Free Boy A by Jonathan Trigell

Which works, until the shock dies off and you need a new wound to concentrate on.
    He ran through the images in his mind of the boss, the best lover the world has ever known, never failing or even straining to make his wife scream to climax. And the two of them, laughing in the contented aftermath, about the shoddy second-rate sex she used to have to make do with.
    And he pictured everyone else he knew, all their mutual friends, who surely had been keeping a pitying silence about the affair. Who at best must have felt sorry for him, through the ridiculous small talk of dinner parties he’d been to, as the oblivious straight man to a charade of a couple. But who might have been sniggering behind his every word.
    So they went their separate ways. Agreed a blameless split, for the sake of Zeb. There seemed little need for him to learn the sordid details of his mother’s overtime duties. Shedidn’t want to be with her boss anymore than she wanted to be with Terry, and soon moved company, with a glowing reference and a golden goodbye.
    Terry moved to a small flat with few furnishings but a 24-inch TV, a video player and a settee which could turn into a bed, for when Zeb came to visit. The sofa-bed didn’t get as much use as Terry had anticipated. He watched a lot of movies on it, but rarely his son sleeping. Another of life’s pleasures had gone. He could no longer just look in at Zeb’s peacefully heaving chest. No more see such calm, such protected contentment on his face.
    Unable to break his promise and tell Zeb the full facts, Terry came to feel that he was taking the blame for the separation in his son’s eyes. When they saw each other they didn’t talk like they once had. There was no family dinner to engage over, just tinned food and takeaways. And as the weekends started to become more and more important to a teenage boy, his father began to see him less and less.
    Finally Terry realized that he had been robbed. Not just of a wife, but of a son. He was not going to be allowed to partake in what he had relished for so long. He was not going to witness his boy’s transformation into a man. Only from a distance. Only as a casual bystander. He was not going to be allowed his youth again, to live vicariously through his own genes. He was never going to hear what happened at the parties and the pubs. Never going to be a mate, a support, a friendly ear, a person to turn to, to depend upon. He would just be another absentee father, like the fathers of most of the boys in his care.

G is for Garden.
Garden Party.
    The people in the sunken garden are cheering again, when Jack gets out of the toilet. As he navigates his way back, he rolls his sleeves up like a sailor’s, to hide his wet cuff. Jack feels like he’s been a long time. He’s relieved to see that Chris and Steve the mechanic are still there at the table. In fact they’ve been joined by someone, someone large and longed for. A red spotlight shines from behind her, illuminating like a halo.
    ‘I was beginning to think you were avoiding me, Jack,’ Michelle says. ‘Remember, this was going to be our night first of all.’ Her words are bold, but she seems less certain than normal, more coy. Or maybe the drink has made Jack more confident. Michelle tilts her head in a deliberately sexy way. Like Jack’s a camera. Like she’s a young Marilyn Monroe, size 16, from Salford.
    ‘Come on, Chris, let’s go for a wander,’ says Steve the mechanic, winking almost imperceptibly at Jack.
    Chris looks unsure, but goes when Steve the mechanic nudges his shoulder. Jack takes a slug of his beer, which is slightly flat but very welcome.
    ‘So, you having a good night, Jack?’ Michelle asks. She is stroking her plump hand up and down her tall thin gin and tonic. It takes a minute or two for Jack to construct this ascarnal. He was thinking how the fluorescent lumps of ice look like the undersea shots from polar documentaries.
    ‘Yeah, really good. Best night in ages,’