Dempsey
Inevitably there was a dispute between the workers and the owners, and of course I was closely associated with the ringleaders. We were in the right, but that counts for nothing with the police. Some of my friends were arrested, and I went into hiding quickly.
Dempsey knew where I was, and kept bringing me news, but it was risky for her and for me, and I told her to stop. For a while I was completely isolated. Then one day she came again, and told me very bluntly that I had to leave London. One of my friends had been killed, and his body dumped where the police knew people would find it. He had very visibly been tortured. The police denied that they had murdered him, but everyone knew they had, and really of course the police wanted everyone to know they had, and they wanted everyone to know he’d been tortured, too.
Dempsey kissed me on the forehead, and said, “I’ll never forget you, Gom, and don’t you ever forget me. Now go, and don’t come back. Ever. Good luck!”
Those words will stick with me all my life. “Gom” was what she called me when I was tiny and she wasn’t much bigger, and couldn’t say “Gordon.”
She’s 29 now. She’ll always be seventeen in my head. And I’ll always be sixteen in hers. I hope she’s okay.