A Quiet Kind of Thunder(69)

‘Yes,’ the man bellows. ‘Bin.’

‘Come on, mate,’ someone behind me says. ‘You can’t be yelling at a couple of deaf kids.’

‘Yeah, just let them on,’ another voice joins in. ‘It’s a Megabus, not a bloody private jet.’

‘On a private jet you’d be allowed to take a coffee on,’ the first person says, and there’s laughter from the queue.

‘It’s the rules,’ the driver says uncertainly. He coughs, then repeats in a stronger voice, ‘It’s the rules.’

‘We won’t tell,’ private-jet man says impatiently. ‘Can we just all get on now?’

The driver looks back at Rhys and me just in time for us to paste identical, innocent grins on our faces. ‘Ach, just get on,’ he says, waving us towards the open door. ‘Don’t spill anything.’

We can get on, I sign quickly, pushing Rhys towards the coach before the driver can change his mind. I look back at our helpers as I go and sign a quick thank you. I know they won’t be able to understand the actual sign, but there’s something universal about an expression of thanks. They’ll know.

It seems like a good idea to be as far away from the driver as possible, so Rhys and I choose seats at the back of the coach. He lets me have the window seat and busies himself with pushing our bags into the overhead luggage rack while I keep the two cups safe in my hands. I watch him, smiling. His T-shirt rides up and I let my eyes fall to the smooth brown skin of his stomach. It’s . . . well. It’s nice.

All good? He tumbles into the seat beside me, his whole face a beam, and takes his coffee from me.

All very good, I reply. I put my free hand to his collar and pull him the last few inches towards me. We kiss and it’s perfect.

It’s pretty goddam perfect.

We arrive in Edinburgh at half past seven – an hour late because of heavy traffic near Newcastle. I’m so happy to get off the coach I actually bounce on the pavement. This makes Rhys laugh, so it’s OK that it might look weird to other people. He pulls his arms through the straps of his rucksack and then takes my hand. He gestures around, smiling, and without words he is saying, Edinburgh.

I squeeze his hand and look around, bubbly with happiness and stored energy. The air is cold but the sky is an almost entirely clear blue. When we left London, it was raining.

‘Wow,’ I say quietly out loud, even though he can’t hear me. ‘It’s so much more beautiful than I was expecting.’

Even though we’re standing outside a bus station, which doesn’t usually offer the best city views, everywhere I look the city seems beautiful. In London, if you stand in the right place and look the right way, you get a good skyline, but in Edinburgh it is everywhere. If I face left, I see old buildings shining golden against the sky, the colour of the tea-stained paper we used to make in primary school so we could pretend it was ancient. A castle, a cathedral, a church. It looks like the kind of city you’d make up if you were writing a medieval fantasy.

Rhys has let go of my hand and has pulled up Maps on his phone. He has an adorable look of intense concentration on his face as he looks down to the phone and then up again, his hand absently pointing in different directions. After a minute, he puts his phone away and grins at me. Hotel?

I nod. Even though I didn’t exactly do anything strenuous on the coach, for some reason I feel exhausted.

This is the old part of the city, Rhys tells me as we begin to walk. He is just slightly ahead of me and walking at an angle so we can still have a conversation. His excitement shows in his hands, and I love him for it. That’s the train station, there, see? Waverley. On the other side is Princes Street. That’s where chain shops and things are. The newer bit. I like the old bit best. He bumps into an older man and stumbles slightly. Sorry! he signs, his head clearly still in BSL mode.

‘Watch it,’ the man grumbles, not even noticing. There’s such unkindness in his tone that I’m suddenly glad that Rhys doesn’t have to hear it.

Our hotel is really central, Rhys continues happily, beautifully oblivious, considering we couldn’t afford much. Maybe we should have gone for a hostel, but . . . He pauses, embarrassed and shy. I wanted it to be special.

How can I not love this boy?

I reach up and kiss him on the cheek. He beams. I’m really happy, I tell him.

The hotel is on the corner of an old street. There are at least three pubs in sight of our window and about six within a minute’s walk. When we check in, the woman at the reception desk barely blinks at my silence and Rhys’s unusual voice, as if she’s used to seeing young couples with communication difficulties checking in alone. She talks normally, not raising her voice or making exaggerated hand gestures. When she hands Rhys our key, my heart jumps. I think part of me had expected her to tell us we were too young to book a hotel room. Too young to . . . be in a hotel room together.

Anyway. We’re here.

Rhys collapses on to the bed and lets out a happy groan, rolling on to his back like a cat. I’m filled with a sudden, ridiculous shyness and I hang back by the window, the warm metal of the radiator against my skin. Rhys and I have been alone together lots of times, of course, but there’s always been someone on the other side of the door or waiting for one of us to get home. Now it really is just us. Us and a bed.

Rhys sits up a little and looks at me, a small smile on his face. Is he nervous too? Do boys get nervous about stuff like this?