closer he got, the more he thought about turning back, because what was he going to say?
Through the double doors the corridor was dim and quiet and empty. It felt longer than normal, like it was an optical illusion that you could never get to the end of. Except, of course, there he
was, standing outside the blue door with its locks and its doorbell and its sticker with flowers round the outside and
Strangers are just friends not yet made
printed in blue swirly
writing.
As he rang the bell, Stick suddenly thought that there must be fingerprints; Mac’s would still be on the door. Even with visitors and police and whatever, there’d be one, rings
within rings like the inside of a tree. If he had white powder and one of those see-through sheets, he could lift one of Mac’s fingerprints and keep it.
Mrs McKinley opened the door and made a strangled kind of a noise, her hand darting to her mouth and her eyes widening.
‘Mrs McKinley.’ Stick swallowed. He glanced into the flat, half expecting Mac to barrel out of the kitchen, a coconut in one hand, a knife in the other. ‘I brought you
these.’ He held out the flowers.
Mrs McKinley looked at them as though she wasn’t sure what they were and then she reached up a hand and stroked Stick’s cheek, her fingers cold on his skin. He stepped back, but she
took hold of his arm. ‘Come in, come in. He’s just left.’
‘What?’
‘Rob.’ Her whole face looked puffy, like she’d had an allergic reaction. ‘Family liaison officer, he said that’s what they call him.’ She sounded drunk.
‘Nice man. A bit thin.’
Inside, the living room was stuffed full of flowers. Every surface, it seemed, had a vase or a wine bottle or a pint glass full of them. The smell make Stick’s head spin.
He looked down at his flowers. Waste of thirty quid. And how was a bunch of flowers supposed to help anyway?
She took them though, held them against her chest and smiled. ‘Everyone’s so good,’ she said. ‘They all come. Bring flowers, and little plastic boxes of food. Make cups
of tea.’ She let out a sigh. ‘I can’t eat anything.’ She paused. ‘Do you want to take some food, Kieran? There’s so much of it.’
‘You’re all right, Mrs McKinley,’ Stick said. ‘Mum works at Tesco’s, doesn’t she? She gets discount.’
Mrs McKinley nodded. She was still holding the flowers, her fingers worrying at their petals. She’d ruin them, but Stick couldn’t think how to say so, and it didn’t much
matter.
‘Are you— How are—’ Stick felt himself reddening. ‘I just came round to—’ He was trying not to think about Mac, but he was everywhere. Mac stood at the
window eating biscuits straight from the packet. Mac with his Wii, dancing round the room like an idiot. Mac with man flu, lying on the sofa with a duvet, screwed-up tissues spread around him.
‘Should I put those in water?’ he managed to say. He took the flowers off her and went into the kitchen. A bottle of vodka sat on top of the fridge next to an empty plastic bag. The
sink was crowded with glasses. He found a jug in a cupboard, filled it with water and shoved the flowers in. It wasn’t big or heavy enough to keep them straight so he propped them up against
the wall and then turned and looked through the hatch. Mrs McKinley was standing in the middle of the living room staring out of the window. She didn’t move, didn’t turn and look at
him, didn’t cough or check her phone or touch her hair. She looked like a statue. He should make her a cup of tea, go back in and say something to her, take her arm and get her to sit down.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do anything except back out of the kitchen, quietly open the front door and walk down the corridor, his heart up near his throat, telling himself he
was a cunt, a coward, a twat, but leaving all the same.
When he got home, the TV wouldn’t turn on. Stick flicked the living-room light but nothing happened. The fuse
Through the double doors the corridor was dim and quiet and empty. It felt longer than normal, like it was an optical illusion that you could never get to the end of. Except, of course, there he
was, standing outside the blue door with its locks and its doorbell and its sticker with flowers round the outside and
Strangers are just friends not yet made
printed in blue swirly
writing.
As he rang the bell, Stick suddenly thought that there must be fingerprints; Mac’s would still be on the door. Even with visitors and police and whatever, there’d be one, rings
within rings like the inside of a tree. If he had white powder and one of those see-through sheets, he could lift one of Mac’s fingerprints and keep it.
Mrs McKinley opened the door and made a strangled kind of a noise, her hand darting to her mouth and her eyes widening.
‘Mrs McKinley.’ Stick swallowed. He glanced into the flat, half expecting Mac to barrel out of the kitchen, a coconut in one hand, a knife in the other. ‘I brought you
these.’ He held out the flowers.
Mrs McKinley looked at them as though she wasn’t sure what they were and then she reached up a hand and stroked Stick’s cheek, her fingers cold on his skin. He stepped back, but she
took hold of his arm. ‘Come in, come in. He’s just left.’
‘What?’
‘Rob.’ Her whole face looked puffy, like she’d had an allergic reaction. ‘Family liaison officer, he said that’s what they call him.’ She sounded drunk.
‘Nice man. A bit thin.’
Inside, the living room was stuffed full of flowers. Every surface, it seemed, had a vase or a wine bottle or a pint glass full of them. The smell make Stick’s head spin.
He looked down at his flowers. Waste of thirty quid. And how was a bunch of flowers supposed to help anyway?
She took them though, held them against her chest and smiled. ‘Everyone’s so good,’ she said. ‘They all come. Bring flowers, and little plastic boxes of food. Make cups
of tea.’ She let out a sigh. ‘I can’t eat anything.’ She paused. ‘Do you want to take some food, Kieran? There’s so much of it.’
‘You’re all right, Mrs McKinley,’ Stick said. ‘Mum works at Tesco’s, doesn’t she? She gets discount.’
Mrs McKinley nodded. She was still holding the flowers, her fingers worrying at their petals. She’d ruin them, but Stick couldn’t think how to say so, and it didn’t much
matter.
‘Are you— How are—’ Stick felt himself reddening. ‘I just came round to—’ He was trying not to think about Mac, but he was everywhere. Mac stood at the
window eating biscuits straight from the packet. Mac with his Wii, dancing round the room like an idiot. Mac with man flu, lying on the sofa with a duvet, screwed-up tissues spread around him.
‘Should I put those in water?’ he managed to say. He took the flowers off her and went into the kitchen. A bottle of vodka sat on top of the fridge next to an empty plastic bag. The
sink was crowded with glasses. He found a jug in a cupboard, filled it with water and shoved the flowers in. It wasn’t big or heavy enough to keep them straight so he propped them up against
the wall and then turned and looked through the hatch. Mrs McKinley was standing in the middle of the living room staring out of the window. She didn’t move, didn’t turn and look at
him, didn’t cough or check her phone or touch her hair. She looked like a statue. He should make her a cup of tea, go back in and say something to her, take her arm and get her to sit down.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do anything except back out of the kitchen, quietly open the front door and walk down the corridor, his heart up near his throat, telling himself he
was a cunt, a coward, a twat, but leaving all the same.
When he got home, the TV wouldn’t turn on. Stick flicked the living-room light but nothing happened. The fuse
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