Secrets - Meeting With Gordon

I recognise him straightaway. Gordon Day, even though he looks nothing like the Gordon Day you and I knew once. Back then, Gordon was a small boy, ruddy faced, with a mop of reddish-brown hair – lovable, in a way, but impish, I suppose.  The guy in the gym looks like a tough nut capable of taking someone round the side and laying into them.  He's wearing a blue gym vest with the gym logo on, the sort of vest that shows off serious muscle, and his cropped hair and the grin make him appear more youthful than a person in their mid-thirties.

He stops talking to the henna hair receptionist and turns to face me, frowning. He comes out, starts to cross the lane.  'Holmsey,' he calls. My old nickname.  Definitely Gordon.  He strides towards me.  'Hey, how's it going?' he says. 'I saw your Mel a week or two back and she said you were living in London.'  
           
'Yes, she told me.'  
           
He points to himself.  'You know who I am, don't you?  Gordon Day. We were at school together.'

'I remember. You look really different.'  
           
'You don't. I recognised you straightaway. It's good to see you, mate.'
           
'Yes, you too.'
           
'So how long are you up for?' He speaks like a southerner, but the word up gives him away. He's a northerner like me, although both of us have lost our accents for the most part.
           
 'For a while,' I say. 
           
Gordon gives me a peculiar look. 'I thought you were in London.'
           
'I'm here for a few months. It's a long story.'
           
'Cool,' he says. 'Fancy a coffee somewhere?'
           
'Maybe some other time. I've got a lot to sort out with the move.'
           
'Okay, give us a couple of minutes then.' He sprints to the gym, grabs a card from the receptionist. The henna receptionist's watching me now as well as some rock hard bloke with muscles and tattoos, who's also wearing a blue gym vest. The bloke stares unnervingly at me, as if he's read up on the case from twenty-five years ago and recognises me as the boy who fled a murder scene in a state.

Gordon runs back out to join me. 'Here's the number for the gym,' he says, handing me a card. 'My email address is on the card. I live behind the river. Over there.' He points to the bridge. 'You and Mel ought to come for supper one evening. What's your email address?' The sun hides behind a cloud, causing a sudden chill.  What do you think, Craig?  Perhaps I'm overreacting, but I get an overwhelming urge to walk away and forget about Gordon.

'Your email address?' he repeats.

'Alan at Holmes dot com. Same spelling.'

'Cool. I'll email you and we can fix up a time. Ever hear from the boys?'

He's referring to our other friends Callum and Shane Jenkins. Remember them? 'I haven't seen Callum and Shane for years.'

'Same here,' Gordon says.

There's an uncomfortable silence. Lots of bad feeling in the past.

'So you've been back about four months?' I say.
'Four and a bit.'

'That's good. Look, I'd better be off. I'll call in sometime.'

'You do that.  And take care now.'
  
'Yeah, you too.'

I return to the car and drive away, glancing once at the gym. Gordon has gone back inside, but the receptionist and the other bloke are still watching me.