All The Lonely People Page 3

  This was how he went through the motions: meals cooked, clothes washed, schoolwork checked. If he did what was expected of him, and she played along, they could both avoid ever acknowledging that the last year had reduced them to little more than strangers.

  ‘I’ll put it in the oven so it stays warm,’ said Dad.

  Kat listened to his feet padding down the stairs and drew the duvet tighter to her skin, willing herself to sleep again so that waking afresh would chase the nightmare away.

  There was no denying the iridescent shine of the paintwork after the second coat of wax. Wesley stood back while Dave circled the car, checking for any spots they’d missed. There was an ember inside him, smouldering guiltily in the dark. It felt dangerously like pride. Wesley quickly stamped it out.

  ‘Real boy racer car, this. You thinking of learning any time soon?’

  ‘I can’t even think about affording it.’

  Dave nodded, leaving Wesley to wonder if he knew how tough they’d had it during the last couple of years. Mum’s zero hours contract, which meant they could never know how much money they’d have, was no secret. It seemed less likely Dave knew about having to outstay their welcome with friends and boyfriends because they had nowhere else to go, or the queues at the Salvation Army food bank, or shopping for his half-sister Evie’s clothes in charity shops so they could afford nursery a few days a week. If he knew all of that, Wesley wasn’t so sure he’d have stuck around.

  ‘What else needs cleaning?’ said Wesley, looking around at the assortment of cars on show. They all looked clean enough already. Mum had insisted Dave was shorthanded, but Wesley suspected otherwise.

  ‘I see what you’re thinking,’ said Dave. ‘That you’re only here cos your mum bullied me into it. It’s not true. Yeah, I’m happy to help you out. But it takes a lot of work keeping every car presentable. I don’t care about horsepower and nought-to-sixty or any of that. The real magic is in a properly clean motor, like you’re paying proper homage to the peak of human ingenuity.’

  Wesley looked at him like he was mad, but he kept the smile off his face; Dave clearly believed every word.

  Dave grinned back. ‘Come on, look around and tell me it’s not a glorious sight worth maintaining.’

  Near the office door, tucked back in the second row, was a silver BMW that had caught Wesley’s eye as soon as he arrived. He knew nothing about cars except that this was the sort of thing he should be driving one day.

  Dave followed his gaze, and his grin turned mischievous. ‘Wait here a tick.’

  He slipped into the office and opened the wall-mounted lock box where all the keys were kept, returning with a fresh set. A button press made the BMW’s lights flash and doors click open. Dave tossed the keys to Wesley, and he caught them, bemused.

  ‘Am I cleaning inside?’

  ‘Just get behind the wheel.’

  The plush synthetic leather exhaled a breath of cigarettes and sweat under Wesley’s weight. Dave dropped into the passenger seat and pointed to the ignition.

  ‘I thought we’d established I can’t drive.’

  ‘It’s clamped, so you can’t go nowhere,’ said Dave, knocking the gear stick so that it wobbled loosely. ‘All right, it’s in neutral. Start her up.’

  The engine grumbled awake as Wesley turned the key. He gripped the steering wheel reflexively, as if the car might jolt forward and he’d have to wrestle it into submission.

  ‘It’s all right, you can put your foot down.’

  They were parked two feet behind an old Peugeot, and Wesley peered through the windscreen uncertainly.

  ‘Hey,’ said Dave, making Wesley turn to him. ‘I wouldn’t let you behind the wheel if it wasn’t safe.’

  What was supposed to be reassuring sounded to Wesley like condescension, and all at once he felt like a child playing at being a man. He gripped the wheel tighter and looked down at the pedals. There were three, almost identical. The shame of having to ask burnt hot inside his chest. ‘Which one is it?’

  ‘On the right – just apply a little pressure.’

  Jordan would have laughed at him, but that didn’t matter now. He eased the pedal down, the car raising its hackles and growling in reply.

  Beside him Dave was grinning. ‘A little more.’

  Wesley pushed harder and the engine roared, thundering in his ears, quaking through the car and into his bones. He felt as if he were bullying it, and feathered the accelerator so the engine seemed to pulse.

  ‘Yeah!’ shouted Dave.

  When he let it go the power ebbed, but the sensation of it seemed to linger in his muscles, itch at his fingertips.

  ‘How about that?’ said Dave.

  Wesley couldn’t keep himself from beaming in response.

  ‘I’ll give you some lessons some time. It’s not fair your brother got them and you didn’t.’

  Wesley’s stomach clenched. ‘How do you know about that?’

  Dave looked puzzled. ‘He turned up in his car last week and I wondered when he learned.’

  Any power Wesley still felt evaporated instantly. ‘Jordan’s home?’

  Dave winced. ‘I thought your mum’d told you. Me and my big mouth.’

  It had been almost two years since any of them had heard from Jordan. After everything they had been through together since, Wesley couldn’t believe Mum wouldn’t tell him his brother was back. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Maybe your mum should—’ His phone rang in his pocket and he couldn’t hide his relief at the interruption. ‘Speak of the devil. Hey, love,’ he said, answering the call.

  Wesley wrung the steering wheel between his hands. Jordan being back had to be bad news, and if Wesley had known he’d have . . . what? He was powerless against his brother and always had been.

  ‘It’s no bother, I’ll send him home now,’ said Dave, and ended the call.

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Wesley, his voice tight. ‘Last-minute shift.’

  He nodded. ‘Needs you to watch Evie.’

  ‘I’ve still got two hours here, not babysitting my little sister.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Dave produced a twenty-pound note and offered it. ‘You can make it up another time.’

  It was more money than Wesley had had for a long time. Even if he gave half to Mum he could make the rest last a while. That didn’t stop him throwing open the door and leaving it behind, grabbing his stuff to head home without another word.

  Kat woke again, convinced it was all fragments of a dream caught in her mind so that they leaked into the waking world. It wouldn’t have been the first time: once she’d stayed home from school after dreaming somebody died in the canteen (plausible given the food they served). A few months ago she thought she had dreamed the pass code to the staff toilets; Miss Jalloh caught her repeatedly entering ‘1337 80085’ into the keypad.

  ‘Okay, grow a pair,’ she told herself.

  Grudgingly, she cracked open her eyes and looked at her hands.

  The room was too dark to see for sure, so she fumbled to open the blinds. Thin LED street light cut through her fingers. That’s all it was! There was nothing wrong, just unnecessary panic and fantastical hypochondria!

  A car outside passed behind her hand, and Kat saw it move through her skin, like the hull of a ship in murky water.

  ‘The best thing you can do is stay calm,’ she told herself.

  She practically fell backwards off the bed, holding her hand aloft like a live grenade, losing her balance and catching herself against a Doctor Backwash poster on the wall. The logo showed through like a paling tattoo.

  ‘I’m a leaf on the wind,’ she whispered, urging herself to be calm.

  Automatically she reached for her phone, and then pulled away as if it would scald her.

  It hit her like a blow to the chest; the reason this had happened. For so long, Kat had only been her real self online – or as close to her real self as it seemed possible for her to get – where she could escape the indefinable str
ess of everyday life. Now those proxies into which she had poured herself were gone, and hardly anything of her was left behind. The posters on her walls, the figurines and the merch lining her shelves, were mere covers for her lack of substance.

  It almost made her laugh. It was pathetic.

  She grabbed her phone and opened the self-facing camera, averting her eyes as she snapped a selfie. There was no mirror in the room – looking at her face wasn’t Kat’s favourite pastime – but she had always taken a selfie once a week to post online. It felt like a way to keep in touch with herself, every photo throwing down the gauntlet to her continuing existence, fortifying her online life.

  This selfie was different. Every inch of her was affected. Her body, her physical self, had become . . . what? Less corporeal; less present; simply less.

  Kat focused on a single point on the far wall, a dent from a rogue yo-yo years before. The beast of panic was awakening, clawing. At the end of a long exhale she threw a fist sideways into the wall.

  ‘Ow!’

  Pain throbbing in her knuckles was proof enough that she still existed, in one form or another. She had faded, like a chalk drawing in rain, but she was still there – just a little less there than before.

  4

  Building a Snowman

  The block of flats Wesley called home was longer than it was tall, two storeys of brown brick that ran the length of a car park before dog-legging away to pull up short at a railway bridge. The top floor doors lined a sheltered walkway, almost like a shared balcony, so he could see his front door as he crossed the tarmac and came around the grubby metal bins.

  His anger had only spiralled on the walk home, every hard step stoking the fire hotter, so he was fuming by the time he reached the main entrance. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys. Before he had it open he heard a soft mew behind him, and a scrawny, tawny cat appeared at his heels.

  ‘Hey, Buttnugget,’ Wesley cooed in reply.

  Buttnugget was probably not its real name. The cat belonged to one of the old ladies on the ground floor, and was mostly allowed to roam freely. It had taken a liking to Wesley as soon as they moved in, possibly because he was always keen to offer prolonged head scritchings. Lately it had been spending some nights curled up with him in his room. The cat wound around his ankles now, mewing insistently, and Wesley scratched its ears and sank his fingers into the animal’s warm fur. It always seemed like a small marvel, to have his touch so welcomed.

  It was enough, at least, to calm him down a little, and by the time he made it upstairs and picked his way along the walkway’s obstacle course of flowerpots and chained bicycles, he knew he wouldn’t shout. Like he’d promised Evie he never would.

  The door opened straight into the sitting room, and he shut it too hard behind him, sending his little sister scurrying away from her usual position in front of the TV. Mum was through in the kitchen, wrapping a sad-looking sandwich in tin foil.

  ‘Do you want me to work there or not?’ Wesley said.

  Mum dropped the sandwich into her bag. ‘Shady Acres care home needs an extra assistant for the night shift, and we need the money. I’m sure Dave doesn’t mind.’

  ‘I mind,’ Wesley said, following her back to the front door. ‘It’s embarrassing.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Mum turned on him, voice officially raised. ‘I have to work.’

  Wesley shrunk back, knowing there was no arguing with that. Even after all this time it surprised him how powerless she could make him feel.

  ‘I’ve tried to get a job,’ he said, quieter now.

  ‘You know that doesn’t matter. I want you to focus on your exams.’

  Wesley had let her down there too – he had failed almost all of them so far.

  ‘What kind of mother am I if the only way we can pay bills is for my son to work?’

  ‘Jordan did.’

  Mum stiffened. ‘That was different.’

  It was clear then that if he didn’t ask she would try and hide it from him for as long as she could.

  ‘When were you going to tell me he was back?’

  Mum sighed, like she’d been caught stealing. ‘Dave and his big bloody mouth.’

  ‘After two years I think I have a right to know.’

  ‘You’re right. I just . . .’ Mum unhooked her keys from behind the door and squeezed them in her fist. ‘It was last week, and I still need some time to think about it. Don’t let him inside if he turns up.’

  ‘What did he—?’

  ‘I’m going to be late, we can talk about this later,’ she said, pocketing the keys. ‘Evie needs dinner, there’s stuff in the freezer. Love you.’

  She reached out to ruffle his hair, but Wesley ducked away. ‘Fuck!’ he growled, as soon as she was gone.

  ‘Wezzer?’ Evie was marooned in the doorway to their bedroom.

  ‘It’s okay, Eves. Sorry about the shouting.’ Wesley’s promise to himself that he’d always keep his temper around his four-year-old half-sister had been harder to keep than expected.

  She was spattered with paint, the result of this month’s hobby that had covered her wall of the bedroom they shared in bright, messy finger-paintings. She marched over to him, one strap of her dungarees broken and flapping, and he opened his arms for a hug. Instead she presented him with her copy of Frozen on DVD.

  ‘You know what would be fun?’ Wesley said, making his voice light. ‘Watching any other movie ever made.’

  Evie pouted; it was a losing argument. As soon as he set the film playing for the millionth time she began to run miniature laps of the cramped sitting room, burbling vaguely about building a snowman.

  Mum having work meant food in the cupboards and money on the electricity key, so Wesley knew he shouldn’t complain about babysitting duty. It was being stuck in the flat that really bothered him: the smell of the bins drifting up from downstairs, the rattle of commuter trains passing on the bridge, the peeling wallpaper by the TV and the wall behind it bruised yellow by previous tenants’ cigarette smoke. The patch of damp in their bedroom had blackened and spread over summer, and he was getting worried it would soon gain sentience and eat them in the night.

  It was a shithole. It was also the first place they had lived where they didn’t have to worry about somebody kicking them out in the night. Home, no matter how grim. Wesley was proud of that.

  Still, it was lonely. As much as he loved her, a four-year-old wasn’t the kind of company he wanted. Hours could feel unending if he didn’t find something to fill them. He took out his phone and opened YouTube. There were some new TrumourPixel let’s play videos, showing off his shooter skills.

  ‘What’s up, guys?’ the first video began. ‘Once again we’re on the hunt for a delicious chicken dinner.’

  TrumourPixel wasn’t the best YouTuber out there. It was mainly video game let’s plays, with a few prank videos thrown in. He didn’t have the best equipment, which meant his face in the bottom corner of the screen was always a little blurred. What Wesley liked was that Tru was local, had grown up in all the same places he had, so he understood what it was like. It made him easier to trust.

  ‘The latest patch has slightly nerfed the fire rate of the SCAR assault rifle, but I can still kick ass with it.’ TrumourPixel gunned down three advancing enemies in succession and whooped with delight. ‘You see that? A whole squad of women! That’s why they shouldn’t be allowed to play. Fucking bitches.’ He moved his character to stand over their bodies and teabagged them, crouching and standing repeatedly until somebody else started shooting at him.

  Watching these videos was almost like having someone to sit and play with himself. Half an hour bursts of company. Sometimes Wesley imagined them being friends. Maybe they would be, when Tru learned what they had done to Kat.

  The video finished, TrumourPixel giving his trademark sign-off: ‘The fight never stops.’ Wesley’s stomach rumbled. The smell of damp seemed to grow stronger again. No matter how many videos he watched, sometimes he just n
eeded to escape.

  ‘Eves,’ he called. ‘Fancy a McDonald’s?’

  After Suzy went to university, Kat had spent countless nights lying awake wondering what she’d do if she came home to find Dad collapsed at the foot of the stairs, or some kind of radioactive spillage in the kitchen that had transformed the tea towels into bloodthirsty goblins. The last thing she considered herself was a responsible adult, and she’d never needed to call 999 before. This was probably the right time to start, but people didn’t just randomly fade – it had to be against some law of physics she probably wouldn’t understand.

  ‘Research time,’ she said to herself.

  The phone was pleasingly heavy in her hand, ballast she hoped might keep her from floating away. First, Kat opened her contacts and found her sister’s number. Kat’s thumb hovered over the call button. They hadn’t spoken in months – Suzy hadn’t even come home from university over the summer break – and even if they had she wasn’t sure her sister would believe her about everything that had happened.

  She opened their dormant chat log and tapped out a message instead. Hey, can we catch up soon? Call me. x

  The rest of her contacts was populated by acquaintances at best. There was never any need to exchange numbers with her so-called online friends, and anyway, they’d all been scared off by the trolls. Kat remembered all too well the final conversation with her regular gaming group.

  Sorry, we can’t let you play with us any more, they had said over headsets.

  What do you mean?

  The long silence was ripe with social awkwardness, but Kat had been determined that one of them be brave enough to strike the final blow.

  They said they’d come for us too. We do this to escape that kind of crap, you know? We’re sorry.

  Kat almost asked where she was supposed to go to escape it. It had been so humiliating, like not getting picked for a team in PE, and she’d deleted the game immediately. Another piece of her gone.

  With a hollow pang, she realised she had nobody to tell about what had happened. At least with social media it felt like there were people in the world who cared about what you were doing, who were invested in your existence. In some small way they were always beside you – even if it was just an illusion. She couldn’t go downstairs and talk to Dad, couldn’t face that yet.