Brendan Brady was numb.
He was sitting on a vibrant pink leopard-print sofa, staring at violent purple walls. Less than a mile away, his son was lying on a hospital bed, letting the rhythmical beep of a machine inform him of his own heartbeat.
Eileen would be there by now, frantically fussing at her son's side, building wrath and fury to direct at Brendan. Maybe Cheryl was still there too, adding to the ammunition. He doubted she would come back here, even if she'd left the hospital. Her face, seeing him spattered in blood and dead human flesh… She had plenty of friends who would give her a roof and a bed, help her to avoid her twisted brother.
Walker, who knew where he was? The terror, the fury, it had all died away now and Brendan could feel nothing towards the man. He knew he should be livid, bloodthirsty for revenge, but thoughts of him inspired only a staggering, breath-taking tidal wave of relief. What could have happened… He closed his eyes briefly, his mouth muttering a prayer of thanks.
His bones still ached from the explosion, but it was improving. During the nights, he had lain awake and enjoyed the dull, throbbing pain in his legs, savouring his penance. He regretted it, day by day, as the agony receded and he felt his limbs slowly strengthening. At least the agony had drowned out the numbness.
The black Samsung Galaxy on the coffee table vibrated noisily with an incoming text.
"RU COMIN IN?"
It was from the Rhys Ashworth. He'd been holding down the fort in the club for the past week, and clearly was sick of the responsibility. Why else would he want Brendan Brady around? There was still no sign of Joel, since he had disappeared into the sunset with Theresa at the first hint of trouble. Brendan sighed. That was unfair, he supposed. Joel had been through a lot. He'd put Joel through a lot.
His long fingers moved deftly over the plastic screen as he typed a reply.
"B THERE 8."
One of the bosses should show their faces. Even if the club was the last thing he cared about now. It was the only thing he had left to care about.
With effort, he heaved himself to his feet and hobbled towards his bedroom to get dressed. He always felt calmer in his bedroom, the only room in the house not subjected to Cheryl's blinding interior décor tastes. He sat for a moment on the bed looking at the array of tailored suits hung neatly in his wardrobe. Look the part, be the part, he thought. He'd learned that early in life. Never let them see you broken.
For a second, his mind flitted back to the holiday home, to the brief and glorious moment when he had imagined he could change, he could stop hiding his most shameful and filthy secret, he could be free of it and all that it had cost him. Childish, really, to think a slate could be just wiped clean like that. As if the dirt wasn't embedded all the way through. It was like something Stephen would suggest.
He picked out a flashy taupe suit, ignoring the familiar lurching sensation in his stomach as that name and face crossed his mind. Momentary relief from the numbness. He was glad when it subsided and the dead feeling returned.
"Look the part, be the part," he said out loud, holding the suit up appraisingly.
The club was practically empty when he arrived. Rhys was slouched behind the bar, sending text messages and looking irritated. There was a gaggle of women in their thirties in the corner cackling loudly, probably a hen party starting early. They'd be on the dance-floor by ten, and at least one of them would be sick in the toilet by half eleven, Brendan predicted.
"Well it's really slammed in here, I can see why you needed me," Brendan challenged, eyeballing Rhys. He enjoyed watching him shift uncomfortably under his glare, and then immediately regretted enjoying it.
"Well, it's a Friday y'know, things will get really busy soon," Rhys defended himself. He eyed Brendan's crutches a little sheepishly. "How are ya, you alright?"
"Hmm…" Brendan grunted, ignoring the question. "I'll be in the office."
He made his way awkwardly up the metal staircase with his crutches, hating the pitying eyes of the cackling women that watched as he did so. Once safely ensconced in the closed office, he allowed himself to close his eyes and breathe a deep, sighing breath.
There was a time when he would sit in this office for hours, feet on the table, feeling the pulse of music from the club outside throb through his chair. He felt… he could barely even remember how he had felt – imperishable, enduring, powerful. Look the part, be the part. You could even fool yourself with that, for a while. In this office, he could. He could shut out the world and pretend that he was in control. Pretend that he wasn't stuck in some strange no-mans-land, staring across a great impassable gully that separated where he was from where he wanted to be.
Not anymore though… He felt more claustrophobic here than he had amongst the garish leopard-print at home. He fidgeted with his keys for a minute, opening a locked filing cabinet and pulling out a wad of invoices. He stared at them for a few seconds and threw them back into the drawer they had come from, turning the key in the lock again. He had to get out of here.
In a few steps he had reached the back door of the club and stepped out onto the balcony and into the black, inky night. The cold October air hit his face and he felt better. Letting the numbness course back through him, he turned his unseeing eyes up to the star-sprinkled sky, the sounds of the night mingling with the heavy bass beat following him from the club. Vaguely, he became aware of voices and as they grew louder his stomach lurched in that familiar way.
He watched them, the blond girl and the sandy-haired boy, standing close together in the middle of the street, oblivious to him. He was upset, Brendan knew. The way he moved, running a desperate hand through his gelled hair, the way his voice rose and fell, full of the weight of unshed tears. This was his fault. His face had haunted the last few days more than any other, his face as he stood hearing that Brendan would have died for him, that Brendan had spent months living just for him, that Brendan was finished with him now. Why had he not just lied? A kind, gentle, reassuring lie that Brendan just wanted to own him, to control him. A lie that he had meant nothing more than all the others.
He couldn't hear the words being spoken, but what he could see and feel was too much. Surely this would be too much for anybody, to bear witness to this? He had to stop it, but he couldn't tear himself away, not while those wiry arms were still flying wildly and desperately, while that piercing voice was still ebbing and flowing painfully. He grabbed onto the railing tightly.
"Hey Ashley!" he shouted, finally. The two turned towards him. He carefully avoided looking at Stephen's face.
"You're late," he stated, calm and confident. Look the part, be the part.
"Right boss!" she shouted back, turning to whisper something else to the broken boy before abandoning him in the street.
He turned quickly, before his eyes were trapped in that teary gaze, and disappeared into back into the club, back into his office. He was safer there.