by Sarah Hilary
‘Yeah?’ He hooded his eyes, pushing the carton of food away.
‘Eat it. You need it.’
He splintered the fork between his fingers, blinking at the broken bits of wood. His jaw was one long clench, eyes scaring to the door every few seconds.
Marnie was tired of sitting with men who pretended to be brave, pretended to be hard, simply because they were afraid.
‘Whoever it is you’re hiding from . . . Are they dangerous? Or just playing at being dangerous?’
‘Visitor hours are over, yeah? I can get this shit from my brother.’ He looked at the food. ‘Don’t need it from you.’
‘Finish that. Who knows when you’ll get another free meal, since you’re clearly not keen on going home.’
‘They don’t need my shit on their step.’ He started eating the chips, hunger trumping hostility. ‘Noah showed you this text he got?’
‘He hasn’t reported it, not yet. But he was upset. Whoever you’re hiding from has threatened Dan Noys.’
Sol’s hand stopped moving between the carton and his mouth. ‘For real?’ His eyes were huge.
‘That’s why I’m asking how dangerous they are.’
‘Dan’s okay though, yeah?’ Genuine fear, and concern. ‘He’s okay.’
‘For now. Maybe it’s not a problem if your friends are just flossing. But I’m guessing you’re sleeping rough for a reason.’
‘I ain’t sleeping rough.’
‘You’re not sleeping at home.’ Or anywhere with hot running water. ‘Noah’s worried about you. And about Dan.’
Sol broke the fork into smaller pieces, his bottom lip shiny from the chips. He was just a kid, she realised. A spoilt kid. With none of his brother’s courage, or strength.
‘How did you know he was in the hospital?’ she asked, more gently.
He didn’t answer for a long minute. Then he said, ‘That’s where they put him.’
‘Who’re they?’
‘I ain’t giving you names. Bad enough I’m sitting here eating this shit you paid for. You think I’m giving you names . . .’ He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘You think they’re flossing—? They fucked him up. With a bat. Next time they’ll take his head off. Next time—’
‘Wait. You think a gang did this?’
Ollie, Noah had said. Not a definitive ID, but he’d been sure that it was Ollie who’d hit him, and left him for the paramedics. Now Sol was saying—
‘You think your gang attacked Noah?’
‘They fucked him up.’ Sol jabbed the broken fork at the table, between misery and anger. ‘But it could’ve been worse, could be worse. If I don’t sort it out.’
‘How will you do that?’
‘By staying wide. No one needs my shit in their life.’
‘Noah needs you. You’re his brother. Whatever trouble you’re in—’
‘I ain’t in. I’m it. I’m the trouble.’ Not just self-recrimination. Pride, too. This was his role, the troublemaker, Noah’s off-the-rails kid brother.
‘You think this is your fault.’
‘You—’ He blinked at the table. ‘You don’t get it.’
‘I get it,’ Marnie said. ‘You messed up and you thought you’d put it right, but someone else has a better idea, or thinks he has.’
Sol looked up at her, fretting at the splintered fork. ‘That . . . Yeah.’
‘You need help sorting it out. I don’t see how running away is going to do that.’
‘It’s all I got.’ He put his hands up, as if she’d told him to do it, splaying his fingers. ‘I got nothing. I’m – nothing.’
‘You’re Noah’s brother. And you have something, otherwise why are these people threatening him and Dan?’
‘They want me back.’ He linked his hands on the top of his head, pushing with his palms until tears came. ‘That’s what this’s about. I ain’t going back. Shit I’ve done—’ He shut his eyes. ‘No way I’m starting back up.’
‘You’ve drawn a line. Good. Now we just need to get the other side to do the same.’
The breath left him in a laugh. Tears travelled down his face and he wiped them with the cuff of his hoodie. ‘Thanks for the food, though. For real.’
He was exhausted, needed to sleep, get clean, recharge. Maybe then he’d be able to talk about this properly, see something other than stone walls everywhere.
‘You could do me a favour,’ she said.
‘Yeah?’ He opened his eyes, warier than a cat. ‘What’s that?’
Noah was awake, propped by pillows in the narrow hospital bed.
‘I’m breaking the rules.’ Marnie sat by his side. ‘But they’ve allowed me five minutes on account of the badge. How’s the headache?’
‘What headache? I’m a hundred per cent meds, blissed out. Weird dreams, though. Rather be awake.’ He searched her face. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Too much to tell you about in five minutes, but I wanted you to know Sol’s safe.’
‘He’s—’
‘Safe.’ She steadied him with a smile. ‘He’s at my place. I needed someone to keep the flat from freezing, and he needed a place to crash. It’s fine. He’s safe.’
‘I don’t . . .’ Noah’s face blanked with confusion. ‘What?’
‘He was hanging around outside the hospital, looking like he’d not eaten in a week. I fed him chips and he told me a few things, not much. He needed a place and mine’s going begging. I’ve been worried about it being empty during this cold spell. It’s fine, honestly.’
‘That’s not . . .’ Noah put his knuckles to the bruised side of his face. ‘Okay, but I’m not sure it’s a great idea. Sorry, I don’t mean – I’m grateful. But it’s your home. Sol isn’t— He’s my problem, not yours.’
‘Oh I think there’s enough problem to go around. It’s a temporary solution, I didn’t give him a key. If he walks, he can’t get back in again. But it’s a chance for him to have a hot shower, and to get some sleep. He needs to stop running so he can think about what to do next.’
‘He talked to you?’ Noah looked stunned.
‘I fed him fish and chips. We chatted a bit, not much. I wanted you to know he’s okay. You can stop worrying about him for a while. I gave him a phone, just a cheap one, pay-as-you-go. Told him to call you tomorrow.’ She nodded at Noah’s iPhone. ‘I can put the number in there, if you’d like?’
‘Thanks . . .’
She fed the number in, then stood. ‘Dan’s all right?’
‘Yes.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Thanks. Thank you.’
‘Get some rest.’ She pressed his wrist. ‘I won’t expect to see you tomorrow, so take it easy.’
‘We’ve got Ollie to find.’
And Finn Duffy.
And whoever was hunting Sol.
‘You need to be on top form. I’ll call round when I get the chance, bring you up to speed.’
‘Something happened, didn’t it?’ He was watching her face. ‘I’m pilled to the eyelids, but I can see that. Something’s happened.’
‘I’ll tell you when you’re well enough. Get some sleep, get better.’
He nodded. ‘Thanks, again. For Sol.’
‘One thing.’ She couldn’t leave without asking. ‘How sure are you that it was Ollie who attacked you?’
Noah took a moment then said, ‘It was him. I’m pretty sure—’
He nodded, looking unhappy. ‘It was Ollie.’
39
‘Are you going to keep quiet?’ Ollie scuffed a foot at the bathroom floor, his trainers making the tiles squeal. The towel was in the corner where he’d kicked it. ‘Are you?’
Finn didn’t understand the question. He’d been quiet for hours. Ever since Ollie did his ankles and wrists with the tape. Just lying here, blinking at the bath, swallowing the spit in his mouth when it built up the way it did at the dentist. His hands felt huge, taped in front of him, like he was wearing boxing gloves. Everything kept going black as if someone was pouring hot tar into
his ear until his head filled, until it reached his eyes and he stopped being able to see. Then his feet kicked and his head emptied a bit so he could make out the bath and the tiles and Ollie sitting there keeping guard, before the tar started pouring in again and it all got swallowed up.
‘Shithead.’ Ollie kicked at his ankles. ‘Are you going to be quiet?’
Finn blinked, nodding. It made the tar go into his eyes and he couldn’t see as Ollie shuffled across the floor and got him under the armpits, pulling him half onto his lap. Finn didn’t fight, the way he had before. Ollie held him the same way, one arm across his shoulders, saying, ‘Keep quiet, you’d better keep quiet,’ and he started hitting the side of Finn’s head.
No, not hitting. It hurt like that’s what he was doing but he was picking at the end of the duct tape, trying to get it loose. Finn’s head rocked on his neck, like it belonged to Ollie now.
‘Fuck’s sake. Come on . . .’ Ollie’s fingers slipped, the bone in his wrist hitting Finn’s nose.
He tried to lift his hands but Ollie batted them away, struggling with the tape. It hurt, dragging at his hair, and the tar wasn’t tar any more because it was too thin, slopping in his skull like petrol. His head was full of petrol and Ollie was going to set it alight if he didn’t stop shaking him. They’d die in a fireball, melted together. They’d be a headline in the newspapers but Ollie’d get the blame, because he was the oldest. Finn was just a kid and he hadn’t duct-taped himself—
He thought, ‘That’s what you get for making monsters.’
His head fell forward, knocking his chest with a chunk.
The tape was off. Something wet crawled out of his mouth and down his chin. A red snake slipping down his T-shirt, spreading itself out. He panicked, tried to hit it away.
Ollie held him hard. ‘Shut up or it goes back on.’
Finn sobbed. There was a fucking snake on him—
‘What’s your problem?’ Ollie was squeezing his arm again. ‘Can’t you do as you’re told? You used to be able to do what the fuck you were told. D’you want to go back in the cage? You’ll go back in the cage and I’ll kick it, I’ll kick it across the fucking floor, you little shit.’
Finn squinted down at his chest where the snake was wide and red and keeping very still, its head pointing to where his jeans were wet again.
‘You stink.’ Ollie sounded different, not as angry. ‘Did you piss yourself?’
‘Snake . . .’
‘What?’
‘There’s – snake.’ He tried to shake it off him, but it clung on.
‘There’s no snake.’ Ollie propped his chin on Finn’s head. ‘It’s blood. You bit your tongue.’
Finn squinted at his chest. Blood was trailing down his chin. His lips stung and when he licked them his tongue stung too, gluey and disgusting. He’d pissed himself over his own blood coming out of his own mouth. Pain grabbed at him where Ollie had unwound the tape. It was on the floor, a long loop of grey with bits of his skin and hair stuck to it. He tried to stop sobbing but it was hard, his chest hiccuping, mouth gulping. He wiped at his face with white fingers, blue under his nails because of the tape round his wrists. He could bite through it now his mouth was free, he’d bite through it when he’d stopped crying.
‘It’s okay,’ Ollie was saying, ‘it’ll be okay.’
He was rocking Finn, rocking the both of them.
Finn wanted him to stop. He was going to puke if Ollie didn’t stop. ‘Don’t . . .’
It was worse than when Ollie was hissing at him and tying him up, because it made no sense. Finn had known Ollie was hard – you didn’t fuck with Ollie – but he hadn’t known Ollie was mental and this was mental, rocking Finn like he was a baby.
‘Get off me, yeah?’ He pulled free, twisting round on the tiles.
Ollie kept rocking, his eyes fixed on Finn, but it was like he was seeing straight through him to the wall behind. Finn pulled his knees up, holding his bare toes with his fingers. He could unpick the tape from his ankles, bite it off his hands. That’s what Dad would do, if he was here.
Ollie kept rocking, kept staring.
‘Where is he?’ Finn rubbed his toes to get rid of the blue. He was shivering but the petrol had stopped slopping in his head. The only fire was over his right eye, burning.
Ollie stared straight through him. He looked drunk, eyes big and black, glittery like Dad’s when he’d been on the whisky.
Finn started picking at the end of the tape around his ankles. ‘There’s two of us now.’ He shook his hands to get the blood going, wiping the sweat from his fingers onto his jeans before trying again with the tape. ‘We can get out of here . . . Help us, would you?’
Ollie stopped rocking, but didn’t speak or look at Finn.
‘Fine, don’t help.’ He’d found the end of the tape and was pulling it free, one awkward loop at a time, passing it under his legs. It kept catching on everything. ‘I thought you were with him but you’re not. It’s okay now there’s two of us. We can fight him. You can fight anyone . . .’
‘Get in the bath.’
‘Piss off . . . I’m nearly done.’
Ollie was joking, that’s what he thought. He’d taken the tape off Finn’s mouth and why would he do that unless he was on Finn’s side? But Ollie said it again: ‘Get in the bath.’
‘Why?’
‘Just – do it.’
Ollie had a plan, that was it. He was going to get Brady in here and nut him, and he didn’t want Finn in the way. ‘I can help.’ He dragged the last bit of tape from his ankles, wincing. It was worse than taking off a plaster. ‘Let me help.’
‘Get in the bath.’ Ollie started rocking again. ‘They told him you were in the bath.’
Finn brought his wrists to his mouth, searching with the sore tip of his tongue for the place where he could start unpeeling the tape. ‘Told who?’
‘Will you get in the fucking bath?’ Ollie spoke through his teeth like he was being pulled back into the room, dragged here against his will, the way Finn had been.
‘Why? You said they told him – who?’
‘Your dad.’
‘What?’ Finn felt punched. ‘They told my dad—?’
‘Who d’you think this is for?’ Ollie smacked his hand against the side of the bath, making it shout. ‘All this shit. Who else gives a fuck about you?’
‘Brady hasn’t— He never said—’
‘Your fucking dad,’ Ollie gritted the words through his teeth, ‘all this shit’s for him. To make him do as he’s told. And it’s working, so, yeah. Get in the bath before I tape you shut again.’
Finn climbed to his feet. He stumbled towards the bath, remembering how he’d puked in it, feeling the stinging wetness of his jeans, hating the stink of himself. Scared of Ollie, scared of Brady. So scared he couldn’t see straight.
Ollie shoved a foot at him to hurry him up. He was rocking again, arms round his knees, eyes off. Black and shiny, staring through the wall.
Finn put his taped hands on the curled lip of the bath. It was cold and hard. He balanced on one foot, lifting the other over the lip. Blood rushed to his head and he tipped forward like he was going to land face first in the bath, except Ollie’s hand shot out and caught him by the knee of his jeans, holding him steady.
Finn looked down at him sitting there, and he couldn’t make sense of Ollie, why he was here or what he was thinking. He hated Finn, but he’d helped him. He’d let Finn take the duct tape off his ankles, but now he was yelling at him to get in the bath. Because of Dad, he said—
He imagined lying down in there, by the plughole where the icy air came in. Not being able to see the door, not being able to get away and it was always going to be the bath where Brady did it – cut him up. Killed him. ‘I – can’t. Don’t . . . Don’t make me get in there.’
‘You’re in the bath,’ Ollie said. ‘That’s what he thinks. He’s thinking of you right now. He’s doing what they say because of you, because he gives a shit.’ His
voice broke. ‘You’ve got someone who gives a shit about you so be thankful and get-in-the-fucking-bath.’
Finn climbed in, standing with his feet shrinking from the squeaky cold inside the tub, holding its hard lip, not able to let go.
‘Lie down,’ Ollie said. ‘He’s thinking of you lying down in there.’
‘What’s Brady making him do?’
‘Lie down.’
Finn lowered himself. ‘Is he making him hurt people?’ His voice was odd, echoey, down inside the bath. It was like lying in a space capsule or that machine where his gran went for tests before she died. He put the ends of his fingers to the overflow, feeling the cold running through its grill. Days ago he’d liked doing this, feeling the outside getting in. Not now. ‘Ollie?’
‘What?’ He sounded a long way away. Quiet again, though. Not angry like before.
‘Is Brady making him hurt people? My dad.’
‘Yeah. But he likes it, doesn’t he? That’s what they said. He likes hurting people. They’re only asking him to do what he likes doing anyway.’
Finn curled on his side, facing away from Ollie.
Everything was white now.
No more tar, no more black.
White and hard and so cold he couldn’t feel his toes.
He could unpick the rest of the duct tape with his teeth, but what was the point?
Dad was seeing him like this.
Lying here in the bath.
He should stay where Dad could see him.
40
Kim’s café was a warm refuge from another bitter morning. Marnie nursed a cup of coffee, watching the door. It wasn’t yet 7 a.m. but she’d wanted a head start on the day, knowing what it was likely to bring. She’d slept with Ed at her side after sidestepping his questions last night, remembering his reaction to the shoebox and needing the chance to put her thoughts in order; Ed was too important to be a dumping ground for the mayhem in her head.
The café door opened, letting in a razor-edged chill and Harry Kennedy in his peacoat, its collar turned up. He made his way to the table where she was sitting.
