It was Christmas eve. It didn’t feel like it. I woke in a cold, empty flat. The space where Debs had lain beside me for months was empty. I reached out, touched the other side of the bed; it was as if no one had ever been there. The night before I had tried to fill the gap she’d left by putting her pillow at my back, but I’d removed it — didn’t want to wake up and think she was still there, face yet more disappointment.
I stared at the ceiling, heard movement upstairs. They had a kid that was running around, laughing. She would be excited at the thought of Santa coming later on; it made me think of Michael at that age. I remembered bawling him out then, telling him to shut up as he went on and on about Star Wars figures and whether he’d be getting a Boba Fett or a Gamorrean Guard in his stocking.
The memory was too painful; I tried to replay it the way I would like to have remembered it. I spoke kindly to my younger brother, said there might even be a Millennium Falcon coming his way, but it didn’t work. Any thoughts I held of him, real or otherwise, were now too raw to confront.
I dragged myself up, went through to the bathroom. The flat seemed desolate without the dog running around, wagging his tail, barking at any movement coming from the stairwell. I turned on the taps and the pipes rattled, a thin trickle of water made its way into the sink. I put my hands under and jerked them away — it felt frozen.
I tried to shave with the knock-off razors I’d bought from the dodgy newsagent — they cut my face to bits. I didn’t think I’d used a worse blade; they were obviously not the brand they claimed. I scraped the remainder of my coupon and collected more nicks and abrasions. The sink grew smeared with blood. I dropped the razor in the bin and dabbed my wounds with tissue paper.
As I looked in the mirror I was stunned at how low I’d fallen. My eyes were sunken in my head. It seemed as if they’d been planted in the ground, stamped down. My cheeks were hollow and I had crow’s feet that had crept a further half-inch down my face since the last time I’d looked. I hardly recognised myself any more. I drew further to the mirror and took full stock of the damage: more broken blood vessels had appeared in my eyes and my forehead had fixed itself in a frown. Lines spread left to right across my brow and when I stretched my neck they lengthened. I looked beyond rough.
‘The fuck happened to you, boy?’ I said.
I didn’t know myself.
What had I become?
I remembered hearing someone say that ageing brought with it a surrender of dreams, but an understanding and maturity that compensated for it. If I had held any dreams, I had lost them for sure. But where was my compensation? I was more confused by life than I’d ever been. As I looked at the man I’d become I wanted my understanding. I dipped my head. ‘I want my peace.’
I fired up the shower, got it as hot as possible without removing skin and stood below the battering jets. The steam rose and filled the small bathroom and after a few minutes I felt its worth as my aching head began to ease.
Debs had removed all her shampoos and products and I had to make do with only a dried-out old sliver of soap but I persevered, scrubbed myself and hoped I would clean away more than the grime. I let the water soothe me some more, must have been under it for all of twenty minutes before I hauled myself back to the bedroom.
I dressed in a white T-shirt and a clean pair of Diesel jeans that had been bought for me by Debs. As I combed back my hair I spied the padded envelope from Fitz that I’d placed on top of the wardrobe. I took it down and went through to the living room.
I laid the little package on the smoked-glass coffee table and went into the kitchenette. As I boiled the kettle, I sparked up a Marlboro. The envelope stared back at me; I knew what was inside and I needed to face it. The kettle pinged.
I took my mug of Red Mountain and sat down. As I dowped my tab in the ashtray, I heard a key turning in the front-door lock.
‘Debs?’ I called out, stunned.
She came through to the living room with her Bagpuss keyring out in front of her. ‘Hi,’ she said. There was no sign of the suitcase.
‘You’re back…’
She shook her head. ‘No, not quite…’ She pointed to the dog’s cupboard. ‘Usual’s not settled at Susan’s, I thought I’d pick up some of his toys.’
It seemed a lame excuse; she was checking on me. It was a spot-raid to see if I was back on the sauce.
‘I see.’
She flinched, squeezed at the keyring, then shoved it in her pocket. Her eyes settled on the padded envelope. ‘What’s that?’
I told her, ‘I’m just building up the courage to open it.’
‘Oh, Gus… I’m…’
I didn’t want her sympathy. I didn’t want her to come back because she felt sorry for me. I ripped open the envelope. It was as I’d thought. Little plastic bags containing watch, wedding ring, car keys, a few pounds in coin, an empty wallet and a Nokia mobile with the screen smashed.
‘Not much, is it?’ I said.
Debs came over and put her arm around me. ‘I’m sorry, Gus. I really am.’
‘For what?’
She sighed, removed her arm, scratched at the palm of her hand. ‘I went to see Jayne, she’s all over the place… Dusting and scrubbing.’
‘I know. It’s her way of coping, I suppose.’
Debs raised her head. Her finger traced the line of her eyebrow. ‘She’s worried about Alice…’
I wondered what my niece had been up to now. I told Debs about the drinking and the message from Fitz.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Did you talk to her?’
‘I tried, yeah, her phone keeps going to voicemail.’
Debs shook her head. ‘Phones are, like, so last century for teenagers… You need to leave a message on her Bebo.’
I was scoobied. ‘Her what?’
‘Bebo page… Social-networking site. It’s like Facebook for kids.’
I didn’t go anywhere near those sites, but I’d need to be a resident of Jupiter not to have heard of them, way the media obsessed over them. ‘Right, okay… I’ll do that.’
Debs eased back the corners of her mouth. It was a weak smile that I didn’t want to try to decipher. She stood up, walked over to the dog’s cupboard and took out Usual’s favourite plastic hotdog toy. I watched her fill a bag. As I peered over she tucked her hair behind her ear; the movement was all hers, so Debs — the familiarity of it stung me.
I stood up, walked over to her and placed my hand on the bag. ‘This is stupid, Debs… Why don’t you come home?’
She looked into me, sucked in her lips, and turned away. I thought she might cry.
‘Debs?’
A hand went up to my mouth. ‘Don’t, Gus… Don’t ask me that. It’s not fair.’
I didn’t know what she meant. ‘What?… I mean, why?’
She stepped back from me. She tied a knot in the top of the carrier bag, tugged it tight, spoke firmly: ‘I know you won’t stop, I know you’ll go on and on until you get an answer and I know I’ve no right to get in the way of that, but I can’t watch you do this to yourself any more… I just can’t.’
I put my hand out, touched her fingers. ‘Debs, come home.’
She jerked away from me. ‘No, Gus… Do you know what it’s like for me? I sit here and I wonder if there’s going to be a call or a knock at the door telling me you’ve went the same way as Michael…’ I put my arms round her, she pushed me away. ‘No. I won’t do it… I won’t wait for you to be killed, Gus.’
Debs elbowed her way past me, made for the door.
I called after her, ‘Debs… Debs…’ I darted into the hall; she was opening the door. I slammed the heel of my hand on it.
‘Gus, let me go.’
‘Debs, please…’
She pulled at the handle. ‘Let me go.’
‘Debs…’
The door edged open an inch. ‘Let me go!’
‘I’m sorry, Debs…’
She struggled with the handle, hauled back. Tears fell from her eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Debs… I’m sorry.’
I stepped away.
As the door slammed, I pressed my back to it. The wood was cold against my T-shirt. I slumped all the way to the floor. A chill draught blew just above the carpet as I curled over and held my head in my hands.