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“What?”
“I want to talk to you. I’m going away for a few days and I’m worried.”
“Nothing to say.” He begins to close the door, but I push past.
“Fuck, Jem, how much crap are you filling this room with?”
The place spills with empty pizza boxes and beer bottles; the bedside table contains overflowing ashtrays and signs of drugs, not just weed. “I’m not happy. The police are all over us and you’re creating a drug den?”
“So?” Jem sits and lights a cigarette.
“Steve and Tina want us out of the country before the funeral. I came to let you know.”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t go anyway.” He registers the disgust on my face. “Not because I don’t care. Because I don’t want to get arrested for kicking the shit out of someone. Bunch of fucking hypocrites.”
I close the door and lean against it. “Who are?”
“Perfect specimens of English nobility? Ha. Fucking abusers more like.”
“What are you talking about?”
Jem shakes his hair from his face and takes a drag from his cigarette. “Doesn’t matter. Fuck all I can do about things now.”
“Talk to me, Jem”
“Nah. I’m good.” He crosses his legs and continues to smoke. “Can’t believe she died though. That’s fucked.”
“Talk to me,” I press. “Or someone.”
Jem pushes hair from his eyes and doesn’t answer. “When are we leaving? I need to get the fuck away.”
Surveying the room, I agree. “Steve’s around somewhere. Go ask him. Maybe sober up a bit first.”
Jem snorts. “I’ll stick with this reality for now, thanks.” He tips his head. “And don’t try talking to me about this shit. I’ll deal my own way.”
I want to say so much to the shadow of a man in front of me. The animosity thick from the summer retreated in the last couple of months, as my anger toward my almost-brother morphed into concern and frustration. He’s semi-coherent and looking to the tour for escape, maybe Steve is right. If a death won’t change his behaviour, I’ve no idea what else can.
