He's never able to escape the nightmares, but there's been a kind of quiet resignation about the ones he's had lately. They've been becoming almost predictable: he's trapped, unable to run, being cornered by a snarling rabid bearing its teeth at him. He loses his footing, stumbles and grows more frantic, the sweat dripping off him, his body jerking and shaking, unarmed and defenseless.
He'll wake up before he's killed. It'll take him a couple of minutes before he's calmed down enough that he's able to get out of bed, but for the rest of the day he can force it out of his mind, send it to a dark corner that sees no light until he dreams again.
Tonight is different.
He's back in that street again, that walk into town from the estate. It's silent, almost as silent as it was that night. Only the thudding of his heart's louder this time; it's as though he's sensing it, knows that something's about to happen. The predictability doesn't give him the comfort that it ought to.
The rabid isn't in front of him this time. It strikes Ste from behind, throws him across the pavement, makes him cry out from the pain. He gets to his feet slowly, mesmerised by the rabid's face, by the decay and the large chunks missing from it, like its face has been blown apart. It's a new detail that makes Ste's stomach churn. He stays motionless, sure he's going to be sick.
It's younger than he'd remembered, this rabid. He's sure that it had been at least ten years older than him, but its face - what's left of it - looks like it belongs to a teenager. Its body is strong, brought to life with the Blue Oblivion inside of it, but it's also slight, as though it's going through that awkward transitional phase between a boy and a man. It's tall, gangly, all out of control limbs.
Ste has his gun in his back pocket. It's almost a shock, as though the small part of him that realises that this is only a dream registers that he's armed for the first time, that the ending to this is going to be different.
Fear overrides it though. Fear because he has to pull the trigger, and he's made the mistake of looking at the rabid too closely, going against everything that he's ever done. Never look them in the eyes. They're barely what you would call eyes, but they're enough like them that it makes him slip up, makes his hands fumble over the gun.
The rabid's advancing on him. Pull the trigger. Pull it now.
When the gun fires, the rabid that lands on a heap on the pavement is no longer a teenager. He's not the rabid that Ste killed weeks ago either, the one who he single handledly took on by himself, who he'd buried with Tony.
"Brendan."
Ste touches his shoulder, rolls him around to face him. His eyes are wide open, staring up at the sky. They're not like the eyes that were there a moment ago. They're his human eyes, so starkly blue that they don't appear real to Ste; neither does the warmth of his skin, or the way that some colour seems to be coming back into his face. The dirt around Brendan's fingernails which is ever-present is no longer there. The breeze from outside lightly blows the strands of his hair. His moustache looks soft.
For a second Ste wonders if he's brought him back to life. But when he calls his name there's no response.
::::::
He can't forget the dream. He can't forget it when he has a bath. He can't forget it when he gets dressed, or when he shaves the hint of stubble that's appearing above his upper lip. He can't forget it when he draws the curtains in his room and takes a swig of water from his bedside table, or when he sees that the rotter's vest is still stuffed at the back of his drawers where he'd left it.
He doesn't hear Amy saying his name in the kitchen when he makes his way there. When her voice filters through it sounds like it's echoing at him down a tunnel. He turns to her, watches her lips move, tries to sound out the words; turns away so that she won't see him closing his eyes, and then back again when he trusts himself enough to be able to listen.
"Good night last night, was it?"
He's made her worry. Her tone is light but he sees through it, sees through her.
He hums, yes, rubs his head and waits for her to take the bait.
"Had too much to drink, did you?" There's a note of disapproval there, but it's better than her concern. A hangover she can deal with. A nightmare - his nightmare - would scare her.
"Sorry. Got a bit carried away."
"I thought so. When I came back and found you crashed out -"
"Crashed out?"
"You were asleep on top of the covers at five o'clock."
"Shit. I'm sorry, Ames."
He imagines Amy coming back with the kids, seeing him spread out and having to do everything herself - run them a bath, cook dinner, put them to bed.
"Why didn't you wake me?" He wouldn't have blamed her for it. He would have deserved it.
"Thought you must have needed it. I hear you getting up sometimes in the night, and..."
"You hear me?" He's always thought he'd been careful: not putting on any lights, only running the tap lightly if he gets something to drink. Tiptoeing across the carpet.
"Sometimes I can't sleep either."
He looks at her. Has he been pretending the dark circles under her eyes don't exist? He's been telling himself that it's normal, that it's all part of having kids. They're both bound to be tired, aren't they? They're bound to get next to no sleep.
It worked when Leah and Lucas were younger, that excuse. But unless they're ill or having nightmares of their own then they sleep right through, have done for ages now.
He puts his arm around her for a second, takes out a bowl from the cupboard when he lets go.
He busies himself, makes breakfast and puts the kettle on, watches as the kids watch television in the other room. They're fixated on it; if he's let them down by not saying goodnight, then it doesn't show.
He knows Amy will ask. He almost wants to get it over with. He gives her the opportunity, doesn't bring up anything else to distract her with.
"How was it then?" She stirs her tea, is sat opposite him wrapped in her dressing gown, slippers covering her feet. He thinks about how bizarre this conversation would have been a few years ago. Regardless of what happened with Veronica yesterday, it feels like something of a triumph that they're able to talk like this at all.
"It was alright." Downplaying this is the way to go. He's not about to tell her any details that will hurt her. When she'd first started dating again there had been one question that had preoccupied him, the one thing he'd hated to think about, the one thing that he'd least wanted to know. The one thing that he'd most wanted to know.
Would it have been easier if he'd known back then? If Amy had simply told him whether she'd slept with the men that she'd gone on these dates with? Maybe it would have been like cutting a cord, and he'd have been able to move on quicker if he'd known either way.
Or it would have killed him.
"Only alright?" She's smiling like she's teasing him; she even touches his leg under the table with her slipper like they're playing a game. He doesn't completely buy it.
"I don't think I'll be seeing her again." He waits for the disappointment to come, but it doesn't. "Didn't really work out."
"What happened?"
"Nothing, just... you know, sometimes you don't..."
"Connect?"
"Yeah. Connect." He doesn't look up to see if Amy's secretly pleased by this.
"Sometimes it takes time."
He doesn't know how to explain that thanks to what he did, there definitely won't be a second date. He tries to avoid any more questions, gets his phone out from his pocket and looks at the message he received last night from Warren with the directions to his house. The address is unknown enough for Ste to see that it must be outside the village. Something tells him that Warren isn't like him - that the place he visits today, whatever it's like, won't be on an estate.
He make sure he tells Amy exactly where he's going before he leaves. He doesn't say anything that might startle her; just tells her that he's visiting Warren for a meeting, the barest details so that if he doesn't come back, she'll know who to tell the police is responsible.
"This meeting. Is it about, you know... the rabid?"
He can see she's been working up to saying this. All throughout breakfast she was tetchy, a bag of nerves after he'd told her about Warren wanting to see him. He'd been naive to think that she'd buried it in the back of her mind, what he's told her he needs to do.
He almost bites back at her, tells her to stop asking, to stop thinking that every time he leaves the house now it's for one reason only.
He looks at her. She's scared for him; that's all this is.
"No. It's about something else." The denial makes her feel better, but it makes anxiety pool in the pit of his stomach. It's the something else that he's unsure about. "I won't be long. Tell the kids bye for me." He can't look at them before he leaves. He knows that if he holds them then he'll start to think that this is it, that he'll never see them again.
He gets the bus. When he looks out of the window he tries not to think that everything he's passing, everything he's seeing, is all going to be for the last time. There's a consolation of Warren inviting him to his house: Ste doubts that he'd choose to kill him in such an obvious place. If he's found out about Ste's visit to the treatment centre and wants to punish him for it - irreversibly - then he would do it somewhere where it couldn't be traced back to him. He won't want blood on his own carpet. He won't want to shift a body from his own home.
That's if Ste can trust that Warren's telling the truth, and that it is his house he's going to today.
::::::
It's not what he expects. It's not as big of a shock as seeing Brendan's house, but Ste still has to double check that he's got the right street.
Warren's house is close to a school. As Ste walks down his street he passes kids on their lunch break, the noise of them like a sudden assault of the senses. Ste was one of them once, hanging out on street corners, going to the local chip shop and getting whatever he could afford. Spending hours at the park with Amy and her mates, trying to convince her to give him the time of day.
It takes him a moment to separate the two: the kids he's passing and the adult he is now. He feels unlike them but unlike what he should be; he doesn't fit into the role he ought to, and it's disconcerting. When he hears the sound of laughter it's like they're laughing at him. He hurries past, looks at the house numbers until he sees the one he needs.
It looks spacious, homely from the outside. Again Ste doesn't know what he expected - something dark, something outwardly foreboding? But this wasn't it. He knocks in a hurry as though Warren might sense if he's tentative and use it to his advantage.
Footsteps. The door opening. Warren leaning against the wall and staring at him casually. He's dressed in a jumper and a pair of jeans. There's the usual greeting - alright, ratboy - before he summons Ste in, telling him to close the door behind him like Ste's never been to someone's house before.
Ste makes sure to wipe his shoes on the carpet, not to be polite but to show Warren that he knows how to be.
"Put your coat over there if you want." Warren gestures to the bannister of the stairs.
Ste keeps it on. It feels like a layer of protection.
"Thanks for inviting me over." He doesn't feel thankful. He'd rather have done this somewhere public, somewhere they have an audience, but it feels like a natural thing to fill in the silence, something that he's expected to say, as does: "Nice house."
"Cheers." Warren nods like he's in agreement. He doesn't seem tightly wound, but Ste's still on edge. He knows how good Warren is at staying calm when he needs to. He could be working his way up to telling him that he knows all about his visit to the Bradys' house. It'll be one of his sick jokes: make Ste feel at ease, make him comfortable in his home, and then turn the tables.
"You okay?"
"Fine." Ste makes an effort to smooth out his face, wondering what he looks like. "Bit cold, isn't it?" He's shivering, can feel goosebumps on his skin.
Warren walks slowly across the floor, goes to what Ste assumes to be the heater and changes the settings.
"What's this about then?" Ste says when he's done.
"Straight to the point, aren't you?"
"I've got to go to work later, haven't I." He dreads to think of the afternoon of endless teasing that he's in for if he's late. Rhys and Jacqui will never let him live it down.
"Always such a hard worker."
"Are you taking the piss?"
Warren smiles. "Come on. I've got someone for you to see."
"What?" It throws him. He's spent enough time imagining what Warren could do to him without adding someone else to the mix.
"We've got a visitor."
"Who is it?"
"They're waiting in the basement."
Ste doesn't know whether to laugh or run.
"The basement?" He leaves the question hanging in the air, waiting for Warren to realise the stupidity of it.
He's blank faced.
"You've got a basement?" That's how the stories start, isn't it? Stories that kids used to pass around to scare each other.
"We keep it for storage," Warren says, and Ste doesn't know if the we is him and Louise, the girlfriend that he's heard about in the past, but the explanation doesn't make him feel any better.
"No, that's alright. I'll stay here." He forgets about his forced politeness and drags out the chair that's closest to him. Before he can sit down he's yanked back from it, Warren's hands on his hoodie.
"Get down there. Now."
He should apologise. Tell Warren that he never meant to fuck things up with Brendan, that he didn't know what else to do, that he wasn't thinking. That whatever this is now - revenge, punishment, the end - that he'll do anything to change things. That he won't ever try anything like that again.
Before he can form the words he's being pushed. Warren opens the door to the basement, continues to hold onto Ste by his clothes as he guides him down the stairs. He's careful not to make Ste fall, but he's firm enough that there's no chance of escape.
There's only one light - already on - and it's dim enough for Ste to struggle to adjust for a moment before things come into focus. Warren wasn't lying when he said it was for storage. There are boxes everywhere, piled so high that if Ste fell into one they would all tumble down.
There can't be any other reason to bring him here than to intimidate him. He hates that it's working, hates that he wishes he could climb the stairs again and return to the brightness. There are no windows here, and the walls seem stronger somehow, more solid; if he were to shout for help he's not sure anyone would hear him.
He hears shuffling, a cough.
"You remember Danny."
It takes Ste a moment to place the man standing before him, black suit on, body slowly moving out of the shadows of the basement. His face is undoubtedly familiar, but Ste stares blankly as his mind frantically tries to make sense of what he's seeing.
Something clicks. The pub. Weeks ago before all of this had started, before Warren had ever asked him to get rid of Brendan. Danny had been sitting with the rest of the group, had been a mostly silent presence throughout the whole thing, and had then disappeared without a word or explanation, never to be seen at any of the follow up meetings. Ste had forgotten he existed, had erased him from his mind completely after that first time.
He's regretting asking Warren to turn up the heating. The room suddenly feels stifling, the walls closing in.
"Come on, take a seat." Warren nods over to one of the spare chairs. Ste sits down on the edge of it, can sense Danny staring at him as he tries (and fails) to make himself comfortable.
"You'll have a drink, won't you Ste?"
He could do with one, but that would mean Warren would have to leave the room, leave him and Danny alone together.
"No."
"Come on, you've got to drink something," Danny says, gives him a thin lipped smile. His voice is different than Ste had imagined; colder, harsher.
"It's not poison."
He and Warren laugh, but it does nothing to stop Ste from thinking that it could be.
"Just a coke. Ta."
"Danny? The usual?"
"Thanks." Danny doesn't look away from Ste, his hands clasped tightly together.
Ste hears the sound of Warren's footsteps as he leaves the room, whistling accompanying it. Then silence.
He's going to have to make conversation. They can't stay like this, and Danny seems to have no interest in being the one to start.
"You and Warren known each other long then?"
"Few years."
"Where did you meet?"
"Where do you think we met?"
Ste wonders if he's taking the piss.
"Don't know. A dark alleyway?" He laughs in his discomfort, waits for Danny to do the same - out of curtesy, if nothing else - but he remains straight faced, stoic.
Ste's laughter trickles off.
How long does it take to get a couple of drinks? He's never wanted to see Warren so much in his life.
"How did you get into the Human Volunteer Force then?" Ste guesses that Danny must have transferred from another city, because nothing in his demeanor speaks of a new member; he doesn't have the uncertainty about him, and there's been no group initiation process. Everything suggests that he's an old timer.
"I've been in the force my whole life."
"How old?"
Danny stares at him like he's stupid. "I just said, my whole life."
"Yeah, but... You can't have been in it forever." He'd put Danny in his thirties, maybe his early forties. He wouldn't have been that young when The Rising happened.
He seems to read Ste's mind.
"We were preparing for The Rising long before you were born." He doesn't elaborate. Conversation closed.
The silence gives Ste time to try and think why he's here; why Danny's here. Is Warren using him for extra support, to make sure that Ste stays meek and defenseless when they hurt him?
It's not Warren's style. He wouldn't ask for someone's help to do his dirty work.
The whistling starts again as the basement door opens and Warren makes his way back down. It's almost comforting this time around.
"Here." He passes the glass to Ste, has two beer bottles for him and Danny. They clink their bottles together, the sound the only thing that Ste can hear. They don't do the same to his glass.
"What's this about then?" He puts his drink down. He's not under the illusion that he's here to socialise, even if Danny and Warren are necking their beers back like they are.
"You want to do the honours, Danny?" Warren says.
Danny looks at Ste appraisingly, Ste struggling not to squirm under the spotlight. He shouldn't have worn a tracksuit. He shouldn't have worn his scuffed trainers. He should have done something with his hair; put some product in it, or at least made an attempt to tidy it up.
Danny's suit looks like it cost him more than Ste makes in a month.
"Anything to do with Brady, you report to me."
Ste looks from Danny to Warren. He can't imagine Warren surrendering control to anyone, but after a moment he nods.
"I don't get it. What do you have to do with Brendan? How do you know him?" None of this makes any sense. Brendan only moved here recently, and he already seems to be public enemy number one. The worst he's done is not wear cover up mousse and his contacts - nothing compared to some rotters in the past.
"He asks a lot of questions, doesn't he?" Danny says to Warren, and it's like Ste's not even there all of a sudden, like they've closed the door on him and are talking about how difficult he is, a nuisance.
"I have a right to know." He raises his voice - they fucking better know that he's going to be heard - and ignores his racing heartbeat that's warning him to stop. "If I'm going to be killing him then you need to tell me everything."
He seems to have finally found something to make Danny laugh.
He shakes with it; throws his head back and laughs like he has no control over it, laughs until even Warren looks uneasy.
It stops as suddenly as it starts, so swiftly that Ste wonders if he imagined it entirely.
"He's funny, this one. Gives you orders a lot, does he?"
"He likes throwing his weight around, yeah," Warren says.
He's cornered. None of this was ever about an agreement, or about negotiating the terms. He's here to do as he's told: to sit where he's allocated, to drink his drink, to kill who they've chosen him to kill.
Ste feels welded to the seat. He doesn't know what's safer - to be trapped here where he at least has some space from them, however small, or to be within distance of the door, where he could run but he could be stopped.
"Every week we'll meet at this house," Danny continues, Ste's interruption being ignored. "Same time, same day as today. Understand?"
"And do what?"
"You'll tell me about Brady. Tell me what he's said, what he's done. And we'll go from there."
It's all so fucking vague.
"What if he hasn't said anything though?" Danny and Warren seem to be thinking that the rotter's stupid, that he'll trip up easily. Ste's seen first hand how Brendan has a way of wriggling out of things; he's still no closer to finding out what work Brendan's doing with Veronica.
"He will," Danny says, no room for argument. "You haven't had your drink."
"What?"
"Your drink." Danny nods down at the glass that Ste's left on the table, untouched. "Go on."
"I don't..."
"Just drink it, Ste," Warren says, sounding tired by the whole thing.
Ste picks up the glass, can feel Warren and Danny watching him. Either something very bad is about to happen or this is a fucked up power trip.
He sips at it. It tastes normal but it would, wouldn't it?
He puts it down again.
"Can I go now?"
Warren looks at Danny for instruction. It's bizarre to Ste, seeing him need someone else's permission.
Danny's barely given his consent before Ste's up from his chair, making a beeline for the door. He needs to feel the fresh air on his face. It's not unlike how he felt at the treatment centre, locked in the cage with Brendan. Both times he's felt like an animal.
"Hang on."
Danny's voice stills his footsteps. The abrupt halt almost makes him skid across the floor as he tries to regain his balance.
He waits as Danny moves, until he's standing in front of him. He has a way of keeping his face smooth, almost devoid of expression, and then there's a light switch of fury, the anger hitting the surface. Ste waits for it.
Danny reaches out, holds out his hand.
"Come on," he says when Ste doesn't do anything. "This is a business arrangement. You've got to shake in business." It doesn't sound like something that's up for negotiation.
Ste shakes his hand. He means for it to be quick but Danny's grip is strong, and he doesn't let go straight away. His skin is cold, and when he lets go he brushes his hand against his trousers, wiping the trace of Ste away. He smiles at Ste as he does it: it's something he wants him to see.
Ste runs up the stairs, doesn't stop until he's out of the door and all the way down the street, Warren's house out of view.
::::::
There are hours to spare until he has to go into work. He kills time, gets some lunch from the chip shop and sits on the nearest bench he can find. He doesn't notice how slowly he's eating until the chips turn cold, and he tries to mask it by covering them with the sachet of ketchup he has.
Two hours he had to wait. When he finishes his food and looks at the time on his phone he's already fifteen minutes late.
It's just as he thought it would be. Jacqui and Rhys tut at him when he finally arrives at the meeting point, share some private joke about him that has them snickering behind his back like a couple of kids. Ste resists the urge to tell them to pack it in, that they can leave the flirting for outside office hours.
The rest of the group keep their mockery of him at a distance, but he can sense the shift in atmosphere when he arrives. They're not comfortable in his presence any more than he's comfortable in theirs.
He's forgotten his gun again.
"Come on. Hurry up, we're already late." He says it like it's their fault, like they're the ones slowing him down.
"Where are we going today?" Jacqui asks, does it like it takes effort to string the sentence together, so above him that she is. She's still wearing the large hoop earrings, the high heels, the eyeliner that looks like it's been drawn on with felt tip.
"The pub."
"Drinks on you then, boss."
The rest of them laugh. They have a tendency to do that, to act like whatever one of them says is the funniest thing on earth. Ste's attempts at jokes pass unnoticed. He's stopped trying to make them.
"We're picking up litter. Clearing out the pond."
A groan ripples through the group.
They wouldn't act like this if Warren was in charge. They wouldn't dare answer back. Talk about Warren with each other in private, yes - but never like this. They'd show him respect.
"Unless you want to leave right now? Because there's plenty of other rotters who'd love to make some money, do what you're doing." He looks at them all, almost hopes that one of them will speak out of turn so he has the excuse of losing it, kicking them out.
Jacqui looks like she could hit him. Rhys is sulking, the light gone from his eyes. The rest are staring hard at the ground, saying nothing.
"Thought so." He feels a surge of accomplishment. He's done that. Him. He's made them shut up.
He leads the way, walks out in front. He doesn't look behind him to make sure they're all still there like he usually would.
They start outside the pub. He knows Frankie won't want them all crowding inside, won't want to risk them scaring off the customers. It's cold enough for there to be only one person sitting by the pond, an elderly gentleman who immediately picks up his newspaper, opens it and sticks his head inside when he sees them approach.
On the way to his date with Veronica he'd thought about bringing her to this pub one day. He'd imagined them coming here in the summer, their legs leaning against the wall, their chairs turned to the pond. It wasn't much to look at, but Leah and Lucas liked it enough; they'd got in the habit of asking him to take them fishing there, although the most they'd ever reeled in was a bit of loose change that had collected there over the years.
Veronica still hasn't messaged him. He still hasn't messaged her.
It feels a long time until summer. His hoodie isn't any protection against the weather, and the material of his coat is thin. Even if some of the rotters weren't wearing just t-shirts he'd know that they don't feel the cold; it's something about them, something about the way they move and interact that suggests how unaffected they are by it all. There aren't any goosebumps on their skin. They don't draw their arms close to their chests, trying to get warm. He watches as they start to pick up litter, trying to pretend that he doesn't wish he could go inside where he knows the heating will be on, Frankie predicting what his order will be before he has to say anything.
He knows he'd feel warmer if he started helping them all. It would give him something to do, would make him feel more useful than standing here like a spare part, but Warren's instructions had been clear: Don't help. Don't lower yourself to the same standards as them.
So he sits. He finds a spot that ensures that he can see all of them clearly in case there's any trouble.
There's something uncomfortable about watching them. He sees the glances that Rhys and Jacqui throw him, clearly irritated at him taking a back seat, checking his phone whenever he thinks they're not looking, hastily stuffing it in his pocket when he finds they are. He doesn't know why it should bother him - it's his rules, he can do what he wants - but he feels caught in the act. He feels lazy.
He's in the process of wondering whether to delete Veronica's number when he hears the chair being scraped back next to him. It startles him enough to look up, thinking that he's going to see that Rhys or Jacqui - or both, as is their way - are taking advantage, assigning their own break.
It's a rotter, just not the one he was expecting.
Brendan leans back in his chair. He's wearing sunglasses, something that entirely contrasts with the miserable weather. They're thick black frames, aviator-style, and he's wearing a black leather jacket that clings tightly to his arms. Ste's noticed a pattern in everything he owns; it all looks like it struggles to contain him.
"Texting on the job."
"I wasn't texting." He was too startled by Brendan's arrival to remember to put his phone away. He does it now, looks towards the rest of the group afterwards. Some of them are looking his way now, frowning as they take in the sight of Brendan sitting beside him as though it's the most casual thing in the world.
"Trying to get in touch with that girlfriend of yours, were you?"
"I told you, Amy's not my -"
"Veronica," Brendan says, and Ste wonders when it was that Brendan made that shift, when he decided that Ste's been telling the truth about Amy all along. "Sorry," he continues, sounding anything but. "Not girlfriend. What's it called when you..." He clicks his fingers like he's trying to think of the word.
Ste looks out towards the pond, hopes that Brendan doesn't see how he's flushed.
"What are you doing here?"
"Thought I'd come to my local, have a pint." He can't seem to keep up the pretense; he laughs at his own words, that manic edge to it that always seems to be there. Ste can't compute how this is the same man - thing, not man - who was clearly so protective with his sister. So normal. "Get you a drink, shall I?"
Ste doesn't know if he's being serious.
"Steven?" Brendan says, leaning forward in his chair. "What do you drink?"
"You're not buying me a drink."
"Why not?"
"Because..." It's Ste's turn to laugh. Because this is ridiculous, that's why. He's sure that Brendan's trying to humiliate him.
He puts an end to it; turns away, doesn't look at him, keeps his voice cold.
"Shouldn't you be with Tony? If you've pulled a sickie then I'm going to have to report you. Warren will have to find out. You'll lose your job."
But you've got another one so you'll be fine, won't you?
He doesn't say it, doesn't let Brendan know how much it's got to him that he still hasn't found out about what he's doing.
"And if you're wearing those sunglasses because you haven't got your contacts in then I'll have to report that too." He's on a roll now. He likes it, likes the satisfaction it gives him to feel like he's in control here.
"Wow. Wow, that's..."
Ste chances a look at him, watches as Brendan takes off his sunglasses. The contacts are there. The cover up mousse has worn away slightly from where the sunglasses have pressed against his skin, but it's still intact everywhere else.
He's about to apologise before he stops himself.
"There's a lot of reporting going on there, Steven."
Ste can't shake the feeling that he's being mocked openly now.
"Yeah, well..."
"No, you're right though. I should be grateful to have this job. We all should be, shouldn't we?" Brendan raises his voice, makes sure that the other rotters can hear. They're continuing to pick up litter but Ste can see them come closer, can sense them listening carefully to the whole thing. "After all, there's plenty of other rotters who'd love to make some money, do what we're doing. Isn't that right?"
Ste stands up, his chair almost flying back from the haste of it. He's face to face with Brendan, the rotter standing too, not shying away from Ste's anger.
"Were you listening to me? He feels a chill as he says it. He hadn't been aware of Brendan being here when he'd been talking to the group.
"Quite a rousing speech."
"Why were you listening, Brendan?"
The rotter shakes his head. "Yes, why was I listening? That's what you need to be asking yourself."
"You... you can't do that. You can't just..."
How is what he wants to know. How could Brendan have been there and he didn't notice a thing? How many other conversations has the rotter overheard and Ste's had no idea?
He feels hot with shame.
"I've got work to be getting on with." He puts his chair back in place, makes sure that the group know that the show's over.
He takes his phone out, dials Tony's number. He should have done this from the start, not given Brendan the chance to twist his words, make him look like the bad guy.
Brendan makes no movement to stop him.
"Tony." He stares straight at the rotter as he speaks, makes sure that he's aware of what's going on here, that he won't stand to be made a fool of. "I've got Brendan here. Looks like he's been skiving from your group."
"Actually there's been a change of plan."
Ste immediately gets the feeling that he's not going to like what he's about to hear. Tony sounds sheepish, apologetic.
"What is it?"
"We're joining your group. We're going to be working together from now on."