Chapter Text
The first time he sees you, he’s uncharacteristically involved in helping pin the boy who pushed you to the side against the wall by the scruff of his collared shirt. There’s a yelp and a swear thrown out somewhere- whether from him or the other kid, he’s not particularly sure. All he knows is that one of his peers from his year group is swatting at him pointlessly, and his hands shake a little when he lets the kid go. His tempered expression is more trained on the way you look at him, wide-eyed and shocked. Simon almost bristles at the way you look at him, on edge but calmed by his mercy. It makes him feel too seen.
Being 15 is hard enough, but he reckons you’ve got a sugary sweet home compared to him. His usual conflict at home makes him much more adept at dealing with the roughness of this state school. You’re not yet accustomed to the claustrophobic hallways of the school; you were walking a bit too slowly and uncertainly, and had been pegged as an easy target to mess with. He was just there at the right time. He recognises you as one of the new girls who have joined his secondary school at an awkward point- Year 10 is too late to make any friends, but too early to just focus on academics.
“Thanks.” Your voice is warbled as you awkwardly rub your shoulder from where the bully had pushed you. You’re much smaller than him, which is not surprising; he’s tall for his age, but you really do look like a little mouse or perhaps one of those little birds he sees when he stares out windows.
He doesn’t reply vocally. Just nods. Adjusts his blazer halfheartedly as he turns to continue walking back to class.
The next time he spots you is when he’s being escorted to the Headteacher’s room. It’s been just under a month, and he knows you’ve made a few friends here and there through word of mouth. He doesn’t like to admit that it gives him some semblance of comfort. He’s also learnt your name by social osmosis- it fits you. You look so content and untroubled- so utterly opposite to him. He’s in trouble for pushing another boy in the school yard, a boy who had said something about his younger brother Tommy. The intention of the fight gives him some morality, at least that's what he says to himself to humanise himself somewhat. He catches a glimpse of you in the corner of his eye as he is marched through the corridor. You are there, on show via the classroom interior window. You’re in one of the classrooms despite it being lunchtime; your face is unbothered by the noise of roaring children outside as you sit happily reading and eating a packed lunch that looks so homely he feels envious.
While wallowing in his own thoughts, looking at you, he almost flinches when you look up and make eye contact with him. His brown eyes sharpen- and he feels a strange feeling in his chest when you shoot him a soft smile and even lift your dainty hand to wave. He rips his head back to the floor, his pace ever so slightly quicker as he hears the teacher in front of him tell him to keep moving.
You’re being friendly. He feels sick.
He’s missed far too many classes. Half-term is around the corner, and he zones out at the frustrated nagging tone of his teacher. They’ve labelled him as a ‘ frequent school absentee’ - his truancy now pushing past just periods, but now full days. Simon sinks into his chair, slumped not out of guilt but instead of boredom.
“This will catch up to you at some point, Mr Riley.” The warning makes him bite the inside of his cheek. Makes him want to bare his teeth and snarl- Out of all the things that Simon could worry about catching up with him, his GCSEs are not one he's particularly worried about. Staying at home and protecting his mam is more important right now as his father sits on the unemployment benefits again; Making sure Tommy is left unscathed after the brutality of his father’s drunken stupor is more pressing than a pass at English Literature. He sees the expression of his teacher change as they huff, softening their annoyance into pity as they read his student file. The staff are brutally honest with him; they understand he’s only really attending for the free school meals he’s entitled to and to keep an eye on Tommy. He’s let off a bit too easily, he thinks.
“You’ll have to sit for intervention after school. English. Get it done before it's too late. You’ve got just under two years to sort yourself out, lad.” The teacher dismisses him, and as he pushes through the door, he bumps into you; he doesn’t miss the way your eyes are wet and watery, and you shrink when you almost smack into his chest. Your uniform is a mess - unlike your usual prim and proper presentation. For some reason, his breath jumps and he grabs you lightly by the shoulders out of surprise.
“O-oh Simon-” He blinks, no one besides his brother and his mam calls him by his first name; it just goes to show how much you don’t listen to the schoolyard taunts, you don’t see him as the “Riley boy” who's too sharp around the edges to be near the bench,
“Alright?” His voice is gruff, and he doesn’t really understand why he’s asked when it's clear as day you’re not in the best of moods. You avoid looking up at him, but you nod and sniffle, hand going to wipe your nose. He lets go and sheepishly stands to the side to let you push through the door to talk to the teacher who just got done lecturing him. A part of him wonders who made you cry.
A guilty part of him is wondering how you’d look if it were him.
It's some kind of cruel joke from the universe, almost as cruel as his father, when he walks into the forced after-school intervention and sees you sitting at the front of the classroom- ever so smiley and humming to yourself as you scribble some notes into your book. When he enters, he sees you look up, and your eyes widen a little, but your mouth isn’t turnt in disgust like most of the annoying girls in the year. He tries to ignore the greeting that gets stuck in his throat as he goes past you.
He stalks his way to the back of the room and is given a worn-out copy of Macbeth to peruse. He tries to make sense of what the teacher is trying to get him to do unsuccessfully, so he gives up within minutes. He can’t concentrate- his mind is still stuck on you. It's so easy to watch you when you’re sitting ahead of him, like a predator watching prey from a calculated distance. Your hair looks soft; his mind thinks about what it would be like to touch it. He then proceeds to tut at himself for being a bit of a perv. He’s not usually interested in any of the birds in his peer group- but you seem to be a strange fascination. He doesn’t like the way you make him feel, like he wants to be seen, like the first time you met.
He’s still thinking about the implications of his newfound minor obsession towards you when he gets pulled back into reality harshly. The teacher has designated it as independent revision now; a task has been written on the board, and the failing students in this compulsory class have been given the privilege of working with partners. It’s supposed to give the failing group some comfort in their study. A comfort that means very little when you don’t have friends, Simon thinks to himself.
It's why Simon shoots up and sits up straight, formal, and entirely uncomfortable when you suddenly come and pull a chair to sit across from him.
“What ye doing?” His words have a bite to them, but he regrets it when he sees how your patient smile falters a little.
“You were sitting alone-”
“And?” he interrupts, hands going to cross against his chest as he leans back almost defensively. He feels judged- usually, he doesn’t care about opinions, but the way you said it makes him feel pathetic- seen in a way he really doesn’t want.
“..I- um.. Right, well, we both don’t exactly have friends in here.” You gesture a bit. You cough as if trying to draw his attention back to you- you didn’t have to do that, he’s been staring the entire time. He doesn’t argue with your desperate logic. He amusedly watches as you open your copy of the play; your highlighters scratch on the off-white pages, and he almost flushes a little when you suddenly tap your finger on his unopened copy that lies untouched on the table.
“Are you going to make any notes?”
“Mm n’ point.” He states as if vocalisations cost money.
“The point is you need to pass if you want to get out of this revision group.” You say matter-of-factly. There’s authority in your tone- something he’s never expected out of your little stature. He just tilts his head and slinks down, but begrudgingly opens the book. He’s not bothered about this whole joke of studying, but your expression makes his hand twitch.
Neither of you says a word when you share your notes, and he voluntarily scratches them down.
It’s been about 2 months since he’s been forced to go to these sessions after school. It starts once a week on a Wednesday, and he always ends up sitting with you. He doesn’t speak much; more often or not just grunting or clipping his voice with murmured yesses when you ask if he understands what you’re reading out to him. He doesn’t like to admit he’s enjoying Shakespeare much more with you than when he does it in a lesson. The way you act out the scenes at times and your little giggles when you fumble with some of the old English have him more intrigued than any proper lesson he’s had. He tries to pretend it’s got nothing to do with the way your leg sometimes hits his under the desk when you get a bit too into your note-taking- or the way he can smell your fruity shampoo when you lean a little towards him when you correct his god awful spelling.
When going every Wednesday turns into going every Wednesday and Thursday, he rationalises with himself that he is only doing this to get him out of the grade hole he’s in. And because you get something out of teaching your notes to him. It’s a bit embarrassing actually, when he’s no longer kept on report for his truancy; the headteacher praises him, but Simon does not get much out of the impressed words given to him. He comes in purely to entertain you, not actually being mandated to go to revision intervention. He thinks you must see him as some weird little pet project. You once told him that correcting him helped you identify where your writing had gone iffy. He’s simply doing a kind favour to a kind girl. A kind girl who's too nice for this shitty school. Too nice for shitty Riley.
“Why are you even in this group?” He asks before he even realises the words leave his tongue. You were in the middle of recounting scene 5: A messenger alerting Macbeth of the approaching enemy hidden in a disguise of Birnam Wood.
“What?”
“You’re not struggling with GCSE English Lit.” It's the most he’s really said to you before, and it’s clear you’re startled by his gruff voice and the mancurian accent that's easier to hear the more words he forces out.
There's a long pause. The air suddenly feels thic,k and the 15 year old teenage boy suddenly feels like a much younger child whose accidentally annoyed his mother at the wrong time. You make him feel like he'some bug under some sort of magnifying glass.You stumble to find an answer before you lean forward to him, almost as if the secret will kill you if the words you speak make any tangible sense.
“I…I don’t like being at home.” That’s all you whisper before sitting and staring back at him.
Who is he to judge your answer? Home to him is horrid and disturbing; it would be hypocritical of him to tell you to go home. So he simply just nods, then shuffles back into his seat and waits for you to continue your little performance of Macbeth.
Your voice carries on like a strange comfort for him. “That lies like truth. “Fear not till Birnam Wood Do come to Dunsinane,” and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane.—Arm, arm, and out!....”
After that shared secret, he tries not to draw attention to how you always wave at him in the hallway when you pass. He doesn’t say anything when you also join him at lunch, sitting next to him when he picks and prods at a pathetic excuse for a free school meal- almost always passing him another half of your sandwich as if a negotiation or ticket to be allowed to stay. He doesn’t argue with his mind when he finds himself trailing after you when the bells ring, and you happen to be dawdling down the same corridor as him. He’s a shadow for you, but neither seems perturbed by the development.
He doesn’t want to call it a crush. It’s just that he has a bit of affection for you. Which isn’t completely unknown to him- he cherishes his Mother and cares for his brother; it's not like he’s never felt affection before. This is different, though. You slip into his mind more often than he wants to admit and find himself using you as a motivator to get out of his crappy council house every morning. He craves the little push and pull you let him have in your life. There’s a sick satisfaction he has when he sees you turn down sitting with some girls to continue sitting with him. Social suicide. For Him. He doesn’t like how much he likes you.
And he hates how he feels when you don’t turn up to school one day.
He doesn’t ask around- too awkward to really press, but eating alone feels even stranger now. He somehow finds himself more agitated, and for the first time in 2 months, he’s being called once again to the headteacher’s office. It wasn’t even really his fault! Another boy his age was trying to prove himself to his flock of idiot friends. They had come up to the lone Simon asking inane questions, mocking where he lives. It was only when they commented on you not being around did he find himself needing to punch the snarky bastard. His fist is a dull ache. He does not care.
It's when he sits waiting for his telling off that he sneaks a glimpse at the papers on the administrator's desk- he sees your name scrawled in red ink on the absentee list and the words ‘Medical’ tagged along with it. Something in him growls in discontent, but before he can stare harder at the words, he gets called in for his reckoning.
He doesn’t go to the after-school English intervention at all that week.
“You weren’t in” He says it plainly when he sees you a week later. You look normal but seem a bit dazed. He’s caught you in the corridor before form, like some sort of deprived animal cornering its next meal.
“Really, I wasn't? Gee, who knew-” You’re trying to be sarcastic, but the words sound so achingly tired it, makes Simon’s brain jumble.
“Not funny.” He says plainly.
You stare at him. He feels that weird feeling again, and so his eyes flick to your shoes.
“Sorry. Won’t happen again.” You say sincerely, your hand goes to touch his, grabbing it as if promising the world. Simon tenses and pulls away like its a flame and gestures for you to start walking to class. He follows you in silence.
True to your word, you’re not absent for the rest of the next few months.
When summer breaks out, and students are all buzzing about the long end-of-year plans they have, Simon feels more at odds with his peers than ever. He does not look forward to being at home anymore. He is ashamed to admit out loud how being in school at least gives him some stability. He sighs. It's lunchtime, and you two have chosen to sit at the back table in the busy canteen. You’re nattering on about what movies you plan to watch, and he lets his mind focus on how you say your words- still no tinge of a northern accent despite having lived here for a year now. He’s picking at your hair when he sees a hair astray, but you don’t react- too used to him invading your personal space now. You don’t notice how other students shoot you two a perplexed grimace. He supposes it is a strange sight- he’s tall and a bit more built than your average British kid. His dark hair and usual vibe of “can’t be fucked” is oxymoronic next to your delightful, optimistic “Be friends with me!” aura.
“...I think I might even go see that Star Wars movie that's coming out- Hey.. Simon, Si- are you even listening?”
He makes a noise confirming, but he still fiddles with your hair.
“What are you gonna do on break?”
He shrugs, uncommitted to giving any true answer- it would probably make you concerned if he told you he was being forced to join his abusive dad on some weird benders or that he had to take up some part-time jobs just to feed his brother.
“Revising?”
He snorts at that. You’re teasing; both of you cannot imagine him actually studying without you.
“I can lend you some of my books if you’re gonna be bored.” You suddenly offer. Everything about you surprises him, and when you dig through your bag and fish out worn copies of some random books and shove them into his lap, he almost gives you a deadly ‘be fucking for real’ expression.
“Read them so I know you aren't wasting all those hours I've trained you to fucking read for once, please,” you say it jokingly, but there's an underlying pleading in your voice- as if you want to make sure he's kept engaged during the awful month both of you will be sequestered at home.
He nods and goes back to fiddling with your hair. You point out that the next time you see each other, both of you will be in Year 11, the final year of compulsory education. He lets go of your hair.
He hopes summer will be merciful to him.
Manchester is not particularly sunny. Not even during summer break do the rays of the sun ever really break through the grey outside his bedroom window. He shares his room with his brother, and as Tommy mouths off some shitty music on he radio and flicks through a worn-out comic book, Simon rustles through the pages of the copy of Slaughterhouse Five you gave him. It's almost delirious how focused he is on the words on the page; The cramped environment of his family’s council flat melts away as he follows each letter. He’s not sure how he feels about the story- the anti-war messages and graphic descriptions have him conflicted. Something dark in him twists when he thinks about soldiers and how organised it could be- how easy it would be to use orders as an excuse for his atrocities.
“Wherdya get tha?” His brother's voice yanks him out of his thoughts.
“Nowhere.”
His brother sits on their shared floor, looking up at him, unconvinced and amused.
“Was it your girlfriend?”
"'s not my girlfriend.”
“So was her then.”
Simon shuts the book and goes outside. He doesn’t come back until it's dark.
When he’s not doing part-time shifts at the butcher's, He’s a latchkey kid for most of the time away from school. His mam’s not usually home, and Tommy goes out playing with neighbourhood friends. He doesn’t know where his father is. He gets stuck in the books you lent him. He reads every single one. Cover to cover. Maybe twice if it was particularly tolerable. He thinks about what you’re up to- if you ended up going to the cinema as you kept mentioning. He doesn’t have enough money in his pocket to even entertain the idea of going into town and seeing you there. When the house is lonely and echoey from the missing parts of his family, Simon sits in his bed and stares up at the ceiling. Your books lay on the floor near him. He keeps thinking of you. He’s alone.
He feels insane when he chooses to think of you instead of the pornos he’s hidden under his mattress.
He feels even worse when he realises how satisfied he feels by the end of it.
Is this what possession feels like?
The question jumbles up in his brain when he sucks in his breath when he sees you again in the schoolyard the first morning back. You’re talking to some boy in the year group. He’s tall- not as tall as Simon, and the stranger is scrawny where Simon is menacing. Some football lad who's hovering by you a bit too closely for Simon to feel comfortable. You laugh at something. Simons' fist flexes. The other teenager looks too clean, too done-up; where Simon has his shirt untucked already, and a blazer hanging in his hand loosely, the other boy looks pristine. Simon feels something and then nothing. It was worthless to think you’d still think of him after a month of being apart. You were just being kind. Sweet. The days sitting with him at lunch were out of pity- he didn’t deserve it, and it makes sense you’ve attracted some pretty boy on the holidays. He is nothing, he is less than nothing, he is-
“Si! Hey- so you coming to English intervention tonight? They swapped it to Mondays!”
Your voice is so clear and mesmerising at the same time that he almost forgets to answer.
“Ye.”
You smile at him and go to walk beside him like the holidays did not happen.
You never ask him about what he did on the break- there’s an unspoken understanding that he doesn’t want to talk about it (Not that he ever really did talk anyway). You do seem to have more friends this year, you don’t always walk with him in the hallways- sometimes you’re crowded with some boys and girls he recognises only by name and class. He still follows behind you those times. The other kids don’t say anything to him. A needy part of him keens when you still only ever eat lunch with him, and his chest aches with comfort when it's always just you two at the study sessions after school.
He’s become proficient enough at English Literature that you start to notice. You tease him a little, and he tries to hide his cheeks with his blazer and tries to play off how he preens under your praise. You’re more energetic this year. He notices it in the way you move, the way you hum louder and joke more. He notices it in the way you change your hair, in the way your shirt is slightly tighter than last year and especially in the way you hike your skirt a bit higher. You’re starting to match more with the girls around the hallways- a part of him mourns the loss of his nervous, little, shy bird version of you.
He doesn’t fight with his inner dialogue when he thinks of you at night anymore.
Sixth-form college applications are simply not in his cards.
Even at the young age of 16, he’s accepted his fate as a worthless piece of crap. The very idea that Simon Riley would graduate with more than a pass at GCSE English and Maths is already wishful thinking; the idea of him going to college? Absolutely hopeless bullshit. Fantasies of studying anymore with the hopes of getting into a fancy university is purely a ‘You’ thing but that doesn’t stop him from listening to you yap on about all the potential colleges you want to go to. You mention how you’re focused on getting into this all-girls college that is too fancy for him to even pronounce. A filthy part of him is content you won't be talking to anymore boys like the football lad who keeps pining for you in the hallway if you got in.
He ignores you when you ask where he’s planning on going.
Simon is working a mind-numbing shift at the local butchers when he is rattled by your magical appearance in front of him. At first, he thinks he's hallucinating- no one from school has ever stepped into his part-time workplace. Of all the people to see him in his slightly mucky apron, mindlessly flicking a boning knife, he did not want you.
Maybe he just accidentally stabbed himself and he’s bleeding out, dreaming of you.
“Si? I didn’t know you worked here!” Your voice feels sickly sweet as it cloys to his brain. You're dressed in nice-fitting jeans and a stripey shirt. Obviously, just having come back from something and running an errand for your family. He just nods and tilts his head to follow your hand as it points to some meat you need him to prepare and pack. You tell him of how you just came back from the high street and how your mum asked you to pick up something for dinner. You reference hanging out with some of the kids from your school. You smile as he tallies up the amount and just nods at every little thing you say.
When you leave, he washes up and buries his head in his hands as he groans in embarrassment of being seen outside, being percieved by you. You stop by almost every weekend after that. It slowly becomes something he looks forward to; you’re not even buying anything. Usually just there to say hello and dilly dally in front of the random accoutrements they sell in the window. Seeing you at work and at school has his little obsession over you worsen, and he doesn’t know if he is appalled or at ease by it.
Leavers' night is soon. The final year of secondary school went by scarily quickly for him. He’s never had dreams of prom, and certainly never thought of going to it. Somehow, he had scraped a decent B in English Literature thanks to your help. You, of course, did well enough to get into that fancy all-girls sixth form college. You forced him to promise to show up to this event, and he hates how easy it is to listen to you; to fall in line at your demands, to be at your beck and call.
Tell me to jump. I ask how high?
This is how he finds himself leaning against the wall like the Class of 2001’s graduating leavers do. He’s stolen a tie from his parents’ room - not that his father has used it much- and the shirt he’s wearing chokes him at the collar a little.
Tell me to dive. I check, how deep?
He eyes you chatting and flitting about the room, always people pleasing for the people around you. He follows your every move with his gaze. You’re wearing a very pretty dress- the kind he’s only ever seen in the posho shop windows. Cute. Fuck, you’re so cute. He shifts, trying to look less weird for staring. Tonight is one of the last nights he will probably see you. After 2 years of this deeply unsettling hole he’s carved out for you, it will be meaningless. When you finally find him and come toward him with that cheerful expression, he almost wants to shoot himself.
Tell me to die. I plead, how quick?
His macabre internal monologue is snipped short as you grab at his arm and jump with excitement at how many songs they were playing. You once again go on a tangent he can barely coherently follow, but follows regardless. To anyone else, he is expressionless and distant- but you can read it in the twitch of the corner of his mouth and the furrow of his brows when you make a joke that he is somewhat content. There's a tinge of bitterness in the air between you. If you notice it, you don’t ever mention it. At some point after being pulled away from him multiple times by other friends, you come back to him looking a bit exhausted. You wordlessly motion towards the back door of the school hall, and he curiously follows as you lead him out. He feels like he is the unsuspecting prey now. He follows, like a man guided solely by the song of a siren of his demise.
The two of you huddle behind the school building. It's so unlike you to be this daring- the end of this chapter of your life must have shaken something in you, he reckons. You hum a quiet song as you two sit on the cold concrete floor, cosy in each other's presence. Simon Riley being the delinquent he has always been, pulls out a pack of tobacco he’s swiped from his living room. You knew he smoked, but he never did it in front of you (The smell that follows his hair has never been hidden from you though) so you chuckle a little when he drops the pack with a thwack between you two and searches for his papers. He fiddles with the shitty thing and rolls a crappy ciggy. He had left his lighter on the little pack of cheap tobacco and when he goes to grab it, your hand overlaps with his and you swat at his as you go to take it before him. You lean so close as you light the fag that hangs in his mouth for him. You don’t say anything. He stares, as always, at you. As if you just did something impossible.
“Make sure to call, please.” You say quietly, your hands shove back the ligh,t but also a crumpled piece of paper where you’ve scrawled your family’s landline for him.
He tries to say something, his rough calloused hand goes to pull the cigarette out of his mouth, and you take it from him and take a long, drawn puff of it. He ends up not saying anything.
He just laughs quietly when you start coughing.
He doesn’t call.
He argues with himself- it costs money and a beating to use his family’s phone, and calling through a payphone just to hear your voice seems a tad desperate. It’s been months since you both left secondary school. He’s working full-time now at the butchers, and you’re at that dream college, no doubt studying your A-levels ever so diligently. You probably don’t even miss him; he tries to suffocate the feelings that swell up in him at the thought.
He regrets not calling when you walk into his work. You try to talk to him, but he doesn’t know what to say, so he just grunts and nods as always. You ask if he’s still reading. He nods but doesn’t tell you his collection of books is just stolen copies of books you've mentioned in the past from the charity shop or never-returned editions from the library. He feels disgusted with himself when you pout and frown at him when he doesn’t have anything else to say. You are hurt that your reunion seemingly means nothing to him.
You don't know It means everything to him.
“I hope you’re okay.” You leave, and as the bell above the shop door jingles, Simon Riley feels empty.
You never come back to his work after that.
When Simon eventually signs up for the Army at age 18, he rationalises it as an easy way to leave his crappy life in Manchester, to escape his abusive son of a bitch father, to serve his country and be something. He doesn't admit how comforting it is to know you won't see him again.
He thinks about how you would react to seeing him in his CS95 DPM.
The military is good. Great actually. He is fed every day, he has an outlet for his aggression, and there is structure. Stability. Predictability. Something he hasn’t had in a long while. Now and again, he gets letters from home- his baby brother old enough now to talk shit about what's going on with expletives in every sentence. His eyes nearly tears the most recent letter he received, in which Tommy faintly wrote about how you were in the local paper for graduating top of your class.
He goes to spar. He is on edge all day, and like the good, perfect little soldier he is, He exceeds all records. Simon knows he’s good at this; he knows how to do this, to follow orders, to serve and protect. Serve and protect. He tries not to think about how far the military base he’s stationed at is from you if he gets promoted. He doesn’t argue with his inner voice when he yanks a newspaper from some other soldier’s hand and scans it, trying to look for you. He doesn’t breathe when he comes up with nothing.
It's been years since he’s heard anything about you, and frankly, after the horrifying death of most of his family, he wants to separate himself from everything to do with his hometown. He’s been shipped to various places on missions now, and his rank has solidified him a decent spot in the Elite SAS group; he does so well, he internally laughs at all the teachers who said he was good for nothing. By the time he’s joined 141, he’s much more developed and complex. He’s had too many traumatic experiences that rival his childhood; his demeanour only cements into a hardier version of the troubled boy you met. Ghost is now too much a part of him that Simon Riley feels so unapproachable in his mind. He scrolls on his phone meaninglessly as he lies bored in the army barracks he's temporarily stationed in.
The others’ voices drawl annoyingly in the background and his fingers flick mindlessly on the glassy screen of his phone. Suddenly it stops and stills; ‘Manchester Evening News’ is recommended on his browser and he recognises that awkward smile anywhere. You might have grown up (evident from the way you pose in the picture and the length of your hair), but Simon Riley can immediately tell it's you.
‘Teacher of the Year’ - You’re holding a terribly cliché certificate as you sit in a classroom for the photo; your career seems so natural to him- you had a gift for teaching worthless saps like him. He fixates on you. Not even reading the words in the article. His hands twitch, his eyes even drifting to look at the battered copy of a book he’s brought on deployment- thinking what you would say about where he is now. He’s so lost in staring at your picture.
“Ghost, mate you with us?” Soaps voice sounds amused, not used to seeing Simon so engaged with his mobile. Ghost slams his phone down and gets up, nodding at his teammate.
He thinks of you as he does his drills.