Charles by Con Riley

21

Only a touch of awkwardness lingered for Charles on the drive to the sculpture garden, but his spirits wanted to lift. The day was so clear it almost sparkled—fresh, but promising more warmth, spring finally segueing into summer. Seagulls hung in the air along the coast road, spiralling up and away like his spirits did once he glanced sideways at Hugo.

Like the view of the sea to their left, his smile went on forever, Hugo soaking up the view as though he was a man fresh out of prison.

“Beautiful day,” Charles said over the rattle of the Defender’s engine.

Hugo swung his head towards him. “It’s perfect,” he said before glancing to the right, where rocky outcrops topped the distant moorland. “Brilliant weekend for them to be camping too.”

“Do you wish you were with them?”

Hugo took a moment to think. “If you’d asked me at any other time,” he eventually said, “I would have said I’d much rather be up there with them.”

“But not today?” Charles asked, a smile of his own creeping out without permission.

“No, not today,” Hugo agreed as Charles turned down a lane lined with sculptures that maybe should have been out of place against the gorse and blackthorn hedging. Instead, each one seemed to beckon that they come closer. “If I take it steady, I’ll be fit enough to go with them next weekend when we break for half-term. That’s the most important practice. But today, I’m right where I need to be.”

Charles hoped the gentle incline of the gardens wouldn’t be taxing, not wanting to set back Hugo’s progress. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

“Absolutely. Been looking forward to it. Apart from going to the pub with you, this is the first time I’ve been out for months that hasn’t involved sitting in a minibus full of students.”

No wonder that fresh-out-of-prison smile had lingered. And, Charles accepted now that Sol had shown him all of that artwork, Hugo jailing himself had probably felt safer than leaving the school for the whole world to stare at what a good deed gone wrong had earned him.

Protectiveness curled inside him, restless, like a dog that wouldn’t settle.

What if people here stared, even though there was so little to look at now that Hugo’s scar had settled?

He let out a relieved sigh when the car park was empty. “Looks like we’re early enough to be the first visitors.” He reached to unfasten his seatbelt only for Hugo to cover his hand on its clasp. Instead of a smile, a more serious expression waited for him. “Hugo? What is it?”

“Charles, are you still thinking about what happened earlier?”

He started to shake his head, but couldn’t help nodding.

“I promise you don’t need to. I’ve only ever said positive things about you to Nathan,” he said as if Nathan’s opinion of him mattered. “And if he’s clever enough to read Latin for pleasure, I’m sure he’s smart enough to know I was definitely talking about Luke.”

Charles nodded again, but Hugo’s head only tilted, and his eyes narrowed. “The thing about confession is that you’re meant to be able to move on from it. Not forget exactly, but forgive. If you’re feeling bad because you listened in, I promise you don’t have to.” A deep line marred his forehead. “Other people should feel badly though, if they’ve set you up to believe you’ve nothing serious to offer, or aren’t worth”—he struggled for the right word—“praising. But you don’t. So how about we start the whole day over? Right here. Right now.” Hugo’s gaze dropped to the level of his mouth. “We’re two men, getting some fresh air and a bit of culture. Walking. Talking.”

“Taking things slow?” Charles offered.

“Yes.” Hugo beamed as though Charles had solved a complex equation, his smile crooked. “That’s exactly what we’re doing.” Hugo’s hand still covered his. He squeezed it and said, “Shall we?”

They walked to a turnstile where an honesty box waited. Charles fished for his wallet, but Hugo beat him to it. “Let me pay.”

“But coming here was my idea.”

“And it’s doing me a massive favour.” He dropped money through the slot on top of the box and they entered a walled garden.

The path led them to a view that Charles stopped at—couldn’t have walked past without pausing—and he’d seen some beautiful spots in the world, even if fleetingly between bars and bedrooms. “Wow.”

Hugo must have been surprised by it too. He almost stumbled, taking the hand Charles offered and holding it even after he’d steadied, not letting go, tightening his hold as if to say, “Can you see that?”

They shared a breath-taking moment of natural beauty, and the rough start to their morning left Charles, rolling off his shoulders like a weight he hadn’t known he’d carried—a weight he could let go of while watching Hugo take in a view that was stunning. The sea, the sky, the gardens snaking their way downwards were all breathtaking. He squeezed Hugo’s hand in return, a smile that felt natural finally spreading.

“Gorgeous,” Hugo said, but he wasn’t looking at the view as he said it.

Charles found Hugo’s gaze locked on his mouth again, and his face lifted as well, like a flower might to the sun. How did they know to do that, he wondered as Hugo’s lips brushed his. Know how to follow the sun, like his mouth sought to follow Hugo’s?

Science didn’t seem enough of an answer.

Surely it must be magic?

Hugo’s kiss was too, casting a soft spell that lingered, like this shared, intimate moment.

Hugo eventually pulled back, but he didn’t let go of his hand, fingers snug around his as they meandered, following pathways between sculptures and flower beds, the greenery lush, flourishing in the balmy Cornish microclimate.

Charles paused beside a sculpture of a young woman, moss clinging to the hem of her bell bottoms. A ringlet of stone flowers crowned her long hair. He touched one as Hugo read a sign. “This is the owner. Her husband carved this after they met. Oh—”

“Oh, what?” Charles tugged him closer without thinking, relieved that didn’t cause Hugo to stumble again. Instead, he remained steady—so much more so than when they first met.

Less than a month ago, Charles thought. Feels like forever.

“She was a student of his.”

“To be fair, he wasn’t a cradle snatcher,” a woman said from behind them. “I was a final-year student at art college, a very long time ago.”

Charles twisted to see an older woman holding secateurs and a basket. “And we didn’t actually get together until after I graduated. The spark was there though. Just looking at him gave me tingles. Made my chest fizz. Made every day exciting.” Her gaze dropped to their linked hands. “I imagine you know the feeling.”

“Oh, I…” Charles tried to extricate his fingers but Hugo’s grip didn’t let up. If anything, it strengthened.

“Yes,” Hugo said, firmly enough that Charles stopped trying. “The last few weeks have been far from boring.”

The woman’s eyes twinkled. “Only a few weeks? How lovely.” She pushed back strands of hair as grey as the stone her husband had carved her from. “I remember when my son brought home his first serious boyfriend. I knew the moment I saw them together. Tingles,” she said, smiling. “Five years later and Ed’s just as smitten with Pash.”

Charles didn’t get a chance to say that they weren’t exactly boyfriends before she pointed to the next section of garden through an archway. “I need to get on with my deadheading, but if you go that way, the memorial garden they made together is next. I hope you enjoy it.” Her smile flickered. “Or at least I hope you appreciate the message behind it. Some people need to look twice.” She took another pathway, leaving them alone where she’d found them, hand-in-hand together.

“Sounds mysterious,” Hugo murmured, still not letting go.

“Very.” Charles watched light play across a face as rugged as the tors they’d driven past on the way here. It softened when Charles asked, “Want to take a look with me?” He led the way, single-file where the path narrowed, his arm trailing behind while Hugo kept hold of his hand. Charles walked through an archway smothered in honeysuckle. He almost choked once through it, but not due to the honeysuckle’s thick, sweet scent.

Here was the memorial the website had mentioned, dedicated to service personnel from Cornwall—a place he had thought Hugo might find some peace in, but now he couldn’t see how. It wasn’t a memorial in any way that he’d expected.

This was not a peaceful garden.

It was a detonation.

An implosion hemmed by shattered walls and wreckage.

A bomb going off couldn’t have left more damage.

Charles halted the moment he saw it.

Hugo bumped into him. Before Charles could turn back to usher him the way that they’d come, Hugo let go of his hand. He wrapped an arm around his chest instead, holding Charles steady as though he was the one at risk of falling. “Charles, what’s the mat—” Then Hugo saw for himself, going stock-still behind him.

How can this be a memorial?

It’s carnage.

What the fuck was I thinking bringing him here?

“We can take another path,” Charles offered. “We don’t have to walk through here. It’s—”

“Devastating,” Hugo said, his voice so quiet that the sea breeze almost carried it away. “I’ve….” Hugo found his hand again and led the way through what had, at first glance, looked like chaos. The garden was filled with shards of metal surrounded by the type of mortared, crumbling walls Charles had only seen in TV coverage of bombed-out buildings. “I’ve been here before.” As soon as he’d said it, Hugo shook his head. “No. Not here, exactly, but….”

Of course, Hugo had seen the real deal first-hand, but he didn’t shy away from this reminder. Instead he toured the section with Charles beside him.

His first circuit was in silence that Charles didn’t shatter. Couldn’t. Not while holding his breath.

“The plants are taking over,” Hugo finally said on their second circuit. “Look. They’re starting to cover some of the wreckage.” He stood by a section of wall that had been used as a canvas, weathered paint flaking from it. “What’s that painted near the bottom?”

Charles crouched, pushing ivy away that had protected artwork from the weather. “Two little boys, I think.” He pushed aside more leaves. “It’s… I think it’s a painting of this garden.”

Hugo found another sign that gave more information. “Each section of this wall was brought back from camps in Afghanistan after the army pulled out. Soldiers had marked the names of the fallen on some of them. Used them as memorials. Ah….”

“What is it?” Charles stood and crossed over the pathway to the sign that Hugo read from.

“That woman we met? Her son was out there. Stationed at Camp Bastion. Had some experience with explosions, the poor sod,” Hugo said with feeling. “I’ll never forget what getting shelled was like. I couldn’t see. Had so much blood in my eyes. Then there was smoke so thick I tasted it for weeks. Lost sight of Nathan….” He paused, Charles not knowing how to fill his silence. “Even with all of my injuries,” he eventually said. “I’m not sure I felt any pain until I heard he was alive. Not sure how to explain, but even with faith I was numb until that moment. It all happened in the blink of an eye, but”—he tapped his temple—“it goes on forever.”

He returned to the sign he’d been reading. “Looks like her son started this garden as part of getting over what he’d witnessed in Helmand Province. Oh….” He seemed to deflate. “He lost his best friend there.” He pointed to the segment of wall Charles had knelt by. “That’s all he brought back. Then more and more soldiers brought relics here too. Left them here so they could move on. Now her son runs a local business.” He glanced up from the signage. “True Grit. Huh. I’ve seen his minibus up on the moors. It’s good he’s moved on.”

“And that he has a boyfriend who gives him tingles?”

“That too.” Hugo drew in a deep breath, his exhale a long gust. “A happy ending for him, at least.”

And that was what this part of the garden was about, Charles guessed. Life moving on after disaster. Nature finding the smallest crack to take root in and flourish.

Tor came back to his mind. Maybe it was the blond hair of one of those boys painted on the wall he’d knelt by. Or perhaps it was being surrounded by remnants of what other soldiers like Tor’s father could have experienced—might still be trapped in—but Charles couldn’t hold in a question.

“Do you think something like this would help Tor?”

“Help him?” Hugo stopped reading the sign. The sun struck his face, leaving nothing hidden. “What do you mean?”

“Until you sat with him in the thinking corner, I don’t think he’d had a chance to really get out how he was feeling,” Charles explained. “He was lighter afterwards. Then yesterday, he said he keeps his wish list silent, remember? I don’t know if he can talk about his dad at home. And Ruth hushed him when he tried to talk about him at lunch, remember? Not knowing what’s going on with his dad must feel like this.”

He turned to gesture at twisted spikes of rusting metal. “Only wrapping around him. He’s having to lock all his feelings inside when getting them out might be better. If he could see, or help make something like this that gets out those frightening feelings, he might not feel that running away from them was his only option. I could focus on art with him next week. Saturate him in it. Maybe ask Sol to help him too. Do you think I should suggest it?”

He turned back to find Hugo watching with an expression he couldn’t decipher.

Charles dropped his gaze, not wanting to see Hugo judge his ideas the same way he’d got used to in his last job. “I mean, I wouldn’t do anything his mother or Ruth didn’t want me to.” But he couldn’t help standing up for Tor. “It’s just that little children are observant, that’s all,” he blurted, aware he must’ve sounded desperate. “I’ve seen it. Anyone who pays attention must have. Like when families split up. Even young children realise talking about it upsets their parents.” He’d seen it enough times to recognise what sometimes only deep play could set free.

“They start to process if they’re allowed to show how they’re feeling. It’s called acting out for a reason. If Tor had a safe place to do that he might be better able to manage when… if…” His gaze rose, meeting Hugo’s. “Whatever’s happened to his father, he needs to play his way through it.” He swallowed. “We need to help him do that. All of us. Soon, I think.”

“Because?” Hugo asked. He caught Charles by the elbows, drawing him closer. “Tell me.”

“Because if he can’t trust us to help him while his dad’s missing, why should he if his dad’s actually d—” He couldn’t make himself say the word. “It’s not fair to let that happen.” And dammit, now his eyes had started to well, emotion brimming before spilling.

He didn’t expect Hugo to thumb away the wetness.

Charles pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. “Stupid pollen. Should have taken an antihistamine before we set of. I’ll be right as rain in a minute.”

“That’s not pollen.” Hugo waited until Charles lowered his hands, sight blurred until he blinked. Then he saw that Hugo’s eyes shone too. “It’s you…” Hugo bent as if to kiss him. “It’s you being…”

Charles wound his arms around Hugo’s neck, clinging like the ivy on the walls shielding this garden, and kissed him to stop him from speaking.

Hugo didn’t try to finish. His lips parted and Charles mirrored the same movement, shifting so their mouths slotted together, each of them giving and taking, supporting each other.

Somewhere nearby, a bee buzzed between blossoms, and a blackbird sang, its tune lilting upwards.Everything inside Charles rose like the blackbird did in flight. Only Hugo’s hold kept him grounded. The touch of his tongue set off more of that fizzing, which bubbled each time Charles saw him; was touched by him, was listened to, as well.

They kissed, and he felt Hugo’s shiver despite the sunshine and the shelter of the walls around them.

Isn’t this all backwards?

Shouldn’t kissing the same person start to feel less explosive?

Have him on far less of a knife-edge?

So how come he felt stretched so tight that another kiss might snap him?

He pushed his fingers through Hugo’s hair, the slide of it doing something to him, and he groaned into his mouth.

Hugo broke off, gasping, easily as shattered as the ruins that framed him. Here, in this place of broken pieces, a memorial of lives that had been cut short, or were left as scarred as Hugo, he had never seemed more alive—vital, present, and everything Charles wanted.

Needed.

Would keep, if that were an option.

That wish came from nowhere.

His heart pounded, almost loud enough to drown out what Hugo finished saying.

“…it’s you, being perfect for me.”

Charles was lost for words until Hugo said, “You asked if I wanted to go slow.”

Hugo caught his mouth one more time.

“Ask me again.”