Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Nicky
Three days. It’s taken three days of careful coaxing, of soft suggestions and gentle persistence, but Liam has finally agreed to leave the apartment again.
Not for anywhere ambitious, just the local high street, the kind of chain stores that dot every corner of London like familiar landmarks.
The kind of places we used to mock as teenagers for being boring and corporate, but now feel like salvation because they’re predictable, unthreatening, normal.
“We don’t have to go anywhere fancy,” I’d said this morning over breakfast, watching him pick at his toast with the careful attention of someone rationing supplies. “Just Primark, maybe Next. Get you some clothes that actually fit.”
He’d looked down at himself, swimming in my old joggers and a hoodie that hangs off his thin frame like a tent, and nodded slowly. “Okay,” he’d whispered, and the word felt like a gift. A choice to brave the outside world, and to tolerate my company.
Now, walking beside him down the crowded pavement, I feel something I haven’t experienced in years. Hope. Pure, uncomplicated hope. The kind I used to carry around like loose change in my pocket when we were eighteen and the world felt full of possibilities.
Liam might be able to forgive me for what I have become. He might be able to heal from prison. We might be okay.
It’s a gray November day, the kind of overcast winter afternoon that makes London look like it’s been drained of color.
The sky hangs low and heavy with the promise of rain, and most people hurry past with their heads down and their collars turned up against the cold.
But I don’t care about the weather. I don’t care that the pavement is crowded or that the traffic is loud or that every other person seems to be in a rush to be somewhere else.
Liam is out. Liam is walking beside me, and for the first time since he came home, he doesn’t look like he’s about to bolt.
He’s still careful, eyes scanning the crowd, shoulders tense, staying close enough to me that our arms occasionally brush, but he’s managing.
He flinched when a bus pulled up at the stop beside us, and I saw him press his lips together when a group of teenagers pushed past us laughing too loudly, but he didn’t freeze.
Didn’t shut down. Didn’t ask to go home.
“This okay?” I ask as we approach the entrance to Primark, nodding toward the familiar blue and white sign.
He follows my gaze, and something almost like amusement flickers across his face. “Primark? Christ, Nicky. Remember when you said you’d never be caught dead in Primark?”
I grin, ridiculously pleased that he’s remembered, that he’s making jokes, that there’s a ghost of the old Liam in his voice. “That was before I discovered the joy of five-pound tee shirts.”
“You can afford Armani now.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to buy you Armani for knocking about the flat.”
He glances at me sideways, and for a moment I catch something soft in his expression. Almost fond. “Playing at being normal?”
“Something like that.”
The automatic doors slide open with a cheerful chime, and we step into the organized chaos of budget retail.
The store is busy but not packed. Families with pushchairs are navigating the aisles, teenagers are picking through the graphic tees, and pensioners are examining the reduced rack with the focused intensity of archaeologists.
It’s mundane, ordinary, beautifully boring.
Liam sticks close to me as we make our way toward the men’s section, but I can see him relaxing incrementally. His shoulders drop a fraction. His breathing evens out. When a toddler runs past us chasing a football that’s escaped from the toy section, he even smiles slightly instead of flinching.
“Right,” I say, stopping in front of a display of basic jeans. “What size are you now?”
He shrugs, looking suddenly self-conscious. “Don’t know. Smaller than I used to be.”
I want to say something about how we’ll get him eating properly, how we’ll build him back up, but I bite my tongue. Instead, I pull a few different sizes from the rack. “Try these. Find what fits.”
We work our way methodically through the basics.
Jeans, joggers, tee shirts, a couple of jumpers.
Liam is quiet but engaged, actually expressing preferences, rejecting a shirt because the color reminds him of his prison uniform, choosing a soft gray hoodie because it looks comfortable.
Normal things. The kind of shopping trip we might have taken as teenagers if we’d had any money.
At the fitting rooms, there’s a short queue. We join the line behind a harried-looking mother with three young children and a pensioner clutching a single blouse. The kids are getting restless, bouncing around their mum’s legs and complaining about being bored. Normal family chaos.
“You don’t have to wait,” Liam says quietly. “I can manage.”
“I want to wait,” I tell him, and I mean it. This feels important somehow, this ordinary moment. Like we’re rebuilding something precious from the ground up.
When it’s his turn, he disappears behind the curtain with his armful of clothes, and I lean against the wall to wait.
The store hums around me with the comfortable white noise of commerce, the beep of tills, conversations blending into background chatter, the occasional cry of a cranky child. It’s soothing in its predictability.
Liam emerges fifteen minutes later with most of the items draped over his arm, looking almost pleased. “It fits,” he says, nodding toward the gray hoodie that’s on top of his pile.
“Good. Anything else you need?”
He considers this seriously, and I love that he’s actually thinking about it instead of just shaking his head reflexively. “Maybe some underwear? And socks?”
Such a simple request, but it hits me like a punch to the chest. Of course he needs underwear and socks. Of course the basics of human dignity weren’t provided when he was released. How many other gaps are there in what he needs to feel human again?
“Absolutely,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended. “Let’s get you sorted.”
We make our way to the underwear section, and I let him choose what he wants while I pretend to be interested in a display of discounted scarves. He’s quick and efficient, clearly embarrassed but determined, and when he’s done, we head toward the tills.
The queue is longer now, the afternoon rush beginning as people finish work and duck in for quick purchases.
We join the line behind a woman buying children’s clothes and settle in to wait.
Liam is holding the basket of his new things, and there’s something almost protective in the way he cradles it against his chest.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, not looking at me.
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do.” He glances up, and his blue eyes are serious. “I know this isn’t... I know I’m not easy to be around right now.”
The words cut through me like a knife. “Liam…”
“I’m trying,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want to get better. I want to be... I want to be someone you can stand to live with.”
My heart breaks completely. “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself. You don’t have to earn the right to exist in my space.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but we’ve reached the front of the queue. The cashier, a bored-looking teenager with purple hair and multiple piercings, starts scanning our items with mechanical efficiency. Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Fifty-six pounds, forty-three,” she announces.
I reach for my wallet and pay her while Liam looks away, clearly embarrassed.
I hand him the brown paper bag with his new worldly possessions in, and together we make a beeline for the door.
The security alarm starts blaring.
It’s not the polite chime of the elevator doors or the gentle beep of the till. It’s a harsh, aggressive shriek that cuts through the store’s ambient noise like a siren. Heads turn. Conversations stop. And somewhere behind us, a voice shouts, “Oi! Stop right there!”
I turn to see what’s happening just as a massive security guard, easily six-foot-four and built like a brick shithouse, comes barreling toward the exit. His face is set in the kind of scowl that brooks no argument, and his eyes are fixed on someone.
On Liam.
“You,” the guard barks, pointing a thick finger at Liam’s chest. “Empty your bag. Now.”
The blood drains from Liam’s face so fast I think he might faint. The bag of clothes tumbles from his arms, scattering across the floor around our feet.
“I… what?” Liam stammers, his voice high and thin.
“The alarm went off when you walked through,” the guard continues, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent store. “You tried to walk out with a security tag.”
The security guard’s beady eyes scan the scattered clothes on the floor. “Are you hiding something on you?” he snaps.
I can see the exact moment Liam stops processing words and starts processing threat. His pupils dilate. His breathing becomes rapid and shallow. His whole body goes rigid with the kind of tension that precedes either flight or complete collapse.
“He hasn’t taken anything,” I say quickly, stepping slightly in front of Liam. “We’ve been together the whole time. He’s paid for everything.”
The guard’s attention shifts to me, and his expression doesn’t improve. “And you are?”
“His friend. Look, this is obviously a mistake…”
But before I can finish the sentence, the guard reaches for Liam.
I see it happening in slow motion, the thick hand moving toward Liam’s shoulder, the casual assumption of authority, the complete misreading of the situation. I see Liam’s eyes go wide with terror, see him start to back away, see the guard’s fingers make contact with his sleeve.
And then Liam explodes.
The sound he makes isn’t quite a scream, it’s something more primal than that, more animal. He wrenches away from the guard’s touch with such violence that he stumbles backward into a display of handbags, sending them cascading across the floor.