Chapter Text
Roy always wore black. (Except on days Crystal Palace played, when he wore dark navy.) It shouldn’t have been different to wear black today. But it was.
This black tightened around his throat. It clung dark and heavy to his shoulders. This black clashed against the white shirt his mother had buttoned and tucked him into. This black made him feel like a penguin in a zoo.
The people milling around–adults, mostly gray of hair and wrinkled of skin–even stared at him, Mum, Dad, and Lizzy like caged animals. Their faces held the same pitying look that was supposed to make them feel better because even though they’d paid money to see animals locked in cages, at least they felt bad about it.
None of them had paid money to be here. What did they have to feel bad about?
The white shirt chaffed, and the black jacket pinched his shoulders, and the lump in his throat that hadn’t gone away since Mum had called him at Sunderland made it hard to swallow.
Roy glared at the picture of Grandfather Goldstein, big and stupid and lying. Grandfather hadn’t looked like that. He didn’t have a twinkle in his eye. He hadn’t smiled.
Another mourner dressed in the same stupid black–not like Roy’s normal black–stopped in front of Mum. Patted her shoulder. Said something like “he’s in a better place” or “at least it happened quickly.” Like the fact that Mum’s Dad was dead was better than him being here and alive.
Pressure built in Roy’s cheeks, and he realized he was clenching his jaw.
“There’s cakes,” Lizzy whispered, interrupting his growing anger.
“We’re getting some after,” Roy shot back.
“After what?” she questioned.
“After,” he emphasized because he didn’t actually know.
He’d never been to a funeral.
As it turned out, “after” meant “after a bunch of people who claim they knew Grandfather go up and say a lot of stuff that is utter shit about him and his life.” Roy nearly rolled his eyes when one woman went up to the plain podium, opened her mouth, and promptly burst into tears. But he and Lizzy made it through the adults’ bullshitting. (He, with all the dignity and restraint his ten-year-old body could muster. Lizzy, with a coloring book, constant begging from Mum to sit still, and promises from Dad that cakes were coming.)
Now sitting at a forgotten table, Lizzy tucked into her cake. Roy considered his piece. Coach had advised against sweets, even over Christmas.
“Where's Granddad?” Lizzy asked around a bite of frosting. She'd scraped the frosting off, piled it on one plate corner, and now scooped up spoonfuls.
"He’s dead, idiot,” Roy answered.
“But is he coming back?” Lizzy asked with all the exasperation of a six-year-old who thought you should've seen this question coming and answered already.
“He’s dead and gone and he’s not–” Roy stopped to clear his throat. “He’s not coming back.”
“He came back when he took you to Sunderland,” Lizzy argued, licking the last spoonful of frosting before digging into the cake. “He took me to get ice cream and made me promise not to tell Mum and Dad. He told them we went to the park.”
“And look how well you did keeping that promise," Roy pointed out, passing his own cake over to her.
Lizzy rolled her eyes before accepting the plate and restarting the process of de-frosting. “I told you, not Mum and Dad. He never said I couldn’t tell you.”
“It doesn’t matter what promises you made,” Roy lashed out.
It didn’t matter what promises Lizzy or Roy or Grandfather made.
Promises don’t matter to a dead man.
Roy had been at Sunderland all of three weeks before the secret got out. The older boys had made fun of him, calling him a baby. The younger boys, what few there were, called him a scaredy-cat. The boys his own age didn’t say anything. Just mounted their shiny bicycles and rode off without looking back.
After pushing one snooty bike-rider and scraping his legs–served him right–Roy got called to the headmaster’s office. Mum and Dad were on the phone, allegedly to “set him straight.” At some point between Mum’s hysterics and Dad’s stern tones, Lizzy shouted something in the background. Shuffling ensued, some snide comments from Dad about parenting, some placating words from Mum about grandparenting, and finally Grandfather’s gravel voice came through the receiver.
“Alright there, Roy?”
The knots in Roy’s insides relaxed, Grandfather’s voice familiar and grounding. “Yes, Grandfather.”
“What’s this about, then?”
Roy paused. Glared at the headmaster clearly trying to look like he was not listening to the whole conversation. Turning as far as the receiver would allow, Roy ground out, “I can’t ride a bike.”
Shame and humiliation washed through him, saying it out loud. Because it didn’t matter that Roy had never had a bike to ride or that he had begged for even a second-hand one to learn on. It didn’t matter that every Christmas and birthday since Roy turned seven, his parents had shaken their heads and said it wasn’t in the family’s budget this year. All that mattered was that Roy was ten years old and couldn't ride a bike.
Though this also didn’t matter to Grandfather. “So what you can’t ride a bike, Roy? Some people can’t drive cars, but they go out and do it every day.”
Roy didn’t understand how this related to the subject at hand and was tempted to correct Grandfather that it was very important and all the other boys could, even the young ones. Tempted, but he wasn’t stupid enough to actually do it. And besides, Grandfather continued. “When do you get home for Christmas?”
“I don’t know."
“When you get home, we’ll borrow a bike, and I’ll teach you how to ride,” Grandfather pronounced.
Roy’s stomach swooped. He tramped the elation down. It wouldn’t do to show excitement in front of Grandfather Goldstein and the eavesdropping headmaster. Instead, he lowered his voice and very seriously inquired, “Promise, Grandfather?”
“Promise, Roy. And Roy?” Grandfather added. “You tell those bastards you’ll show them how to ride after Christmas.”
Roy grinned before covering it with a scowl. “Yes, Granddad.”
Just like the last time, Grandfather didn’t correct him.
Promises don’t matter to a dead man, Roy thought again, hours after the funeral. He stared at his bedroom ceiling, textured with shadows. He tried glaring at it, but it remained impassive. Just like every god and higher power he could think of that he’d prayed to in the past two hours.
He’d prayed to Buddha to give him his Grandfather back. No answer. He’d begged Santa to bring Grandfather for Christmas. No answer. He’d pleaded with Superman to go retrieve Grandfather from wherever he was and carry him to South London. No answer.
When the ceiling continued to provide no answers, Roy's desperation rose. It was time to bring out the real weapon.
Roy rolled out of bed, stumbling a bit in the dark before stooping to his bag. He had yet to unpack and figured at this point he might just leave it packed until he had to return to Sunderland.
Roy unzipped the top and dug through sweaty clothes he meant to wash, a toothbrush he should’ve left behind because he already had one at home, a few practice books he was never going to get to. Finally, his fingers felt soft fabric, and he pulled his secret weapon from his bag. The white blanket no longer smelled like musty car boot, but despite the washes it had endured, it remained cozy and familiar.
Roy brought it to his bed. He hadn’t really prayed before, so he stared at Blankie, considering his next move.
Did he kneel? He went to his knees.
Did he talk? “Hello. I’m Roy.”
This is stupid, Roy thought. But he couldn’t ignore the flutter in his chest. He clutched Blankie tighter. The cool fabric grew warm in his hands.
“Uh, you see, Granddad– Grandfather–” Roy had to pause again. He wracked his brain. “Grandfather…Goldstein. Tall, white hair. Dad says he was a bastard, but he always took Lizzy and me for ice cream. And he took me to Sunderland.” Roy glanced at the ceiling again, his cheeks heating just a bit. “You probably know who I’m talking about. Stupid to clarify.”
Roy cleared his throat. His knees started to hurt. “Anyway. He promised that he’d teach me how to ride a bike. I don’t need to tell you how much is on the line. The little shits at training–sorry don’t know if it’s okay to say shit–they won’t let it go. And I can’t make it to eleven years old and not know how to ride a bike.”
Burying his face in Blankie, his voice dropped to a whisper. The silence turned to quiet, the shadows softening, the very air straining to hear his words. “I’m not asking for him back totally. Don’t need some zombie granddad rotting on the floor. But if you could just let him come back tonight?” he asked, voice raising in hope. The lump in his throat swelled. He swallowed it down hard. This was more important than some stupid emotions. “I just need him to come back tonight, so he can show me like he promised. I won’t ask for anything else,” he vowed, the watery feeling in his chest starting to make its way to his eyes. “Just for tonight.”
Please please please please, Roy added silently, just for good measure.
With that, he crawled into bed, curling his body around Blankie and burying his face again in its softness, ignoring the tears wetting the fabric.
When the tears finally stopped, Roy waited, fingers clutching Blankie tight, eyes open and straining in the darkness.
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The need for sleep pressed on his eyelids, and they slid closed. With his face pressed into Blankie, he thought he smelled rain and musty car boot. But when he woke up the next morning without a single ghostly visit, he knew it had only been his imagination.
Promises don’t matter to a dead man.