He's bundled inside the room, the door closed behind him. Closed and locked.
He's shoved against the wall. Nothing new. There's nothing new in the way that Brendan's looking at him either, his face inches away from Ste's, an anger there that needs no words behind it. There's nothing new in the way he's holding Ste's T-shirt, the collar of it bunched in Brendan's fist.
What's new is that Ste isn't scared, because he knows something now. Something he didn't know before.
What's new is that he's in Brendan's bedroom.
He eyes move around the room; to the chest of drawers, the wardrobe, the bed.
"I told you not to ever come here again."
"Relax, I didn't say anything to your sister."
"Never again, Steven."
He should feel scared. Brendan's stronger than him, and his fury at being defied makes him stronger. But Ste knows that even he wouldn't be reckless enough to hurt him with his sister in the flat. What's he going to do, dispose of his dead body out of the bedroom window?
But it's not just that. It's not just the practicalities of the situation that makes Ste convinced that Brendan won't hurt him. If Brendan wanted to attack him then he could have done it already, plenty of times. He could have killed him. He could have told everyone about his dyslexia. He could have hurt the kids and Amy.
He didn't have to protect his secret. He didn't have to go out for a drink with him. He didn't have to give him rides home. He didn't have to say This is what we do. He didn't have to make them into a we.
He doesn't realise he's smiling until Brendan says "What?" He's looking at his lips.
"Nothing."
"Something funny, Steven?"
It makes him increase his hold on him, but for Ste's it's all for show now, a sequence of events, a going through the motions. Brendan's doing what he thinks he should be doing.
"I do have a joke to tell actually, yeah."
"Please. Go on."
He gathers all the courage he has. He isn't going to bottle this.
"There's this guy, right. This guy who meets a woman."
"So far so predictable, but keep going," Brendan says.
"Turns out that they both know the same person."
"Fascinating, Steven. Really."
He's made him nervous though, Ste can see it. Brendan doesn't know where this is going, and it's putting him on edge. He can't predict this, not like he does with everything else.
"So the guy tries to think how the girl knows the other person. Oh, by the way - this other person? Not really a person. He's a rotter, see."
Ste doesn't miss the flicker of recognition in Brendan's eyes. He's listening carefully now, his hands still on Ste's T-shirt but all the force and strength gone from his touch.
"Where was I? Oh yeah. So the guy does some digging, tries to find out the connection, but he can't. It's like it's some big secret, like they both don't want him to know."
"Maybe because it's none of his business."
"Or maybe because it's something dangerous. Something illegal."
"Quite some imagination he's got there."
"He just knows when he's being lied to," Ste says, and the triumph of having something over Brendan fades away, and he remembers. He remembers that if all of this is true, then he's been wrong all this time. Brendan could have been laughing behind his back all along, knowing that all the car rides and all the days spent together haven't meant anything, because Ste couldn't even see what was right in front of him.
Why did you lie to me? Why couldn't you tell me?
Ste knows why, but it doesn't make it hurt any less.
"Is this story going anywhere, or...?"
"Forget the story. Forget the joke."
"Good, because I gotta tell you - it's not one of your best, Steven. They're meant to have a punchline, you know?"
He shoves Brendan, watches as he topples back. Ste knows it's not the force of it that sends him stumbling, it's the shock. Brendan looks at him, doesn't seem to know how to respond. Doesn't know whether to hit back.
Ste doesn't give him a chance.
"How could you do that to me?" He's shouting now, and he knows Cheryl could hear but she seems distant from this, distant from them. Her world has nothing to do with their world. "I defended you. I could have sold you out in that library, told them all that you started the argument. I could have..."
He could have told Danny and Warren everything. All the little details that he's kept from them that would build a bigger picture, that would be all the evidence they need when they say that Brendan's death was necessary, that it was to keep the village safer.
He could have done everything differently.
"What are you talking about?" Brendan says, but he knows what Ste's talking about. He knows but he's going to deny it.
"You're a drug dealer, aren't you?"
Brendan's good at this, good at lying. He puts on the act of being speechless, and even through Ste's anger he feels fascinated by watching such a master at work: the false shock, the disbelief, the refusal.
"A drug dealer? What do you think this is? What do you think I am?"
"I think you're a liar. I think you're a liar who's been giving out drugs to rotters, and you know what it's making them do, don't you? You must know."
Brendan fakes innocence.
"They're becoming rabid, Brendan. Rabid. I've seen it, I've..." He has to be careful, has to filter his words, has to be mindful of what he can and cannot say. He has to make sure he doesn't mention anything about Danny Houston. "That's because of you. You and Veronica. She's involved, isn't she? She must be. What's she doing, getting your supply for you, or is she giving it out as well?"
He laughs, laughs at himself. He'd been consumed by the worry that Brendan and Veronica were together, that she was cheating on him. That version seems a hell of a lot more simple than this one.
"How long has this been going on for?"
"There's nothing going on. It's all in your head."
Ste ignores him. They're beyond that now. He's not going to believe that he's got this wrong.
"I bet it started the moment you got here, didn't it? That's probably how you can afford all those bloody suits of yours. Drug dealing pays well, doesn't it? I bet that's what you tell yourself when you send the money back home to your kids, that you're doing it for them."
He gets a hand around his throat for that, but Ste's ready for it; he hadn't expected a slight against Brendan's kids to pass unnoticed. He'd done it on purpose. He'd wanted Brendan to hurt.
He sees Brendan sniff the air. Smell him.
"Here's what's going to happen," Ste says. His throat's constricted but he can still get the words out, and he knows Brendan can hear him, is standing close enough.
He's had time to think about this. He's planned it out.
Here's what's going to happen. Brendan's going to come with me to the treatment centre. Warren and Danny will be there - I'll call them in the bathroom and tell them everything - and they'll be waiting for us. They'll get a recorded confession from Brendan, and then they'll let me kill him. It'll be enough, this evidence. Enough to convince them that now is the time, and that the council will understand. Warren will invent a story, say that it got too dangerous to let Brendan live. Say that he attacked us, that either he died or the rest of us would. And I'll be able to move away, start somewhere new. I'll get a new job, and we'll have a new life. Me, Amy, Leah and Lucas. Free.
He puts a hand over Brendan's, removes it from his throat, and Brendan lets him. Ste doesn't let go of his hand.
"We're going downstairs and we're going to eat."
Brendan frowns. "What?"
"I'm hungry."
"Steven -"
"And then we're going to see the McQueens. We're going to see Carmel."
"Carmel?"
"Yes. And you're going to tell her that you've had a change of heart, if you have one. That you've decided that Barcelona doesn't sound so good after all, and that you'd rather stay here. No offense Brendan, but I don't think you'd suit a tan. That stuff," he points to the cover up mousse, "is orange enough as it is."
No acting is required. This time Brendan really does look speechless.
"I don't care if you need to go there. I don't care if you've got a million bags of drugs to push. I don't care if you booked it just so you could see Carmel in a bikini. You're not going."
"I'm going to Barcelona, Steven."
"No you're not. And if you even try to step foot on that plane then I'm going to tell the Human Volenteer Force everything I know. I'll tell them about Veronica."
"You gonna tell them that you slept with her too?"
That almost stops him in his tracks. Almost.
"This isn't a deal, Brendan. We're not going to shake on it." As he says it he realises that he's still holding Brendan's hand; he drops it. "You're doing it. End of."
Ste nods, satisfied.
"Now let's eat."
::::::
This may be the best idea he's had in his life, or the worst.
He feels powerful and powerless. He's never been in control like this before, and that's the problem. He doesn't know what happens next. Failure is familiar. Being pushed around is strangely comforting in its predictability. But this - being the one to tell Brendan what to do - is new territory.
He hasn't been killed yet. He's waiting for it, waiting for Brendan to snap. They come into the kitchen slowly, Brendan trailing behind, but Ste knows it's only a matter of time before he regains his composure and starts thinking about how he can fix this. Ste's aware of him watching as he takes a bottle of beer out of the fridge at Cheryl's insistence. Brendan's arranging the cutlery on the table; Ste doesn't know if he's doing it on purpose but it isn't exactly putting his mind at ease to see Brendan looking at him with a knife in his hand.
He spends the first ten minutes of the dinner wondering how likely it is that he'll make it through the evening without being stabbed.
The seating arrangements aren't helping either; Brendan's directly opposite him at the table and he can't seem to tear his eyes away.
"Ste helped me to make it, Bren." Cheryl doesn't appear to notice that anything's amiss, and Ste wonders if she's been this utterly clueless her whole life, and how ideal it must be for Brendan if she has. He won't ever have had to answer to her, because she'll never have known anything.
"Did he now."
"Proper little professional, this one."
There are far more serious things to be thinking about, but still Ste can feel himself colouring. It does look professional, and he knows that he had a minimal part in it, but the fact that he contributed at all and didn't fuck it up means something.
"Does it taste alright? Mine's too hot still." He blows on it and catches Brendan staring at the movement of his lips. He puts his fork down.
"It's amazing. Best Irish stew I've ever had. Ste should come and cook for us more often, shouldn't he Brendan?"
Brendan doesn't commit to it either way; just grunts in what must be common for him in these parts as much as it is at work, because Cheryl doesn't press him to say more.
Ste hadn't been lying when he'd said he was hungry, but that's not why he's putting himself through this excruciating dinner. He needs Brendan to know that he meant everything he said. Ste wouldn't put it past him to head to the nearest airport if he lets him out of his sight even for a minute, Carmel and passports in tow. He knows that he hasn't figured everything out yet; just because Brendan will cancel the holiday this time, it doesn't mean that he won't go to Carmel and say he's changed his mind when Ste's not around. But this is a start. This is the first step.
Besides, it's kind of fun to watch Brendan squirm in the presence of his sister.
He's poised, ready to react at the necessary moment if Ste brings up the very subject which he's trying to keep hidden. Ste's not stupid; he isn't going to say anything to Cheryl, not if Brendan follows through with his plan and tells Carmel that the holiday's cancelled. He knows that Cheryl's approval means everything to Brendan, that the thought of losing it is almost worse than Warren and the HVF knowing everything.
The meal cools down enough for him to start eating it properly. Cheryl was right; it's amazing. He washes it down with some beer, notices that Brendan's poured himself a whiskey. Ste's always hated the taste of the stuff, but he hasn't minded the smell of it on Brendan's breath when he's leaned in close.
He doesn't miss the way that Brendan's glaring at him across the table.
There's a lull in the conversation, and Cheryl tries to fill in the gaps.
"Brendan phoned the kids today."
Brendan puts down his knife and fork with a clatter that causes both of them to look.
"Chez." He shakes his head, stiffens.
"What?"
"Steven doesn't want to hear about the boys."
Actually Ste really does, more than he should want to. All he knows are the plainest of details - their names, where they live - and he can't deny that he's desperate to know more, to form a picture in his mind of these two boys that Brendan's left back home. He wants to know if they're like Brendan - difficult, argumentative, hostile - or if they're something else entirely.
"Of course he does," Cheryl says. "Why wouldn't he?"
Brendan hasn't got an answer for her, not one that won't arouse suspicion.
"Has he shown you a picture?"
Brendan seems to shrink into himself.
"No," Ste says.
Just that alone sets her off, and she's drawing back her chair and leaving her half-eaten stew on the table. She's not gone for long enough for Brendan to threaten him, but Ste knows he'd like to. Brendan hadn't even wanted him to know his kids exist, let alone see what they look like.
Cheryl's back with her phone, and Brendan's looking like it would be less torturous for his sister to start handing round his baby photos.
"There you go. Eileen sent it yesterday."
Ste takes the phone from her, stares at the screen. There are two boys in the picture - one looks in his early teens, one not yet in them - and they've got their arms round each other. The older lad has dirty blond hair, the kind that could turn lighter in the sun, and the younger is darker, his colouring closer to Brendan's. Ste's not sure he'd know they were related just by appearances, and as he looks from the photo to Brendan he sees something that makes him hand the phone back to Cheryl. He looks sad.
"They're sweet," he says, but even as the words are coming out of his mouth it feels like they're not his to say. That photo was private, private to Brendan, and now Ste's taken that away from him. "That's good, isn't it? Eileen sending it to you. That must mean that she... you know. She's trying."
He isn't sure why he's saying this, isn't sure why it feels an awful lot like reassurance.
"It's a start, isn't it Brendan?" Cheryl says.
She gets the usual grunt, and a clearing of his throat. Ste risks a glance at him; he's looking down at the meal in front of him, and he looks ready to overturn the whole table, pressure building up inside of him. Ste can feel it from where he's sitting, and he doesn't understand how Cheryl can't.
"The next step is getting them to visit."
"Do you think they might?" Ste asks, and he's curious now, curious enough to ignore Brendan's obvious discomfort. It's the idea of it, the two of them - Padraig and Declan - being here, and meeting them. He wants to know. He wants to know everything: what they're like, if they're like him. He wants to see the three of them together.
"Cheryl." Brendan's got a hand on his forehead, his eyes closed, and he's stroking his temple like he can stroke the tension away with it. It takes Ste a minute or two to look at the ring of black around Brendan's fingernails. He always used to notice that first.
She gets it now. They must have had this conversation before, because she seems to know the procedure; she apologises and it slips easily off her tongue, an apology worn too well. She reaches forward, makes a beeline for the bottle of whiskey that she'd laid at the centre of the table earlier. Brendan holds his glass up, drinks from it eagerly, quickly. Ste watches the movement of his Adam's apple.
"Ste?" She offers him the bottle.
"No, ta. I'll stick with my beer." He needs to keep a clear head. Being in a rotter's house is foolish enough, but being drunk in a rotter's house is a death wish. And he has a track record of not being able to pace himself where Brendan's concerned.
He sucks on the bottle, tracks Brendan's eyes on him as he does it. It feels like his swallows turn to gulps.
"I'll be back in a second."
He motions to the beer he's spilt over his wrist.
He runs the tap in the sink, and he senses before he sees that Brendan's behind him. He doesn't jump. He doesn't react.
"I didn't mean to talk about your kids." he whispers, because he knows why Brendan's here, and he knows it's a warning. "She just brought them up, didn't she."
"And you just had to talk about them."
"I was being polite." He doesn't tell Brendan that he wanted to know. He's not sure what he'd do with that kind of information. "She's going to start thinking all sorts if you don't sit back down."
Even as he says it he doesn't believe it: Brendan could have him pinned down on the table and Cheryl would still think the sun shined out of him.
"I'm helping you clean your hands, Steven."
"Oh yeah, because that takes two doesn't it?"
Brendan certainty isn't trying to help. All he's doing is standing close behind him, so close that Ste can feel the heat coming off him. He leans back involuntarily.
"I'm sorry," he says. He is. He shouldn't be, but he is. He lets the water run; he's taking longer than he needs, but he's not ready to go back to the table yet. He's even quieter when he speaks again; he's giving Brendan the option to pretend he hasn't heard him. To ignore him. "How are things? You know, with... your kids."
If Brendan's shocked by his question then Ste can't see it. He's glad he can't.
There's a gap of silence, so long that Ste thinks he isn't going to say anything.
"Terrible."
Ste turns round to face him. It feels wrong to have his back turned now, after what Brendan's just said.
"But Cheryl just said -"
"That's Cheryl," Brendan dismisses, and Ste gets it. She sugarcoats it. "They don't want to know."
"But Eileen? And the picture?"
"Cheryl had to beg her to send it."
Ste can't believe they're doing this. He can't believe Brendan's actually talking to him. No lies. No smokescreens. He wants to keep going, but he's afraid; afraid that if he pushes him too far or asks the wrong question then he'll ruin it all.
"They'll come round. They will," he insists, when all Brendan can do is shake his head.
"You don't know what's happened, Steven."
Then tell me. Tell me everything.
"They're better off away from me, right?" Then it's Brendan's turn to whisper. "A drug dealer."
It should give Ste some satisfaction, hearing Brendan admitting it.
"You wouldn't want your kids to be around me, would you?"
Brendan heads back to the table before Ste can answer. Before he can think what his answer would be.
::::::
It's not that he intends to be nosy. He just wants to look around, is all.
He guesses that Cheryl cleans the bathroom the most; it looks far too immaculate to be Brendan's work.
It's small and he knows it's unlikely that he'll find much of anything here, but still he looks. He opens the small cabinet above the sink, expects to find the usual - some paracetamol, plasters, deodorant, some aftershave, and the little every day items that Amy keeps in theirs - that nail polish liquid with its clinical smell, and makeup remover. Ste picks a bottle up - cleansing milk, the label reads - and he wonders if this is what Brendan uses to take off his cover up mousse, or if only soap and water will do. How much of this stuff would he need, and how hard would he need to scrub? Would it leave his skin red and raw afterwards?
He puts it back.
He picks up the aftershave, reads the brand and says it out loud, tries to work out if he's pronouncing it right. He looks over his shoulder; he knows the door's locked but Brendan has a habit of getting past minor details like that.
No one's there.
He uncaps the aftershave, sprays some onto his neck. He smells like Brendan. Almost.
He puts the aftershave back and pushes the packets of painkillers to one side, searching. He knows that Brendan isn't stupid enough to keep anything incriminating in here. If he's got a stash of drugs then he won't be storing them in the bathroom he shares with his sister. That's what Warren and Danny would want him to be looking for; the drugs.
Ste doesn't know what he's looking for.
Before he leaves the bathroom - flushing the chain and running the water for appearances' sake - he considers removing the aftershave with a cloth in case Brendan smells it on his skin. In case he doesn't particularly want to be smelling of the rotter for the rest of the day.
He leaves it on.
::::::
They're onto dessert now. Apple crumble with custard, and it turns out Cheryl isn't one to be stingy with portion sizes.
"I'm stuffed, Chez." Brendan rubs his stomach as if to prove it, the hem of his shirt riding up. Ste can see a taut stomach underneath.
"Since when did you ever turn down food?"
Brendan looks like he's going to say something, but then he breaks into a smile when Cheryl puts the the bowl in front of him, the custard so hot that Ste can see the steam from where he's sitting.
"If you insist."
"Ste?" Cheryl offers, and he says yes, perhaps a little too eagerly. It doesn't seem to bother Cheryl; she even offers him a portion to take home to Amy.
"Custard to take home? Come on," Brendan says, and he's still got the warmth in his voice that he always has with Cheryl, but there's irritation beneath the surface too.
Ste feels like it's an unmistakable dig at Amy, even though he hasn't even directly mentioned her.
"Alright, grumpy." Cheryl looks at him, shakes her head. Then, like she's had a light-bulb moment, she says, "I know what it is."
"What?"
"You're jealous, aren't you?"
Brendan stops eating. He's stock-still.
"Jealous," he repeats, and then it comes, that laughter with that mania to it. Ste's heard it plenty of times, but he's never heard it around Cheryl before.
"Because I didn't thank you for the dinner."
The laughter stops.
Cheryl looks at Ste, then rolls her eyes towards her brother.
"Honestly, Ste. This one's jealous that you're getting the credit. What's he like, eh?"
"I don't..." He doesn't understand. He's still hearing that word, jealous, and he's still hearing that laughter.
"Bren took me shopping for all the ingredients earlier after work. I can't drive, see - I'm learning, but..."
"But she's failed three times," Brendan says, his mouth full now, looking like he's trying not to laugh.
"Yes, okay... Anyway, soon I'll be able to, but until then this one's been at my beck and call when I need him."
Earlier. After work.
Ste moves a section of his crumble with his spoon to the left, then to the right. Processing. Working this all out.
"So you went there after Brendan finished work?"
Does he sound casual? Like he doesn't care either way? He isn't sure.
"That's right," Cheryl says. "He was happy to when he found out I'd be cooking for him, mind."
He hadn't left him. Brendan hadn't been a no-show because he hated him, or because he'd changed his mind about them, the drives home, everything. Or if he does - if he does hate him - then Ste doesn't know that for sure, not yet. There's every chance that Brendan might not give him a lift home tomorrow, but there's every chance that he will. Nothing feels set in stone anymore. Nothing feels closed off or lost.
There's hope, a spark of it that makes Ste feel something that had abandoned him completely as he'd been waiting by that fountain, making that wish. Excitement.
For some reason he can't seem to stop smiling for the rest of the dinner.
::::::
The evening's drawing to a close. They've tidied everything away, Ste offering to at least dry the dishes when Cheryl refuses to let him wash up, and he's got a plastic container with him ready to take home to Amy, crumble and custard as promised. He hadn't missed the very loud tutting noises coming from Brendan's direction when Cheryl had put a portion aside. To take to that wee girl of yours.
He's going to have to make up an excuse, tell Amy that it's one of Tony's homemade desserts.
He looks at Brendan expectedly. It shouldn't be too hard to get out of here together; they can feed Cheryl a line about grabbing a beer or Brendan walking him home. Then straight round to the McQueens. Ste will give them some distance while Brendan's letting Carmel down - he doesn't want this rejection to be a public humiliation for her as well - and then they'll leave, let her lick her wounds. Done.
He hasn't thought about what he'll say to Warren and Danny, or what it means now that they think that Brendan's a dealer. What he's thought about is that moment after work when Brendan will pick him up in his car, and they'll drive off with the radio playing and Ste will wind down the window and lean out, and he'll close his eyes and feel the air against his skin and he'll listen to Brendan swear and talk about how ridiculous a certain song is. That's what he's thought about.
But Brendan isn't looking at him.
"I'm just gonna..."
He sprints up the stairs, and Ste hears the bang of a door shutting.
He waits. He sits on the sofa, aware of Cheryl behind him cleaning the surfaces in the kitchen. He'd help her if he thought he was capable of it, if he didn't suddenly feel so odd. He reminds himself that Brendan's only gone upstairs, and that he's bound to be back any moment. But it's something about how he'd looked, and how he'd walked - ran - away from him. He'd looked panicked.
He'd looked like something had happened.
There's music blasting from his room now. Ste doesn't know how Cheryl can take it, and the lack of a reaction from her tells him that she must be used to this. This must be something Brendan does.
You can run on for a long time
Run on for a long time
Sooner or later God'll cut you down
"Cheryl?" She turns around, smiles at him. "Is it okay if I go upstairs?"
She gives him a look. A you're daft kind of look.
"Of course, babe. You don't have to ask! Go ahead."
He'd sort of wanted her to say no.
He goes upstairs, the music growing louder the closer he gets, his resolve wavering. He should have known that something would go wrong; the dinner had been too normal, and an evening with Brendan could never have ended like that.
"Brendan."
He knocks, waits. This is the second time he's gone up to Brendan's bedroom; the first time hadn't ended well, and nothing about this tells him that it will end any better. The silence is more chilling than any argument. He'd rather hear Brendan's voice, feel the brunt of his anger if he's done something wrong than deal with this void, this nothingness.
"Brendan, I'm coming in."
He opens the door in one swift movement. It's like ripping off a plaster; better for the pain to be over now than prolong the agony.
The room's still. Empty.
Ste steps inside, wondering if he's missed something, if Brendan's in the corner. Even as he thinks it he knows it can't be true. Hs eyes would be drawn to Brendan straight away, the focal point in every room.
He's got one of those record players. It's the kind that Rae would dream of getting for herself; she used to try her luck at clubs with her homemade mixes. But her music was nothing like this, this country twang, this style of rock and roll that belongs more in an old film than in this time, this world.
Go tell that long tongue liar
Go and tell that midnight rider
Tell the rambler
The gambler
The back biter
Tell them that God's gonna cut them down
The memory of Rae flickers and fades. He can't hold onto it.
He checks the window, expects to see it wide open and the curtain blowing, a Brendan shaped print on the pavement below.
It's closed. He must still be inside the flat.
He hesitates. He doesn't want to leave. He wants to do what he thought about doing the first time he came up here: take a closer look. In the wardrobe, in the drawers. Under the bed. Brendan's just as unlikely to leave anything suspicious here as he was in the bathroom. It's not evidence that Ste wants to look for.
It's Brendan. It's anything that belongs to him. Anything that tells Ste who he is. He'll know what he's looking for when he sees it; know that it's another piece of the puzzle. And would it really be so bad? Brendan seems to think that there's nothing wrong with insinuating that he's been inside Ste's flat, and what's to stop him from looking around if he has been there? What if he's been in Ste's room, on Ste's bed?
What if he's looked in his drawers and found the vest?
He shakes the thought from his head. He can't allow himself to think that.
He has to leave right now to stop himself from looking. To stop himself from getting caught. When he comes outside the bedroom the bathroom door is closed; he must have not noticed it before.
He listens at the door but it's difficult to hear anything. The music's drowning everything out, and it feels dangerous to be standing this close. If Brendan were to open the door right now they'd collide head on, or he'd fall through. For a second he's sure he can smell Brendan, but then he realises it must be him. The smell of the aftershave lingers. It feels oddly comforting.
"Brendan, it's me." And then, as though Brendan's forgotten he's at his house and what his voice sounds like, he adds, "It's Ste."
He's being too nice.
"Come out, okay?"
Still too nice.
"I'm not leaving. You promised." He doubts Brendan can hear a single word he's saying. He's having to be quiet so that Cheryl doesn't hear anything, and he's competing with some bloke who's now singing about guns and prison and fire.
But he feels better for saying it. This way he knows he's not stood back and done nothing.
"If you think you can just lock yourself in there and I'll go away... We're going to the McQueens, alright? So come on."
He doesn't expect Brendan to want to come with him, but he at least expects him to try. They had a deal.
He knocks, incessant. His knuckles are beginning to redden. If Cheryl wasn't downstairs then he'd pull out all the stops, all the threats: the fact that he could pick up the phone and tell Warren everything.
As it is, he has to rein himself in.
"One more chance."
He's not spending another night imagining Brendan and Carmel on holiday together. He's not going to sleep - or trying to go to sleep - with his head being full of what might happen, what he might not be able to stop.
No more chances. No more being nice.
He barges in, fired up, ready to fight this.
He doesn't understand what he's seeing.
Brendan's bent over the toilet, and he's throwing up. And it's exactly that - what he's throwing up - that knocks the breath out of Ste.
Black. His vomit is pure black.
He must have been too weak to stop long enough to lock the door. He's sinking to his knees and he's got his hand in the air, wordlessly demanding for Ste to go. Any other day Brendan would grab him and push him from the room, but he can't now. He can't seem to do much of anything but retch.
That's what the music had been about. It had been a disguise; a sure-fire way to keep Cheryl from hearing this.
The noise keeps coming. The inside of the toilet is filled with black.
Ste almost calls Cheryl. Brendan couldn't stop him, not in this state, and he needs help. They both do, because Ste feels completely out of his depth. Contact lenses and cover up mousse he can handle - that's easy. But this? He doesn't even know what this is.
Why hadn't he asked for Elizabeth's number? She would be the one to call, the one to know. He curses himself for being so stupid, so reckless, but then he hadn't known. He hadn't known that this would happen, and he hadn't known that he would care.
Brendan looks at him, and it's fleeting before the sickness takes hold of him again and he's forced to look away, but it's enough. It's enough for Ste to know what he's asking - begging - him. Don't tell Cheryl.
"I don't know what to do," he says, and he can hear how helpless he sounds.
"Leave." Brendan's gasping, and then his head's down and he's being sick again. It feels impossible that it can keep going, that he's got anything left in him, but just when Ste thinks there's a break, an end to it, it all starts again.
Would it be enough to kill him? Brendan looks like he'd rather die than send for Cheryl. If Ste left him here, closed the door behind him, would it be enough? Is this the end?
He wouldn't even have to touch Brendan. There would be no violence, no blood, no struggle. Ste could just go, and he could claim the glory for it. He's closer to the door than he is to Brendan. Closer to freedom.
He closes the door. Locks it.
"I'm not leaving you."