hot water, shower gel and his right hand.

In reality, this morning was a little different. John went through the same routines as usual, but at the back of his mind he knew that this was the last time, at least for a while. Once he had spent two hours propping his eyes open in Dr Hansen’s Ethics lecture, and forty minutes enduring the ritual humiliation of his weekly tutor group meeting, he would be free. He could pack up his trusty red Golf and head on home to Basingstoke, where hopefully Mum’s mince pies and Dad’s mulled wine would be waiting for him.

The thought of that had been keeping him going for some weeks now. Though he was unlikely to admit it, the first term at Oxford’s Jordan College had been a disaster. He had been unable to shake off the self-loathing and despair that had dogged him since Belvedere’s Prize Day, and had failed to muster the strength needed to make new friends. A few acquaintances had been made through the running team and in his tutor group, but he had not been out socialising with any of them, and he was a virtual stranger to his neighbours in the college. His life had become a routine of early morning and late evening jogs along the river, interspersed with lectures and lonely mealtimes. When alone in his room he would read or work on essays, drowning out the noise of other people’s happy lives with his stereo.

Before going to sleep every night he would have to stop fighting himself and allow his thoughts to run their course. He would think about his parents, his mates, his house and his home town. He would think about who he had once been, and how popular he probably still was in Basingstoke. Most of all, he thought about Steven, and his final words to him at the running track. This often reduced him to tears, forcing the use of his pillow to muffle his sobbing.

Still, he had been through the last of those nights for a few weeks, and could now look forward to the end of the day for once. While out on his run, he dreamily thought of the parties he would go to, the drinks he would have and the friendly faces he would be re-acquainted with. He tried not to think of seeing Steven, because he knew there was little chance their paths would cross, and he doubted whether he would have the courage to go and see him. Even if he could bring himself to do it, Steve would probably slam the door in his face, which was all he deserved.

John reached the halfway point of his run, a secluded bench under a weeping willow on which he would always take a few minutes to sit down. There was nobody about as usual, and so he just sat and gazed at the ducks on the river. He began to wonder how much easier it would be to have no complicated emotions, with one’s thoughts devoted entirely to the source of the next meal, and soon a philosophical state of mind had overtaken him. He did not return to reality until a chaotic splashing and barking startled him, and he looked up to see an overenthusiastic terrier bounding into the shallows in pursuit of a terrified duck. The dog’s owner, a frail and elderly man, was hobbling over to the water’s edge to persuade his pet to leave the poor bird alone, but unfortunately the commotion had attracted the attention of a nearby labrador, which charged over and launched itself into the water in an ungainful dive. The ducks on the river scattered for dear life, leaving the dogs to start playfighting with one another in the water, much to the annoyance of the elderly man and the labrador’s owner, an enormous and formidable lady in full hiking gear. For the first time in several weeks, John smiled.

He returned to the college in time for the day’s second shower and another lonely breakfast. He always went to the refectory at eight o’clock, as there were usually fewer people around, which ensured he could sit as far away from all these strangers as possible. On the few mornings when the tables were crowded, he always found himself gobbling down his food and rushing off, attempting to escape the judgemental stares he thought he was getting. Thankfully on this morning there were only about ten others, so he was able to sit at his favourite table by the enormous windows. From there he could see the elegant rose gardens and arboretum, though of course at this time of year all the flowers and leaves were long gone.

With breakfast out of the way, he had only the academic matters of the day to complete. The lecture was as boring as usual, though as it was primarily for revision purposes he allowed his mind to wander. During the two hours he was able to construct an elaborate excuse for not having done two days of voluntary work in the local hospital, something his tutor was adamant they should all try to do during the term, and as such the ensuing period with his fellow tutees was far less harsh for him than it could have been. When at last his tutor had finished her pep talk on relaxation and revision techniques for the Christmas break, he ran back to his room to collect his stuff together, most of which had been packed away for a week. Within half an hour his car was loaded, and he quietly slipped away from the college, aware that few people would notice he’d left.

The A34 was blissfully empty, and John accelerated the car up to ninety, before remembering that this was his Golf rather than one of his Dad’s fleet of turbos. He reduced the speed to seventy, and began gleefully counting the miles he was getting between himself and Oxford. His heart raced when he reached the A339 and saw Basingstoke signposted for the first time, and once again he had to initiate some self-control to reduce the speed of the car. Little by little the surroundings became familiar, and soon he was navigating the last few turnings to reach his enormous and glorious house. He finally swung his car into the drive, switched off the engine and then took a moment to sit and think.

From the outside, little had changed. The garden had a more wintry feel, and his parents had put up their usual array of festive lights round the outside of the house, but basically things were as John had left them. He got out of his Golf and headed up to the front door, momentarily hesitating before letting himself in. He was a little surprised and disappointed to find the door double-locked, indicating his parents were out, and once inside he was hit by disappointment again when there were no smells of red wine or mince pies. After pointlessly checking around the ground floor for any signs of life, he went back out to the car to start unloading. Hoisting his holdall and rucksack out of the boot, he went inside and up the stairs, noticing that a couple of family photographs had been replaced by paintings. His bedroom door was firmly closed, but once it was open John’s life began to change.

Mrs Doyle had definitely been instructed to clean the room for his homecoming as there was a distinct smell of furniture polish and his bed was freshly made. However, everything else was as John had left it, including his displays of trophies, medals and certificates. There were the photographs of him at various race meetings through the years, and proudly displayed in the middle of his desk was the school yearbook, which his mother had conveniently left open on his page. John dropped his bags on the floor and picked up the annual, smiling at the vast number of signatures and farewells that people had crammed onto the double spread given over to the head boy. He didn’t know who half of the people were, and yet they had all wanted him to remember them, such was his popularity. He sadly put the book back on the table and picked up the school magazine, which had also been conveniently left open on the athletics team article page. He gazed at the pictures of himself, remembering when Steven had come to take them, and he found tears beginning to well up in his eyes.

The sadness quickly turned to rage, and John ripped up the magazine, ensuring every photo of himself was destroyed. His attention then turned to his trophies display, throwing every single one across the room. He smashed all his photo frames, ripping up the prints contained within them, and then started to pull down all the supermodel posters from his wall. He was growling like an animal, with a rigid intensity in his eyes as he destroyed all the relics from his old life. As the last of the posters was reduced to shreds, he collapsed onto his bed and began sobbing like he never had before. Eventually he was so exhausted by his outburst that he drifted into a pained sleep, waking only when he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder.

“Steven?” he whispered, looking up from his pillow. The despair he felt when he didn’t see the one he loved so much was soon replaced by dread as his eyes met his mother’s.

“John?” Veronica said, sounding distressed and desperate.

“Mum…” tried John, but the tears formed in his eyes again. His head flopped back on to the pillow and his sobs returned. He lay there and uncontrollably cried, feeling his mother lean over and rest her head on his back. She was crying too.