Page 7 of Lean On Me
‘The kebabs are pretty good.’ Perry winked at me. ‘Or how about a pickled egg?’
In the end, the men decided to walk to the chippy together. To my surprise, Fleur and Dedicoat’s girlfriend, Starr came to help me clear up, equally outraged, sympathetic, and impressed when I told them how I’d created a three-course meal out of leftovers in under an hour.
‘And Eddie’s rambling anecdotes meant it got ruined. I apologise on his behalf, Faith. Usually, I kick him under the tableto shut him up but he’d warned me to be on my best behaviour in front of Dedicoat. Having said that, if he sprang a dinner party on me with less than forty-eight hours’ notice, I’d be kicking more than his shin.’
‘The only thing I can cook is pizza and Pot Noodle.’ Starr marvelled at my desserts chilling in the fridge. Individual Irish cheesecakes made using an old packet of ginger biscuits, a tub of cream cheese, Perry’s secret chocolate stash and a splash of Baileys.
Starr lent me a spare top. ‘I always carry a couple, ’cos I sometimes end up staying out all night, and I might have a meeting at work.’
‘This is what you wear to your work meetings?’ The top was low-cut and completely transparent. I decided to wear it over my T-shirt rather than instead of it. The blotch of sauce still showed through the netting, but at least the crystals and picture of a dog in a onesie provided some distraction.
The men returned, boisterously banishing plates and cutlery in favour of tiny wooden forks and chip paper. Lucas made me feel a lot less self-conscious by accidentally squirting ketchup over his shirt, and we ditched any lingering trace of formality along with the table.
Lounging on the sofas, cans of pop in their hands, Lucas and Eddie toasted a done deal over their empty wrappers, while Perry rummaged through his dresser looking for a pack of cards. Starr and Fleur giggled as they googled wedding paraphernalia on their phones, swapping stories of the best and worst ever in various different categories: bridesmaid dresses, best man’s speech, first dance.
Amongst all this merriment, I sat back and gave myself a mental pat on the back. If this was how posh married people’s dinner parties went, I could handle it. I could even look forward to it. Perhaps next time, I’d think up a fast-food menu – do ahome-made pizza with chintzy paper napkins and a tablecloth you could colour in while you waited.
The doorbell rang. Feeling quite the hostess with the mostess, I wandered through to answer it.
And there, standing in the porch, soaking wet, reeking and dishevelled, was the reason I had finally given in and said yes to Peregrine Upperton.
I quickly pulled Sam into the kitchen, searching his face for the tell-tale signs of drugs or alcohol. Flicking on the coffee machine, I pushed him into a chair. ‘Don’t move.’
I threw the cheesecakes onto a tray and carried them into the living room. Perry stood handing out pens and pieces of paper. ‘Who was it?’
I hesitated, causing the guests to look up at me, suddenly interested.
‘It’s Sam.’
‘Ah.’ Perry had only met Sam once, the day he left the treatment centre. As Perry had paid for it, I figured the least I could do was introduce them. What I had chosen not to mention was that the centre didn’t only treat mental health issues – which had crippled Sam for years. It also provided rehabilitation for those suffering from addictions. And my poor, lost, smashed-up brother ticked that box too. In the three months since then, Sam had moved back into his flat half a mile from me in Houghton, kept up his medication and willingly attended his support group once a week. He had even talked about painting again – his rickety means of earning a living. But I had been waiting for the crash. Expecting it. I had been through this too many times before to hope the cycle was broken. I knew thesymptoms of my brother’s plunge into the black whirlpool of mental illness all too well. The shadows in and under his eyes. The self-obsession, the increasing fixation on trivial matters like a dripping tap or the pigeons on the neighbour’s roof. The inability to sit still or keep the thread of a conversation, the escalating chaos both external and within.
And then, inevitably, the crash.
‘Is everything okay?’ Perry stood to take the tray from me. ‘Sam is Faith’s brother. He lives the other side of the village.’
‘Oh, how lovely!’ Starr looked up from her phone. ‘Bring him in so we can meet him.’
‘Well, I would, but he’s not feeling great. I’ll just be a couple of minutes. Please start without me.’
Perry met my eyes, his unanswered question hanging in the space above the tray. I gave an infinitesimal nod, and left them to their world, re-joining mine in the kitchen.
Sam slumped onto the breakfast bar, his arms over his head. I poured him a coffee and brought it over. ‘Drink this.’
He ignored the cup, and me.
‘Sam.’
Pulling his head up from under his arms, he looked at me with utter bleakness, eyes swimming in despair. ‘He’s coming out, Faith.’
‘What?’ An invisible, icy hand clamped itself around my neck and began to squeeze.
‘In two weeks. They’re letting Kane out.’
The last things I heard were the smash of the coffee mug into a thousand shards on the Italian tiled floor, and, a split second later, me crashing down with it.
3
Sam started drinking almost as soon as the trial finished, eighteen years ago. We were living with our grandmother, back in Brooksby and still reeling from the hideous shock of our mother’s death. At six, I had been more sheltered from the horrors of what had come before, and the night that ended it all. It was only as I grew older that I began to grasp what both my mother and Sam had shielded me from. This being, primarily, the monster we called Kane.
