I turned my attention back to him. He was thumbing through his phone, lips twisted in a faint grin that did odd things to my empty stomach. Imagined. Yeah right. I dropped out of the van without answering his question and drifted inside. Grey was waiting for me. I fed him the last pouch of Felix in the cupboard, hanging it out while I waited for Gus.
But Gus didn’t come in, and eventually the van rumbled away.
I couldn’t decide how I felt about that. On the one hand, I was in enough pain to crave solitude so I could suffer in peace. On the other, I longed for Gus’s company so bad my head spun.
Or maybe I was just hungry. Either way, everything was fucked.
I trooped upstairs and searched my bag for the black market morphine pills I saved for emergencies, but the bottle was empty, like it had been for weeks, and I lacked the funds or facilities to get any more. Gus’s bathroom contained an empty box of paracetamol and I couldn’t decide if that was better than trying to dull this pain with a mouthful of OTC meds, or worse than the fact that my thirty-seven pence wasn’t enough to buy any more.
Damn, I was eight pence short. Story of my fucking life.
I could’ve pinched some. Would’ve, if I’d been anywhere else. But on my vodka-buying expeditions, I’d struck up a rapport with the Indian dude who’d taken over the nearest shop, and I only stole from people I didn’t like.
It didn’t leave me many options. I took a hot shower and drank all Gus’s French beer—a bad idea on an empty stomach. It didn’t stay down long, and when I was done throwing it all back up again, I lay on the bathroom floor, knowing the cold tiles would make the pain worse, but unable to make myself move. Masochist. Maybe, but probably not. I didn’t like pain, but sometimes I needed it to stay alive. Without it, I was a coil of insensible apathy, and somehow, that hurt more.
Chapter Seven
Gus
“Billy.” I shook him. “Billy. Wake up.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Fear that he was actually unwell and not passed out drunk lanced my heart, but then he stirred, eyes fluttering, groaning as he came to on the bathroom floor. “Wha—?”
I shook my head. “No idea, mate. Apart from the twelve pack of stubbies you put away, and anything else you drank after.”
“What are you talking about?”
Huh. He didn’t sound drunk. And now he was staring at me like I was off my rocker, the terror of finding him knocked out on the floor eased a little.
I sat back on my heels, giving him space to figure out which way was up. Billy closed his eyes and stayed where he was, lines of pain etched deep into his lovely face. He’d always had sharp edges, but this was something else. I reached out and touched his shoulder. “What’s the—”
Billy jerked back, flinching so hard he hit his head on the sink pedestal. “Fuck!”
“Oh god, I’m sorry.” I reached for him again, this time closing my fingers around his wrist with one hand, and cupping his face with the other. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
Billy sucked in a shaky breath, then another, and another. “My shoulder.”
“The one you hurt in the accident last summer?”
“Yeah. It sends me crazy sometimes.”
Tiny puzzle pieces clicked into place in my Billy-addled brain. I knew about his accident, obviously, because I’d been there when Luke had taken the call, and handled his business when he’d rushed to Billy’s bedside, but so much had happened between then and now that I’d forgotten how bad it had been, and it hadn’t occurred to me for a single second, even when we’d been hoofing tons of wood up and down scaffolding, that his catastrophic injury was still causing him pain.
Nice one, Gus. Way to take care of your best friend’s brother.
Mind racing, I helped Billy sit up. He was freezing. I took my hoodie off and draped it carefully around him. “How long have you been down?”
“Dunno. Your beer made me hurl, then I figured I’d stay where I was in case I chucked up again.”
“Can’t handle your drink?”
“I can’t do bubbles on an empty stomach.”
“Why didn’t you eat?”
“Eat what?”
He had me there. The supplies from his shopping trip had run out days ago. Last time I’d checked, the only thing left in the fridge had been beer, milk, and some random tomatoes. “Sorry, mate.”
“Why? It’s not your job to feed me.”
But it was. I’d promised Luke I’d take care of Billy, and two weeks in, he was passed out sick, hungry, and in pain on my bathroom floor.
Guilt burned a path from my heart to my own empty stomach. Quiet nights in with Billy were sending me round the bend, but I would’ve given anything to turn back time and stay home, offering him a plate piled high with takeout food he’d pick at like a fussy child.
I helped him sit up, my mind already on what I could order in to line his already traumatised stomach, but as Billy came upright, it dawned on me that eating was the last thing on his mind. That he was in too much pain to think about anything else. “What do you usually take?”
“Hmm?” Billy swung his distracted gaze my way. “What?”
“For the pain. What did the doctor give you?” Because there was no way a couple of paracetamol was going to fix this. I didn’t know much, but of that I was certain.
Billy dropped his head, freeing me of his stare. “Surgeon gave me some naproxen, and some codeine, I think. But they’re all gone now.”
“What about the GP? Or your physio? Didn’t they prescribe more?”
“What GP?”
“Are you serious?” Of course he was. Now that I thought about it, Billy’s vagabond lifestyle probably hadn’t left room for registering with a GP and following a recovery plan. I tracked back,
