“Might as well be, ‘cos they’re still going to take everything off me.”
“Don’t be silly,” I respond. “You own this place with Ezra. He won’t care that you got drunk and messed up one evening. And you are the band. You’re the lead singer. Come on, we’re nearly there.”
When we reach the flat, he collapses onto the sofa with a groan. “It’s been one of those days, doc.”
Still clutching the vodka bottle, he clumsily unscrews the cap and takes a swig. Neat vodka, ugh. I wince on his behalf. “One of those days that feels like it’s never going to fucking end.” He belches again—behind his hand this time, surprisingly. “And tomorrow it’s going to be the same all over again. And again, and again. Until all I can see is black.”
It’s no consolation, but I know how it feels when the lights dim and the dark folds in. Is that what this is? Neil’s depressed? Or is black a metaphor for something else? Or is he simply a sexy but melodramatic drunk? Whatever. Something has happened today to upset him, and people do and say stupid, erratic things when they’re drunk and upset. Things they sorely regret the following day. So, as much as I’d love to return to the relative sanity of the bar downstairs, I take a seat in the armchair opposite.
“What’s wrong, Neil?” I probe. “Alaric’s worried about you, and so is Ezra. But they can’t help you unless you tell them what’s the problem.”
“I used to pretend I could beat it, you know?” He swigs from the bottle again, his beautiful, expressive eyes clouding over. “Iused to think I’d be the one that beat the system. And I did, for years. I rode fucking high, doc.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. Maybe it is drunken rubbish after all. Perhaps he’s always like this when he’s pissed.
The flat looks the same as it did the last time I visited. Comfortable, with its deliberately bold contrasting colours—the greys and the blues against pale walls—but not loved. Stark. Aside from his mobile phone lying on the coffee table between us, there’s a distinct lack ofstuff, taking tidiness to an extreme level. His chaotic behaviour and this shrine to neatness doesn’t add up. What are we all missing?
With a pained groan, Neil tips his head back and closes his eyes. He kicks off his shoes and draws his legs up onto the sofa, settling in for the night. Perhaps this is his normal drunken routine. My cue to leave.
I bring him a glass of water, placing it on a low coffee table within reach. I contemplate finding the mop bucket and putting that by him too, just in case. But he’s a big boy, a party animal. This isn’t his first drinking session by a long shot.
“Stay,” he mumbles as I reach the door. “Stay. Please. I—I don’t want to be by myself in the dark.”
“What?”
“You heard. I need you to stay.”
I stop, my hand still on the door.They’re going to take the bar off me.All I can see is black.That plea, that cracked plea with all pride gone. I feel it in my gut. I recognise it and hate it, because I’ve been rock bottom too. And I’m not so high up now that I can’t still look down and see it.
Slowly, I turn back and return to the lounge to where Neil’s covering his eyes with his arm, like he did after banging his head. I flick my wristband, more from habit than necessity. Yes, I’m on edge, this whole situation plucks at every single one ofmy anxiety strings, but I’m in far better shape than Neil this evening, that’s for sure.
“Okay. I’ll stay.”
At around midnight, the temperature drops and a chill creeps in. Across the room, Neil’s lightly snoring, in no danger of choking on his own vomit or becoming sufficiently unconscious to obstruct his airways. He’ll be cold too, when he wakes. I’ll stay until then—I promised him I would—and then shoot off.
I stand, rubbing my arms and stretching my legs. I could go up to the spare room and sleep in there, though if he was so drunk he doesn’t remember asking me to stay, he’ll get a hell of a shock when I wander down in the morning.
I could always grab the duvet from the spare bed instead, and snooze in the armchair. It’s comfy enough. A much better idea. I grab Neil’s for him, too. His bedroom is as basically furnished as everywhere else, with more of the contrasting colour scheme. Here the walls are bottle green. The wardrobe, chest of drawers, and his wooden bed frame are painted off white.
I feel more at ease now I’ve come up with a plan. I cover Neil with the duvet—instantly making him look far more innocent than I know he is—slip out of my trainers, and pull out my phone, placing it on the table. Alaric’s texted a couple of times, and I’ve reassured him all is well. Thankfully, Jess has returned, the beer is back to being drinkable, and Gerald is doing something manly with the kegs in the basement.
As I set mine down, Neil’s phone flashes, the screen glowing bright in the dim of the sitting room. The font is huge—he has the big version of an iPhone—and I can read it from my chair. A random advert from his mobile phone company informs himCongratulations! You’re eligible for…There’s another one, too, from earlier and lower down the screen. A different four-word header takes up all the remaining screen space.Your appointment atMoorfields...
Silently, my lips shape the words. Moorfields. I did a placement there for a few weeks, during med school. Even if I hadn’t, most Londoners are familiar with the historic name. The original eye hospital in Islington has been around for a couple of hundred years. Now, two or three more modern satellite centres also bear the famous name.
As the phone screen shuts itself off, as I stare at my sleeping host, everything falls into place. The tumbles from the stage, the clumsiness with the glass of water at my place, the dyslexia that wasn’t much of a problem before but is now a convenient excuse. Even the contrasting bold colours in the flat and the obsessive lack of clutter and trinkets. You can’t knock off an ornament that isn’t there. Nor trip over a non-existent rug.
I don’t know how long I stare at my gorgeous, peacefully sleeping host, flicking my bead wristband. A few hours at least. My stomach turns over and over, not sick, but weighed down from the gravity of knowing something I can’t ever un-know. That I wasn’t supposed to know. I sure as hell don’t think anyone else does.
When Neil shifts in his sleep and a brief grimace crosses his lax, handsome features, it’s as if I’m seeing him for the first time. The real him, alongside the version he’s been hiding behind, cobbled together out of pride and fear.
And comprehending all of this, carrying this secret, makes my nerves jump. Keyed up and wide awake, my fingertips creep under the brim of my hood to the vulnerable soft spots on my scalp. They feel for the thicker hairs, the wiry ones, the satisfying ones. For an edge that needs straightening up.
I tug on a strand, my craving for the guilty relief powerful enough to overcome any amount of box breathing and wristband flicking. It’s a private, lonely sorting. I expect all sufferers do itdifferently. I yank on another and then another after that: pull, relief, pull, relief, pull, relief. Trapped in an endless rinse-and-spin cycle, each pull being the last, and yet never quite enough.
And I keep on at it, over and over, until dawn creeps through the curtains and Neil begins to stir.
CHAPTER 7
