"Why is Brendan Brady calling you?"

The phone's still in his hand, his fingers curled around it tightly, his knuckles whitened against the pressure. He stares at it again, wonders if he's made a mistake, but the name's there lighting up the screen as it flashes. Brendan Brady, calling.

Veronica stares between him and the phone.

"Give it here, Ste." She sounds flustered, caught out.

He holds it back when she makes an attempt to grab it, puts his hand behind him and out of her reach. It's not that he doesn't want her to answer and find out what's going on. But first he needs to know why.

"What's he...do you know him?" He has a sinking feeling, goosebumps creeping up his arms. He draws the covers up closer around him, and the reminder that he's in a bed with this woman makes him feel colder. Shocked, the intimacy of what he's just contrasting with the detachment he feels now. He feels betrayed, caught in a web that he can't extricate himself from, and it's all him. He put himself here. It makes him drop the formality, makes him forget the rules that have been ingrained in him by the Human Volunteer Force, but even as he's speaking he can hear Warren correcting him: It's not a him, Ste. It's an it.

He pushes the voice away. There's no use in being high and mighty, not with this girl, not now that everything's changed.

"How do you know him?"

"He's a rotter. He's..." He feels sick.

"So?"

"So, he's..." He's trying to connect the dots, but they won't fit together yet. "Is he your mate?" The idea seems implausible. He'd already decided that Brendan couldn't possibly have any mates, but Veronica's expression is blank. She's not saying yes, but she's not saying no either. She looks past him, trying to seek out the phone behind his back as though by doing so she can conjure it into her hands. Ste chances bringing it in front of him. The screen's turned dark. Brendan must have given up.

Another question. Another thought, something worse than before.

"Is he your boyfriend?"

No reaction. Nothing. Not a flicker of change from her, something to give her away.

He gets out of bed, throws the covers off him, shivering as he scrambles to pull his clothes on. He gets his legs stuck in his trousers, twists and turns as he tries to get out, then starts to put his shirt on back to front.

He needs to leave. Everything inside him is telling him to get out.

"Where are you going?" Veronica gets out of bed, stands across from him. Her nakedness is another startling reminder that an hour before he'd had his hands all over her.

"How do you know him?" It won't go away, this need to know. He tries to imagine a scenario in which they would have met, but that's all it is, imagining. Nothing seems real enough. Brendan had only mentioned one sister, Cheryl.

A friend? Maybe Ste had been wrong. Maybe Brendan isn't the type to go through life alone.

But then why won't Veronica say it?

"Was I right? Are you two together?"

She snorts. "Not exactly."

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Just... listen, don't go. You're making a big deal out of nothing."

It makes him defensive. "You're the one not telling me."

"Yeah, because you're sounding like some jealous boyfriend. I swear Ste, if that's what you're like, then -"

"It's not. I don't feel anything."

She looks at him sharply; he hadn't meant it like that.

"Just tell me how you know him. It's important." He can't imagine the two belonging in the same world: Veronica with her perfectly manicured nails and bleached hair and short little skirts, and Brendan with the dirt around his fingernails and his soulless eyes and the pale white skin devoid of life.

She's avoiding his eyes, looking at the floor.

"Here." He reaches for the dressing gown that's lying on the back of her door. "Put this on, yeah?" He can't have this conversation with her like this.

He waits till she's dressed. She seems relieved by the distraction; seems to think that he's forgotten his question while he waits.

"Tell me. Please." He keeps his voice calm, steady, what he hopes is non threatening.

Count to ten. Don't lose control.

Veronica sighs, a distance to her now. She looks tired. Tired of him.

"I work for him, alright?"

"You work for him?

"Are you going to repeat everything I say? Yes, I work for him. That's it. There's no drama, alright? Don't make a big deal out of it." She huffs like a petulant child, looking like she wants to crawl back into bed.

"But..." It's still not making sense. "He never said... He put on his form that he's unemployed. They're all meant to be unemployed."

"What? What are you on about? What form?" She's looking worried, like it's her who's caught in the web now.

He's talking to himself more than to her. "He's not allowed. That's not how it works."

"Ste, what are you..." She shakes her head like she's trying to clear it. "What the fuck is going on? How do you know him?"

"I'm in the Human Volunteer Force."

She takes a step back, the backs of her legs knocking against the bed.

"Shit."

He's sure he sees her looking towards the door.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He doesn't know why he says it. It should be obvious. It shouldn't be something she's scared of.

She looks at him like he's gone mad.

"Who said you were? I can look after myself, you know."

Relief washes through him. She wasn't. She wasn't scared.

"I know, I just... If you thought I was going to..." He unclenches his fists. He wasn't going to. He wasn't.

The way she's staring at him now, he's guessing there won't be a second date.

She turns her back on him, starts gathering her clothes up in her arms. She looks embarrassed when she picks up her underwear, stashing it away in her drawers. He can see the tops of her ears turning pink.

"Listen, it's been really nice to meet you, but -"

"No." He moves closer to her - not too close - and only then realises that he's still holding her phone. There's a voicemail, a new one.

He could listen to it, call Brendan back.

"No, don't be doing that. I need to know what kind of work you've been doing for him."

"Or what? Are you going to stay here until I tell you?"

She's got guts, he'll give her that. She's identified his weak spot, knows that he can't do anything against her - that he won't - and that he'll have to leave eventually.

He can't make her do anything.

"Please." Begging. He's had to resort to this. "We're trying to help people, Veronica."

Her voice is laced with sarcasm when she speaks. "Oh yeah, I know all about the kind of help you give."

"What's that meant to mean?" He shouldn't be defending it. He's the one who's trying to get away from the whole thing, to run and never look back. But he's also all too aware that he's spent years of his life with the HVF, and he can't think that it's meant nothing.

"Nothing."

"No, come on. People would be dead without us. What do you think would have happened in The Rising if we hadn't been around, eh? Do you think you'd be walking around in your high heels without a care in the world?"

She looks disgusted with him. He can see her drawing in on herself, shrinking away from him like he offends her.

"You don't have to keep doing what you're doing. The way you treat people, it's..."

He's about to bite back, they're not people, but he stops himself. He's the one who's made Brendan human, who's turned the rotter back into a him.

"Get out, Ste."

He looks at her sharply. "What?"

"I mean it. First you're accusing me of being some kind of... going on that site and arranging to meet you when I apparently have a boyfriend, and now you're -"

"I'm sorry. I didn't..."

It's too late. She wraps the dressing gown securely around her, tying it tightly, grabbing her phone from him before he can stop her, and then she's pushing him out of the room, out of the door. He's protesting - he's only got one shoe on, for fuck's sake - but she's pushing him and pushing him, and to push her back is something he won't do. He can't; he can't afford to lose everything, to risk it all.

The door slams in his face. It seems to ring for a long time, the force of it.

He doesn't move, not right away. He stares at the door, willing for it to open again, for Veronica to not leave him standing here. The silence stretches on; he looks down at his feet, one trainer on and one off - he's wearing socks at least, if he can count that as a small blessing - and then he looks around, contemplates whether this is a public humiliation or a private one.

He doesn't see any curtains twitching, any sign that anyone's noticed anything.

He's going to have to walk it. Just as he's thinking of it, the door opens abruptly. He only has a chance to turn around before his missing shoe is thrown at him, the door closed again. He catches a flash of blond hair, and then there's nothing.

Slowly he puts on his other shoe. He's not alone now; he sees a couple walk past him down the street, giving him a sideways glance before continuing. He doesn't know what he looks like.

He never got a chance to write down Brendan's number or to hear that voicemail.

::::::

He doesn't know where Brendan lives. The information isn't exactly confidential - all rotters had to provide their address to Warren when they joined the employment programme. Ste's sure the paperwork will be kept in the office in the treatment centre, and it won't be difficult to get access to the keys. But there's still the chance that he could be caught, and that could lead to a whole line of questioning that he's not comfortable with.

He tries other routes first. Nowhere in town; he doesn't know where Brendan would go, what he would do. The idea of him going shopping seems ridiculous, although he must, like all of them must.

He starts at the village. He walks back instead of taking the bus. It saves him money, and he needs that after paying for the cinema tickets and popcorn. It gives him a chance to clear his head too. He feels in a daze, the people around him bleeding into one until he's almost crashing into them as he walks back, narrowly avoiding them at the last second. He must look drunk.

Of course he'd have to choose someone who works with a rotter. Of course out of all the women on that site he'd have to pick someone who's connected to Brendan. He could have chosen anyone, one of the countless other girls, and they could have chosen him, but he ended up with someone who's fraternizing with the creature he's been assigned to kill.

He could laugh. He won't, but he could.

His anger mounts the more he walks, everything that's happened going through his head like a thorn in his side, prickling and stabbing and tormenting. It was meant to make him feel better, this date. It wasn't meant to make him feel like this.

He arrives back in the village sooner than he expects. It's quiet, and he's grateful for it. He doesn't want to run into anyone he knows. He needs to focus: to think of where Brendan might be. If he can track down the rotter then it'll save him from finding out his address. The idea of visiting him at home isn't something Ste likes. He's always imagined rotters living in seclusion somewhere, far away from all of them, as though there are valleys and mountains and caves where they lurk, shielding themselves from daylight. He knows in theory it's stupid - they aren't vampires - but the alternative, that they live side by side as normal with the rest of them, seems even more foreign.

Sarah is his exception. Sarah is always his exception.

The problem is, he doesn't know where to start. Even with the limited options of this place he doesn't know what Brendan likes; what his interests are, who he spends time with, if anyone.

He doesn't know a single thing about him that could help him with this. He's kept it like that on purpose, but now it's working against him.

He starts with generic places: the pub. He has a quick look around, avoiding Frankie so she won't try and start a conversation with him. He's wary of bumping into Warren or any of the HVF, but they must all be at the treatment centre doing their experiments. Prodding, probing, testing.

I know all about the kind of help you give. The way you treat people, it's...

He goes to the shops, looks in the nearby coffee shops, even looks in the hall they'd rented for the council's benefit days ago on the off chance that Brendan's snuck in.

It's like he's vanished.

A rotter like Brendan, you wouldn't just miss him. He's overbearing; you know when he's there. His presence demands to be felt. Ste had experienced it the first time he'd met him, and every time afterwards. He looks at you and it's like the world stops spinning. It's the threat of him, must be. If you don't look right back then you don't know what he'll do.

He's going to have to get his address.

::::::

The treatment centre looks less imposing in daylight. As he walks through the doors it's hard to think about what he saw the other night, hard to think it even happened at all. It's quiet today; if there are any rabids inside then they must be sedated. Perhaps the one from the other night is still locked away, unaware of what's being done to him, too drugged up to know.

He nods over to the receptionist. She stares at him for a moment, looks like she's trying to place him without his uniform, and he gets out his HVF pass card just to make sure she doesn't think he's trespassing, flashing it at her until she relaxes and waves him in. He thinks she'd recognise him if he was flanked by Warren and the others. He can't remember ever coming here alone before.

He heads straight for the room that the HVF usually occupy. It's small, far too cramped for all of them to fit in. Ste feels suffocated every time they come here, all squeezed into the one space, the smell of sweat filling his senses. It feels different to him now; too big, almost, and he can't shake the feeling of being on edge now that he's here. He feels sneaky, like he's doing something he shouldn't be, and it only intensifies when he closes the door quietly behind him. He's faced with a desk and a chair, and files lining the shelves on the walls. Every few seconds he's sure he can hear footsteps heading down the hallway towards him, and it distracts him at every turn. Every time he goes to pick up a file he stops, thinks that the door's about to be opened and he'll be asked what the hell he's doing here.

So what? He has a right to be here. There's no law banning him. He's here for work, not to do anything illegal. He has every right to have access to those files.

He brings a file down, puts it on the desk and gets to work. His hands are quick as he scans through the pages, does it at such speed that he doesn't take a single thing in.

Stop. Calm down. You're not doing anything wrong.

He sits down. He knows he shouldn't - if someone comes in then he'll be able to put the file back quicker if he's standing - but it makes him feel better, helps to regulate his breathing and settle the panic.

He turns the pages slower, registering some of the names inside. Jacqui McQueen. Rhys Ashworth. Texas Longford. Seth Costello. Some he knows from his own group, and others he remembers from when their names were called out at the meeting. But no Brendan.

At first Ste thinks his details haven't been registered. It wouldn't entirely surprise him; he can imagine Brendan protesting against having his privacy invaded. But he also knows that Warren wouldn't allow such a thing, wouldn't ever make alloances for any rotter, let alone one who's crossed him.

He keeps going, goes through each page separately and carefully until he sees his name.

Brendan Brady.

Underneath is an address and a phone number. Ste grabs some paper out of the printer, scribbles down everything and stuffs it into his pocket. He returns the file to where it was - making sure that everything looks untouched - and leaves. He doesn't look back at the receptionist as he walks, and doesn't attempt to look into any of the treatment rooms.

It's raining when he gets outside. He pulls his hood up and keeps walking.

::::::

It doesn't take him long to find the address. He has to get out his phone, use it to guide him, but the place isn't far from the heart of the village.

The weather's got worse. He shelters under a tree for a while and considers going to get a coffee to keep dry, but he can't delay this any longer or he'll lose his nerve and start thinking of the hundreds of reasons why he shouldn't be doing it.

He knows what he should do: report this to Warren, tell him that Brendan's got outside work that he hasn't admitted to.

But then what? All he has is Veronica's word, a woman who he'd only met for the first time today. He can't tell Warren the circumstances behind their meeting - he'd only get the piss taken out of him, or be branded a liar. He can imagine the conversation now, Warren calling him desperate for having to resort to meeting women online, then asking him for proof of this mystery Veronica.

This could be his chance. His chance to finally move things forward with Brendan, to speed up this whole process. Don't get too close, Tony had said, but why not? All he's learnt about Brendan so far is that he's a fucking nuisance; attacking him at the treatment centre, almost killing him, stealing the instructions and sabotaging his attempts to be a leader to his group. Maybe this will help, and he'll be even more convinced that Brendan's death won't be any great loss to the world.

He can't stand here the entire day staring at the house. Flat, to be accurate - bigger than Ste's own, and more presentable from the outside, but still relatively small. He's struck by how ordinary it looks; the blue door, the curtains, the faded bricks. He doesn't know what he was expecting - decay, darkness, bats flying out of the window and church bells ringing ominously in the background?

He didn't expect this though, for it to be so nondescript.

He didn't bring his gun. He realises it as he moves to knock on the door. He's so used to carrying it everywhere; he'd even reached for it when he'd been preparing for the date.

He must have a death wish.

It's not too late, is it? He's knocked now, but he could turn back, run away like when he was a kid and used to play knock down ginger. He can pretend this whole thing never happened, go and tell Warren everything he knows, however limited it may be.

The door begins to open. Too late.

He's waiting to be met by a pale face and dead eyes.

He doesn't expect the woman who stares back at him, her hair in curls and her mouth lined by lipstick bright enough to rival Veronica's. She's in a dress despite the cold outside. Her expression is curious but open, and she doesn't look scared.

"You alright love?"

Love. He doesn't even know her. She doesn't even know him.

She waits for him to speak. The address must be wrong. This can't be Brendan's house.

"Sorry, I... sorry." Ste stumbles backwards, wonders how he could have been so mistaken.

"Can I help you with something?"

"No, I... I was looking for someone, but..."

"It's not Brendan, is it?" She seems amused now. "You wouldn't be the first."

What?

"Is that him? Who you're looking for?"

He nods, still not understanding the connection.

"I'm his sister."

Fuck. He'd known - of course he'd known - that Brendan had a sister. Several times he'd thought that Brendan might have made her up, but he'd never entirely ruled out her being real. But this - this woman in front of him, so vibrant and full of life, welcoming him like they're old friends - he hadn't expected this.

She's as different to Brendan as it's possible to be. It's not just the obvious, not just that she's human. It's that she's entirely unguarded. Every conversation with Brendan that he's had so far has felt full of riddles, has felt like it's a test he has to pass.

It's the colour too, what she's wearing. He's only ever seen Brendan in black and white. Cheryl seems to be in everything but black and white.

"Cheryl?"

"Told you about me, has he?" She smiles then and starts talking - some of it Ste takes in, but most of it goes over his head as he stands there, trying to process this. They can't be related. It doesn't make sense.

The next thing he's aware of is her tutting, then apologising. "I've been going on, haven't I?"

"No," he says. Some of what she's said is filtering through: he's sure it included a lot of my brother this and my brother that. "No, not at all." He tries to match her smile, is sure that he fails spectacularly.

"Joining us, are you?"

"What? No, I'm -"

"Bren's out at the moment, but you're welcome to come and wait till he gets back."

Bren?

"No, that's fine. I've got to get going, really."

He thinks that's the last of it. He's already walking away in a daze - Bren, fucking Bren? - but her voice pulls him back, and then her hands are on him, steering him. She's surprisingly strong, or maybe it's him. Maybe he's weak.

He's protesting, I've really got to get going, but it must sound half hearted because she keeps pulling him, and then the door's closing behind them and he's inside Brendan's flat.

He's learning today that nothing is what he expects.

It's homely. That's the only way he can describe it. There are two sofas inside, one facing the television and one near the door. They're both filled with cushions, and one of the sofas is covered in a throw, leopard print in design; Cheryl's choice, Ste guesses, unless Brendan's got a surprising taste in decor that he's managed to hide.

There are shoes near the door too, including a pair of men's pointed black boots that looks like they've been freshly polished.

Despite the rain outside the room is flooded with light.

"You must be freezing."

Ste turns at the sound of Cheryl's voice, dragging his gaze from appraising the room.

"Do you want something to change into? I could get one of our Brendan's t-shirts for you."

"No, don't worry." The thought of wearing Brendan's clothes unsettles him. "It's not even that bad." He's lying - his hair is dry after being under the hood, but he's soaked everywhere else, shivering with it.

Cheryl must not be convinced. She fusses over him, insists that he take off his jacket. He does it gingerly; not only does he feel colder as he does it, but he remembers what he's wearing. There's a mirror opposite from where he's standing, and for the first time he sees the shirt he's wearing clearly, as though from new eyes. Bright yellow. Fuck.

"I'll make some tea, warm you up a bit. How do you take it?"

He's tongue tied. He doesn't understand what's happened; he was meant to confront Brendan with what he knows, find some proof against him, make him more likely to lash out so Ste could finally, finally get this thing moving and end it once and for all.

He wasn't meant to be having tea with the rotter's sister.

"Are you okay?" Then she laughs, startles him. "I just realised I don't even know your name."

She waits, and he does too: does he tell the truth? If Brendan doesn't come back for hours then maybe he can escape from here without him ever knowing he came. He could give a fake name.

It's more lies; lies on top of lies.

"Ste. Four sugars, ta."

"Four?"

He shrugs. "Like it sweet. Some milk too please."

He doesn't know why he's bothering with being polite. Her brother will be dead soon, and he'll be the one to do it.

He stares at the door as Cheryl makes the tea. Brendan's going to come in any moment: that's what's in his head, and it makes his stomach feel like it's in knots. He sits at the very edge of the sofa, just perches on it, his back straight and rigid.

From what Brendan said he's only been living here for a few weeks, but he already seems to have made a space for himself, made it personal. There are touches around the flat - things that you could miss if you weren't looking for them, but Ste notices them. A jacket hanging on the chair. A smell of cologne that lingers in the air. A tie on the other sofa.

He shouldn't be here.

"Here you go."

Ste jumps. Cheryl's standing behind him clutching two mugs of tea, and that's not all that she's holding. Tucked underneath her arm is a vest in a faded grey colour.

"Here, put this on. Sorry, I tried to get a t-shirt but they must all be in the wash, and I didn't think you'd want a proper shirt."

"I'm fine. My clothes are nearly dry now."

She frowns, gives him a once over.

"They're wet right through. You must be cold, come on. Brendan won't mind."

"No, really." Ste gets to his feet, feels his face flushing. He moves so apruptly that Cheryl almost spills the tea. "I can't."

"You can. I insist. I won't have a mate of Brendan's freezing to death on my watch."

He's about to tell her to stop exaggerating, but she steals the breath from him; puts the tea down on the table and then marches him through past the kitchen, pulls him by the arm and maneuvers him into a room just off from the kitchen. She begins tending to him, brushing down his shirt like by doing so she can make him warm again. It reminds him of something a mother would do; not his mother, but someone else's.

He could pull away, push her off - but what if he pushes her too hard? What if he hurts her?

He stands still.

"I'll give you some privacy." She winks at him, closes the door. He can hear her humming behind it.

Less than an hour he's known her.

He takes his shirt off. Cheryl's right, it's soaked through, and his hands get wet when he bunches it into a ball. The vest is massive on him - he looks in the mirror and he's swamped by it - but the warmth he gets from it is instant, like the heating's been turned on.

He intends to go back outside, but his curiosity gets the better of him, and he starts to wonder if he's just been directed into Brendan's room. He can't miss this opportunity; something could be here, some piece of vital information that he needs to bring him down.

He crosses over to the wardrobe, opens it but there's nothing inside, just empty hangers. There's nothing in the drawers either. There doesn't seem to be much of anything beside the essentials - a bed, a bedside table, a lamp.

Disappointed, Ste abandons the attempt and instead sees what state he's in. His hair's been flattened by the rain; he tries to style it a bit, make it more presentable. He can barely look at his body. He rarely shows his arms, only wears something sleeveless when he's going to bed, and even then he doesn't often look in the mirror. But he can't avoid them now, can't avoid how skinny they look. His shoulders look pointed, as though the joints are jutting out.

He turns from his reflection, wishes that he had a clean jumper to put over himself.

He doesn't want Cheryl thinking that he's snooping. She's on the sofa when he returns, sipping her tea like they're having a long awaited catch up. He joins her, sits next to her when she pats the place beside her.

She makes a good cup of tea. He needs the sugar; it steadies him, makes him feel alive again.

"Bren's just popped to the shops. I can text him if you want, see exactly when he's coming back."

"No, don't worry." He tries not to sound as urgent as he feels. "I can catch up with him another time."

Popped to the shops. So he does go shopping. Ste wonders what it's for - a food shop, or is he buying clothes? He still can't picture it.

"How long have you two known each other?" Cheryl asks.

It's story time. He's good at stories, good at make believe; he's had enough practice with Leah and Lucas, and he spun Amy the story about it being a rabid he has to kill. He can do this.

"Couple of weeks." Not a lie. They say that makes it easier, don't they? If you stick as close to the truth then you don't fall into a trap.

Cheryl nods, looks encouraged like she's pleased, like she's happy.

"Met through the pub, did you?"

"The pub?"

"Brendan's always going there."

"Really?" He's never seen him there before, not the local. But he has to come up with something: he can't say that he met Brendan through the HVF. Cheryl will never believe that he'd voluntarily become friends with a rotter if he's someone who's been assigned to keep them in place.

He's glad that he forgot his gun.

"Yeah. We just got talking, you know?" He doesn't think she'll buy this crap, but she's eating it up.

"I can't tell you how pleased I am."

"Pleased?"

"After everything that happened before... Well, I didn't think he'd find someone to... I'm glad he found you." For the first time she's faltering, slipping over her words.

"Right." He swallows, resists the urge to ask what happened before.

Cheryl must see the confusion in his face.

"He didn't tell you?"

He shakes his head. "No." He doesn't prompt her; if he's going to find out then he needs to not be pushy about this.

She stares down at her tea, gets the spoon from the table and stirs.

"It was all a bit..." Whatever it was, it seems to be a bad memory. It's like a cloud passes over her before her face lights up, a smile painted on. "But that's over now. And you look..." She looks him up and down. "How old are you?"

"Twenty one." He doesn't know where this is going.

She laughs. "Young, aren't you?"

"No." He feels irritated; first Veronica thinking he's sixteen, now this. Fucking cheek of it.

"Not that I'm judging. You're gorgeous, aren't you?"

He splutters. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever." He drinks his tea, does it because he needs to do something. Gorgeous? Brendan had never told told him that his sister's a nut job. Who even does that? Who even just says that like it's the most casual thing in the world?

The tea hasn't cooled yet. It burns the roof of his mouth. He winces, tries to disguise it because he doesn't need any more of Cheryl's fussing.

"That a spare room in there?" He says. He doesn't know what makes him say it - perhaps he needs a safe topic, a question which will give her a reason to talk about something that doesn't make him feel so on edge.

"Yeah. We use it for when the kids come."

"Kids?"

"Brendan didn't tell you?" She looks at him for a second, and it's like his heart stops beating. He's sure he can feel her sussing him out. He's fucked up.

But then the moment passes, and she shrugs like she's justifying it to herself.

"It hurts him sometimes, to talk about them."

"They're... they're his?"

Ste had mentioned his own, had talked about Leah and Lucas. Brendan had never said anything.

"Yeah. Declan and Paddy. They're back home with their Ma."

Two kids.

"They don't speak much, what with... you know, the difficulties with him and Eileen."

Ste nods like he's clued in. Eileen - the kids' mum, he assumes. He doesn't dare add a comment, doesn't want Cheryl getting more suspicious that he doesn't know anything.

"Sorry, I'm going on again aren't I?"

"Not at all." He doesn't want her to stop talking. He's learning more about Brendan now than he'd found out in an hour locked with him in the treatment centre. "So do the kids come to stay a lot then? Declan and Paddy?" It's strange saying their names. Kids. Brendan has kids.

"Not yet." Again there's that cloud that overshadows everything. "But he's hoping they will one day. We both are."

That explains the lack of clothing, the lack of anything personal. It hadn't looked like anyone had ever touched anything in the room.

Maybe it's not just because Brendan's a rotter that his kids don't want to visit. The aggression, the rudeness, the complete inability to form relationships - Ste can't imagine anyone wanting to spend time with someone like that. And there's nothing to say that Brendan's any different around his children.

"Feel better, do you?"

"What?"

"Warmer?" Cheryl says. "I can put the heating on if you want."

"No, that's alright. I should be going anyway." He's outstayed his welcome. The longer he stays the more Cheryl will remember his face. If she sees him with the HVF then she'll put the pieces together, might find out why he's really round here.

"What about Brendan?" She rises when he does. The longer he looks at her, the more he can't see any resemblance between her and Brendan. She doesn't look like him - even when he's got contacts in and cover up mousse on - and even their accents sound different. She acts like she wants Ste here; Brendan acts like he'd happily put a bullet through his head.

He has to go.

He should have known. He should have fucking known. He's never been one of the lucky ones. Fate, timing, all of it - it's never been on his side.

He's got his hand on the door when he hears the rattling of keys.

His first instinct is to hide. He doesn't care that Cheryl's here, doesn't care that she'll think he's insane for running away. He's going to do it, going to go to the spare room and push his way under the bed. He'll do whatever he has to; try and go out the back door, hide in every corner of the house until he can get out unscathed.

He'd rather be a coward and stay alive than be killed by a rotter.

It's too late. He's too late.

Brendan stares at him. His keys are still in the door, his hand frozen. He's about to lunge at him, Ste can tell. He leans backwards as a result, but then Brendan looks past him and sees Cheryl. Something about her makes him stop.

He picks up the keys, steps into the room and looks stiffly between them. He's wearing the mousse and contacts. It's disarming; he almost looks like any other brother coming home.

"What's going on?" He's working hard to keep the anger and shock out of his voice.

"This is good timing, isn't it?" Cheryl smiles, looks at both of them.

Ste swallows. It could go either way here. He knows hardly anything about Cheryl. She could easily approve of the way Brendan is. Who's to say that she would stop him if he tried to kill Ste right this second? Maybe this nice act has been exactly that - an act.

"This looks..." Brendan stares down at the two mugs of tea that are still on the table. "Cute."

It sounds threatening when he says it.

"Want me to make you one, Bren?" Cheryl looks at Ste. "He has three sugars in his. Awful, the pair of you."

How has this happened? How are they being included in something together, like they're part of something?

Both of them laugh uneasily. Cheryl seems oblivious, busying herself with asking about Brendan's day. Ste hardly takes in any of it. He can't register anything; his palms are sweating and his pulse feels erratic. The hairs on his arms stand on end as he looks at Brendan, wonders how long he's got left to live.

"Sure." The rotter drags his eyes off Ste, looking at his sister properly for the first time since he's entered the flat. "Tea, three sugars."

"Great. Give you two a chance to catch up, won't it?" Cheryl says, looking between them, grin a mile wide.

Brendan smiles, tight lipped.

"I can't wait."