Chapter Five
Friday
Joshua:
I'm bricking it for football try-outs. Absolutely fucking bricking it. My head hasn't shut up the entire walk across campus.
The pitches are on the far side. I follow the brick walkway round, keeping my head down so I don't have to make awkward eye contact with people I barely know. The grass is slick from earlier drizzle, and the sun is out for once, which makes a nice change from the constant rain we've had lately.
My phone's already buzzed three times since I left the flat. I turned it to silent somewhere around the second one, not bothering to look, because I already know, and today is not the day. It’s never going to be the day I’ll willingly talk about it.
By the time I reach the fields, I've half convinced myself to sack the whole thing off. My stomach’s in bits, and I feel like I might throw up.
I turn onto the gravel path that leads to the pitch and come to a complete stop when I reach the gate.
Because the first thing I see is a tall, broad bloke who looks suspiciously like a blonde version of Ewan—grinding his hips in slow, dramatic circles against Oscar Hollis's leg to Don’t Cha by The Pussycat Dolls.
“Cam, I swear to fucking God," Oscar hisses, mortified, shoving at Cameron's hip with one hand. "Stop grinding on me."
Cameron spins on his heel, one arm raised, wiggling his hips from side-to-side. "What was that? You want me to grind harder?"
Oscar slaps a hand flat to Cameron's chest, pushing him back. "I will cut your dick off and feed it to you."
Cameron drops into an exaggerated squat, then drags his hips slowly upward, his crotch almost brushing Oscar's thigh. Oscar bursts into surprised laughter, stumbling back, his hands raised in defeat.
Cameron gestures to his crotch. "You love my dick. I know it. I just can’t prove it.”
"I have never thought about your dick," Oscar groans, amused and disgusted by the weird fucker.
"I don't believe that's true."
There are several others watching the show, waiting for the trial to start. Their faces mirror my own—abject horror and blatant fear, camaraderie rippling through us. We could be his next target, and we must work together to take him out if we are.
Oscar isn’t half as disturbed as the rest of us. "Are you saying you think about my dick?"
"Every day!" Cameron declares, one hand pressed to his chest, the other thrown up to the sky like he's performing Shakespeare. "It's all I think about."
"You are sick in the head, Cam."
"Then why do you love me so much?"
"Do I?" Oscar deadpans, the laughter draining out of him.
"Yes," Cam steps closer, jabbing a finger at Oscar's face which Oscar smacks away. "And you can deny it until the cows come home, but no one will believe you. We can see it in your face."
"The only person I’m in love with is Emma."
"Holy shit.” Cam stifles a groan. “You are such a wet wipe. Do you hear yourself? Emma this, Emma that. Blah, blah, blah. Get a hold of yourself."
"Why would I get a hold of myself when the hottest girl in the world will do it for me?"
Cam's shock is evident. He steps in close, face inches from Oscar's. "Are you finally going to talk to me about your sex life?"
Oscar pushes his face away with two fingers. "Not even slightly."
"You're a real dick."
"Is that why you think about my dick so much?"
"Yes. You're a dickhead." Cam lifts both hands and mimes wanking a giant invisible dick on Oscar's head. "Giant one. Practically drags your head back to the floor."
Oscar laughs again.
I haven't moved an inch. Too busy wondering what the hell I've walked into and how Ruby expects me to fit in with these absolute fruit-loops?
Cam is still pretending to wank off the imaginary dick on Oscar's head when he suddenly freezes mid-motion, eyes flicking over Oscar's shoulder. He notices me and I nearly turn on my heel and bolt.
"Ohhh," he says loudly, pointing directly at me, causing every single bloke on the pitch to rear their heads. "We've got a NEW ONE."
Oscar's head whips around and his eyes land on me also.
I go stiff.
Fucking hell.
This isn't how I imagined any of this going. I thought it would be a normal football trial.
Cam jogs toward me with the energy of a golden retriever on cocaine, one arm lifted in a welcoming wave. "HI!" he calls, skidding to a stop in front of me. He looks me up and down like he's assessing livestock. "Strong build. Nice shoulders. Welcome, mate."
"Cam, Jesus Christ." Oscar comes up beside him, giving me a look equal parts apology and resignation. "Sorry about him. He's totally fucking insane, but I promise he’s harmless."
"S'alright." I grunt, shifting my weight and trying not to look like I'm two seconds from running as I scream.
Cam beams. "He said it's alright! See, Oscar? I'm charming."
"You're one sandwich short of a picnic," Oscar mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Then his hand drops and his attention comes back to me. "You good? Here for try-outs?"
"Yeah.”
"What's your name?" Cam asks, stepping closer and tilting his head like he's inspecting me for defects.
"Uh. Josh?"
Cam barks out a laugh. "Are you asking me or telling me?"
I swallow. "Telling you? I think?”
"You sound about as steady as a hungover fresher on a moving bus."
Oscar winces. "Cam—"
"I like it," Cam continues. "Shows fear. I can work with fear."
My hackles raise. “Fuck off, mate. I'm not afraid."
"You're sweating through your shirt, Josh."
I am sweating, but that's more because I power-walked across campus than anything else. It's not them I'm scared of. It's the idea of letting myself down. Of proving every awful thought in my head right.
Besides, I always pictured James being here with me.
That was the plan. The two of us doing Uni football together, tearing up the pitch like we always did.
I don't know if it was because we were twins or because we spent our entire lives side by side, but I could always predict his next move.
Every pass, every sprint, every shift in direction.
We were impossible to challenge when we were together.
Now it's just me.
I clear my throat, pushing the thoughts down before they drag me somewhere I can't come back from, but as usual the grey wolf of depression that circles my brain starts to pace.
Oscar gives me one last nod before turning back towards the growing group of lads gathering in the middle of the pitch.
He claps his hands twice, already slipping into captain mode as he starts pointing people towards cones and barking instructions, but only gets a few steps before he slows again.
I catch him glancing back over his shoulder at me, a frown slowly pulling at his face as though something isn't sitting right.
Cam notices none of it.
"What are you doing?" he shouts, already bounding away from the gate like a dog hopped up on speed. "Get over here."
I inhale a few steadying breaths before forcing myself to follow him.
I'm here.
I'm doing this.
Even if every part of me feels like it's missing its other half.
We barely cover a few yards when Oscar stops altogether.
"Hang on a minute." Cam slows beside me and we both look at him.
Oscar is standing a short distance away, looking directly at me.
The lads gathering around him carry on chatting amongst themselves, but he doesn't seem to pay them any mind.
His eyes stay fixed on my face, narrowing slightly, like he's trying to drag a memory out from somewhere. "Why do I recognise you?"
My stomach drops. "Uh..." I clear my throat. "I had coffee with your sister the other day?"
Oscar shakes his head. "No, I know that. It's something else." He studies me for another second. "Do you have a brother? Jack... James... something like that?"
My heart stutters. "Uh... no."
He doesn't look convinced. "You sure? You've got the same jaw. Same eyes."
I force a shrug, hoping my face isn't giving me away. "Nope. Just me."
"That's weird." He scratches the back of his neck, still thinking. "I'm sure I knew a lad called James who looked exactly like you. He went to St. Peter's.”
Nausea burns my throat. That's our school. He fucking knew James. Oh fuck.
Oh fuck.
I can’t talk about this here and now. In an ideal world I would talk about it never.
I’m a fucking mess.
I haven’t worked out yet how I’m supposed to tell people.
It makes people look at you differently.
It takes the simplicity out of everything.
I won’t just be another guy trying out for the football team.
I’ll be the guy with a dead brother. It irrevocably changes things.
I become this damaged thing they have to interact with.
Someone who should be handled with care.
Oscar tears his eyes away from me and looks across at Cam. "Do you remember those twin brothers who nearly stole the Premi from us?" he asks. "The pair who tore us apart every time we played them?"
Cam's forehead creases for barely a second before his eyes light up. "Yeah,” he says slowly, expression turning thoughtful. “The freaky good pair. One blonde, one dark-haired. The dark-haired one was a fucking menace down the left.” He taps an index finger to his temple. “What were their names?"
"James and—something," Oscar scowls. "Everyone called them the Hardy twins, didn't they?"
That's it.
Game over.
They'll have to send my body back to Mum and Dad with an apology.
Dear Mr and Mrs Hardy,
Unfortunately, your remaining son has keeled over on a football pitch. Cause of death: panic. Contributing factors include shit timing, shit hair, and a lifelong inability to catch a fucking break.
“I’m sure it began with a ‘J’!” Cam tacks on.
“It did, didn’t it?” Oscar puts his hands on his hips.
Why can’t I escape it all? First Bonnie. Now these two headcases knew us. My head is going to explode clean off my shoulders.
Cam points at me, eyes narrowing. "Yeah. You do kind of look like them. Where are you from?"