Page 42 of The Reno
“Act like I’m going all she-hulk on you. I’m not.”
“You can go she-hulk on me. I can take it,” Liam said cockily. My cheeks warmed, and I wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face.
“Can’t you stay at Lydia’s?”
I shook my head. “It’s a tiny one-bed. She also complained about the landlord not sorting the mould in the bathroom. I doubt another person showering would help with the black mould.”
“She should have told me,” Liam grumbled. “Her landlord is useless.”
I ran my hand through my hair, panic rising. “I can’t stay with Lydia, and I can’t afford an Airbnb either. Fuck.” Liam watched my hands as I ran them through my hair again. “This is a disaster.”
“Brian and Sandra have space.”
The prospect of looking at my uncle’s face every day and being reminded of my dad made me feel a bit sick. Plus, the funeral fiasco was still hanging over my head. Just thinking about it sent my nervous system wild.
No. I couldn’t stay with them. They barely knew me. After two days, they’d get sick of me, and I’d have even less family.
A new idea was growing in my brain, fresh and green.
“How long?” I asked.
“Probably about four weeks, as long as there are no delays.” Liam shrugged.
I nodded. “I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep. Just another obstacle, nothing major.” I smiled.
Liam looked at me for a moment or two, his gaze searching. I did my best to look as neutral as I could.
Finally, his eyes narrowed. “You’re up to something, Red.”
“No, I’m not!” I protested.
Liam hummed and gestured to his eyes and mine with his two fingers.
I rolled my eyes. “Are you usually this dramatic?”
Liam laughed. “Me. Dramatic. Funny.”
Then I spotted it. On the remaining plaster. There were some pencil drawings.
“What’s that?” I leaned in closer.
“Must have been written on the plaster when that last person decorated,” Liam said as he carefully peeled off the wallpaper to reveal more words.
Written on the walls in messy, juvenile handwriting:
Jim and Brian, aged ten and seven, decorated this room.
The sentence was followed by some funny, albeit disturbing, sketches of three-headed monsters and stickmen with giant hands, as if the boys got bored halfway through helping their parents redecorate.
Grief came hurtling through me as my hands touched the wall, and a memory hit me like a ton of bricks.
We’d driven up to Manchester to visit Uncle Brian, Sandra and Lydia, just Dad and me. He drove me around Everly Heath, showing me places he’d loved growing up. The Art Deco cinemathat showed old movies. His favourite pub where he got served at fourteen because it was the seventies. Some places I can’t even remember now. It was so long ago. But he said he saved the best until last, as we drove up this same cul-de-sac. My dad pointed at the house, telling me stories about his childhood. His dad, a mechanic, tinkering on the narrow drive, his mum calling him and his younger brother in from the garden for tea.
A picture of domestic bliss.
