Fourteen

Leigh leans closer, her lips feather light against mine, her breath hot as her hair falls forwards across her face. I go to wrap my arms around her but she steps back, slips just out of reach.

The corners of her mouth lift into a smile as she beckons for me to follow her.

I try to. I want to. I have to. But my feet drag, heavy as lead while she gets further away. In desperation I stretch out a hand, willing myself closer. My fingertips almost brush the cotton of her dress, the pink rosebud print blossoming scarlet beneath my touch. Spreading, surrounding. Drowning. Sinking into the darkness while she vanishes.

I'm alone.

I sit bolt upright, my hands searching the cold empty space beside me, despite part of my brain already knowing that it's a lie. She's not here, I can't change anything.

It's all in my mind.

Same dream I have every time I sleep—unless I'm steaming drunk, so I guess last night's booze is finally wearing off. My head is thick, and the weak sunlight peeking between the slats of the venetian blind burns into my eyes.

Out of nowhere, bile rises in my throat, the bitter acid eating into me. Throwing back the lilac sheets, I barely make it across the unfamiliar hall and stumble into the tiny bathroom, just in time to hunch over the toilet bowl, retching and puking like some fucking kid the first night they ever drank too much.

I slump down on the cold floor tiles with my back against the bathtub, and close my eyes. The calm before the storm as I think about all the dozens of ways I'd like to hurt Mitch Brannigan, while I wait for the next wave of nausea to hit.

One things for certain, I need a gun.

My forehead pounds, as though it's about to explode.

Though maybe it'd be better for everyone concerned if I used it on myself.

'You're awake then.' My sister stands in the doorway, a shoulder against the doorframe and her arms folded as she studies me.

'How'd I end up here? Where's Curly?' Dim memories of my brother dragging me out of a bar and bundling me into his car, creep into the corners of my mind. Him half-carrying me up the three flights to Angela's tiny apartment, dropping me down onto her bed, someone tugging my shoes off. The two of them standing over me, voices low, heads together.

'Jesus, Tim, how drunk were you last night? He had to go to work, dumbass. And you're here 'cause he didn't think you could be trusted to be left on your own.' Her nose wrinkles as she looks down at me, sitting at her feet and stinking like the inside of a dive bar in my filthy, sick-spattered shirt. 'And judging by the state of you, I guess he was right.'

'What time is it?'

'A little after two. In the afternoon.'

'Shit.' I drag a hand over my clammy face. 'You should've woken me earlier.'

My sister rolls her eyes at me, but her voice softens, ever so slightly. 'It's fine. I Figured the sleep might do you some good. You've been out cold ever since he dumped you here.'

Jesus, I must be a fucking mess if Angela's going soft on me. My brother, he's always been the emotional one, but not my sister. But the last thing I need right now is her pity.

'Yeah? Well sorry to inconvenience you,' I mutter, my voice cracking as I try and fail to hide how close I am to losing it beneath a cloak of sarcasm. I struggle to my feet, thrown off balance by the way the room is still spinning as I lurch towards the door, but Angela doesn't budge to let me pass. 'But I'm up now, so I'll get out of your hair.'

'No, Tim. What's gonna happen is you're gonna get your ass in the shower, clean yourself up, sober up some more, while I make you something to eat.' She pushes past me, turns on the faucet. 'Curly left you some clean clothes, they're in the bedroom.'

'Yeah, alright.' Not bothering to unfasten the buttons, I drag my shirt up over my head. 'But don't bother with any food. I'm not hungry.'

'Don't care, you still have to eat, Tim. You can't get by on beer and shots.' Angela scowls, tosses a fresh towel at me. 'I mean, look at you, you're skin and bone.'

'So?'

'So enough's enough. It's been a week, Tim. Which I know, is nothing, that it still feels like it all happened seconds ago. But you owe it to them, to Leigh, to at least try to pull yourself together.'

Angela saying Leigh's name like that is like a punch in the gut, knocks the air from my lungs, sends me fumbling to grasp the edge of the washbasin to steady myself. 'I can't do this.'

Tears prick at my eyes as my sister hugs me. 'Yeah, you can. With me and Curly. We'll be here. Now get yourself looking halfway presentable, and we'll go see your kids.'

Even before I'm through the front door, I know this is a mistake. Though at least they're here at Curly's. I'd rather the bad associations of this, my one-time childhood home than having to walk into my own house and the barrage of memories inhabiting that place.

'Hey, look who's here!' Curly beams up at me from the lounge carpet where he's sat cross-legged with Grace balanced on his knee, alongside Anthony who's busily lining up all his cars. 'You two gonna say hello to your dad?'

Tony looks up, peers at me from beneath his dark lashes, his voice not much more than a whisper. 'Hi, Daddy.'

'Hey, buddy. What're you two doing?'

'Nothing.' Tony frowns, focuses back on his toys.

Unsure what to do, I perch on the sofa, watching them, relieved that Grace toddles over, arms outstretched for me to lift her onto my lap. At least one of them wants to see me.

'Hi, princess.' I kiss the top of her head as she hugs me, chatters away in half-formed words as Curly and Angela plaster on fake smiles and pretend like there's nothing missing.

Grace fidgets, twisting about as she watches Tony's game, then crawls away across the couch, arms stretched up to the mantle and to Leigh smiling down from his cluttered row of family snapshots. 'Mama.' she points, fingers stretching as she leans across, repeating it over and over, louder and louder. Every repetition like a knife in my heart. I should pick her up, say something, comfort her. But the walls are closing in on me. I can't breath. I need to get out.

'Tim?' Curly's voice follows on my heels but I don't stop.

I'm tempted to run for it, bolt down the street and into the nearest bar. Except I know he'll follow me, drag me back again, so what's the point? Instead I turn towards the quiet of the kitchen.

My heart is racing, the pressure in my skull becoming almost unbearable again as the aspirins I swallowed back at Ange's begin to wear off.

Rummaging around, there's a conspicuous lack of booze, or painkillers—the only thing I find in the back of the pantry is a solitary bottle of warm lager and a couple jars of Ma's old meds tucked high up on the highest shelf. But I guess they're better than nothing, might take the edge off at least.

Unscrewing the cap, I swallow a couple down dry, sliding the pot into my pocket as the floorboards behind me creak beneath my brother's feet. He stands beside me, shoulder to shoulder, both staring out at the orange glow as the sun dips behind the horizon.

'You okay?' Curly asks.

'Yeah.'

'They are pleased to see you, y'know.' He fiddles with the jars on the countertop, twisting them a few degrees here and there so the labels face forward.

'Sure.'

'Come on, Tim. It's gonna take some time, but—'

'Time?' I jam my hand in my pocket, my fingers finding the smooth surface of Ma's pill bottle. 'That's all everyone keeps saying to me. Give it time... Time for what, though? Time for them to forget her? I mean, goddamnit, Curly, Ange can barely remember the old man and she was what, a few months younger than Tony is when he died.'

'Which is why they need you.'

'Oh, yeah, I'm just what they need,' I sneer. 'I'm so fucking useless I couldn't even protect Leigh, so how the hell can I take care of them on my own? Face it, Curly, I'm hardly world's best dad material, am I? At best I'm a second rate criminal, with the temperament to be a deadbeat drunk.'

'Jesus, Tim. Quit being so hard on yourself.' Curly shrugs. 'You did a pretty good job raising me and Ange, didn't you?'

A/N: Thanks for reading.