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Chapter One – Tea, No Sugar
Ali’s throat constricted and his vision narrowed to each white, pock-marked chip along the doorframe.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Morgan.’ The secretary, a woman with strands of grey threaded across her hair, placed a hand on his arm.
Ali jerked it away. He steadied himself against the wall, the tiles edged in grime dampening his hand. The last thing he wanted was to be touched.
Ali wanted to talk to Trevor, but the kids in the classroom behind him wouldn’t wait. Trevor always knew what to say; he’d fold Ali into a hug, and the world would melt away.
High above the row of lockers, light streamed into the whitewashed corridor.
Ali had expected his father to die. They’d all seen it coming, but the news still caught him off guard. Bitter memories mixed with bile in his throat, threatening to boil over if he didn’t speak, didn’t keep moving. Move forward; there’s no use in getting hung up on today, his father would have said while reaching for another beer.
‘Thanks.’ An automatic response. ‘I’ll finish this class. Can you arrange cover for the rest of today?’ Ali’s voice came out hollow and distant. The secretary squinted at her phone in response. ‘Where’s Janet?’
Ali’s mum might have finished for the day because she only came in part-time now. She didn’t have the energy to be around people all day anymore. Not after the way his father had ground her down.
‘Your mum took the call. She’s in the staffroom but wanted me to let you know.’
Typical Janet. She’d hate the scene it would cause, and smoothing things over as quickly as possible was more her style. He wasn’t sure if her tears would be real or fake today. Ali knew she remembered a time before his father’s drinking started.
He’d only witnessed her tears once before during the summer holidays after his A-levels. On the day she caught Ali with his pants around his ankles as he sat on the edge of the bed, and her tears had fallen thick and fast before Ali shoved George from between his legs and slammed the door in her face. His parents’ arguments escalated after that. And by the time Ali left for university, the three of them—Ali, Janet, and Grant Morgan—became three islands, each made of the same sand but separated by stormy seas.
‘Thank you. I should be getting back.’
‘Anything you’d like me to pass along to your mum? I’m going back that way.’
‘Tell her…’ Congratulations is what he wanted to say. She’d finally won. Grant drank himself to death because Ali had pushed him to his limit, pushed him over the edge. He coughed.
‘Tell her I’m sorry.’ In response, the secretary nodded and, with a weak smile, spun on her feet and left with her heels clattering down the tiled hallway.
A hushed classroom greeted Ali on the other side of the door. Unusual for this early in the afternoon when students were likely wired from snacks at lunch and lack of rest. High school students could be a handful at times, but they clearly sensed something was wrong today. Despite their outward appearance of tough, scowling, sneering teenagers, they were a good bunch. They’d given him hell in September, but nearing the Christmas break, they’d developed some trust.
‘You alright, Mr Morgan?’
‘Yeah. You look rough, sir.’
Ali ran his hands over his hair. He wanted a drink, but that would have to wait. Right now, he had to get through the rest of this class. One day at a time. The students sank back to their work, heads bowed over their English coursework folders. Even the regular troublemakers on the back row had unplugged their earphones and looked to be actually working.
Ali circled the classroom on autopilot, looking over shoulders and pointing out errors in the students’ work.
His father was dead. The father he knew in his teens, the one who appeared after the drinking began. The one who Ali had failed and let down. A warmer one existed further back in his memory. A father who taught him to ride a bike, who brushed off his knees when he fell. A father—
‘Sir. Can you look at this?’
Startled, Ali lowered himself into a chair beside Paul. The gnarled, ink-splattered pages of Paul’s work spread out across the desk. They were aiming for a passing mark, but Paul’s ADD symptoms meant sustained focus produced paragraphs of widely varied lengths and mismatched grammar strewn across the page.
Ali blinked, and Paul’s expectant gaze met his. The words on the page crisscrossed and the letters bled into each other. But Paul had rewritten this page multiple times, and it now resembled something they could work with. ‘This is nice, Paul. Here—pull back on the description of that house and take us inside with the character.’
Paul nodded alongside him. He had a wonderful imagination but often couldn’t get the words on the page to match up with what was in his head.
‘Thanks, sir. I’ve been trying to do what you said. Live inside the characters. And I think it’s working.’
‘I can see that.’
‘It’s way better, sir.’ Abby, seated on the opposite desk, giggled, and a glow crept into her cheeks. ‘And it actually makes sense now. I felt something.’
‘I bet you did—’
‘That’s enough. Thank you, Marcus.’ Ali side-eyed the boy elbowing his friend, cracking jokes like they didn’t have a care in the world.
As Ali stood to address the class, his gaze fell on the back of heads moving in unison with pens skating across paper. If they messed up this year, it could change their lives forever. Ali’s father had always focused on Ali’s faults. Ali’s attempts at art or stories were met with a sneer or thrown out straight away if his father had been drinking. The crumpled edges of the paper peeked from the kitchen bin in the morning next to green wine bottles and beer cans.
‘You should be really happy with how that’s turned out, Paul.’ The boy grinned in response to the praise. ‘Really excellent. I’m pleased for you. Ten minutes left, everyone.’
The rest of the class passed in a blur. After packing his bag, Ali checked his phone again; they’d arranged to meet in their usual spot. Not hidden, but out of the way.
Trevor stood facing him in the shadow of the lockers at the end of the hallway. Ali wanted to place his hand on the blue knitted arm of Trevor’s sleeve. He didn’t dare. Not during school hours.
‘I don’t think it’s sunk in yet.’
‘It’ll take a while.’ Trevor smiled, his gaze hovering over Ali’s shoulder before returning to meet Ali’s own. He nodded to a pair of students who noisily walked past. The two girls nudged each other and giggled.
‘I’ll take a walk. Clear my head.’
‘How’s your mum?’
‘She went home already. I’ll ring her later.’
Trevor nodded in reply. Ali didn’t have anyone else to call. Not many people gave a shit about Grant Morgan at this point. Ali chewed his lip.
He glanced behind him and, seeing the empty corridor, planted a quick kiss on Trevor’s cheek. He’d expected waves of emotion or some great unveiling of truth when his father eventually passed. All that hung over him was a heavy loneliness.
Trevor’s eyes filled with concern and creased at the edges.
‘Don’t get wasted, okay?’
Standing on the road outside of the school, with the sunshine warming his neck and a breeze touching his cheeks, Ali floated through his grief like a man in a place where nothing had existed for a long time.
He’d walk home slowly. No point in rushing now. The grey pavement rolled under his feet. This was what people did when someone died—they soaked it in. Lived it. He’d read that somewhere.
On Easton Road, the pub door swung open before Ali had decided to go in. The scent of ale and the bitter tang of wet dog pressed together with leather polish and bleach. He’d only have one drink. His dad would have taken a drink. And another one, and Grant wouldn’t have stopped until he was spread out on the floor.
So early in the week, the pub was dim and quiet at this time. The tan carpet indented from the barstool. Ali’s knees pushed up against the wooden bar and he smiled at the barman. He’d have a gin, thanks.
Sharp on his tongue, that first sip, always the sweetest. His dad was a whisky guy. Gravel-voiced and yellow-stained fingers from the Bensons. He’d been a carpenter most of his life. A white-van man, down at the pub at lunch for one with his pie. Then a couple more beers after work.
This was the kind of pub Grant would go to. Ali had jobbed with the crew for a couple of summers during high school. All those men, coarse words, builder’s cracks, an underlying sexual energy he’d picked up on. His father hadn’t asked him to work with them again. Not after he’d been caught with George and his boxer shorts around his knees.
A guy in a hi-vis vest at the bar leaned across to the barman. He caught Ali’s look and winked.
Sober, Ali barely looked at another guy. But with alcohol in his system, he ramped up inside and his feelings for Trevor took on a glassy quality. It wasn’t that he forgot about him, yet Ali’s selfishness and sexual urgency grew and filled the space in his head. Anyway, they had both been with a couple of other guys. Trev’s gym was a hot bed of horny men, and it just meant getting your rocks off. Meaningless, really.
After a couple of drinks, it didn’t matter who Ali fucked. The booze drowned the shame, and all he craved was release.
Hi-vis guy toyed with his straw and glanced over his shoulder again before turning away when Ali showed little interest. Men could be fickle and wanted to drink and fuck. Fuck and drink.
No, he didn’t want that tonight.
He’d told Trev he’d be home for dinner.
Ali didn’t have a drinking problem. His father had just died. They’d expected it because it was impossible not to look into Grant’s watery eyes, and see those veined cheeks, and know something was close to bursting. Grant had looked pickled from the inside when Ali had last seen him. Propped up in bed, his wheezy breaths interspersed with a hacking cough and mucus spit drooling down the side of the plastic bottle he kept by the bed.
Seeing his father that way had inspired Ali not to repeat the same mistakes. He wouldn’t live his life that way. Allowing the drink to come between himself and the world wasn’t for him. He wasn’t like that and wouldn’t do the same.
One for the road. Ali’s gin and tonic glistened on the bar, beads of condensation pooling on the brass fixture and dark stained wood. He eyed the back of the barman. His black shirt stretched nicely across his shoulders and tapered down into dark jeans at the back.
The edges of the smooth bar rippled warm across Ali’s fingertips. It was cold outside now; the bar doors opened and closed, letting in gusts of brisk December air. The chill blunted against Ali’s skin, the warmth of the alcohol seeping in alongside the roar of the open fire at the other end of the bar. He rumbled the ice cubes in the glass. Another one would send him over the edge. That much Ali knew—the rickety bridge between enough and too much. His foot tapped to the music coming over the speakers. He could dance. He was so close to dancing, but not yet. He would need another drink or two. Then he’d be on his feet. And the night was still young.
Trevor hated dancing. They’d been out last weekend. Their anniversary—they didn’t call it that, but Ali had kept count of the days since they’d met. Figures and numbers always made him feel safe. And he’d counted the days. One by one. Counting towards his father’s death, or away from the moment he met Trevor. A flicker of winter against his ankle when the pub door swung open.
He wanted to commit to Trevor. To throw all these other guys and bad mistakes into the past where they belonged. They could make a go of it.
Trevor expected him home. Another drink would smooth the edges, anything to escape his own thoughts. Ali knew how to cover over his own cracks and sand away the rough edges of the world. Navel-fucking-gazing, his dad would say.
Get a fucking grip. Ali swirled the ice cubes and tipped the glass. The lime fell with the remaining slumped ice cubes, and he took them in his mouth. His tongue touched the sharpened corners, but they melted away along the edge. Like most things in this shitty life, they stood up for a brief moment but quickly fell away when any pressure was applied.
The barman took his glass and cocked his head to one side. Another one, then he would go. The door banged open—winter outside. It was nearly Christmas, and his dad had just died. Trevor was waiting for him at home. His warm home, where he had everything he needed. He didn’t need to sit in this bar and drown himself like this.
Trevor waited at home for him. That was what he needed because he’d known for a while that his father’s drink problem bled into his own life. He wasn’t going to let it happen again.
Home. That’s where he should be.
Tea, No Sugar – Morgan Klein
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