A/N: Thank you to those who are reading this story and to the guest reviews saying nice things about it - much appreciated! Please do continue to leave feedback, it really makes the writing process worthwhile. Just in case anyone is wondering, Ste will play a major part in the later part of this story, but there's still a little way to go until he appears...

Also, in my head at least, Joel is the original one rather than his new incarnation!


7.

The light was fading by the time Brendan returned to the flat. The beginnings of dusk meant that Brendan didn't notice Joel until he had switched the living area lights on.

"Jesus Joel, you almost gave me a heart attack! What are you doing sitting in the dark?"

Joel sat in the middle of the couch, a fluffy purple cushion incongruously clutched to his chest in a protective gesture. There were tear tracks on both sides of his face, and once he registered he was being addressed, he almost stared right through Brendan. Brendan shook his head and shrugged out of his jacket, silently praying for the patience to deal with somebody else's trauma. Casually, he searched through each sleek white kitchen cabinet, leaving finger marks on the polished handles, until he found Joel's alcohol stash. Making a mental note to purchase some whiskey, Brendan deposited himself in the armchair nearest Joel and slammed the vodka down on the coffee table. He noticed Joel thrusting a floppy forest green folder across the table top towards him. The cover had a golden embossed coat of arms stamped into it, a symbol of authority and officiousness that was bound to mean trouble.

"The last will and testament of Warren James Fox," Joel explained, picking up the proffered vodka and slurping directly from the bottle top. Brendan touched the edge of the folder carefully as though it was an unpredictable wild creature, watching Joel chase oblivion out of the corner of his eye.

"Foxy made a will? Very organised of him."

Joel snorted.

"Yeah...organised. Not really the word I'd use for it."

"Okay. What word would you use then Joel?"

Joel sighed aggressively and gestured at the offending document.

"Just read it for yourself Brendan. You of all people should understand how much of a head fuck this is."

Brendan leafed through the pages uneasily, eyes skimming the mountains of legal terminology for anything familiar. Once he'd found it, he had to read through a second time, and then a third, just in case he had missed something. The unmistakable signature of Warren Fox at the bottom of the page seemed to be mocking both Brendan and Joel. After their attempts to rid themselves of Warren's influence in life, it seemed that in death Warren was not having any of it. Instinctively Brendan snatched the bottle out of Joel's unresisting grip and chugged nosisily on the neck, hoping to smother the riot of thoughts inside his head.

"What the hell is this Joel?"

Joel laughed a humourless laugh at Brendan's dismayed and confused reaction.

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I checked everything with the solicitor. Asked him to double check the contracts. It's completely legit."

"Interesting choice of phrase. Forgive me if I find it hard to believe. I had no idea -"

"No-one did. Turns out that he planned it that way. Right until the end he managed to be a manipulative bastard."

Brendan threw the folder away from him. It landed on the table, open at the offending page in question. Joel had been left everything - a car, property and the remaining balance of a number of bank accounts. And then, there was Warren's latest acquisition. The Loft nightclub in Hollyoaks village.

"I spent so long trying to rid myself of the fucking place. I didn't want any ties to everything that happened there. Just when I'm getting myself straight, getting my life back together, I'm landed with this."

"Foxy always did have one sick sense of humour," Brendan said, rubbing his face in his hands.

"Not this time. I'm not letting him have the last laugh. Not this time."

The steely determination set on Joel's face made Brendan uneasy.

"Listen Joel, I know it's rich coming from me, but don't be hasty. Don't do anything stupid -"

"I'm not Brendan. It's not stupid. It's genius. I can't think of anything else that he would hate more. You want to stay in the village? Fine. Stay. And I'll sign the Loft over to you. It's yours. I'm done with it."

Joel flung the bottle down and without so much as a glance at Brendan left the room. Brendan whistled and sat back, shock rippled through his core. The Loft, Chez Chez, whatever he wanted to call it. It was within his grasp, just like that. Easier than scattering a dandelion clock into the wind. And from the most unlikely source - Warren Fox. Brendan raised the vodka bottle to the ceiling in a silent salute to his rival. It looked like Joel was right. The last laugh would be on him.


"Tell me about the club."

Brendan pauses in his fiddling with the Rubik's cube in his lap to cock his head at Mark's question. He is momentarily caught off guard.

"The club?"

Mark rifles through his notes in that infuriating overly casual way he has. Brendan waits.

"Yes...Chez Chez is it?"

Brendan winces at the mispronunciation. Mark knows perfectly well what the club is called. If Brendan could just grab those notes from Mark's smug grasp, tear them to pieces, set alight to them, chew them and swallow them and digest them until they are a part of him...

Brendan recommences his attempt at solving the cube.

"It's Chez. You pronounce the 'z' in the second part."

"Ah...ah I see, as in -"

"As in Chez. Cheryl. My sister? Slow on the uptake today doc."

"That's...unusual. How did you come up with that name?"

"Me? Seriously?" Brendan points at himself, poking himself in the chest, eyes wide in mock indignation. Mark swallows a sigh. Brendan has worked out that this gesture is his version of counting to ten to calm down. He takes great pleasure in pushing Mark to do this on a regular basis. So far his record is fourteen in one session alone. The Rubik's cube is abandoned on the table; Brendan decides to take pity on the doctor for once.

"Cheryl bought the club when she won some money. I helped her manage it, until I got the cash together to buy her out."

"Was it important for you to buy her out? Why would you need to do that, if it was her business?"

"She didn't really want the responsibility, the novelty wore off. Chez, she's...she's great at the marketing side of things. You know, theme nights, decorations, getting in popular DJs. All of that was Cheryl's thing."

Mark considers Brendan thoughtfully.

"And what was your 'thing', Brendan?"

The manic expression that normally hovers just out of view surfaces in his steel blue eyes, Brendan's hands gesture wildly around his head as though controlled by an outside force.

"My thing? I am the brains, doc. You understand me? I make it all happen, all of it, I'm the king of the fucking world. What do you think would happen without me? It would all crumble to dust in a second."

Silence descends. Brendan is panting audibly with exertion, as though he has run a marathon. Or as though he has just knocked someone out. In these moments, Mark is uncomfortably aware of Brendan's unpredictability. He scribbles in shorthand on his notes to be sure to prescribe an appropriate mood balancing medication. Then he decides to probe further.

"Brendan, with all due respect. You're not there now, and the place hasn't crumbled. The club has new owners. By all accounts, it's doing well."

Mark almost feels guilty when he sees Brendan's shoulders sag in defeat. For half a second, only noticeable if it was being looked for, a lost look of panic flashes across his face, before Brendan comes back to himself and closes off his emotions.

"Course. Sold the place didn't I? I meant when me and Chez were there. I wanted - no, needed - it to be a success."

"Needed? Interesting correction."

Mark writes a single word on his pad, and Brendan pretends not to be craning to see it. Mark laughs, and Brendan's irritation rises again. He could wrestle that pen out of the doctor's hand, stab him in the eye with it, wiping that amused fucking look right off his face. Or he could touch Mark's face, reach out, alter the expression on it another way -

Brendan tries the direct approach instead.

"What you writing in your little book there, doc? Answer to life, the universe and everything?"

Mark underlines the word twice all the while focusing on Brendan. The attention makes Brendan feel an unwelcome thrill of desire shoot through him. Mark holds the notepad up and Brendan is temporarily robbed of breath. In the centre of the page is written the word that has been a stumbling block in nearly every session him and Mark have had so far.

"Control. The idea of not having that level of control over Chez Chez terrifies you. Why?"

Brendan splutters, almost speechless. His eyes dart around the room, landing anywhere but at the page Mark is resolutely holding up.

"It was my business, I wanted it to be a success, what's so wrong with that?"

"Nothing. But there's more to it than that, and you know it. Why are you so afraid of losing control Brendan?"

"I'm not - I've already told you, people get hurt -"

"Or maybe that's just an excuse."

The words echo through time, Anne's scowl of disappointment in him when he was busy messing things up with Steven for the umpteenth time...

He mustn't think of those things in here. Mark observes the conflict on Brendan's face. This time, the sigh escapes from his lips. He tears the offending word out of the book and hands it to Brendan.

"Take this. Think about the question some more. When you're ready to let go, bring that piece of paper to the session with you. I mean it Brendan. You're up for parole soon, and the progress you've made is minimal. It'll only get harder once you're released. I want you to think about what it is you want. The club? Isn't your responsibility anymore. Your sister? Married, someone else taking care of her. You need to be able to picture a life outside these walls without the control you've been used to in the past. Session's over Brendan."

Back in his cell, Brendan traces his hand along the scores underneath the word. He carefully folds the paper twice, places it securely in his back pocket. Where it belongs.