by Jenna Cox
“If he even comes at all,” I murmured, glancing at the clock as I reached for heeled boots to pull them on. He was five minutes late. But this was Brendan. I wasn’t really worried, not at that moment. I was still preoccupied with trying to forget everything Justin had just said, or at least push it to the back of my mind so it didn’t cloud my thoughts all night.
But half and hour later when there was still no sign of him, and no text message either, I was worried. And wound up. Justin was off on his own date, so not there to calm me down. Izzy had gone to watch a movie in her room, but when I went to the door I could her giggling and flirting down the phone to someone. Salsa guy, maybe.
It seemed like everyone had something moving in the right direction but me. My guy couldn’t even use a phone or show up when he said he would.
I sucked my cheeks in and bit down on them inside my mouth, trying to reign in my jealousy and frustration. I went to the kitchen and bent down to reach into the back of the cupboard for whatever bottle of alcohol I could find there.
“It was Justin wasn’t it.” I jerked my head up and whacked it on the edge of an open cupboard door above me.
“Ow, fuck.” I emerged, gripping the back of my head to find Damien glaring at me from the middle of the kitchen. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” I’d thought Damien was hot when we’d first met, all dark hair and brooding. But it turned out his brooding was just a sour attitude, and I’d quickly gotten over it. I sighed. “It probably was Justin. You know him. Is it really that big a deal?”
“It is. Because you guys do this all the time. Can’t you just respect other people’s property?”
“It’s just food, Damien,” I said sharply. I normally tried to pacify him, or at least stay out of it, but I was in no mood to play nice right then. “Feel free to have anything out of our cupboards. We’re not that precious about it.”
“You never have anything in your cupboards. Besides piss.” He looked down pointedly at the bottle of vodka in my hand.
“And you’re welcome to it,” I said. “Maybe you’d benefit from taking the edge off,” I muttered, turning away to grab a glass. I knew I would.
“I don’t want your alcohol. I just want my food left where I put it.”
“Do you want money or something? I’ve got fifty quid in my room you can have. That should cover your corn chips.”
“Don’t try and throw money at me. You guys can’t just buy your way out of everything. It’s the principle.”
“It’s the principle,” I imitated under my breath, rolling my eyes. I was facing away from him, but I heard him exhale heavily.
I gritted my teeth and stopped pouring my drink. But when I turned to him, Damien was passing me on his way out of the kitchen with a wounded look on his face, and I felt guilty.
“Damien, sorry, I—”
“Fuck you, Kat.”
My eyes widened and I watched him stalk out of the room. That had gone too far. He’d never got that angry before — maybe we’d been prodding the bear too much lately. I thought about going after him to apologise properly, but I heard the front door to our flat slam and sighed. I’d fix that problem later. There were other things to worry about.
Like how it was almost quarter to nine, and Brendan had said he’d come pick me up at eight. All sorts of scenarios ran through my head. I started with excuses for him, about why he might have got caught up, like maybe he was at work and hadn’t been able to leave or something. But after three drinks, and as the clock ticked steadily towards 9.30, the mindless telly watching I’d resorted to wasn’t distracting me anymore and the scenarios grew wilder. Like maybe he’d nicked a car again to come and get me and was in jail for real this time.
I remembered what he’d said, about it being the twenty-first century, and why didn’t I call him? So I tried that, but his phone was off. It didn’t even ring, and I hung up without leaving a message. I was a bit tipsy and didn’t want to say anything crazy.
Instead I had the impulse to do something crazy.
And I’d grabbed my coat and handbag and was heading for the bus stop before I could really think it through.
Somehow it was only as I got off the second bus near the start of Straight St that the real idiocy of my plan dawned on me. I didn’t even know where his home was, other than the general street name. What was I going to do—wander up and down it until I found him? And who said he was even there? He could have been out, on his way to my place, with some perfectly reasonable explanation for his tardiness. Or something bad could have happened to him. Maybe it was drugs, and he had overdosed. Or he was selling them, and had got himself nicked. Or beaten up by a rival dealer.
My mind was whirling uncontrollably now. I stood indecisively beside the bus shelter where I had got off, and pulled out my phone, turning protectively away from a shifty looking guy passing by. Maybe the stupidest part of my plan was that I was standing on a street corner alone in the dark in the middle of Holbeck. Justin’s comment about the red light district played on my mind as a car approached where I was standing on the edge of the street. It was probably just my imagination that it slowed down as it got near. But I kept my face averted, being sure not to do anything that could be construed as suggestive. It passed.
I texted Justin. I probably should have texted him to come get me — I was drunk and paranoid. And I might have done so if I hadn’t known how annoyed he’d be at the interruption to his date. So instead I just asked him:
What number was Brendan’s house?
It was only a moment later that he replied.
Why? Is this a test?
Just tell me.
197. Why? You’re not quizzing him are you?
Not yet. I started walking, not replying to Justin, and checking the street numbers as I went. It seemed like an endless walk, though the street wasn’t even that long. I was regretting my shoe choice. And by the time I reached 197, it was starting to rain, and so I ducked up the steps and under the small portico over the front door before I could think about it, just to avoid getting wet.
There were lights on inside, so someone was home. But I was seriously questioning my sanity then. I couldn’t knock. This was the daftest thing I’d ever done. Whatever reason Brendan had for standing me up, I wasn’t going to make anything better by showing up at his house like this. I was turning away to go back down the steps to the street, rain and all, when I heard a crash and shout from inside the house. I hesitated and looked back to the door, my heart racing. I tried peering through the front window, but the blinds were drawn.
There was more unintelligible shouting from somewhere inside, and I felt scared now. And paralysed. Should I do something? Should I run away and pretend I was never here? I took a step backwards, still staring indecisively at the door, and my heel wobbled on the crumbly step. I slipped and squeaked in alarm as I fell backwards, lunging forward and grabbing at the low edge of the steps. It only slowed my descent, stopped me cracking my head on the concrete, but it didn’t stop me from landing squarely on my backside on the rain soaked ground.
I opened my mouth in a silent howl, my eyes watering, and I panted and rolled to the side, trying to get to my feet as I rubbed my coccyx. Any movement drew sharp winces; I couldn’t straighten up so dropped back to my knees. I was already saturated by the rain, and now I couldn’t even stand up. This was fucked up.
There was more violent shouting coming from inside; I was considering crawling for the street when the front door flung open, illuminating me in a flood of light where I crouched, sodden and wide eyed on the path. Brendan burst out, slamming the door behind him with a harsh grunt and then stopping abruptly as he saw me.
We just blinked at each other, then I got to my feet and grit my teeth to stand up, though my tailbone throbbed painfully.
“Hiya,” I murmured idiotically.
He just stared at me, like he had turned to stone. Then he turned his face away, descended the steps and passed me, heading for the street.
&nb
sp; “Brendan, wait,” I said, whirling round to follow him. And then I gasped as I caught a glimpse of the side of his face that he’d been trying to hide from me. “What...what happened?”
“Nothing,” he said sharply, and kept going. I hobbled after him.
“You’re bleeding,” I said. He stopped then, putting his hand to his hairline and bringing away bloody fingers. His knees jerked, like they were going to buckle. And then he sat down heavily on the neighbours concrete fence, buried his head in his arms and his shoulders began to shake. He was crying.
The combination of adrenaline, alcohol and the sight of blood collided in my stomach. It twisted and lurched. And as the blood drained from my face, I leaned over the fence beside him and puked into a bush.
*-*-*
We sat side by side on the low fence, the rain drizzling around us. I pushed my sodden hair off my forehead and tried to wipe away the water dripping into my eyes, but of course every drip I wiped away was replaced my another immediately. I was shivering and my stomach still churned uncomfortably, but I was trying to be calm and sober for Brendan’s sake.
He still hadn’t said anything. While I’d puked, he’d leaned over and made an attempt at holding my hair back for me. But as soon as I’d recovered, he’d withdrawn again, put his head in his hands and sat slumped and silent.
“Is everything okay?” I murmured eventually, then screwed up my face and shook my head for a second. What a stupid question. Would he be sitting on the street in the rain with a bleeding head if it was? “I mean, can I do anything? I should look at your head.” I got to my feet and leaned over him, brushing my fingers gently across his hair to move it out the way and see the damage, but Brendan just lifted his arms and roughly pushed my hands away.
“Leave off. I’m fine.” As he moved I could see the smear of blood down the side of his face, and the glisten of more in his hair, though it was hard to tell how much was blood and how much was rain in the dim street lights.
“You’re not fine. Let me look.” I tried to move his hands away more firmly this time; abruptly he grabbed my wrists and glared up into my face.
“I said stop.” We stayed frozen like that for a moment. The flash of anger that had passed over me at his obstinacy dissipated quickly; his face was stricken, though he tried to keep it neutral. I stopped straining against his grip and sunk down to squat in front of him. He released me.
My hands hovered by his knees, then I drew them back and tucked them under my armpits. My fingers were stiff and icy. “What happened, Brendan? I want to help.” Droplets of water splashed from my lips as I talked.
“You can’t. You shouldn’t be here.” He turned his face away, then frowned and glanced back at me. “What are you even doing here? How did you know where I live?”
“Justin…” Brendan had already rolled his eyes, realising the answer before I said it. He kept his face turned away, staring down the street. I reached out with one frozen hand and forced his head to turn to me, pressing against his cheek. I gasped when I saw the whole side of his face streaked with blood that looked almost black in the darkness. “You’re still bleeding. Maybe you should go to a hos—”
“No.” His voice was harsh, but he was blinking his eyes rapidly and didn’t seem to be able to focus on me.
“At least let me look at it then—Brendan.” I grabbed his shoulders as he teetered where he sat, stopping him from toppling backwards into the neighbour’s front garden. They already had vomit in their bush, they probably didn’t want a bloody mess as well.
“I’m fine,” he said, shrugging me off again. “Just dizzy.”
“You’re not fine. Come on.” I took his hand and tugged him to his feet, and surprisingly he let me lead him. I hesitated for a moment. I’d been planning to go into his house, find a bathroom and a first aid kit if they had one, but his house was the place he’d just run from.
“It’s fine. He’ll be gone now, out the back,” Brendan said, and nodded towards his front door. He staggered slightly on his feet. I tucked myself under his arm and gripped his waist, trying to support him. I didn’t know who he was, but I hoped Brendan was right about him being gone, because I didn’t know what else to do; we were going in.
I opened the door and lugged him inside. It opened straight onto a small lounge room, with a dingy carpet and a couch that had burn marks that the rug thrown over it couldn’t completely hide; the whole room smelled like an old ashtray. A TV hummed in the corner, strobing the room with coloured light. No one else was there at least.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
Brendan gestured weakly in the direction of the stairs, and I inwardly groaned. He was already leaning on me heavily and I couldn’t exactly piggy-back him up there. I sat him down on the first step, and he slumped against the balusters, staring blankly at the TV across the room. I ventured a bit further into the house, through the door that led into a small kitchen.
“Hello?” I called out tentatively. No one answered. I’d thought of using the kitchen instead of the bathroom, but it was a mess of unwashed dishes and takeaway containers. As I stepped further in to assess where a first aid kit might be kept, I felt a wet, gravelly crunch under my boot and looked down. There was a shattered bottle on the kitchen floor, shards of brown glass swimming in a pool of beer, tinged red. Blood. Was this what had hit Brendan? A clench of fear gripped my stomach, and I turned quickly back to the lounge room behind me where I had left him. My hands were shaking.
“What happened, Brendan? Are you sure it’s safe here?” I asked him, crouching down in front of him again. He didn’t look at me, just stared past me. My whole body was taut with anxiety. I was considering ringing an ambulance, maybe the police, when he spoke.
“It’s fine now. He’s gone.” His voice was flat and he still didn’t look at me. I searched his face. He looked pale and drawn, but I couldn’t tell if his demeanour was because of the injury or just a morose depression. I pressed my lips together tightly, determined not to cry in panic.
“Do you think you can get up to the bathroom?” I asked. He just nodded and started getting to his feet. He stumbled once, but tried again.
“Hang on,” I said. I stripped off my wet coat then reached down and unzipped my boots to wrench them off. We’d both fall down the stairs if I tried to carry him in those. As I was wrestling with the last boot, I heard a sound above us and looked up sharply.
“Fuck, Brendan. I told you to just let him go,” a voice said.
A teenage girl was staring down at us. She barely glanced at me before descending. The resemblance to Brendan was striking. She could have been a younger version of him, if he’d been a girl. Except that where his hair was unkempt, hers was ironed straight, and a heavy fringe nearly covered her thickly made-up eyes. Eyes that were eerily the same as his, I saw, when she glanced at me again. She paused next to Brendan, her brother I felt safe in assuming, and sneered. “You daft git. What’ve you done to yerself?” She roughly grabbed some of his hair out the way to look at his head, the huffed and slapped him on the back of his skull.
I gasped, and dropped my boot to reach out. But Brendan had already come to life with a yell, and swiped at her.
“Get off. You think I’m just gonna let him take it all without a fight?”
“Well ain’t he taken it anyway? And what have you got to show fer it? Nowt but a bleedin’ ‘ead.” Her accent was much stronger than I had ever heard Brendan’s. She was pushing past both of us and heading for the door.
“Wait,” I said, and she turned on me with a frown that bordered on disgust. “Can you help me get him upstairs?”
“What fer?”
“I need to look at his head. Do you know what happened? And is there a first aid kit somewhere?”
The girl’s top lip quirked up as she stared at me, looked me up and down, then she pressed her lips together like she was blotting her lipstick. “Dad hit him with a bottle. And I doubt it.”
She was standing a little taller now, and
she flicked her straight hair back from her face primly. Even her accent had smoothed out; was she doing that after hearing mine? I knew I didn’t sound much like I was from Leeds; boarding school in London had trained that out of me a long time ago.
“Just help me get him upstairs, alright?” Brendan was getting to his feet on his own now, gripping the handrail.
“I can do it,” he said flatly.
“See, he’s fine. Cheerio,” she said in a plummy voice, and I was left in no doubt she was intending to mock me. And then she grabbed a coat from behind the door and went out into the night.
“Where’s she going? Should I stop her?” I asked, glancing at Brendan and back to the door.
“Why?”
“How old is she? Is that your sister?”
“She’s fifteen. And yes, she’s my sister. So clearly I’m not her father.” Brendan was climbing the stairs now, and I took two at a time after him to slip myself under his arm again. I didn’t know how much support I actually was, but he let me be there, and he gripped my shoulder as we went.
I felt more out of breath than he seemed by the time we got to the top, and once we were in the bathroom, I sat him down on the closed toilet seat and leant on the sink taking a few deep breaths. I glimpsed my reflection in the mirror and had to stifle a grimace. The fluorescent lighting did me no favours, but I would have been a sight in any lighting. My hair was plastered to my head like a skullcap, and my skin was a blotchy mess of white and red. My lips were a lovely shade of purple.
“Shit,” I murmured under my breath. Then louder, “Right. Let’s have a look at you.” I stood upright and ignored my own cold and aches. My tailbone still protested when I moved too quickly, but I figured a bleeding head was higher up the triage list. Brendan flinched reflexively as I reached out to touch his head, but then held himself still again. I could see his jaw was clenched tight, but I didn’t know if it was pain or pride.
