Don’t be my friend, or you’ll die.
I look at the person in the mirror. I wish he was dead instead.
HANNAH
We’re in the kitchen and I’m trying to convince Mum we deserve some fondant fancies after the epic sorting we’ve just done when my phone blings.
“Hannah!” Mum tuts as I stop mid-sentence to pick up my phone. But I’m not thinking about cake any more when I see who’s texted and I open the message as fast as I can to find out what Aaron has to say to me.
You dont undwrstNd what it”s liee you do’t know wast I
That’s where the text ends. He must have sent it before he finished typing, but my phone blings another almost immediately.
Gor nonone he” a good I lost him. It( s all my faylt!!2
Mum is no longer looking annoyed with me when I look up. She can see something’s going on. I text back, worried.
Where ru?
Then I call as well. It goes to voicemail. I wonder if it’s a good idea to call again but do it anyway. This time he answers. The last ten days are written off in an instant.
“Hello?” I say, since Aaron hasn’t actually said anything.
“Hannah?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Are you OK?”
No answer.
“Aaron? Where are you?” I say, trying not to sound panicky.
“Toilets.”
He slurs so badly that he still hasn’t managed to get the “s” out when I ask, “The toilets where?”
“Drunken Duchess. I lost him, Hannah. Neville. He’s not here.”
“Neville’s not in the toilets?” Could the boy be any more confusing?
“I thought I brought him in here with me, but I didn’t and when I got back he was gone. How could I lose him? HOW?!” I flinch the phone away from the shriek he makes.
“Do you want me to come and help find him?” I say, but Aaron’s not listening. I think he might be crying. I put my hand over the phone.
“Can you drive me to a pub called the Drunken Duchess?” I ask Mum.
“Why?” she mouths, frowning, but I ignore her and tell Aaron that I’m on my way, although I think he’s hung up.
“It’s Aaron. There’s something wrong—” I’m halfway out of the door before I realize Robert’s halfway in, still in his suit, car keys in hand.
“Where’s the fire?” he jokes before he sees Mum’s face and stops me, hands resting firmly on my shoulders. “Hannah?”
Sometimes Robert’s harder to lie to than Mum.
“Aaron’s in some pub…” Even though I can see he disapproves, he doesn’t say anything. “He’s having some kind of breakdown.”
I look at Robert and back at Mum. “I’ve got to go to him — he needs me.”
I see a conversation between them, one of glances and sharp breaths — no words, until, “I’ll drive.” And Robert’s turned on his heel, straight back to his car, Mum and me hurrying after. They have a lot of questions, none of which I can answer, and it takes some persuading to get them to stay in the car, but Mum will just stress me out and there’s no way I’m walking into a pub like the Duchess with Robert dressed for a boardroom takeover. Me, I fit right in. The place smells like stale beer and pork scratchings and I have to ask people to “Excuse me,” before I start shoving bodies out of my way. I’ve only got fifteen minutes before Mum comes in to find me.
“Hi,” I say to the barman.
“ID,” he says.
“Er, hello, pregnant?” I say and point at my stomach. “Not about to go on a bender.”
“Then how can I help you?” he says in a weird formal tone that makes me think he’s taking the piss.
“I’m looking for my friend Aaron. Dark hair, leather jacket…” That’s when I see the jacket I mean in a heap on the floor. I crouch down and use the bar to pull myself back up. “This leather jacket.”
“He’s in the beer garden,” the barman says, nodding to a rickety-looking door.
I go outside but Aaron’s not there.
Back inside I look round the room. Aaron’s definitely not in here, although I check round the corner where there’s a dartboard. I push open the door of the Gents and try to breathe as little as possible. Boy wee stinks.
“Aaron?” I call out, grateful that I can’t see any strange men in here.
“Ladies is that door, luv.” Someone comes in behind me. I glance round to see a man about Robert’s age with a tattoo nudging up from the neck of his football shirt.
“I’m looking for my friend,” I say and walk further into the toilets, trying to bend over and look for feet in the cubicles.
I push the doors and one jams up against something. “Aaron?” I say, trying to crouch down further. Neck-tattoo man bends down for me and nods.
“Someone’s in there.” He shoves the door a little harder then reaches round. There’s a groan. The man shoves the door open and I see Aaron sprawled on the floor, his face pressed up against the side of the cubicle and his hand dangling in the toilet bowl. There’s a stain on his sleeve and when he opens his eyes they’re bloodshot. They don’t stay open for long.
My helpful stranger stops me from going in and instead he drags Aaron out. He grunts for me to open the door and he takes him all the way out, down the passage and out of the fire exit. The man arranges Aaron into a sitting position on the step and goes back inside, saying he’ll get some water. I lower myself carefully next to Aaron and shrug on his leather jacket. It’s cold — which should sober him up a bit at least.
I stare at the hair on the back of his neck. He’s had it cut — for the funeral, I guess — and I wonder what it would be like to stroke it. And because he is drunk and because I want to, I put my hand on Aaron’s neck and brush my thumb over his skin and across his hair.
For a second I think that this is what he wants too… until he shakes me off and I snatch my hand away, annoyed that, even now, in the midst of an alcoholic stupor he still can’t let me in.
Then he lurches forwards and retches.
OK, I’ll let him off. But I don’t reach out to him again.
“You all right?” I ask. He’s blatantly not, but what else do you say?
Aaron shakes his head. “I lost him, Han.”
“You lost Neville? You mean his ashes?”
Aaron doesn’t say anything, but the door behind us opens and my knight in shining football strip hands me a pint of water and a Tupperware box.
“The barman said the lad would be looking for this,” he says and gives me a grin. “Just give us a shout if you need a hand with anything, darling.”
“Thanks,” I say, before holding the box up and looking at it. It’s full of ash.
Neville.
“Here,” I say and hand Aaron the box first and the water second, like I’m asking him to mix me some cement. He doesn’t say anything, but I can see his shoulders drop in relief.
“I need to sprinkle Chris’s ashes,” he says, putting the glass down and standing up.
“Chris?”
“Neville. Neville’s ashes.” Aaron sways dangerously and almost knocks over his glass of water as he starts clawing at a corner of the box’s lid, trying to prise it off.
“Stop, Aaron.” I stand up and put my fingers over his. “We’ll come back another time to do this. I don’t think Neville would mind.”
AARON
When did Hannah get here? I don’t remember that.
But she’s found Neville.
“Thank you,” I say and give her a hug. She looks nonplussed.
“You’re welcome,” she says and pats me on the shoulder.