This is a nightmare.

He's going to wake up. He's going to wake up screaming in his bed, sweat soaking the sheets, eyes wide and alert, breath rattling in his throat. The relief will filter through to his body slowly, inch by inch until eventually all he'll be aware of is that he's safe, that he's home, that he's protected.

The moment hasn't come. The relief hasn't reached him yet. For now he's still trapped.

How long does it take to make tea? He feels like Cheryl's been in the kitchen for hours. She isn't just making a cup for Brendan, she's making one for all of them. Ste can hear the tapping of a spoon against china, and the sound of her opening various cupboards. Her heels are loud against the linoleum floor, the clip clop of them making Ste feel a dull ache in his head.

Everything feels heightened. Every noise, every touch, every time he brushes his arm against the pillow beside him. Maybe he's holding onto all of it; remembering every detail, because he's not entirely sure that he'll be around to experience it all for that much longer.

He feels more certain now that Brendan won't kill him in front of his sister. He'd have done it already if he was going to, and there's something different about him when he's around her. Ste can sense it almost instantly. It's an act - it must be, Ste's sure of it - but it's a well crafted act. Brendan's perfected it. He's so good at acting good that Ste almost buys it himself.

He's sitting opposite Ste on the other sofa. He isn't perched on the edge like Ste is; instead he's lounging back, stretched out, legs spread like he's got nothing to fear. A fuck you to Ste's nervousness.

He's trying to intimidate him. Staring at him, hardly blinking, just focusing. There's an accusation there, a threat, but every time Cheryl turns towards him he stops; looks away, smiles at her, asks her about her day. The minute she gets distracted again it's back to the status quo, and he becomes a lifeless statue again, his attention diverted solely towards Ste.

Why didn't he bring his gun? How could he have forgotten it?

"Listen..." He has to say something. He's not naive enough to think that by doing so he's breaking the ice - this was never going to be that easy - but he can't stand the silence any longer. "I didn't... I'm just here because..."

Because what? What can he even say? He can't tell Brendan the truth, not now, not with his sister in hearing distance. His plan had been to confront him about Veronica. That's it. No one else has to get involved in this.

"Is that my vest?"

"What?"

He'd forgotten. Cheryl must have turned on the heating; it's warm in the flat now, so warm that he hadn't even remembered that he wasn't wearing his own clothes.

Brendan leans forward, points a finger up and down.

"That vest. Is that mine?"

Ste stares down at it, touching the fabric, bunching it into a fist.

"No."

"No?"

"Yes. I mean... yes, it's yours."

"Explain."

"It was cold, right, and raining - well you must have known, because you've been out, haven't you, but - but anyway, so I didn't have an umbrella or anything, and my hood only kept my hair dry, so -"

He's stumbling, caught up in his words, making a fool of himself.

"Get to the point." The rotter rubs at his temples, closes his eyes.

"Right, so... I came here, and I was really wet, and your sister, she said it was okay. And I tried to say no, but..."

He doesn't know why it's so important to him that Brendan doesn't think he had any say in this. If he's going to kill him then he's going to kill him; Ste wearing his vest isn't going to make a difference either way. Now that he's saying it it seems stupid - he could have said no. He could have stopped Cheryl. She wouldn't have forced him.

He uncurls his hand from the vest.

"You can have it now, if you want."

"You going to wash it first, or..."

Ste frowns. "I smell a lot better than you. I'm not dead for one thing, so."

There's no reaction. Not a flinch. Not a smile. Nothing.

"Take it off."

Ste stands. It's petty and ridiculous - it's a fucking vest - but he's not about to get into a fight over it. They've done enough fighting already.

Besides, he's looking forward to the few seconds of being away from the rotter.

"I'll just -" He turns to leave, to head towards the spare room.

"Where are you going?" Brendan stares up at him. Even from this height Ste still feels like the rotter's towering above him, reducing him to something small from a single look.

"Going to get changed. You asked me to." He's losing his patience now. Riddles, again. Feeling like he's taking a test, again.

"I said get changed. Now. Here."

Ste looks behind him. He can see two cups of tea already made on the countertop, and Cheryl's pouring the third. Brendan's keeping his voice low, enough for her to not be able to hear anything.

Brendan's voice pulls him back.

"I'm not having you walking around my house."

"I'm not going to do anything."

Brendan laughs. "There's plenty in here that a lad like you would want to steal."

"Steal?" He's louder than he ought to be, but he doesn't care if Cheryl hears. He wants her to hear, wants her to know what an asshole her brother is if she doesn't already. "What do you think I am?"

He feels hot all over. It's not possible though. He tells himself this, tells himself so he'll calm down. It's not possible that Brendan knows anything about his past. How could he?

"Can't take chances."

"I'm not changing in front of you." He knows why Brendan wants him to do it, knows that he'll use his insecurity to get more power over him.

Brendan looks at him, considering.

"Fine. Keep it."

He hadn't thought it would be that easy.

Brendan mutters something.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Ste could have sworn he heard chicken arms somewhere in that sentence.

He crosses his arms, leans away. He's suddenly all too aware that he's in a rotter's house, wearing a rotter's vest - a far too big vest, one that almost drowns him - and he doesn't have the slightest idea what he's going to do next.

He's saved by Cheryl joining them, balancing the cups of tea on a tray. She's added a plate of digestive biscuits to the side. Brendan's favourites, apparently.

Ste takes a biscuit, dunks it into his tea.

"Our Brendan will have your eye out for that one."

Ste takes the biscuit out, some tea dripping onto his trousers. He brushes it away hurriedly, hoping the others haven't seen. Hoping that Brendan hasn't seen.

"Don't look so alarmed, love!" Cheryl laughs. "Brendan has a technique, that's all. Tell him, Bren. I'm surprised you haven't already."

Ste's shocked to see Brendan looking bashful, almost embarrassed. It's only for a split second, and when he sees Ste looking his expression changes, reverts back to form.

"It's not a technique, Chez."

Chez?

"Go on, tell him."

Brendan sighs, looks put out. He doesn't tell her to leave it though, or to shut up like he would with everyone else. It's strange seeing him like this. Softer around the edges, if only for a moment.

"You don't dunk it in like that, okay? It ruins it, everyone knows that."

"Ruins what?" Ste says. He can't believe they're talking about tea.

"The biscuit. The tea too. You don't want bits of it floating in the tea. Fucking nasty."

"Language," Cheryl scolds, and she gives him a playful slap around the head, hand barely grazing him.

Ste's sure that he sees him smile before it vanishes.

"You don't want a soggy biscuit ruining your tea. You've got to wait for it to cool, or only dunk it for two, three seconds maximum."

"Right, that's... Ta." Ste doesn't know what to say. What is he doing here? What was he thinking?

"So, tell me about how you two met."

Brendan doesn't say anything. He's leaving it up to Ste, then, to lie.

"I told you, it was just... We met at the pub, didn't we?" Ste looks at him, needs the confirmation that he's going to play along.

"I know that, but the details. I want to know everything."

Fuck. Ste hadn't realised that Brendan's sister was going to be so nosy. Does she do this to all Brendan's friends - what she thinks are friends, anyway - demanding that they tell her the time, the place, the dialogue of their first meeting with her brother?

Maybe she's not used to him having any friends. Maybe that's what this excitement's about.

She seems to have picked up on the silence.

"Sorry, I'm going on aren't I? It's just it's been ages since Brendan -"

"Chez." Brendan stands, clears his throat. "Me and Steven here, we've got some catching up to do. Private stuff, you know? Business."

"Business?" Ste doesn't have to look at Cheryl to know she's smiling. "Is that what they call it these days?"

He hears Brendan laugh. There's an uneasiness about it that Ste can't define; he feels like he's entered a parallel world where nothing makes sense. One minute they were talking about tea, and the next they're speaking in riddles again, only it's worse this time because it's not just Brendan - his sister's in on it too, talking about something that Ste has no understanding of.

Before he can ask he looks up to see Brendan steering Cheryl away. He's talking in a hushed tone too quiet for Ste to hear, and he doesn't take his hand off her back until they're in the kitchen.

Ste watches, can't help himself. There's something almost fascinating about seeing the rotter in his natural habitat, away from Warren and the HVF. The orange tint of the cover up mousse is noticable, and there's still the rings of dirt covering his fingernails, but if Ste didn't look so hard then Brendan could almost seem normal.

He stares as Brendan leans over and kisses Cheryl on the cheek. She smiles at him. Ste expects her to disappear, to go to the spare room or upstairs to her own. He's shocked when she makes a grab for the jacket that's draped over a chair and the keys on the table.

She's going. Brendan's said something to her, made her think that leaving them alone together is a good idea.

Ste can feel himself begin to panic. He puts his cup down before it spills or he breaks the china. He stands, does it slowly because he's beginning to feel like he's not completely rooted to the floor, like he could fall or fly and there would be no one to steady him.

Say something. Keep her here.

He can see Brendan watching him. Ste knows that if he says anything, if he even tries to get Cheryl to stay then he'll do something. What that'll be Ste doesn't know - attack him, kill him? - but he knows that he won't stand by and let it happen.

It feels like everything's happening in slow motion. He sees Cheryl walking to the door, putting her coat on, putting the keys in her pocket. She's saying something to him, bye, it's been lovely to meet you, and then she winks, and then she's gone.

Silence. Stillness. Ste's still on the sofa, still sitting there.

A fraction of a second. That's all it seems to take for him to be standing, his feet leaving the floor, a firm pair of hands gripping the back of his vest as he's spun in the air and hauled against the wall.

He lets out a yelp of pain at the force of the impact, his ribs hitting the surface.

Then he's begging. Please. He despises himself for it, but he knows he wants to survive, and without being armed this is all he has.

"What are you doing here, Steven?" Brendan's close to him, directly behind him, hands getting tighter around his wrists.

"I came to -" He's gasping, words fractured as Brendan increases the strength of his hold. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Talk to my sister, you mean?"

"I didn't know she'd be here." It's a weak excuse; Brendan had told him he'd be staying with Cheryl. Ste had known there was every chance that it would be her who would open the door.

"How did you know where I live?"

"I know where all of you live, don't I? We have records."

Brendan's nails are digging into his skin.

"All of you?" Brendan mocks, voice twisting.

"Rotters," Ste says, spits it because he wants Brendan to hurt like he's hurting, and it's easy, so easy to group them all in together. He's been doing it for years, so why not now?

He's spun round, made to face Brendan. The rotter's hands are placed either side of Ste against the wall; Ste could make a run for it, but he knows he wouldn't get very far.

Brendan's moustache looks even longer from this close up. Ste would laugh at it in any other circumstance, but he finds himself trembling, waiting for Brendan's next move. He wishes he was facing the wall again. He'd rather not have to look at him, see his eyes vivid with anger. Brendan's sweating, the cover up mousse disintegrating because of it, his natural skin colour showing through and displacing the normality which Ste thought he'd momentarily seen. Maybe it's the fury, but even with his disguise he looks more like a monster than a man.

He jabs at Ste's chest between words.

"What are you doing here?"

"I told you -"

"You wanted to talk to me. Well talk, Steven."

To lie or tell the truth? He'll have to come clean - he can't even think of a fabrication for why he's come here.

"I know about your work."

There's no inkling of understanding, no change in Brendan's expression.

"Veronica told me."

There's a shift at the name. Ste's sure he sees it: a twitch, maybe, almost imperceptible but Ste sees it before it's gone.

"Don't try and fob me off and tell me you don't know what I'm talking about, alright? I know. I saw you calling her."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He's almost convincing. He keeps his voice neutral, makes sure he doesn't rise to it, but he's not getting out of this. Ste didn't imagine that phone call, the sight of Brendan's name flashing across the screen. How many other Brendan Brady's could there be?

"She told me everything." He says it with the highest air of confidence he can. If he pretends that he knows all the details then Brendan might slip up, confess everything.

The rotter doesn't look scared like Ste thought he would. He seems to be thinking it over, searching Ste's face like he's looking for answers. Ste tries to keep completely still, to not reveal anything.

"Veronica."

"Yeah," Ste says, uneasily now because this wasn't the reaction he was expecting. "She gave you up, so."

"What were you doing with her?"

"What?" It's a line of questioning that makes him nervous. He hadn't even thought of a cover story for it.

"How do you know her?"

"She..." He can't concentrate with Brendan's eyes on him. The rotter senses that he's struggling; he's smiling like he's seeing a man's downfall play out in front of him. "She's a mate."

"A mate? Really?" There's a sardonic edge to his words. "Where did you meet her?"

"None of your business."

"Quite an interesting mate to have, isn't she?"

Ste doesn't say anything; everything he does say seems to be making the situation worse, entangling him deeper.

"Attractive, isn't she?"

"So you do know her?" He feels triumphant like he's just proved something.

Brendan stands back, starts slowly pacing up and down the hallway. The distance should make Ste feel more free, but he feels like a caged animal. He's never not aware of how far he is from the door.

"What would the lovely Amy say if she knew?" Brendan almost sounds like he's talking to himself, voice low, reflective.

"What are you on about?"

"Close friend is she, this Veronica?"

"No, she..."

"Why were you looking at her phone?"

"I just saw it, didn't I. I was with her, and I..."

"Why were you with her?"

Ste wets his lips, Brendan following the movement.

"I wasn't with her with her." He's making this worse. He's drawing attention to it all, making it sound even more suspicious.

"The mother of your kids sitting all at home while you're with your mate." Brendan shakes his head. "Not very nice, is it?"

"Nice? You know what's not very nice, Brendan - you beating me up every time I see you. That's not very nice, is it?" His hands have turned into fists by his side.

Brendan gives a short, sharp laugh.

"Beating you up? I don't remember this. Please, enlighten me."

"The first time we met you -"

"Put you in your place after you came to kill me."

Ste's blood runs cold. He's sure he sees Brendan looking at him like he knows - like he knows exactly what Warren wants him to do - but then the moment passes, and Brendan looks away, and Ste isn't sure what the hell he saw, or what's real.

"That's all it was," Brendan says, so casual that they could be back with Cheryl again having tea. "Least I could do, don't you think? After what you were going to do to me."

"No, that's... That's my job."

Brendan smiles again, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "That's okay then."

Ste's about to argue, about to say that that's not what he meant, that it doesn't make it okay, that none of this is okay, but he stops himself. He shouldn't need to justify it. He shouldn't care. He doesn't - he doesn't care.

"So, back to this Veronica. Been telling tales, has she?"

"Just tell me how you know her. Is she... is she your girlfriend?"

He still wonders if her talk about work was all a cover, and she just didn't want Ste to know that she has a boyfriend who's a rotter. But something about it doesn't fit. If she was Brendan's girlfriend then Brendan would be on him like a ton of bricks. He'd care more than he does now, standing opposite him, composed and asking him questions, making Ste the flustered one.

"What makes you think that?" He looks at him in a way that makes Ste feel self conscious. How does he do that? How does he look at you and make you feel like he's seeing right through you? "Your flies are undone, by the way."

"What?" Ste looks straight down, hands immediately going to his trousers. He checks - double checks - and looks up again. "No they're not."

"Made you look."

Ste can feel his cheeks flushing with heat.

"Right, if you're just going to carry on taking the piss then -"

"Then what, Steven?"

"Ste. My name is Ste." It's a small detail in the grand scheme of things, but it seems like one of the only things he might have any control over right now.

Brendan ignores him. It's as though his words turn to dust.

"I don't think you have any right to issue orders." Brendan pauses, regards him, then adds pointedly, "Steven."

"You're wrong there." Ste bristles with a kind of faux confidence that doesn't quite reach the surface. "Because now I know, yeah? I know everything, and I'm going to go to Warren."

He sees Brendan waver; his twitches give him away.

"Why aren't you there now then?"

Ste hesitates. Good fucking question, Brendan.

"Why aren't you shouting your mouth off? Telling your puppeteer everything?"

"My what?"

"He pulls the strings, doesn't he?" Brendan smiles. It reminds Ste of a clown's smile: unnatural, almost frightening in the way his lips stretch like they're being worked out of shape.

"Shut up."

"Touched a nerve, have I?"

It's time to get to the point. He's not here to have a sparring match, or to be beat down by Brendan's judgement of him.

"I can't wait till he finds out all about your work."

He watches Brendan carefully. The rotter's good - his mask doesn't slip. He doesn't try and look away. Instead he cocks his head to the side, looks almost amused.

"And what work would this be? I'm guessing you're not talking about spending eight hours a day with that idiot." He clicks his fingers likes he's trying to think of something. "What's his name? Dark haired guy, scar on his forehead. Your surrogate daddy."

"Tony? He's not my..." He wonders how Brendan would even come to that conclusion. He's only seen him and Tony together a couple of times. Surrogate daddy?

"Antony, that's it."

Brendan has a way of changing the subject easily; taking Ste off on tangents, making him distracted.

"I'm talking about your work with Veronica," he says, determined to keep this on track. He's guessing that his previous belief that he could fool the rotter into telling him everything is pointless. Brendan's not stupid. If he tells him anything then it'll be of his own accord, not because Ste talks his way into getting information out of him. "You know you're not allowed to work and be in the employment project."

"Slipped my mind."

"Don't be stupid. If you haven't told us what work you're doing then there must be a reason why."

"What reason would that be?"

Why does it feel like Ste's the one on trial here?

"I don't know..." He trails off, realises how incompetent he sounds. Here he is doing the accusing, but he doesn't even know what he's trying to accuse the rotter of. "Something dodgy, okay? Something... something not... good."

He's almost relieved when Brendan doesn't laugh at him. He'd deserve it.

"That hurts, Steven. That really hurts." He steps forward, shakes his head slowly. Ste tries to move backwards but there's nowhere to go - he's flat against the wall, can only turn his head away when he feels Brendan's breath on his cheek. He doesn't smell like Ste thought he would; he'd expected something rancid, something that would speak of decay.

He smells of nothing. Just air, just heat, and the aftershave which Ste had smelled in the flat earlier. Ste had been wrong; he doesn't smell dead.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you."

Ste swallows heavily. He can hear it in Brendan's voice, that solid threat that suggests that he'll see this through.

"They'll find out. The Human Volenteer Force, they'll find out."

"I'm good at burying bodies, Steven. I've had plenty of practice."

Fuck. Ste should have read more of his files, should have found out his history. Most rabids were discovered next to their victims. They didn't have the self control to even plan a burial. Ste doubts Brendan's any different, but he realises with a sinking dread that it wouldn't make any difference either way: he believes Brendan could do it, could kill him and hide his body and get away with the whole thing.

He tries to speak again, but Brendan puts a finger over his lips. His skin feels warm.

He hushes him. "You've had your one reason."

Ste speaks through the interruption, words muffled by Brendan's touch. It registers as a distant hum.

"Your kids."

Brendan draws his hand away. The layers of cover up mousse are still visible, that orange tint to his skin, but Ste's sure - sure - that he sees the rotter grow pale.

"I don't have kids."

Even if Ste didn't already know he'd fail to believe this. There's no conviction in Brendan's voice. He looks like he's been struck.

"Cheryl told me." For the first time Ste feels like he has the upper hand. There's a certain amount of gratification to it; he watches as the rotter struggles to hide his shock, hanging on to his every word like he's watching something horrifying unfold.

"No she didn't."

"She did though. Two boys, aren't they?" He tries to remember their names. "Declan, isn't it? Declan and -"

He shouldn't have said that. It's hit a nerve, something that Ste had expected, had even wanted, but he hadn't thought what would happen afterwards. Brendan's body collides with his, pins him back against the wall, presses close to him and knocks the wind out of him.

Ste twists and arches and protests, Brendan's pupils large and black, dilated with anger.

"Are you threatening them?"

"What?" It's more of a gasp than a word. "No, I'm not - I wouldn't -" That's not what he'd meant.

"Then what?"

He's riled him. He's made Brendan scared, properly scared in a way that he never was when he was trapped in that cage. It's something Ste hasn't seen before, and it shocks him enough to make movement impossible. All he can do is stand there, Brendan's hand firm against his chest.

"If you kill me then they'll know what you've done. You don't want that."

"Don't I?"

Ste knows it's dangerous what he's doing, putting words in Brendan's mouth, telling him what he's feeling.

"You want them to visit you, don't you? Cheryl said."

He expects Brendan to deny it: pretend that his kids mean nothing to him, use it as a means to get the upper hand.

"I know what it's like."

Brendan's eyes are still dark when he looks at him.

"You don't know anything. Nice little family setup you've got there, isn't it? Missus at home making your dinner every night, looking after the kids. Keeping your bed warm."

"I told you, we're not like that. We split up ages ago."

"Doesn't look like it to me."

Something unnerves Ste about the way Brendan says it; like he's seen them together, like he's been observing them.

"Your Cheryl won't be gone forever," he says, needs to keep this moving forward, needs to get the fuck out of here. His eyes dart towards the door.

He doesn't expect Brendan to let him go. He's still, an unmoving statue when the rotter draws back slowly, enough for Ste to get his breath back.

"Get out of here." The rotter's mouth barely moves when he says it. He's looking at the floor, looks like he's trying to control himself.

Ste doesn't do anything. It's a trick. It's got to be a trick. He'd entertained the fantasy of making it out of this place alive, but in his head it had been the result of a fight, something bloodthirsty. A foolish dream of Brendan being the one who would lose.

He'd never believed that Brendan would willingly let him walk out of here.

"I said get out of here." It sounds like a threat this time.

Ste grabs his jacket from the sofa, runs to the door.

"Steven?"

He turns back. This is where he finds out what the catch is.

Brendan's jaw is set, his face rigid.

"You say anything to Warren and I'll be paying a visit to your kids, yeah?"

Ste runs from the flat.

::::::

Go to Warren. Go right now, tell him everything you know. Tell him about Veronica, about the phone call from Brendan, about what she said. Tell him about how Brendan never denied that she's been doing work for him. Tell him about the threats. Tell him that you can't wait any longer, that Brendan has to die today.

He's heading towards the treatment centre. He knows Warren will be there now that he's got his new project. He'll be waiting for results of the tests, to see if the drugs the rotter took were solely responsible for turning it into a rabid.

He'd be an idiot to not tell him. Worse than an idiot - he'd be reckless, irresponsible. This isn't just about him any more. He's meant to be looking after people, setting an example, and if Brendan's lying about the work he's doing then he could be lying about everything else. If something happens - Brendan plotting something against them, planning to defy the HVF - then the blame will be on Ste's shoulders if he does nothing.

You say anything to Warren and I'll be paying a visit to your kids.

Was he lying? Ste can't tell. He knows that the rotter has no problem with being violent towards him. He can already feel the new bruises developing on his skin, the marks from where Brendan's hands had gripped him, the dark smudges from his ribs crashing against the wall.

Would kids be any different? Leah and Lucas, they haven't done anything wrong. They're innocent in all this, but that never stopped a rotter before, did it? Ste knows they've killed children in their untreated state before. He wishes more than ever that he'd looked at Brendan's file closely, had studied it in detail. He needs to know whether he's capable of doing what he's promised. And what about his personality, his life, what he was like before he died? What about human Brendan? There's no evidence that he did questionable things then - things that would have got him in trouble long before he turned into what he is now - but there's no evidence that he didn't.

Brendan could have been a killer long before he died.

There's another thing: Warren's instructions to him. If Brendan doesn't kill him and everyone he loves for grassing him up, then Warren will. Wait, he'd said. Wait for the dust to settle, for Brendan to do enough damage that the council will end up being relieved if he's found dead. Going to Brendan's house, talking to his sister, finding out personal details about him - it's everything Warren didn't want him to do.

He's going to have to go home. He knows it even before he's reached the sign for the treatment centre. He turns back, bunches his hands into his jacket pockets; he's freezing, and it takes him a moment to remember that he only has Brendan's vest on underneath, that he'd forgotten his wet shirt back at the rotter's flat.

He zips his jacket all the way to the top. Amy's perceptive - she'll notice if he comes home wearing someone else's clothes.

He's lucky, the flat's empty when he gets home. The kids are still at nursery and school, and Ste guesses from the emptiness of the fridge and cupboards that Amy must have gone shopping.

He needs the time to adjust, to process everything that's happened today.

He runs a bath, peels off his clothes. He winces as he does it, can feel the soreness from where Brendan's touched him. When he looks at his body in the mirror he sees that bruises haven't formed yet, but he knows they will. He'll have to be careful around Amy, make sure that she never sees them.

The water feels good against his skin; healing, almost. He's tempted to fill the bath until the water reaches his chin, but he knows Leah and Lucas will need the hot water for later. He tries to remember a time when he didn't have to worry about how much things cost. He can't.

He hasn't turned the light on. It's getting dark out and only a small amount of light penetrates through the window; he likes it, likes the way it calms him. He's going to wash himself but it hurts when he moves his wrists, so he lies back in the bath instead, closes his eyes and allows his mind to drift.

It seems impossible that he was on a date hours ago. Seems impossible that he was meeting Veronica for the first time, that he cared about something as simple as a relationship. Or not simple - not simple because it's never simple for him, is it? The first woman he's gone out with in months is connected to a rotter: not just any rotter, but Brendan.

He could try again. He could call Veronica, leave her a message. Maybe tomorrow when she's had time to calm down and is no longer as angry with him. He knows he's not meant to leave things like this, one shag and no contact ever again. She'll think he was only after one thing.

Closing his eyes like he is, he's able to recall in perfect detail the way she'd kissed him in the cinema. There had been nothing coy about it. The way she'd touched him, had stroked him through his trousers - that hadn't been coy either.

What if he was the one being used? What if she'd just wanted sex, nothing more?

He reaches an arm out of the bath. His skin's gone dry and wrinkled from the water. He feels around for his trousers, gets his phone out and leans over the bath to make sure he doesn't drop it in the water as he finds Veronica's number.

Straight to voicemail.

He sends a text: Sorry about before. Maybe we can meet up again sometime?

He waits. When he next looks at his phone - half an hour later, he makes sure - there's still no reply. He knows he should give her time, but he already feels certain that he'll never hear from her again.

It bothers him. It bothers him that he doesn't care. It bothers him that their afternoon together is already slipping away, that he's letting it go, the details growing distant.

He washes himself, bites his lip through the pain until he can almost believe he doesn't feel it.

He changes into new clothes. If Amy asks him he'll tell her that he got soaked in the rain, that he's put his things in the wash. It's not a lie - he bundles the clothes in his arms, shoves them into the machine. The only thing remaining from this afternoon is the vest.

He could throw it in the bin, get rid of it completely. Its material is already faded, as though its been worn for years. Ste wonders if Brendan sleeps in it.

What if he comes back for it? It almost makes Ste laugh, the idea of the rotter turning up at his door, demanding that he give him his vest back. He wouldn't. He'd see the ridiculousness of it, surely?

He thinks of his own shirt that's still in the rotter's house. He wouldn't be above asking for it back. He paid for it after all, and it's one of the only smart things he owns. He should have remembered it; there's no chance he'll get it back now. The rotter's probably thrown it out already.

He's interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing. He carries the vest into his room, brings his phone with him and locks the door - a habit, even though Amy isn't home to overhear anything that she shouldn't.

Veronica. It'll be Veronica. He shouldn't have called her. He doesn't know what he'll say. If he says he wants to see her again, will she be able to tell that he's lying?

It was good though, wasn't it? They were good. It was the first time for him in ages, and maybe that's why it felt different, as though he was outside his body, outside the room, why he couldn't let go.

He looks at the caller ID. Warren.

"Hello?" Warren's voice on the other end makes him realise that he hasn't said anything, that he's answered with silence. "Ratboy?"

"Yeah, it's Ste."

He hears the sound of laughter at the other end of the line. Warren finding his slowness amusing, as usual.

"Drinking during the day, are you?"

"No. I'm fine. I'm -"

"Listen, change of plan."

"What?" The urgency makes him nervous.

"We're not meeting at the pub tomorrow. Come and see me first."

"Where?"

"At my house."

His house? Ste can't remember ever being at Warren's house. He's sure he's never even been to the same street.

"I'll message you the details."

"Don't worry, I'll get them off Tony." He'd rather they both go there together. He's not stepping into the lion's den by himself.

"Tony's not coming. Just you. See you tomorrow morning."

He hangs up before Ste can reply.

Change of plan. Warren's house. Just the two of them.

Ste sinks onto the bed, his fingers curling around Brendan's vest.