IceBerg - 1. Chapter 1

‘Hello? Hello? Sir?’
I take a sharp increase of breath. My eyes are still heavy from last night. I snatch a glance up. The sun is blazing behind this person, and I squint a little more.
It’s an older man.
He bends down, I can see his black robes, his white collar, and greying thin hair. He’s smiling at me. Blue eyes, and they’re full of kindness.
‘Are you okay, son?’
My back aches from lying against the wooden church door all night.
I gulp, bowing my head down, ‘I, um. I am sorry, Father, I will, I will move away.’ Face flushed with hot humiliation; I attempt to scrabble myself up. I lean against the wooden door with my cold hands. He is going to shout at me. Sleeping outside a church door with nothing but my grey hoody and baggy trousers isn’t the image of a saint.
I pull my hood over my head as much as I can.
I have no idea where I am. Think I am somewhere between Newport and Cardiff. Nowhere near home.
His hand grabs my arm, ‘Would you like some food?’
Why isn’t he shouting at me, telling me to go away?
I pause. I give a sharp little nod, my voice low and gravel, ‘Yes, um. Yes, please.’
Clearing my aching throat, I watch him reaching forward beside me. I give him some room so he can unlock the door. It sweeps wide open, he walks in first, holding the door for me. I keep my head low, as I hurry in.
I follow him down the pews, the old floorboards echo out our footsteps. The incense is not too strong, but it is still lingering in the air.
Just like Mum’s church.

When we arrive at the back of the building, he opens a small door to a grey room. All that is inside is a small table, some cupboards, some chairs, a sink and a microwave. This must be the kitchen area.
A chair is pulled out for me. I perch on the edge of it, my elbows rest on the table.
‘We don’t have much I am afraid,’ he gives out a little laugh, grabbing out a tin from the cupboard. ‘Soup okay for you?’
I nod. Why would I make a fuss?
He pours it into a bowl and places it in the microwave.
I feel like I haven’t blinked for a long time.
‘You can take your hood off, if you want?’ he says over his shoulder. ‘I can get some fresh clothes.’
I shake my head, ‘No, thank you, Father.’
The microwave begins to tick away. He sits down opposite me. He places his old fragile hand onto top on my arm.

‘Can you tell me your name?’
I open my mouth and the fear slaps me in the face.

I can’t.

I shut my mouth.
‘That’s okay.’
The microwave beeps out loud.
‘Ah,’ he smiles at me. ‘That is done.’

He places the bowl in front of me. My bony fingers wrap around the spoon and I take a small sip.
The warmth clings to my sore throat, so I clear it a little, before having another sip. The priest just sits beside me, watching, his eyes full of concern. This is real concern.
I prayed for help and I am ignoring it.
‘Is there anyone I could contact for you? You can use my phone?’
I want to shake my head and carry on. I cannot go back. But I cannot go forward like this.
With my hands shaking, I leave the spoon in the bowl and I lift my hood up, revealing my badly shaved head.
I know he is seeing my thin jaws, my black hollow eyes, my square head. I know he can smell the grim stench of sweat off me. I know he can see my dark large clothes don’t match my thin body.

‘I, um,’ I am trying so hard to find my voice. ‘I. I am Nathanial Greystone.’

He is still smiling, patting my arm, ‘Hi Nathanial, I am Father Tom. Would you like to talk?’
Outside the room, I hear doors opening and closing and scuffle of feet.
I am taking him away from his busy morning.
Bowing my head low, I take some sips of the hot soup.
‘Do not worry.’
I glance up at him.
He nods over to the door and adds, ‘They are okay without me. Why did you sleep outside the church, Nathanial?’
My eyes are starting to sting, I blink furiously. Everything is welling up in my chest. Everything, and I don’t know what everything is.
‘I,’ my small voice is shaking. Father Tom grips my arm a little more.
‘I need help, Father.’
‘What help do you need, Nathanial?’
I snatch my hands away to cover my face, ‘Something happened, something bad, really bad, and now I struggle to eat anything, I’m always cold, and I, um, I am scared and I. I don’t know what to do anymore.’
‘Okay. Okay. What happened, son?’
His voice is sweet and so assuring. But he is not a therapist. I do not know him. I do know that I have interrupted his day.
‘Do you need to go to the hospital, Nathanial?’

I do. I need to go somewhere. I don’t know what for anymore, just something.

‘You look very unwell, Nathanial, you look very sick, I want to take you to the hospital, okay?’

‘I got, um,’ my voice wobbles and I lose the words.

‘Yes?’ he tries to catch my eye.

I look down, staring into the sweet chilli soup with cream. At least I think it’s chilli, I can’t tell anymore. The white cream is in large blobs meshing with the sweet red of the soup. I stare at it hard. I must have mumbled something because when I look up, his face is turning white. What did I mutter? Wish my brain would keep up. I am so tired. I must have told him. Did I?
I hate talking. Words. They never used to taste vile but now I almost want to just phlegm them up and spit them out.
I am supposed to be a writer.
‘When did this happen?’ he asks.
The background noise clutters on, slamming of heavy books and bags dropping to the floor. I hear women chuckling in the other rooms with one another.

Taking the spoon, I dip it into the soup, before lifting it up and letting it pour back into the bowl.
‘A while ago,’ I can’t say much more.
‘Alright,’ his voice is still assuring. ‘We need to get you to the hospital.’
I know I need to go. But, the fear of being touched like an injured animal. My skin prickles, as if ice was going to be poured all over me.
I shake my head.
‘I won’t leave you there, I promise. But you must go.’
‘I don’t want,’ I pause, and I’m not sure what else to say.
‘We will ask for it to be private,’ he begins to stand up. ‘I will drive us there, and I won’t leave you in there alone.’
‘They will look at me,’ I snap.
He just stands there.
‘I know how I look,’ my voice is sharp and clipped.
‘You look like someone who has survived a great ordeal,’ his hand reaches and clasps my shoulder. ‘They are good people at the hospital. They will help you.’
I know he is right, but I stayed stiff on the chair, afraid to move.
‘You chose to sleep outside this church, Nathanial. Why is that?’
All we can hear is the women laughing and dropping something heavy on the floor.
‘God has not abandoned you, son,’ he says, his voice low. ‘Nor will I.’

                                                              ***

The hospital doors open and there is a flurry of people sitting around, shouting and crying, bleeding, sighing. Some of the lights are flicking, and it smells too humid and sweaty. The stress of it all sets my chest into a familiar state of panic.

Father Tom nods over to the desk, his arm still around my shoulder. I hobble a little, leaning almost all my weight into him. Well, the weight I have left anyway.
Leaning forward, he stands with such patience at the receptionist who chews aloud and talks on the reception phone. She raises her eyebrows at him. He murmurs at her. I let go off Father Tom and try and lean against the smooth wood of the reception desk.
How did I get this weak?
My hands are shaking against the desk, barely able to keep the rest of my body up. I am glad I put my hood back up.
‘Son?’ Father Tom turns to me. ‘They’re going to bring someone out. We just have to sit down somewhere.’
Nodding, I turn myself around, leaning heavy against the desk.
I take a step forward, and my head is empty. Going to be sick. I take another step forward and my head buzzes, my ears ring out and everything is fuzzy.

‘Nathanial?! Nathanial, can you hear me?!’
Black. It is all black. My whole body is aching.
‘Okay, what’s his name? Alright. Hi, sweetheart, I am Nurse Helen I am just going to get you up on the bed.’
I have never felt so exhausted

A Year and a half ago

‘I could write an adaption.’
Raising an eyebrow, he snorted at me.
I frowned. I found the snort more annoying than the eyebrow.
‘So, you want to make an adaption but make every character gay?’ he smirked.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ I mumbled. ‘AJ liked the idea.’
‘Pft!’ he placed his hand on his hip and pulled a face. ‘Of course, AJ liked it. You could literally write about excrement and your number one fan would still love it.’
‘At least I have a fan,’ I replied.
I watched Oli tip the whole champagne bottle into the glass flutes on his tray with no effort. His tray was always cleaner than mine.
Straining an inward sigh, I stared at my own glass flutes smeared with lipstick marks. Dead bubbles floating on half drunken champagne.
What a waste. I hated being a waiter and I hated charity balls.
He smiled at me, his thin young face dazzling with such annoyance. ‘Come on, it’s criticism, you need to learn to take it. AJ gives you criticism all the time.’
‘It’s more constructive,’ I snapped. ‘Besides, it’s just a website.’
‘It’s more than a website for you though,’ Oli teased me. ‘How is lover boy, anyway?’
I snorted and shook my head. He just laughed at me. I concentrated on grabbing clean glasses off the counter and pouring champagne into them.

Two months ago, I had had a massive self-revelation. It happened after my thirtieth rejection letter from publications. The day after my twenty-fifth birthday. I had decided to put up an online blog. Well, I had asked my parent’s neighbour’s kid to help me. A blog of some sorts, a public space where I could upload all my work. All my creative ideas, plans, actual written pieces of fiction. Something productive rather than feeling sorry for myself. If no one read it then fine, if someone read then great. I just had to let the dice fall. Then one day, AJ came.
I had come home from work, exhausted and fed up. There were more comments from cliental on how I needed a shave that day, and how my generation needed to work harder. Car had almost broken down, the ice and snow too much for it. I got in my flat, found my fridge empty, and I checked the website and there was a comment. Someone called Anonymous.

‘Hey, these are pretty good! I love Horror Tree Mansion. I want to read more! Keep up the excellent work! There are a few grammar issues on page two. Please keep writing more though, don’t give up!’
From then, I remember a light being turned on inside me, and I stayed up all night redrafting over and over. Oli came over the next morning, snatching my laptop up and replying to Anonymous for me. But Anonymous knew it wasn’t me and teased Oli right back.

‘I bet he is not even called AJ,’ Oli said, next to me. ‘He just told you that to shut you up. Should have just stuck with Anonymous. Can’t believe you thought he was a girl. Your social skills are crazy bad.’
‘AJ can be a girl’s name or a boy’s name,’ I slammed the empty champagne bottle back on the counter. ‘Oli can be a girl’s name.’
‘Yet it is not,’ he nudged me, turning around. ‘You are glad he is a guy, aren’t you? You’re blushing!’
Turning around, away from the counter, I said, ‘There needs to be more gay characters out there anyway, AJ agreed.’
‘I bet he is a jerk in real life,’ Oli grinned. ‘Or worse, a homophobic married closet case. Or a serial killer, the prime minister. Ooh, FBI!’
Before I could open my mouth, the black kitchen doors in front of us slammed open and more waiters rushed in, their own trays empty of alcohol.
Oli leaned back, ‘You know, I was thinking we should start a drinking game. Every time we hear them calls us fags; we do a shot. Tequila, maybe? Or straight vodka?’

‘They won’t say it out loud,’ I grinned back, leaning over to pick my tray up off the counter. ‘You know how successful people are, Oli. Their perfect equality image is everything.’
Oli winked at me, ‘That’s why they mumble so quietly. But, if you listen carefully, you’ll hear it.’
I shook my head, still smiling.
We focused forward and sharpened our smiles. Usual five second routine.
‘See you later, Oli’ I commented with haste, before we walked through to the next room.
The ballroom here was one of the biggest in this city. The chandeliers burned bright and loud as they did every Saturday. A charity ball that all the big television and sports stars attended. It was mandatory; everyone loved a kind-hearted superstar. I didn’t even blink as I walked my usual route around the drunken stains on the plush carpet. Clenching my jaws, I held back a yawn. More stains than usual. I was probably going to be asked to clean them up again.
‘Drink, sir?’ I smiled, offering the tray forward to a group of old actors. My other hand rested behind my back in a tight clenched fist.
Women walked past me, grabbing drinks off my tray and carried on their chatter.
Pacing in a slow calm manner, I stepped in and around the huddle group of suits and glittering dresses.
‘Anymore, sir? Ma’am?’ I offered.
They barely looked at me.

Sharp smells of perfume and cologne were stronger than usual, I could almost taste it in the back of my throat. Better than the usual stank of bleach. That would come later in the evening.
Settling near the wall, I blended into the background of white marble and ridiculous large paintings.
I hated being a cliché. A damn waiter. Of all things. The only job someone like me could snatch up.
I mean, it was good when I first got it two years ago. My first job in the big city of London, it was a score. Could finally call my parents to say I had some income.

‘This is just temporary. I get to serve successful people doing events, you see, so once I get chatting to someone, I can get into the business, it’s all about who you know.’ Temporary, my ass. I wished my ass was temporary. Celebrity idiot asses were more temporary than me and none of them would ever give me the time of day. I tried so hard when I first started. I was a young fresh face twenty-four-year-old. No beard, no stains on my shirt, being impossibly nice, trying to make witty jokes that would then lead to greater conversations.
Then. There was Oli who was… great. Yes, he was great. We teased each other; he was funny. Plus, it was so cool to actually know another person from my old school out here. Well, the only one who could put up with me. He was a writer too. I mean what were the odds I find another writer like myself out here. Another score.
‘Waldo!’ Oli slid next to me.
‘Stop calling me that,’ I nudged him. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t really have time to explain, but’ he lowered his voice. ‘Donald Harrison. In the back room, I need to be there now.’
‘I thought you were complaining about closeted actors yesterday,’ I replied. ‘Will you just take my tray, please, I won’t be too long,’ he paused. ‘I’m that good.’ ‘Ugh, Oli,’ I carefully took his tray from him. ‘You always say that.’
‘Donald friggin’ Harrison, sweet baby Jay,’ he whispered. ‘I ain’t giving up a chance on him. He is so gorgeous in real life.’
Before I opened my mouth, he practically skipped away gleeful as a boyband fan. I closed my mouth. I watched him go. He had so much spring in his step.
Good for him. I guess.
I smiled and checked the time.
Okay, five more hours until I could talk to AJ again. I had no idea what was going on with AJ and I. Oli wanted me to meet him face to face. He even offered to come with me to meet him. It had been two years since Jake, and I needed to meet other people. Oli could do it. It’s probably why he was happily single, and I was.
Was. Um.
An improving words person.
‘Everyone, get together now!’
I snapped up to that voice. I tilted my head and smiled.
Charlie Conroy.
I loved him on Checks and Taxis; it’s all the internet hyped about. The king of the brand-new comedy improv/game show. He looked like such an everyday guy, with his short dark hair. When he smiled, he would show his slightly crooked teeth, and of course those flawless dimples. His face seemed to always be lit up with natural laughing wrinkles under his eyes and around his mouth. At that moment, despite being suited up, Charlie Conroy looked out of place amongst all the other Botox celebrities.
He wasn’t fat or skinny, just average, but he made average look adorably good. I was glad great things were happening for him in this rich world.
‘I can get us all in, one second,’ he was attempting to take a selfie with Dina. Dina, the new UK Jerry Springer of females, and there was rapper Tina Fallower, for some reason, and a few others I wasn’t sure about.
It was hard to see who was still a celebrity these days. I watched him struggle to get them all in the view of his camera phone.

I placed my tray down on a nearby stool. I needed to be helpful.
Straightening my back, I put on my short smile and walked over.
‘Sir? Would you like me to?’ I make notions with my hands.
Charlie Conroy was startled by me.
‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Yes! Sure, sure.’
He handed me his phone and I motioned for them all to huddle closer together. This was probably Charlie Conroy’s first appearance; comedians took ages to come to this place. I didn’t know what the charity runners had against funny guys.
‘There you go,’ I handed the phone back.
He gave me a genuine smile as he took his phone.
His blue eyes sparkled like wildfire.
Holding my breath, I nodded, bowing myself back into the background. He watched me before Dina pulled him back into their group’s conversation.
Well.
He seemed nice.
I picked up my tray and carried on my round. I couldn’t pause much; Gregory would kill me.
Gregory, a man with that kind of name needed to lighten up. Ah, speaking of the man of the hour, I could see Gregory, still bald and refusing to give up that creepy moustache. He nodded over to me from across the room, tapping at his watch. I glanced down at all the full glasses.
‘Main rule,’ Gregory always said. ‘never have too many glasses on your tray.’
Sighing, I turned around, aiming to walk towards a large group of suits, away from Gregory.
I only took one step forward when I bumped into a wall.

Not a wall, a person.

Some glasses fluttered and one fell. The bubbly champagne started spilling a river all over.
Not bad, nothing smashed, I nearly smiled to myself. Then, the clammy wet feeling began to snail it’s way around my chest. Still, it wasn’t the worst Saturday I had worked. ‘I’m so sorry!’

I looked up to the voice.
I bumped into Alex W. Scott.
Alex. W. Scott.

Crap.
His tanned masculine hand reached out and started dabbing at my shirt. I stood there, an awkward statue, just watching him pat my shirt down with the sleeve of his jacket.
He was so tall. Were all athletes this tall or was I just ridiculously short? Were all athletes also ridiculously handsome? Everything he was compared to me was just ridiculous. I had a beard and a mess of brown hair. A tired face that used to wear glasses, a face that Oli always said reminded him of Waldo from Where’s Waldo.
Alex W. Scott was a natural supermodel with short blonde hair, an amazing jawline and a kind smile.
Flashing a nervous white smile, he bowed his head a little.
‘I will take this,’ he grabbed the empty glasses. He winked at me and raised them, ‘I am sorry.’
‘Oh,’ I looked down on my fresh pink shirt splash. Why did it make my shirt go pink of all colors? ‘Yeah, um, don’t worry about that. Sir.’
He was still smiling at me. Wow, that smile was amazing. I was really so easily impressed by a sports goof; I thought I had put those days behind me. Those were not fun times at school.

‘You, okay?’
I was still frozen, ‘I can get you another glass, sir.’
‘Please, this one will do.’
‘But,’ I pressed my lips together.
I snatched a glance up to his blonde hair spilling out with grace around his ears, and his eyes were so soft and green. I smiled at him and walked away. I would let the athletic model feel like the good guy tonight.
***

‘So, you just left him, you didn’t say anything else?’ said Oli, his voice all absurd.
The T.V buzzed on in the dark, so he couldn’t see me roll my eyes. He knew though.
‘You are an idiot, Nathanial,’ he took a swing of his beer.
‘I could call you much worse,’ I replied in a haste.
His work jacket was on his couch next to mine. We were both lying on his couch, aching feet spread out, watching the last episode of Desperate Housewives. Because that’s what waiters did after work, according to Oli. He wanted us to hang out for a bit before I went home. Sometimes I thought it was because he worried about me but then I realised he just likes being around people all the time and I was a sucker who couldn’t say no. But then we weren’t really watching the T.V. It was more Oli watching his show in his apartment while I sat there making half arsed commentary to entertain myself.
I would message AJ later on that evening. Then, Oli told me in full detail the glorious twenty minutes he spent with young actor Donald Harrison.

Some women on the screen had begun to fight each other.
‘Yes! Get her!’
I almost laughed too loudly at Oli as he kicked his feet up in the air.
‘I told you she needed a slap!’ he whacked my arm with excitement. ‘She got what was coming to her. Should have listened to her daughter.’
Full of energy, he whacked my arm a few more times and I winced.
‘Yo, y’all need to shut up and listen to her. Mm’kay? Straight up!’ he told the screen.

I raised an eyebrow at him, ‘That was the gayest black thing you have ever said.’ ‘Well,’ Oli leaned back, shrugging. ‘Good thing, I am black and gay. Sue me.’
‘I would if you had more than twenty pounds in your account.’
‘Pay day soon, my friend!’
‘Here, here!’

We clinked our bottles together and sipped the cold beers. I still had my crumpled pink shirt on. Well, what harm was another stained shirt going to do? I could add to the rest of the collection. I was going to have to find some cheap white shirts from a crap shop somewhere.
‘So, just a few slaps and that’s what they think a fight is?’ I commented to Oli, pointing at the T.V. ‘Where’s the blood? The teeth flying out?’
‘You love this really,’ he replied. ‘Think of it as inspiration.’ He laughed. Sounded more like cackling to me.
‘Anyway,’ he drank a bit more. ‘You saw both Charlie Conray and Alex W. Scott, and you said nothing to both them. You could have done something good for everyone.’ He made suggestive marks with his hands.
‘You are such a nerd,’ he smirked, slamming my stiff back with his elbow. ‘Thought you guys could at least write better. You still overwrite the stupid adjectives.’
I took a violent swing of my own beer. I was sick of him teasing me about my writing. He was such a loser. I wished he wasn’t my only friend. Well, that wasn’t true, I had AJ. AJ, my fan, my friend, I didn’t know what else I could call AJ.
‘I am kidding,’ Oli pulled a face at me. ‘I am just as bad as… Oh, oh! What did she just say?’
Snatching the remote, he turned the sound up on the T.V. He stretched forward, eager. His wide eyes couldn’t possibly get any wider.
‘Oh, by the way,’ he said without moving his head. ‘You are still an absolute idiot for not speaking to Alex W. Scott.’
Saying nothing, I reached over to the table and grabbed another slice of pizza out of the grease box. I was allowed this, my loud brain had been silent today and I had no weird outbursts or embarrassing ticks. Today was a good day so I could definitely have another slice of pizza.