CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BRIAN

The night after Jennifer's funeral I sat alone in the Loft and got completely, falling-down shit-faced for the first time since … well, since Justin walked out on me. I woke up the next morning face down on the couch, with a mouth that tasted like an old jockstrap, a crick in my neck, and a bitch of a hangover.

It really didn't help.

My first call was to Cynthia to tell her I wasn't coming in. She didn't sound surprised. I told her to refer anything urgent to Ted, and found myself wondering how things had ever changed so much that I feel comfortable doing that.

And now I'm playing detective.

"Honeycutt Enterprises. How may I help you?" It's his bright professional voice, and I wince as it cuts straight through my frazzled brain.

"Relax, Emmett, it's only me."

"Me who?"

"Christ, Emmett, you must know my voice by now."

"Oh, me Brian! Sorry, I thought you were a client. This is my business number."

I sigh and press a cold, wet facecloth to my forehead. "And I'm only calling it because your cell is off, as usual."

"Oh. Right. Well, how can I help you, Brian?"

"Do you have Justin's new cell number?"

There's silence. Then, "No, I can't say as I do, Brian."

"Emmett, this is important. I went to Jen's funeral yesterday, and I saw him. We had … fuck, we had a fight. He ran away from me. I need to find out if he's alright, because I've got a really bad feeling about him." All morning I haven't been able to shake the memory of how I felt when I saw Justin bolting out into the traffic: I'm not superstitious, but fuck, it had freaked me. "Please, if you've got his number and you think you're doing the right thing by keeping it from me, well, you're not. Please. I need to speak to him."

More silence. Then he says in a different voice; "I heard about Jennifer. God, what a terrible, terrible thing … as if that poor Baby hasn't had enough heartbreak in his life already!"

"I think we're all agreed on that. And I'm not planning on adding to it, if that's what you're worried about."

"Brian, I'm so sorry, but I haven't spoken to Justin in a couple of months. Nobody has. I even wrote to him at the last address I had for him, at that friend of Daphne's, but I never got a reply. I wish I could help, because I'm sure the poor boy needs all the friends he can get right now."

I try not to feel too disappointed. I'd known it was a slim hope; but I'd thought if there were any member of the old gang Justin had kept in touch with, it'd be Em. Guess I was wrong.

Again.

"What about Daphne? You don't by any chance have her number?"

"Daph? No. As far as I remember, she's studying to be a doctor in England."

"Yeah, I know. It was just a shot in the dark. Look, do me a favour; if he does contact you, let me know at once, okay?"

"I swear on Barbara's life… and I'll check with Michael and Deb, just in case he's called. But I don't think it's very likely, Brian."

I sigh. "Neither do I, Emmie-Lou."

"Taylor Electronics. Tina speaking."

I put on my best smiley voice. "Good afternoon, Tina. I wonder if Mr. Taylor might be free for a quick word?"

"Could I ask what it's in connection with?"

"I'm sales director of a new advertising agency in Pittsburgh and I'd like to talk to him about whether he'd be interested in our representing his company. We could offer him some very attractive introductory rates." Well, it wasn't a total lie.

"Please hold the line a moment. I'll see if he's available."

I grit my teeth listening to a horrible tinkly muzac version of Moon River until it finally cuts off and I hear his voice.

"Craig Taylor. I believe you want to talk to me about opening an account with your company?"

"No. Not really."

"Pardon me? I thought you were calling on behalf of an advertising agency?"

"Only in so much as it got your attention. This is Kinney … Brian Kinney. I'm sure you recollect the name."

Even in these circumstances, I'd love to see the expression on the bastard's face. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you're tasteless enough to call," he says, not attempting to disguise the disgust in his voice "If you're going to offer your condolences, don't bother. I have no interest in hearing them."

"Wait," I say sharply before he can hang up. "This is important, and it involves your son."

There's silence for a second; then he says abruptly, "I'm listening."

"I don't know if you noticed or not, but I was at Jennifer's funeral yesterday. I spoke with Justin afterwards, and I'm very concerned about his mental state. I wanted to ask if you could give me a contact number for him so that I …"

He doesn't give me chance to finish. "I spoke to Justin myself and I can assure you he's perfectly well. And I assume that if he wanted to contact you, or have you contact him, then you wouldn't have resorted to lying to my receptionist to try to get information out of me. Give you his number? Kinney, I wouldn't give you the steam off my piss." He hangs up on me.

I look blankly at the receiver in my hand and resist the urge to hurl it against the nearest wall.

When I eventually fell asleep that evening, I guess it wasn't surprising that I dreamed of Justin. We were at Penn Station, loaded with baggage; I had no idea why, or where we were going; I just had this uneasy feeling that I couldn't let him out of my sight. There were so many people, pressing up against us as we made our way towards the carriage, and I was terrified of losing him in the crowd. I kept a firm hand on his sleeve as we were jostled.

When we got to our carriage I opened the door and shoved our bags inside. Somehow Justin slipped out of my grip.

"I just want to go to the stationers, Brian," he said, pointing at a kiosk at the far end of the platform. "You know I can't go without a sketchbook and pencils!"

It was true, I knew he couldn't. "But the train's about to leave!" I protested. "I'll come with you."

"No, you have to stay here and keep our seats, or someone else will take them," he said seriously. Then I knew why we were leaving, and why so many people were trying to get on the train. Something bad was happening in the city behind us. We were all running from it.

"Alright," I called to him, "but hurry, Justin! You don't have much time!"

He waved at me, casually, and I watched his blond head moving leisurely towards the stationery kiosk. I willed him to walk faster, the panic in me growing with every second.

And then the train beneath me lurched and I knew it was pulling out. "Justin!" I yelled from the door. "Come back!" I tried to leap down after him, but a porter swung the door closed on me. It was Craig Taylor. He used a huge old-fashioned key to lock me in. "Too late, Kinney," he grinned. "He'll have to stay here and take his chances with the rest of us."

I banged frantically on the window. Justin was standing on the edge of the platform, sketchbook clutched in his hand. He waved forlornly as the train pulled out.

I felt the horrible helplessness of a dream wash over me. I knew that if I couldn't get off the train I'd never see him again. Not in this world. So I did the only thing I could; I grabbed the emergency stop and pulled it as hard as I could. But instead of locking the train's brakes, all it did was emit a pathetic bleeping noise.

At which point I come suddenly awake, tangled in sheets and sweating, my heart pounding in my chest. The phone's ringing.

I stagger out of bed, groggy and disorientated. I snatch it up. "What?" I bark.

"Mr. Kinney?" a female voice asks. "Mr. Brian Kinney?"

"Yes. Yes," I answer, running a hand through my damp hair and wondering what the fuck the time is. "Who is this?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, Mr Kinney. This is Maria Lopez from Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. Do you know a Justin Taylor?"

"Justin?" I'm beginning to feel this is a continuation of the dream. "Yes, of course I know him."

"Well, I'm sorry to have to inform you that Mr Taylor was involved in an RTA tonight and he's been admitted to this hospital. His wallet contained your name as his emergency contact number, so I was asked to call you."

"What?" I can't get my head round what she's saying. "No, you're mistaken. It was his mother who was involved in a traffic accident in Pittsburgh last week. Not Justin."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that. But it's Mr Justin Taylor who's been admitted to Mount Sinai tonight."

The Loft seems to lurch sickeningly as the world falls out from under me, and I hang on to the back of the couch to stop myself falling. This cannot be happening.

"What's his condition?" My voice seems to be coming from a great distance.

"I don't have that information, sir. All I can tell you is that he was admitted with multiple injuries and he's in surgery at the moment."

With a huge effort I pull myself together and go onto automatic pilot, still talking as I run back to the bedroom, dragging on clothes while I try to think. I can't afford to fuck up now. "You know he's allergic to a lot of medicinal drugs, right? Do you need me to list them?"

"No, sir, Mr Taylor carried that information in his wallet."

"And he suffered severe head trauma five years ago. He was treated at Allegheny General Hospital here in Pittsburgh. His neurologist was Dr. Fetterman."

"Thank you for that. I'll fax them for his medical records."

"And he's covered on my insurance. So whatever you need to do, do it. If I leave now I can be in New York in three hours. I'll need directions … can you hang on while I find a pen?"

I race back to my desk, grab up a pen and a post-it pad and start writing. Fucking thing's empty. I hurl it away, snatch up another and scribble down her directions without even being aware of what she's saying. I tear off the paper, stuff it in my jeans' pocket, toss the phone on the couch. I pull on my boots without bothering about socks, grab the first jacket I find, make sure I have my wallet, keys and cell, and then I'm gone.

TBC