13.

When Brendan entered the Loft for the first time, it was dark. Fumbling for the light switch, he felt his pulse quicken as the familiarity of the surroundings hit him. It was odd to see the place in its current state. Structurally, everything was where it had always been; the staircases, bars and offices were all in exactly the same locations. However, the aesthetic had changed beyond all recognition. The decor reflected the name of the club, there was a large amount of edgy chrome and up above faux wooden beams had been attached to the ceiling. The bars themselves were topped with railway sleepers and furnished with sleek metal beer pumps, names stylishly etched into the wood underneath. The whole place had an air of warehouse chic, which seemed to be popular in the nightlife scene from what limited experience Brendan had had so far. he didn't hate it, in fact he was quite taken with the industrial effect it had, but the whole thing lacked the personality it had once had as Chez Chez.

Brendan stood at the top of the stairs, staring at the spotless bar, remembering the green glow that used to adorn it. Metallic leather stools had been replaced with high backed wooden chairs, positioned at the sides of the bar to leave the centre of the counter free. He pulled one out and sat down, noting that these seats were much more comfortable than the ones that used to furnish the area. Brendan scanned the spirit selection on display. Common spirits used for cocktails at the bottom, premium offerings at eye level to encourage customers to upgrade. He couldn't believe the amount of gin on display. Joel had mentioned this peculiar revival, but Brendan hadn't really grasped the degree of popularity until he'd seen it with his own eyes. There were new vodkas and rums he hadn't heard of, as well as several bottles of Japanese whiskey positioned near the single malts from Scotland and Ireland. Heading behind the bar, Brendan poured himself a measure from a bottle of seventeen year old, swilling it around the crystal glass and breathing in the aroma with a satisfied moan. He had missed the smell of good whiskey. The burn at the back of his throat as he sipped the amber liquid was also welcome. Being behind the bar felt right, and he stood and savoured the feeling. Looking out at the empty club, Brendan had a sense of belonging that he hadn't really felt since arriving back in the village. The familiar smell of cleaning fluids and alcohol settled him: this was where he was meant to be.

The day before Brendan had spoken with the manager of the Loft on the phone. Between them they had decided that the club would continue to trade in its old guise for a further two weeks, before closing its doors for a rebranding. Brendan wanted to see the place in operation with the current staff members in place before he made any firm decisions about hiring and firing. With a full staff meeting arranged for the following week, Brendan had arranged to pick the Loft's keys up so that he could investigate uninterrupted.

Cheryl had also announced her intention of staying in Hollyoaks in order to help with the club's set up. Of course, due to his eavesdropping, Brendan had already known that his sister was planning on sticking around, but he had been able to show enough surprise and gratitude to satisfy her. Nate had been very understanding, agreeing to keep things ticking over back at the estate, with a promise to visit Brendan and Cheryl in a week or two, which led Brendan to wonder exactly how spur of the moment Cheryl's decision truly was. She certainly seemed to be treading on eggshells around him, demonstrating almost superhuman kindness and patience in the face of Brendan's unpredictable mood swings. Ste's name had not arisen since the day they had seen him in the village; instead both Brendan and Cheryl cautiously tiptoed around that particular elephant in the room whenever it threatened to rear its head.

The past few days had been busy ones for the Bradys anyway, so thankfully there had been little time for heart to hearts. Tony had transferred the rental agreement for the apartment into Brendan's name; three working days were all that stood between Brendan and the official confirmation. Joel had arranged a meeting with his solicitor to sign the Loft over for the following week, before Joel's departure to Glasgow. Brendan had asked Joel whether he would consider staying a little longer to help get the club up and running, but he had refused, wanting to put the village behind him. Brendan was gratified (and a little proud) to hear that Joel had stayed in the hospitality sector, becoming an area manager for a chain of bars popular in Scotland, and he was needed back after his sabbatical to deal with Warren's death had ended. He wasn't one to readily admit to attachments, but Brendan knew he would be sad to see Joel go. The boy had had a tough time in the past, and Brendan had been glad to learn that Joel had turned his experiences into positives; a man with a respectable career and flourishing social life despite the odds. Brendan could hardly blame Joel for wanting to get back to that, and instead contented himself with feeling relieved that they had been provided the chance to bury the grudges from their stormy past.

Brendan had also bitten the bullet and gone into Liverpool for the day to sort out his appearance. After so many years away, he had to essentially start from scratch with clothing, right down to socks and underwear. An hour or two in Flannels with his credit card solved the vast majority of his sartorial problems. He had headed a few doors down after that to see to his hair and face. His thick dark hair had been styled properly; the back and sides trimmed right down, leaving some length at the top to part to one side. The facial hair was also trimmed right back until it was an even spread of stubble across his jaw, with no discernible moustache or beard as such. After this, Brendan had booked in for a facial and a massage, treatments he would never admit to if questioned, but the mirror told of the positive impact afterwards. When he walked into the apartment that evening, Cheryl had stopped what she was doing and shrieked with delight, flinging her arms around his neck and kissing his stubbled cheeks despite his protests.

Slipping a new navy suit and pale blue shirt on that morning, Brendan had caught a glimpse of his reflection and barely recognised the main he saw there. Gone were the dark circles and the pallid skin tone, thanks in part to a couple of well rested nights. The grey patches in his longer beard had been eradicated, making him look younger as a result. In fact, he looked handsome and respectable. It was a far cry from the convicted murderer he knew himself to be, but on the outside at least, that man had been erased and replaced with an eligible businessman.

A familiar reek of blood and salt mingled unpleasantly with the smell of his whiskey, and Brendan sighed, knowing what was going to greet him when he looked up. Sitting on the opposite end of the bar, legs hanging casually to the side, was Walker, glass of his own cradled in one hand. He raised his hand in a toast to Brendan, a contented expression on his face, as though he were happy to wait for Brendan to speak first.

Brendan's brain offered him the rational explanation - that Walker was dead, and as such could not possibly be sitting on the Loft bar drinking whiskey. He squeezed his eyes shut, and open them again with effort. Walker was still there, although now he had his head cocked to the side in a way which suggested he was studying Brendan.

"Something in your eye?" Walker asked, a closed mouth grin spreading over his face. Brendan reached for the bottle behind him and refilled his glass, letting out a little humourless grunt.

"Evidently."

"Haven't seen you in a while. Must be all of the excitement of being out. Had a feeling I might catch up with you here though."

Brendan made a noncommittal noise and threw his whiskey down his throat in the hope that enough of it might dull his senses enough to banish Walker.

"I like what they've done with the place. Added a touch of class to the proceedings."

"What do you want Walker?" Brendan growled, trying to remember if he had taken the tablets that Cheryl had left out for him that morning. Walker laughed, and launched himself off the counter top, landing silently on the other side of the bar to Brendan.

"Not feeling the love today? Always thought you enjoyed my little visits."

"You thought wrong."

"Not very neighbourly Brady."

Walker stopped in front of Brendan, leaning over the bar and staring the other man out. He was dressed in the clothes he had been wearing on the day he had died, an oddly colourless pallor to his skin that made Walker look almost translucent. An acrid scent of iron and decay rolled off him and made Brendan recoil.

"You know, I never really understood the attraction of this place. I mean, it's hardly St Tropez is it? But I suppose, small town club to go with the small time gangster image. It'd be funny if it wasn't so tragic."

"Please don't feel you need to stay in this small town shithole on my account. I'm sure I'll survive without you somehow."

Walker gave no indication that he'd heard Brendan, examining his fingernails instead. Brendan realised with distaste that there was a substance that looked curiously like rust embedded underneath them.

"What I really don't understand is why you'd come back here at all. What you think you have to offer anyone here anymore is beyond me. You surprise me, thinking for one minute that pretty boy of yours would look twice at a middle aged convicted killer like you. Not as much of a catch as you used to be. Take more than a fancy new suit sunshine."

Brendan's ears filled with white noise, everything sounding as though he were underwater. He gave an agonised howl and threw his glass at the bottles on the shelf behind him, sending a cascade of shards shattering and pouring on to the floor, the echo of Walker's laugh punctuating the percussion of the glass smashing.

"Brendan!"

He spun around wildly to see Cheryl standing at the top of the stairs, where he had stood only minutes earlier, worry etched on to her face as though it were a permanent feature. Brendan looked back at the mess behind the bar, then stared down at his hands unseeingly, wondering what had come over him. Walker was gone. In his place stood an empty whiskey glass and a broken mess of Brendan's fears littering the bar. It wasn't until Cheryl hugged him that Brendan realised that he was shaking uncontrollably.

Since the storm the week before, the rainfall had been relentless. Cheryl stood in the entryway of the apartment, looking outside at the downpour mistrustingly.

"You don't need to come out with me," Joel said, dragging his suitcase down the last step and stopping next to Cheryl.

"Where's Bren?" Cheryl asked, and Joel glanced back up the stairway as though Brendan would be conjured out of thin air.

"Not sure. He said he'd be right down," Joel said, checking his watch and looking outside for any sign of the taxi he had ordered, "listen Cheryl, while we're alone, have you had a chance to talk to Ste yet?"

Cheryl took a deep breath, a guilty expression on her face. She absolutely knew that the unpleasant task had to be completed, and that she ought to be the one to do it. It had been a busy week; Cheryl tried to convince herself that there had not been the time for the heart to heart that needed to take place. In reality, she knew that she had been putting it off. Cheryl was a natural optimist, a woman who wanted the best for everyone, and she prided herself on engineering happy endings if at all possible. Her brother's happy ending however had been and gone; stolen from him through her own actions. The irony was not lost on Cheryl. She was frightened that bringing Ste into the loop would cause Brendan further pain, and that was something she wasn't ready to face.

Some of this must have shown on Cheryl's face, because Joel's expression clouded and he frowned.

"Cheryl..."

Cheryl threw her hands up in helpless exasperation.

"I know Joel, okay? I know I have to do it. I just - what if Ste never wants to see him again? It'd break Brendan's heart and i can't be responsible -"

Joel placed his hands on Cheryl's shoulders, grounding her and causing her to pause.

"You can't know that for sure. And, let's face it Cheryl, you're just delaying the inevitable. Ste will find out sooner rather than later. Wouldn't it be best to have some control over the situation?"

Cheryl's face was pale, her usual colourful palette had been abandoned for the day, and in its place were shadows of anxiety and fear. Tears escaped her eyes, and she wiped them away hastily.

"I just... don't want everything to change."

Joel smiled gently at her, pulling her into a hug.

"It already has Chez," he said, and she nodded into his shoulder miserably.

She thought back to her last meeting with Ste. His restaurant was in a newer development in the village, a square filled with gift shops, bars and cafes. There were bistro style tables neatly arranged outside, and on the summer's day Cheryl had arrived the place was busy and lively. Stepping into the Olive Press Cheryl was faced with an open kitchen, with a large wood fired pizza oven dominating the space. The place was filled with the aromas of garlic and pizza dough, and Cheryl smiled when she noticed Ste stood at the pass, poring over a ticket with one of the more junior chefs. The kitchen was calm, an air of efficiency and confidence about the way the staff worked, and as Ste handed the chef the ticket, patting him on the back as he did so, he glanced up and saw Cheryl in the middle of the floor, a warm expression on her face.

"Chez?" Ste asked, a matching grin spreading as he wiped his hands on a cloth and hastily made his way into the restaurant.

"That's my name, don't wear it out!" Cheryl exclaimed, holding her arms out in invitation. Ste's whole face lit up, and he practically bounded towards Cheryl, throwing himself into a hug, as patrons looked on curiously.

"I can't believe you're here," Ste said, a wondering tone evident in his heavily accented Mancunian speech, "why didn't you tell me?"

"Wanted to surprise you."

Ste scratched the back of his head and let out a snort of laughter.

"Well, mission accomplished! Here, let's get you a table outside, the weather's well nice today," he said, grabbing her arm and steering Cheryl back out the door. The table nearest the window had a reserved sign on it, and Ste ushered her towards one of the empty seats.

"Hang on, isn't someone going to turn up for this table?" Cheryl asked, glancing around at the rest of the seats, which were all occupied. Ste waved his hand and pulled out the chair, motioning for Cheryl to sit down.

"Nah, head chef perks this. Just give me a minute to sort the kitchen and we'll have lunch. I'll grab you a menu."

Ste winked at her and disappeared back inside before Cheryl could say anything else. She watched him go with a surge of affection. He was dressed in pristine chef's whites, except he had rolled the sleeves up to the elbows in a concession to the heat. When he returned, he was holding a menu and a bottle of rose Franciacorta.

"Wait til you try this Chez. It's mint. Never mind prosecco or any of that shite, this stuff is the real deal."

"Wow, can tell that man of yours has given you an education," Cheryl said playfully, holding the stem of her glass as Ste popped the cork and poured the wine expertly. A waitress arrived with an ice bucket, and Ste submerged the bottle, clinking his half glass of wine against Cheryl's full one.

"Yeah, I never realised there was so much to it, but it's dead important right, because if you serve the wrong wine it can make whatever food you serve with it taste proper rank."

Cheryl sipped from her glass, appreciating the bubbles and the company. Ste sat across from her, looking radiantly happy.

"How is it that the rest of us keep getting older while you stay looking like some sort of demi god who hasn't aged in the last ten years?"

"Eh? Shut up. Look at me crow's feet," Ste said, pulling on the skin underneath his right eye and pointing his face at Cheryl, pointing out his barely visible lines at the corner of his lashes.

"Oh yeah. My mistake. You're hideous. Ancient."

Ste contorted his face at Cheryl in response.

"Never mind giving me grief, have a look at that menu. It's changed a bit since you were last here. Got some specials inspired by Northern Italy. Ben took me to Modena with him a couple of months ago, went to a well posh restaurant. Been trying out some stuff I learnt, haven't I."

Cheryl looked from the menu to Ste fondly. He scrunched his face up in confusion under her scrutiny.

"What is it Chez?"

"Nothing love. Just dead proud of you. This place... it's amazing."

She reached across the table to hold his hand, and Ste's whole face lit up at the compliment, smiling with his sparkling goofy grin.

"Ta. Anyway, what you having?"

Ste was always so pleased to see her. It always seemed genuine too, he didn't seem to be interested in holding a grudge against Cheryl, which she was incredibly thankful for. She had only visited him a handful of times since the restaurant had opened, but under Ste's guidance it had gone from strength to strength, and on the last visit the pride had practically shone from him as he suggested food and wine pairings. Cheryl had gone to the Olive Press originally with the intention of telling Ste about Brendan's imminent release, but when it had come down to it, she hadn't plucked up the courage.

As Joel began to release her, Cheryl heard heavy footsteps on the stairwell.

"Is this a private party or can anyone join in?"

She stepped away from Joel as Brendan descended the stairs, a questioning look on his face as he looked between the two of them. He landed at the bottom of the steps with a little exaggerated jump, hands firmly lodged in his suit trouser pockets.

"Good job I'm not of the paranoid persuasion, or I would think that you two had been talking about me."

"Don't flatter yourself Brendan," Joel smirked, and Brendan clamped his teeth together audibly, giving Joel an insincere sarcastic smile.

Cheryl studied her brother, looking for indications of his mental state. He had been so unpredictable and mercurial over the past fortnight that she had resorted to being overly cautious with what she said to him. On this occasion though, the self assured version of Brendan had made an appearance; he was wearing a dark navy shirt with one too many buttons open, the cuffs folded neatly at the top of his forearms. He was clearly headed to the club, for which Cheryl was anxious and grateful for in equal measure.

"You going out Bren?" she asked. He didn't quite meet her eyes.

"Yeah. Headed to the Loft, once I've seen Little Foxy off. Is this your taxi Joel?"

A car pulled up at the entranceway, it's lights flickering in the downpour. Joel patted his pockets out of habit.

"Looks like it, yeah."

Brendan sniffed and stared at the floor, kicking his feet a little on the spot. Cheryl rolled her eyes inwardly; she knew Brendan was hopeless with emotional encounters of any sort.

"We'll miss you, Joel love. Make sure you let us know when you get there."

Joel nodded and kissed Cheryl on the cheek.

"Course I will. Be back soon enough anyway, can hardly miss the grand reopening of Chez Chez can I?"

Brendan threw Joel an almost glacial glare.

"The club won't be called that. Obviously."

"Hey!" Cheryl said, smacking Brendan's arm playfully, "what's wrong with the name Chez Chez?"

"What's right with it?" Brendan muttered, pulling open the door for Joel. Joel gathered his suitcase, and turned towards Brendan. A crack of thunder sounded ominously in the distance.

"Okay, so... Brendan."

Brendan nodded, patting Joel awkwardly on the arm.

"Joel."

Cheryl waited for her brother to say something more heartfelt, but it seemed nothing was forthcoming.

"Safe travels babe,"she called, as Joel dived for the taxi, head bowed against the rain.

"Would it have killed you to say thank you Bren?"

Brendan stood next to Cheryl as she waved the taxi off, carefully standing in the shelter of the doorway.

"He knows, Chez," Brendan cleared his throat, and headed back up the stairs. Cheryl sighed. It was finally time for her to stop putting off the meeting she had been dreading.