The Cigarette Packet
A short story, set in South Wales during either 2005 or 2006
Part I
Before we left, Ieuan showed me the cigarette packet. We were in his bedroom, his dad directly below us, so his voice was more hushed than usual, his movements more restrained. But he couldn’t hide a slight, almost sly smile as he took the pack carefully from the pocket of his black Helly Hansen jacket, while I kept a watchful eye on the door behind him.
“One of my brother’s friends left them here a couple of weekends ago,” he said in a lowered tone, the ends of his mouth bending into a grin. “I’ve been rationing them - one every couple of days. But I wanted to save some for tonight. There’s four cigs left. Maybe five.” Ieuan’s eyes widened, a mixture of self-satisfaction and overexcitement. “This is our night, mate. No more boring bollocks. Proper stories to tell after, like.” He stuffed the pack back into his jacket, then instinctively tapped the pocket to make sure it was still there.
This same cigarette packet would later etch itself in my mind - not just as something Ieuan merely patted, but something he cradled in near desperation too. Ieuan with his cupped hands, shielding it, covering his pocket as he took blow after blow, punch after punch, kick after kick. These two moments - in his bedroom and later on Salem Terrace - would fuse in my memory, intrinsically linked as a kind of formative timestamp: a hopeful before, a rueful after.
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be smoking tonight,” I replied, even though Ieuan hadn’t actually offered me one. I didn’t smoke back then - not yet, anyway. I’d promised my father I wouldn’t. His own memories of smoking were tangled up in childhood trips to the old corner shop by Ynysangharad Road, picking up tobacco for my granddad. He’d often tell me how the living room was soot-thick with smoke growing up. That alone was enough to put him off for life.
As we headed out of Ieuan’s, his dad gave us an absent-minded wave from the kitchen. On the short stretch to catching the train, Ieuan walked a pace or two ahead of me - always restless, always forging in front. Ynyswen station was only ten minutes away, but on nights like this it felt longer. As if time was warped by the weight of significance we placed on even the most mundane experiences. Like we were taking everything in - for future memories, I guess. Most things felt longer in those days; every experience was a touch more monumental.
It’s a cliché, but memories from these times often feel quite kaleidoscopic when they come back to me - fragmented and disjointed, but with certain details sticking out vividly. The sight of younger kids fishing for minnows on the bank of the River Rhondda. A grey stillness over deserted factories on the old Polikoff’s estate. The chocolate and coffee-coloured interior of Carpanini's cafe. Damp boxes of sample materials and discarded picket signs outside the shuttered Burberry warehouse. Endless summer evenings, the warm breeze carried by the distant baritones of the Treorchy Male Voice Choir.
The station at Ynyswen was hardly a station at all. No barriers, no timetables, no boards - just a platform, a sign, and a softly held hope that the train would actually stop. It eventually did, giving Ieuan just enough time to finish the first of his cigarettes. While we waited though, he kept fiddling with his jacket drawstring. “Gonna be good tonight. Bet it’s packed already,” he said breathlessly - not directed to me exactly, more like he was willing it to be true.
Before boarding the train, Ieuan took a final drag and flicked his Benson & Hedges into the bushes. The weekend was just starting, so the two carriages were busier than usual. Kids with scooters loitering by the doors; lads off to Cardiff; community support officers doing the rounds. The atmosphere was upbeat - buoyant even - but on these Valley line trains, there was always a feeling that things could turn lairy in an instant. “There’s always someone who wants to start something,” Ieuan declared, partly joking, but not really.
At Ystrad Rhondda, the track split and the train remained at the platform, pausing to let the oncoming train pass by. Ieuan - half-stood, half in his seat - debated out loud whether he had time for another ciggie, but when he had finally decided, the conductor was already signalling for the doors to close. As we set off again, a group of men across the aisle locked eyes with us briefly, nodding in that unspoken way we all did around here, then cracked open a four-pack of Holsten. By the time we pulled into Llwynypia a few minutes later, their first cans were already finished.
Walking up the station ramp, Ieuan turned to me. “Who’s playing tonight again? Zoë mentioned it the other day, but I forgot.” Zoë went to our school, lived nearby in Tonypandy, and was also going to the gig we were heading to. The way Ieuan said her name came with a figurative eye-roll, a degree of forced nonchalance. He never really talked about girls sincerely - it always came with a joke, or a shrug, or some crude innuendo. I could never tell if it was a defence mechanism or representative of something worse.
Looking back, I can’t even really recall if Ieuan and Zoë were dating at this exact moment in time, but eventually they would. What I do remember is how madly and secretly in love I was with Zoë. Well, “secretly” might not be entirely accurate - in retrospect, this infatuation was probably embarrassingly obvious. Surely both Zoë and Ieuan must have known - sometimes it felt like all I thought about - even if it never got said aloud.
I remember rushing home after school in those days, loading up MSN Messenger, and rehearsing conversation starters to strike up a chat with her. Sometimes - a bit creepy, thinking back - I’d make up plans that Ieuan and I supposedly had going on - usually tied to something Zoë liked and would fancy doing - just to end up claiming that Ieuan was actually busy. “But we could hang out instead?” This strategy - whether subtle or painfully transparent - never really worked out in practice.
At school, though, I mostly ignored her. If Zoë came over to talk between class, or over lunch, I’d just stare at the floor and say nothing. I’d fix my gaze firmly on the ground - sometimes going bright red with embarrassment, other times feeling the blood drain from my head entirely. I seemed frozen with fear - the fear of making a fool of myself if I actually tried to say something back. Yeah, I think people must have caught on. Pretty sure they all knew.
On nights like these, the chance to see Zoë outside school was the main reason I went to gigs. Not the only reason, but the main one. “Uhm, I can’t quite remember some of the bands’ names,” I finally replied to Ieuan. “There’s this 80s-ish new wave act - just one guy and a synth. And that death metal band that scream a lot and wear facepaint - think Bennett’s in that one. Then Zoë’s sister Lena is the bassist with the headliners. They’re more indie.” Ieuan nodded and mumbled “mhm,” suggesting he’d stopped listening halfway through.
Passing the Ivor Hael Hotel and onto Salem Terrace, we turned the corner towards the venue - the back room of a pub called the Pup and Muff. In the Rhondda in the mid 2000s, you didn’t go to the Pup and Muff because it was any good - you went because there was nowhere better. And not much else to do. Outside, the pub had clearly seen better days - beige brick stained with damp and a rusting sign. Inside, it was all dust-filled lace curtains, and stiff, beer-caked carpets that crunched underfoot.
Sure, it was a shit place - but it felt like our shit place. Most nights it was just cover bands and tribute acts - the sort thrown together by a local wedding DJ and propped up by the weird Home Ec teacher on guitar. At the weekend, though, it was like the centre of our own little scene. It’s where the cool kids from school would go, and where you might meet cool kids from other schools. Plus, it was probably the only place where we could actually get served.
As we approached the pub, Ieuan slowed down. “Let’s chill outside for a minute, is it?” The smoking ban wasn’t in effect yet, but he still insisted we hang back so he could light up - just clear of the bouncer’s view. Maybe he was fearful of being turned away - sometimes it felt like the doormen were just looking for a reason. Or maybe he still saw smoking as something he needed to hide. Maybe he was simply so eager for a good night that he just needed to calm his nerves a bit.
Before Ieuan could bring a cig to his lips, Zoë came into sight across the street. Beaming when she spotted us, Zoë began to wave exaggeratedly. That was Zoë - she had that rare gift, the uncanny ability to make you feel lucky in her presence, like you were somehow special whenever she turned her attention your way. Sometimes it felt blinding, but sometimes it felt brief.
Ieuan responded with a jovial captain’s salute, raising his palm to his temple, while I smile-grimaced awkwardly. “Luke! Ieuan!” she called out, and crossed the road toward us. Ieuan stubbed out his cig unfinished, and I fixated on the order that she had said our names. Little things like that would play on my mind for months.
Part II
The gig wasn’t anything special. Truth be told, I don’t remember much of the bands at all - just background wallpaper to another Friday night. The bands played, probably, but none of it left a mark. Instead, the whole evening felt suspended in this sort of restless anticipation. Ieuan and I had a certain itch to us - so desperate for the night to be memorable that things fell a little out of sync.
Not really paying attention to the music, I tried talking to Zoë - a bold move for me - helped along by the two and a half drinks we’d managed to order without anyone checking for ID. First, we ordered a half to test the waters (and the guy behind the bar) then, once that went smoothly, a full pint, and another after that. The older, cooler kids drank Newcastle Brown Ale, so we did likewise. It felt heavier than the cheap lager or cider I was used to, sitting oppressively in my stomach.
Maybe it was the tipsiness. Maybe the queasiness. But the vibes with Zoë felt off - like we’d switched places somehow. I was normally so shy and distant, but had now become sloppy and shambolic - overflowing with rambling words and overeager. I was slurring, sweating, with a gut that was part fire and part malty brown swill. Probably being mocked by anyone within earshot - yet totally oblivious.
Zoë, meanwhile, seemed to switch from the moment we had our hands stamped. Usually so full of zest, so full of zeal, she now seemed distracted - her sea-mist green eyes drifting past me as I waffled on, yelling a bit too loudly into her ear. I kept catching her glancing over at the bar, where a group of older lads in distressed skinny jeans and black tank tops stood propping up the counter, drinking their Newcastle Brown.
After the bands finished, Ieuan and I stepped onto the uneven pavement of Partridge Road. “Well, that was cack, wasn’t it?” he announced, his voice projecting a little higher than needed, like he wanted someone to overhear him. The gig might have been a letdown, but his enthusiasm hadn’t dimmed. “The night’s still young, Lukey boy. Where we heading now?” He fished out a cigarette, scanning the trickle of stragglers for someone to strike up a conversation with. “Surely someone’s got to have a free house or something? It’s bloody Friday!”
Unlike Ieuan, my spirit had taken a downwards turn. The brisk air of a typical Welsh spring evening hit me, sobering me right up. Suddenly I felt drained of the confidence I’d worn for the past few hours like a borrowed suit. I was already dreading everything I’d said to Zoë. And where had she gotten to at the end? She seemed to vanish completely, just when Ieuan and I went to the bar halfway through the headline set. There wasn’t a trace of her when we were walking out either.
“I don’t know,” I muttered to Ieuan. “Guess everyone’s heading home.” He didn’t respond, but I knew he’d heard. I think he wasn’t ready for the night to be over, and was in no mood to admit that it was. His mind seemed to be racing, running through a list of names in his head of everyone we knew - anyone who might still be about.
“Last train’s at ten to,” I said, catching up as he marched off. “We should get into Treorchy just before midnight.” Ieuan was already heading in the direction of the station, but as we walked both of our strides felt a little off-kilter - unsteady from a mild amount of booze on young, empty stomachs. Ieuan eventually spoke: “It’s alright, we can try to pick up some cans at the Spar - that’s still open, yeah? Maybe check in with Gethin round the corner?”
As we walked, I realised neither of us had mentioned Zoë - not directly, not since she had inexplicably disappeared. Maybe she wasn’t on Ieuan’s mind at all - I could never really tell with Ieuan. Or maybe we both knew bringing her up would only underline the disappointment of the night, a letdown neither of us wanted to acknowledge out loud in each of our ways.
After a silence broken only by the scuff of Ieuan’s trainers on the tarmac, I cleared my throat: “Did you see where Zoë got to?” Ieuan looked back and scoffed. “Yeah, bloody deserted us. Reckon she went to that guy’s house in the end? Rhydian, that fella. Older lad - I think he’s at the college in Treforest. He was trying to get people to go back to his.”
Before I could take this in, sudden voices pierced my focus. Muffling yells and laughter, too sharp and too unruly to be friendly, spilled in from the street ahead. It was only when we approached the Texaco petrol station on Salem Terrace that we saw them - five boys on bikes, not much older than us, maybe seventeen or eighteen.
The group immediately clocked us, and we could feel their glares lock in. There was something imposing and hostile about their staring. Soon, Ieuan and I were certain that their shouting was being aimed in our direction. We couldn’t hear what they were saying, but we both felt instinctively uneasy.
Growing up, you’d get used to hearing the odd throwaway comment - “Oi, greebo!” or “Fuckin’ goths!” - from time to time when you walked home at night, but you’d mostly just laugh it off. This felt different, though - these boys had an almost palpable animosity in numbers, their unbridled boredom curdling. We both had the feeling that something was about to happen. Ieuan and I had a similar itch to us earlier, and we could see it in these lads now.
Usually, in moments like this, people say that time decelerates and stretches out - with everything unfolding in slow motion, and each action feeling like a video being played in half-speed. But this wasn’t one of those moments. The first punch landed out of nowhere. One second, their bikes were dumped on the pavement, tyres scraping the kerb. The next, the one in the grey Diadora sweatshirt was coming straight at me, his right fist slamming into my jaw.
After the third punch landed, my vision momentarily blurred and bulged. I remember, just for a second, how the lights from the Ivor Hael in the distance looked like paint on a canvas. But more like the jagged, smeared brushstrokes adorning a Jackson Pollock painting. Then the taste hit me - sharp, metallic, bitter, like copper; or lingering like the aftertaste of Bovril. It was the blood - a trickle ran from my gums to the corner of my mouth and onto my lips.
By this point, the four others had surrounded Ieuan, unloading a relentless onslaught as he took blow after blow, punch after punch. His knees buckled, hips twisting to the side, until his body slumped into a foetal position. As his head hit the ground with a thud, one of the other boys - the one in the Man Utd shirt - began to deliver lashed boots at Ieuan’s unguarded head. Kick after kick.
But instead of shielding his face, Ieuan’s arms lay right by his side, nestled around his jacket pocket. He was protecting the cigarette packet - his cupped hands curling around it, protecting it as if it was the only lifeline left connecting us to a good night.
The sound of Ieuan’s voice cut through the chaos suddenly. It was raw and wild: “Getttt offff myyy fuccckingggg ciggggssss!”
The one who had set upon me spun around, thrown off by Ieuan’s abrupt cry-out, turning to check what the hell was going on. Sensing a window, I picked myself up and then legged it in blind panic. Or was it blind? I guess I knew what I was doing. Looking back now, I recall exactly what my heart felt like in that precise moment - it felt like one of those popcorn bags you throw into a microwave.
I didn’t look back. I just ran - and I mean really ran - in no specific direction, just away from Ieuan and those lads. It’s like I only cared about my own escape, and the possibility of making it out relatively unharmed. Some blood, some scratches, that would be alright, but I needed to get away that second. I don’t think Ieuan’s safety or wellbeing came into my head at all in these moments. As I say, I didn’t look back. What does that say about me?
It wasn’t until I was halfway down the street that I saw the car - a blue Vauxhall Corsa - approaching as I came to a halting stop in the middle of the road. The car’s driver began to beep at me, as I waved my arms helplessly above my head. I thought: what if he swerves and doesn’t stop? Or worse, just drives right into me. My body tightened, gripped by fear. “Help me,” I shouted out, my voice cracking as I did so. “Please help me and my friend!”
The driver - a man maybe in his early sixties, wearing a grey herringbone Dai cap - clambered out from behind the wheel and rushed towards Ieuan and the group, shouting as he approached: “Beat it, boys! Leave ’im the hell alone!”
As he reached them, the lads grabbed their handlebars, scooped up their bikes, and hightailed it in the opposite direction. Soon they were lost in the distance, heading up to the McDonald’s, then down towards Trealaw. We never did see them again.
The man hauled Ieuan up by the scruff of his hood, and I remember how effortlessly he did so - Ieuan’s body looking almost weightless in his grip. He studied Ieuan’s face for a second, then gave him a quick look up and down. As I caught up with them, I immediately noticed Ieuan’s injuries: his left eye bloodshot and ringed with purple, his nose stained with crimson. Letting out a world-weary sigh, the man turned to me and said, “I think you should get him home.”
By this point it was now past midnight, and we’d already missed the last Treherbert train back up the valley. This meant a roughly hour and a half walk home, which was mostly spent with a lingering silence hovering between Ieuan and I. By the time we reached Gelli, our adrenaline had faded, the blood now dried on our faces - but the pain was only just beginning to set in.
The guilt, too, had fully consumed me by this point, struck by the fact that in my cowardly moment I had quite obviously chosen flight over fight. How could I explain that I had decided to save myself instead of saving my friend? How could I explain that to Ieuan? I wondered if Ieuan would ever truly forgive me for running. And what would the people in school say once they found out? I felt a chill trickle down my arms as I thought that.
Ieuan lit the last of his cigarettes and flicked the empty packet into a skip as we passed the tyre shop on the industrial estate. “At least I saved my ciggies, though, innit,” he chuckled, taking a sharp breath as he did so, his left hand now nursing a bruised rib rather than clutching his jacket pocket.
As we approached Treorchy, Ieuan’s demeanour seemed to lighten, which struck me as odd. Maybe he wasn’t as hurt as I thought he was? He took a long puff of the cig and held it to the sky, its faint orange ember glowing briefly like burning coal. “Thanks, by the way, for running to flag down that car. That was a good spot from you. You really are a true pal, you know?”
Part III
It was years later, during one of my flying visits home to Wales, that I saw Ieuan’s face out of nowhere. I was stepping out of a bookshop in Cardiff’s Castle Arcade and, not paying attention to the world, walked straight into a man - virtually faceplanting into him. Before I could mumble an apology, I realised it was Ieuan. He still had that wry look of mischief, though now hidden beneath stubble, while his hair was shaved close - a far cry from the wild mop of curls he’d had as a teenager.
At first, I don’t think he recognised me - maybe just taken aback by the stranger who had bouldered into him, or thrown off by my greying hair. His brow creased in mild agitation, but after brushing himself off and looking up, there was a sparkle of recognition, his expression smoothing into a grin. “Lukey boy!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t think I’d bump into you - bloody literally!” He pulled me into a hug: warm, genuine, free from the usual awkwardness of seeing a long-lost friend.
In that moment, I thought: how long had it been since I’d last seen Ieuan? At least five years – probably more. Add the pandemic and these evaporating years since, and it must have been close to a decade. Over a decade? Surely not. I couldn’t even pinpoint the last time I saw Ieuan. Back when we were younger, it used to feel like we had so much time. Now time slipped by, giving off the sinking feeling that life was unravelling without me. I looked over his shoulder at our tired reflections in the window of the shop opposite and thought about how old we suddenly looked.
“What you doing back then?” Ieuan asked. “Just here for the weekend, is it?” I always flinched at that last line - whether from a friend or family member. The subtext was always clear: I was this absentee, and my returns were invariably short-lived. Deep down, it bothered me because it was true. And I felt bad for it.
When I was younger, I dreamed only of getting out, but now I longed more for that sense of home I had felt as a kid. I often wondered if that strong community feeling and innate pride that flows so easily throughout Wales was actually what I needed again, or if it was too late for that now. Now, I never truly felt like I belonged wherever I lived, and never felt I belonged anymore when visiting home either.
“Ah yeah, only back for the night really. Staying at my parents’ in Ponty, then heading back tomorrow,” I replied, returning a smile I hoped looked sincere. It was sincere - it was good to see Ieuan - I’ve just always struggled to show it on my face.
After that night at the Pup and Muff, Ieuan and I had stayed friends, but as sixth form went on, subtle cracks seemed to appear. Not due to the night itself - I don’t think - nor any major bust-up. More a case of gradual divergence as our personalities took shape, our sense of self fleshed out, and hinted at our separate paths ahead. I suppose it was the small changes that amplified our differences back then.
At school, I decided to spend all my free periods in the library. For the first time, I felt energised by learning. I wanted to be a writer - or journalist - so I read “the classics” and devoured the three national newspapers that the school provided. Every day, I’d take notes on how current events were framed and what that said about each paper’s politics. To Ieuan, this was painfully dull. He’d pester me to play cards in the common room instead. And honestly, I get it - I was being pretentious. Playing Spades or Shithead probably would’ve been more fun.
After sixth form, I moved away from the Valleys - first to Bristol, then London - chasing some faint idea of a career. Ieuan moved west to Aberystwyth - that much I remember. What he studied is fuzzier now. Business Management? Or Criminology? The fact I can’t recall probably says something about me - and my half-hearted role in maintaining our friendship. I have a hazy memory, too, that he dropped out after a year. I think my Mam mentioned it once during one of our fortnightly phone calls. But again, I can’t be sure.
Nowadays, I’ve come to accept it was probably my fault Ieuan and I drifted apart. In my early London years, I’d sometimes wake - hungover and groggy - to 3am texts from Ieuan. They were usually the same: a Brand New song had reminded him of our childhood, or he’d vaguely suggest hanging out “soon”. But I’d feel too rough to reply right away, and would put my phone back down and forget all about it.
A blast of dry, recycled heat from the overhead vents brought me back to the arcade. Ieuan picked up the shopping bags I’d knocked from his hands - one from The Body Shop, one from Moss Bros - and slung them over his shoulder. “You up to much while you’re back?” he asked. I couldn’t tell if he was just curious or fishing for an invite. It would’ve been nice, for old times’ sake, but I’d promised myself I’d start cutting back on drinking. I worried the night would turn heavy, and Ieuan might prove to be a bad influence.
“Just seeing the family, really,” I replied. Then, not knowing what else to say - and not wanting silence so early into our conversation - I just blurted out: “I saw on Instagram that Zoë lives around here now, think she’s in Pontcanna… you two keep in touch?” Ieuan didn’t answer right away, then smirked. “Nah, not seen her in ages. But I should probably be asking you that, aye!” His expression was light-hearted, but knowing. The kind of unspoken insinuation that always made me want to curl up into a ball.
Zoë and I - we didn’t stay in touch much either. I guess there’s a trend forming here. After I went off to uni, I had this naïve idea that I’d return - maybe for that one-year reunion we’d all talked up - and be better, more handsome, cooler somehow. And that those changes would finally impress Zoë. But in reality we just… forgot each other. She got new friends, I got new friends. Once school no longer forced us together, our texting became less frequent, and we had less and less to say.
Looking back, maybe childhood crushes like that are always meant to fizzle out. I had a tendency back then - maybe a developmental phase, maybe something deeper - of mistaking fleeting feelings for something rare and profound; the power of mystery for meaning. And equating shared tastes with compatibility - I’d fall hard and easy if a girl liked Kurt Vonnegut and watched episodes of The Hills. Like, what are the chances? It seems silly now - but that’s part of being young, isn’t it? Turning a glance, or a shared playlist of Funeral For A Friend songs, into a whole big thing.
Even now, talking about her, it’s like I’m only sketching a vague outline of Zoë, rather than a full portrait. I remember what she said, what she liked, how she smiled - but not what she thought, or how she ever felt. I’ve made her into this one-dimensional character, reduced to what I thought - or wanted - her to be. And unfortunately that’s how she remains in memory: a projection, based more on wanting than knowing. Teenage boys are shallow like that. I guess I was just shallow like that.
Feeling the conversation veer into uncomfortable territory, I tried to change the subject. But something about the reunion - plus the initial collision, plus the muggy arcade air - had gone to my head. It was mid-January and the heating felt cranked to full. My palms clammed, sweat inching down my temples. I tried to subtly wipe a bead from my forehead, then cleared my throat. “Ieu - mate, do you remember that night coming back from the Pup and Muff?”
Ieuan raised his eyebrows theatrically. “Which one could you mean? We didn’t half have some beltin’ nights at that shithole, didn’t we?” I remained silent and, after a beat, Ieuan chuckled and gave me a playful punch on the arm. “Only kidding, butty! Of course I remember - the night you legged it into traffic and saved the bloody day! Might’ve even died if you hadn’t seen that bloke coming!” My mouth twitched into a smile, but it was forced this time. I looked down at the ground.
I’d thought about that night often over the years. It wasn’t exactly something that kept me up - nothing that traumatising - but it returned in quiet moments or blue periods. It wasn’t really about Ieuan’s injuries - the bruises faded in weeks. More than that, it was what my fleeing said about me - as a person, as a friend. There’s that cliché: “adversity reveals character,” and that moment - the cigarette packet, Salem Terrace, how I ran for it - always felt like proof of the cowardice I feared lurked deep down inside me.
But beyond that, it was also about the lie that stuck. From our walk home, Ieuan seemed convinced I’d been heroic somehow - that I’d seen the chance to save us and grabbed it. That my running was part of a plan, rather than a purely spineless act. I remember the next week at school, his retelling to anyone who asked about his fucked-up face. “Then Lukey here fought one of them off and flagged down a car - made those bastards run right off!” Hearing this, I’d flinch but play along, then swiftly change the subject. Why didn’t I just correct him? Why was I so obsessed with what other people would think, more than anything else? Why am I still like that now?
I shifted my gaze, instead looking toward the far end of the arcade, where a bright neon sign marked a faux-Parisian restaurant called Maison de Boeuf. It reminded me of the car lights that night as the driver approached - beaming, disorientating, too intense. I looked to the ground, then back up, and took a nervous inhale of breath. “Well, that night. Uhm, something I’ve always wanted to tell you. I don’t know how to put it…”
Each word seemed to stutter in my mouth, my sentences fractured by growing anxiety. Ieuan looked back at me with a totally blank expression, and I tried again. “I think what I’m meaning to say is that it was all a lie. When I ran off, that night, I didn’t even see that car at all - I was just trying to leg it. I wasn’t being a hero, or saving the day, or any bullshit like that. It was me leaving you, it was me making a fucking run for it.”
Hearing this, Ieuan glared at me, his face scrunched with anger in a way I don’t think I had seen before - he was never really a kid to lose his shit. “You fucking what?”, his voice roared, as he dropped his shopping bags to the floor. Inching towards me, he began to roll up the sleeves of his striped Lyle & Scott shirt - almost like a caricature of a cartoon bully. He pressed his forehead against mine and my heart dropped. But then, out of nowhere, he stopped, stepped back and buttoned his cuffs back up. “Only fucking messing, you silly sod!”, he bellowed, letting out a big booming laugh.
I exhaled, my nerves starting to let up. “Really? You’re not mad?!” I replied, the sense of relief plain in my voice. Ieuan chortled, still seemingly amused at having made me sweat. Then his demeanour softened, he snickered, and gave me another affectionate punch on the arm - he used to do that a lot, I remembered. “Nah, not mad. Actually, we’ve probably both been lying this whole time, when you come to think about it.” He paused, and I was more confused than anything else, before he continued. “You never thought that I knew that all along, you daft old twp?”
“On that walk home, I didn’t know what to say for a while,” Ieuan began to explain. “But that was mostly because I was pissed off at those lads. You, though, you seemed more pissed at yourself. I could tell it was properly doing your head in - what I thought of you, what it’d mean for us, how people in school would be talking if they found out what really happened.”
He stopped for a second - allowing me to take it all in. “So I just thought I’d make it easier on you, innit. Then it just snowballed from there. Like, as it went on, you seemed to care more than I did. About the lie, but more about the truth getting out. It meant something to you, didn’t it? I weren’t that fussed, to be honest. So I just let it go and went along with it.”
With that, my body began to lighten. My nausea eased, and the clenched knot in my torso loosened - my stomach no longer felt like it was eating itself. This time, it was my turn to laugh - though I wasn’t sure if it was from relief or from the absurdity of the whole situation. This thing that had stuck with me for so long was likely something that Ieuan had long since let go - it was pretty funny, to be fair.
I don’t remember much of our conversation after that, but I do recall Ieuan and I deciding to grab a quick takeaway coffee from the nearby café, Nighthawks, and probably exchanging some idle chat while we waited. Leaving the arcade, we hugged once more, and signalled wordlessly that we were heading our separate directions. “Well, good to see you, butty,” Ieuan said, in a way that was easy to read as sincere. “Let’s not leave it so long next time, is it?”
I smiled and agreed, just as a sentimental thought came to me. Digging into my tote bag, I pulled out a pack of cigarettes - which had only one left - and turned to Ieuan. “Fancy the last one? I know they’re not Bensons, but for old times,” I said, probably with a right old soppy glint in my eye, tilting the packet open and holding it out to him. Ieuan glanced down at the pack, a flicker of amusement crossing his face, then looked back up at me. “Nah, I quit those a long time ago, mate.”