14.
"Everybody fears something Brendan. It's a natural part of the human psyche."
Brendan feels odd. He is bored of raking over the rubble of his fractured mental state. He stares over Mark's head, out of the window. It is a fine and clear spring day. Through the sheer curtain masking his view he can see hints of blue sky and picture book perfect fluffy clouds. Brendan wonders if the glass in the frame is shatter proof or whether, with enough force exerted, he could blast away the barrier to the outside world and make his escape. Granted, it would be a very temporary escape, as Mark's room is on the seventh floor, but Brendan muses on the idea nevertheless; that small taste of freedom surely worth the ultimate sacrifice. Today he has been given a miniature snow globe. Perhaps Mark is running out of ideas on the toy front. He runs his fingers over the smooth, cool surface, finding the weight and regularity of the sphere soothing. Pieces of the swirling glitter catch the light, and he is transfixed by it. Brendan thinks about throwing it at the window. It is a solid, heavy object and it might just work. But then, what would happen to the globe? Would it smash too, rupturing its contents, glitter sent erratically into the wind? The thought leaves Brendan feeling peculiarly bereft.
Mark wants him to talk about his fears, and the idea strikes him as frankly laughable. When he was younger, Brendan had liked to paint himself as fearless, someone who would face anything head on, to hell with the consequences. That Brendan had to coat himself with that image, slather himself with recklessness as though it was war paint, did not surprise anyone who truly knew him. His casual, almost throwaway attitude to his own safety and wellbeing was in sharp contrast to his anxieties about those he loved.
Mark's question seems insulting. Surely Brendan's hopes and fears don't need spelling out to this man, of all people. He looks up, realises Mark is assessing him, anticipating an answer. Brendan shakes the globe aggressively and places it down on the coffee table. He sits forward, his knees apart, his hands clasped together between them, gazing into the swirling blizzard inside the globe, and then into Mark's eyes, which also inexplicably seem to be dancing with glitter.
"I have an unhealthy fear of spiders..."
No. That won't work. He tries a different tack.
"Call it a cliche doc, but... I see dead people..." Brendan says in a stage whisper. Mark closes his eyes for a long moment.
"No good Brendan, try again."
It's difficult for Brendan not to smirk. After all, hs statement is nearer the truth than most of his disclosures in this room have been. The truth often ended up conjuring drama and upheaval, like his revelation about Matthew Wright and Seamus Brady. That little brush with reality had led to no end of new police interviews, meetings with solicitors and finally an application to assemble a parole board. The spectre of release, of not rotting in prison, is suddenly hovering over Brendan's head , and he isn't sure how he feels about it. A mixture of gratitude to Mark and irritation. A potent brew of feeling like he owes the man something, and that niggling itch of desire. A dangerous and volatile combination.
And yet here he is, not that long later, offering up another piece of honesty on a platter, as though in an attempt to balance the debt between them. Brendan did see dead people. He was often visited in his cell by Walker, the stench of iron and decay an indication of an otherworldly guest. However to say Brendan finds these encounters frightening is stretching the truth away. Brendan accepted the presence of Walker as part of his punishment for his misdeeds - Walker reminded him of his lack of worth. As if he needed a reminder.
But this truth is unacceptable to Mark. He is staring at Brendan intently, and Brendan considers removing the glasses that shield Mark's eyes, leaning in across the table to do so. An intimate, familiar gesture. He wonders if one of Mark's fears is him, and smiles inwardly at the idea.
He is drifting. He had begun taking the pills Mark started him on after the glass smashing incident a couple of days before, and they are making it difficult for him to think on his feet. His memories take on the consistency of treacle, as though he has to make it through the syrupy viscous layer of the medication in order to find himself. Assembling his thoughts into one specific direction is proving difficult, things feel curiously out of reach. Brendan rubs his forehead with the palms of his hands in an attempt to make his brain function in its usual way.
"Are you okay Brendan?"
Mark's voice and tentative hand on his knee make Brendan look up, forcing his eyes to focus.
"Uh-huh. A little groggy is all. Nothing to worry about."
"I do worry Brendan. A lot."
Is that an answer to Brendan's question? Is Mark afraid of him? He finds this notion irresistibly hilarious, and in the next moment he is snorting out barely suppressed laughter, placing one of his hands over Mark's on his knee. Mark watches the movement, but doesn't take his hand away.
"Least I know what your fear is now, eh doc."
Mark frowns and shakes his head.
"You don't scare me Brendan, you misunderstand me. I meant... I worry about you. Worry for you."
Brendan feels as though the air has solidified, there is a still, awkward heat that refuses to dissipate keeping him pinned to the spot. Mark is close, almost as close as when Brendan had grabbed him and growled and spat in his face. There had been something erotic about that, he remembers. Something that had coloured the anger, leaving Brendan breathless and half hard. This didn't feel like that. He searches for the reason why, and a name hovers, just out of reach. Big blue eyes flash in his peripheral vision, beautiful eyes filled with longing. Steven. Of course. Always Steven. His mouth readies itself to form a word almost entirely of its own volition.
"Inappropriate," Brendan thinks, and then says, seemingly without any space in between. Mark blinks and sits back, pulling his hand out of Brendan's unresisting grip. Brendan needs to lie down; he feels woozy, peculiar. Mark coughs his polite, apologetic cough, and Brendan wants to punch him, wants to hear the crack of his nose and feel the flesh split and bloom blood onto his knuckles.
"Brendan, there is now a real possibility that you may be released a lot earlier than you had prepared for. I want you to think carefully about your fears for the new future you are faced with. Shall we leave the session there for today?"
Brendan nods, not trusting himself to speak, wondering if he might be sick.
Later, Brendan lies on his bed, the room whirring unpleasantly around him. He has emptied the contents of his stomach, but still feels queasy and unlike himself. The block doctor had been called, but had left shortly afterwards, proclaiming nothing could be done. Side effects, he said. Give it a few days and they should subside, he said. Brendan asked if he would make it that long, and the doctor laughed graciously at his melodrama.
When he falls asleep, Brendan dreams he is trapped in the snow globe, glittering ice falling perpetually around him. He shouts for help, presses his palms against the glass, but no sound comes out, everything is mute, muffled. He sees a steady stream of his loved ones through the glass, but no matter how hard he tries to get their attention it is clear that they cannot see or hear him. Brendan pushes his face against the curved dome, his cheek absorbing the chill of the glass. He watched as Steven, Cheryl, his boys line up on a wooden platform. With a sense of dread forming in his stomach he recognises that the platform is in fact a scaffold, nooses hanging from the structure ominously. He screams until his throat is raw, despite emitting no sound at all apart from a rasping agonised whisper as the ropes are looped around their necks. He throws himself against the glass until his shoulder aches, but the barrier resolutely remains. A hooded figure pulls a lever and Brendan wakes, shouting for it to stop. He is covered in sweat and his throat feels torn to ribbons. Dropping from his bed to his knees, he heaves bile on to the floor until his stomach muscles cramp, sobs wracking through him painfully, helplessness and the terror of it gripping at him from every side.
The next time Brendan wakes, he is curled into a foetal position on the concrete floor, shivering and uncomfortable. The previous day's events swim through his head in an incoherent muddle. What stays with him from his nightmare is the fear and vulnerability that rendered him powerless. It was the answer to Mark's question, but not an answer he intended to confront.
Three weeks go by. The courts assemble a parole board. It is agreed that Brendan's sentence is coming to an end.
The buzzer to Ste's flat sounded unnaturally loud to Cheryl's ears as she pressed a manicured finger to it the evening after Joel had left. It was late; Ste had been working and had invited Cheryl to come round once his shift had finished. When he answered the door he was wearing loose charcoal tracksuit bottoms and a plain white t shirt, hair damp and sticking up in all directions, clearly fresh from the shower. Ste grinned at Cheryl and ushered her in, apologising for the lateness of the hour.
"Had one table that just would not leave, We'd finished clean down ages ago, but it's rude to throw people out when they're paying customers, isn't it?"
"Sorry love. If you're tired I completely understand..."
Cheryl gestured back towards the door, but Ste shook his head, leading her through to the lounge instead.
"Don't be daft Cheryl. Hardly get to see you as it is, do I? Now, sit yourself down while I open the wine."
Cheryl sank gratefully into the huge blue corner sofa that took up most of the room. Ste's flat was situated in Oakdale Drive, in one of the buildings that had previously been occupied by students. It had recently been revamped into apartments for the professional: everything was sleek and modern but economical on the space front. Ste had clearly decorated the living area, as it was more homely than the rest of the flat, with cosy throws tossed over each arm of the sofa, and photographs lining the wall above the fireplace. Cheryl noticed images of Leah and Lucas appeared with the most frequency, interspersed with family shots with the children, him and Amy when they were younger. A recent addition was a photo that looked to have been taken abroad, which showed Ste as he was now, with his arms flung around a handsome older man's neck, both smiling and tanned. Cheryl took the goblet of red wine she was offered and gestured to the wall.
"Is that him? The lovely Ben I've heard so much about?"
Ste's eyes followed Cheryl's gaze and he grinned, taking a sip from his own glass.
"Yeah that's him. We were in Greece mixing business with pleasure. Well fit, isn't he?"
"God, I'll say. Is he not here?"
Ste curled his feet up under him on the couch and cradled his glass in both hands. He looked much younger than his years to Cheryl.
"No. You seem to keep missing him Chez. He's in Spain until the end of the week. At some vineyards in the south west for one of the suppliers. How long are you sticking around for? I'd love you to meet him."
Cheryl smiled sadly, swirling the ruby liquid in her glass around thoughtfully. Her nerves were on fire, and she felt unutterably sad for her brother. The Ste in front of her was happy, healthy and undamaged. A little dark under the eyes from long hours at the restaurant perhaps, but otherwise glowing, content in his own skin. It was hard to imagine such a stark contrast to Brendan and his darkness.
"I'd love to meet him babe. Just name a date and I'll be there."
Ste's eyes narrowed at Cheryl's muted tone.
"Chez, is everything okay?"
"How do you mean?" she asked a little too quickly, taking a slurp of wine to avoid eye contact.
"Well don't get me wrong, it's great to see you, but how come you're back here so soon? Hollyoaks is hardly the centre of the universe, is it?"
Cheryl fidgeted, pulling one of the furry throws over her knees as a sort of protective shield.
"Last time I was here was for Warren's funeral..."
Ste nodded slowly, indicating that he expected more of an explanation, as she had told him about Joel and Warren at their last meeting (an edited version though it had been). Cheryl took a deep breath.
"...And I was also here to visit Brendan."
There was a weighted silence. Brendan's name had not been uttered between them for years. Ste's eyes widened and he subconsciously clutched one hand to his throat as though the name had gotten stuck there. He coughed, clearing his throat and leant to put his glass down on the coffee table. Cheryl noticed his hand had become unsteady.
"Is he - I mean - is he..."
Cheryl reached across to place a hand on Ste's knee comfortingly.
"He's fine love. He's okay."
Ste let out a long shuddering breath that sounded suspiciously like relief to Cheryl. She wondered what Ste had thought she was going to say.
"Believe me babe, I've gone over how to tell you this in my head so many times, but I wasn't sure of the right words..."
"Cheryl, you're scaring me now. Just tell me what's going on."
Cheryl looked into Ste's face, which had been so lively and content earlier, had now drained of all its colour. She echoed Ste's movements and placed her wine glass down before she grabbed both of his hands in hers.
"Okay... a few months ago Brendan was referred to a therapist, and it seems he told him about dad. To cut a long story short, they put Brendan in front of a parole board, and, well..."
Cheryl tailed off, and Ste closed his eyes, gripping Cheryl's hands so hard she could feel his nails leaving crescent moons in her palms.
"Just say it, Cheryl. Please," he whispered quietly.
"They granted him parole. Brendan was released three weeks ago."
Abruptly, Ste released Cheryl's fingers and bolted up from the couch, coming to his feet unsteadily and grabbing onto the mantelpiece for stability.
"I think I'm going to be sick," Ste muttered, leaving the room swiftly. Cheryl stifled a sob as the sound of Ste retching reached her through the doorway. She knew it would come as a shock to him; it had been a shock to Cheryl too when Brendan's solicitor had confirmed the news. But of course, Cheryl had never stopped being a part of Brendan's life, whereas Ste had been unceremoniously cut from the picture, despite his best efforts to the contrary. She couldn't help but wonder what those years of crushed hope must have cost Ste. How much effort must it have taken for him to move on and allow himself happiness.
When Ste returned he looked more like a lost little boy than a self assured and successful man. He sat back down, an exhausted slump to his shoulders, and took a heavy gulp of wine.
"Babe, I'm so sorry. The last thing I wanted to do was upset you."
"No Chez. Don't apologise. I don't even know why I reacted like that. God I must seem pathetic."
"No love, not at all. It's a shock, it's understandable."
"I knew there was something up last time you was here. Told myself I was being stupid, but... I felt it."
Ste pushed his palm into his eye, trying to stem the flow of tears that had begun. Cheryl didn't know what to say.
"I had to tell you hun. It wouldn't have been fair for you to find out any other way. I was so worried that you would see him and you wouldn't be prepared."
Ste looked at Cheryl intently then, watery eyes suddenly alive with something she couldn't identify.
"He's here?" Ste asked, a mixture of hope and dread evident in his question. Cheryl nodded carefully.
"Yeah, he's here."
Ste began to cry properly then, and Cheryl enfolded him into a gentle hug, letting him sob into her shoulder. Some time later, the sobs subsided into sniffs. Cheryl drew soothing circles on his back, patiently waiting for Ste to regain control.
"Brendan..." Ste said the name as though to himself. Although his voice was congested, Cheryl could swear she heard affection, even longing. Perhaps there was hope after all.
"How is he Chez?" Ste asked, shuffling up out of her arms to look at her. Cheryl smiled and thought about her brother and his first few weeks in the outside world.
"You know what he's like, wants to be independent, do everything on his own. But he's quiet. Sad."
Ste nodded and wiped his face a little now that he's regained composure.
"I can imagine. He always did hate having to depend on anyone didn't he."
Cheryl searched Ste's face, wondering if she should push her luck.
"I know he'd like to see you..."
Ste let out a little huff of breath and looked at Cheryl disbelievingly.
"Cheryl. He cut me off completely. I haven't spoken to him, never mind seen him, in ten years."
"He thought he was doing what was best for you. How was he to know they'd release him sooner? And look at you now. Own home, amazing job, wonderful fella... you can't tell me that waiting for our Bren would have been best for you love, regardless of him being released or not."
"And now? What happens now Chez?"
"Well, that sort of depends on you."
"How do you mean?"
"You'll find out soon enough. Bren is the new owner at the Loft. He's staying in the village. So, even if you wanted to, I'm not sure you'd be able to avoid him forever."
Ste frowned.
"Why would I want to avoid him?"
Cheryl shrugged.
"Not sure I'd blame you."
"No... I want... I can't believe this is happening. I spent so long hoping I'd see him again Chez."
"I know love."
Cheryl regarded Ste warily. He looked as though he had retreated into another place altogether. The look he directed at Cheryl was haunted.
"Brendan was everything to me."
"I know -"
"Do you though? Because I couldn't breathe without him, couldn't bear the thought of being with anyone else. It took such a long time to get over him..."
"But you are over him?"
"I'm with Ben."
"That's not what I asked."
A shadow crossed Ste's face. Cheryl knew the reaction she had seen from Ste was hardly the response of somebody who no longer cared. Guilt trickled through her veins, as she thought yet again about the future she had stolen from her brother and Ste.
"Oh God. This is all my fault," Cheryl said, her voice cracking. Ste shook his head firmly.
"No Chez. It's not."
"But if I'd just told the truth all those years ago, you'd still be together, and..."
Cheryl broke off, her turn to sob. She realised that she had been repressing so many conflicting emotions over the past few weeks; it had left her weary and confused. Brendan never threw the years he had spent in prison back at her. After all, both Brendan and Cheryl knew that as far as he was concerned, Seamus would have been the least of his supposed crimes, even if it was ironically the only one he had ever been convicted of. But she didn't know if Ste would be as forgiving. Their friendship had survived over the years through their unspoken agreement to never mention Brendan, and now that it had all been uncovered again, Cheryl was unsure if Ste would be able to get past it.
Unexpectedly, a hand held on to hers gently. Ste smiled at her.
"What happened happened, right? I've never blamed you Chez. It was always going to catch up with Brendan eventually, people can't live the way he did and get off scot free. I should have realised that then but I didn't want to believe it. What happened at the club - it weren't your fault. You shouldn't think that. Brendan doesn't blame you does he?"
Cheryl laughed at that, sniffing and trying valiantly to stem her flow of tears.
"No, course not."
"Well then. Come here," he said, closing Cheryl into a hug once more.
"Thanks love. I'm sorry, it's just brought everything back, being here, and having Brendan back... it's harder than I thought it'd be."
"I get it Chez. If anyone gets how hard it is, it's me, okay? So don't ever be sorry. Eh, does he know you're here?"
Cheryl broke away from Ste, a guilty expression on her tearstained face. Ste rolled his eyes with a trace of amusement as he picked up his wine glass.
"Ha. Course he doesn't."
"Not for the reason you're thinking love. He does want to see you. We saw you in the village the other day and I practically had to rugby tackle him to the ground to stop him waltzing over like nothing had ever happened."
"You saw me - when?"
"I think you were with Leah? The day of that really bad storm."
Ste's eyes lit up with recognition, and he shook his head disbelievingly.
"As if I was just going about my life, no idea..."
"Frankly, I'm glad you didn't see us. Bren looked bloody awful," Cheryl said in an attempt to lighten the mood.
"Eh? How come?"
"Oh don't worry, it's fine now, he's had a wardrobe revamp and a haircut."
"Okay. Just tell me this though. If he's at the club, and he knows where I am, and he wants to see me, then why the hell hasn't he come and talked to me himself?"
"So you do want to see him."
"Never said I didn't," Ste said irritably.
"It's my fault. I asked him not to meddle, told him you were happy. I didn't want him to, well, you know..."
"Come straight back into my life and fuck it all up?" Ste helpfully supplied.
"Yeah, pretty much."
Ste looked up again at the photos on the wall. Cheryl didn't want to disturb him, as he seemed to be making his mind up about something.
"I do. Want to see him I mean. I never thought I'd get the chance again. I want to see him Chez."
Cheryl's heart swelled with relief, and she smiled at Ste's resolute expression, patting him affectionately on the knee. No matter what happened in the future, in that moment she loved Ste for loving her brother.
"Of course love. Of course."