He backed out of the room, then closed the door behind him and crept downstairs. As he approached the kitchen, he heard a familiar scratching of claws on the wooden floor. He opened the door and Jeanie flew at him, making a subservient, pleased keening. Her tail thumped away, hitting the door, his leg, sometimes the floor as she ducked under and round him, snuffling at his hands.
She pushed herself into him, knocking him gently on to his arse, where he sat, smiling and petting her, whispering in her ear, stroking her and pulling her into a hug that was too strong, too forced, but he did it anyway.
After a while he got up, opened a cupboard door and pulled out a can of dog food. He opened it and emptied it into Jeanie’s bowl on the floor, then refilled her water dish. As she scoffed at the food, he knelt down beside her.
‘I’m just popping out for a bit, I’ll be back soon.’
She swished her tail as if she understood. He headed back upstairs and out the front door, careful to close it without any noise.
He stopped at the Micra. He opened the driver’s door, felt around in the sun visor, then pulled out the picture of him, Charlie and their mum at the beach. Happy families.
He locked the car door, slipped the photo into his jacket pocket, next to his hammering heart, then walked down the street.
*
The bell for last orders rang just as he stepped through the door of The Montague. He drew stares from the regulars and off-duty cops. His bandaged head and shuffling gait made him feel like an ancient mummy, like he’d been dead and entombed thousands of years ago and recently been jolted back to life.
The image of Charlie and Zoe swam in his head. He felt numb, didn’t even know what to think about it. He should be furious, enraged that his brother and girlfriend were sleeping together. But it was his fault. He’d been obsessed with Adele, with the accident, with the aftermath. He probably still had those mood stabilisers on him somewhere. How would things have panned out if he’d taken them? Pointless thinking about it now, everything was fucked beyond measure, beyond redemption, beyond words.
The barmaid gave him a look as he ordered a pint of Stella, then she went to pour it. He scanned round the pub, enjoying the stares from everyone, returning them intensely, smiling to himself as every one of the locals turned away under his gaze, not wanting to engage the lunatic with the bandages, the laboured walk and the hollowed-out look in his eyes.
He glugged at his pint and did an inventory of his body. He was weak and fragile, like his body was made of cracked glass. His skull hammered like a drum. He ran both hands over the bandages, probing, prodding. The bandages were tight and thick, several layers stretched over the skin like a second skull. Then he found it, the hole, a tiny bit of give in the material under his hands, in a place he didn’t expect. It wasn’t near the bump at the front of his head, nor on the top, but at the back, a couple of inches down from the crown, just above where the skull connected to the top of the spinal column. Why there? If he ever met that brain surgeon again, he would ask him. He thought about taking the bandages off. Getting some fresh air into his brain, with the germs and pollution and evil afloat on the breeze contaminating his thoughts. At least they didn’t smoke in pubs any more, he couldn’t get passive brain cancer. He screwed his eyes tight. His neck hurt. He cricked it violently, producing a loud crack that made the barmaid wince from several feet away.
‘You all right, love?’
‘Fine.’
His heart thudded in time with the pulsing in his brain. His organs felt bruised and battered, his liver and kidneys struggling to keep his body pure and free from poison. His hands tingled, a strange kind of electricity passing through his fingers like his whole body was a lightning conductor. He realised the needle was still taped to the back of his hand. He pulled it out without thinking. A small spurt of blood emerged from the vein. He sucked it clean, pushed the tape down over the wound and put the needle in his pocket. He pushed at his cheeks with his fingers. His face was numb.
He pulled out a drug blister pack from his pocket. Oramorph. The clue was in the name. Morphine. He popped three and swigged them with lager. The barmaid stared at him, so he stared back.
‘Migraine,’ he said flatly.
He pocketed the blister pack and took out another. Pervitin. The clue wasn’t in the name. Sounded like a perv’s drug. But he knew it was methamphetamine. Balance out the morphine. Keep him on an even keel. He popped three and downed them. His tongue tingled, and the slide of the pills clogged his throat. He wondered for a moment what it would feel like to be drug free. He would probably die. He had no idea how much of anything he’d taken in the last however long it was, and that went for the hospital medication as well. But he felt alive for now, that’s all he could hope for.
He was suddenly aware of a ringing in his ears. Couldn’t be the pills working already, could it? It kept going, penetrating his brain through the hole at the back of his paper-thin skull.
‘I think that’s your phone, love,’ the barmaid said.
He stared at her. Was she talking to him?
‘Your phone?’ She nodded at his pocket.
He followed her gaze. Put his hand in and pulled a phone out. Charlie. His big brother Charlie. Interesting. He answered the call.
‘Where the fuck are you?’
Billy imagined Charlie throwing on clothes, Zoe waking behind him, asking what was going on.
‘I’m here.’
‘Where’s here? I just got a call from the hospital saying you’ve gone AWOL.’
‘I’m in the pub.’
‘Fucking Jesus. You’ve just had brain surgery, for Christ’s sake, you should be in hospital recuperating.’
‘I didn’t like it in there.’
‘So fucking what? I don’t like it in there, but I go to work anyway. Which pub are you in?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I didn’t ask how you felt, I asked which pub you were in. I’m coming to get you and taking you back to hospital straight away. I hope to fuck you’re not drinking. Not on top of the morphine and the surgery. Christ.’
He took a hit of his beer to wind Charlie up, making an obvious smacking sound with his lips as he swallowed.
‘Billy, this is a life-threatening situation. Can’t you get your head around that?’
‘I’m touched by your concern.’
‘Stop being a complete prick and tell me where you are.’
‘The Montague.’
There was a pause. Billy savoured the thought of what was going through his brother’s mind.
‘The Montague?’ A note of caution in Charlie’s voice.
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ve been back to the house, then?’
‘No, came straight here.’
Billy imagined he heard a relieved sigh down the line.
Charlie seemed to get a sudden burst of energy.
‘Right, don’t fucking move. I’m coming to get you. Don’t drink any more lager.’
‘You’ll need to hurry, they’ve rung last orders already.’
‘You’re something else, Bro, you know that?’
‘Oh, and Charlie?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Bring Jeanie with you. I want to see her.’
‘Look, we’re going straight to hospital…’
‘Just bring her, or I’ll be gone when you get here.’
*
They’d rung the bell for closing time when Charlie pushed the door open. He was pulling Jeanie reluctantly on the lead, but when she saw Billy she sprang forward to greet him. After an initial hug, she began snuffling around
