Chapter 32
Mallory
‘Step back.’ He doesn’t. ‘Leo – step back.’
Flecks of my panicked spit fly into the night air between us as I hiss at him, frantically tying my dressing gown around my waist, checking back through the open door and up the staircase.
Did he hear? Did Ronan hear? He stirred.
He did. When the doorbell went. But he’s had whiskey tonight.
Please God, let him be too drunk to wake.
I pull the door, so it remains open just an inch – I forgot my keys, shit!
And my phone, shit – and turn to face Leo, my bare feet cold on the porch tiles beneath me. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Hi, Maallee.’ He’s slurring. Stumbling. Flopping about. All angular limbs and no centre of gravity, grabbing hold of the wisteria trunk that’s climbing the front of the house to steady himself, then swinging around it. It snaps in his hand. ‘Oops.’
‘Leo – go to the pavement.’
‘But...’ He scratches his head. Under the porch light – blaring over us like an all-revealing halo – he is almost completely translucent.
The veins beneath his pale skin are a poisonous, electric blue, creeping up his neck.
He looks like he has just been dug up from the depths of the sea. ‘It’s nice here.’
He is filthy. And loud. Too loud. ‘Leo, please.’
‘What? You invited me.’
Did I? I may have done. Oh, God. ‘I did not.’ I haven’t been careful. Not at all.
‘Um yeah, you did.’
‘Leo—’
He trips over himself, landing on his knees with a low thud.
It happens instantly, but also slowly, as if his body or his brain is on half speed.
Or the two are disconnected from each other, unable to programme together.
He kneels for a moment, then looks at his hands, frowning.
‘I’m bleeding.’ He is. I can’t tell where the blood is coming from, and apparently neither can he, but it is definitely all over his palms and fingertips, now being pressed into the tiles.
Evidence. Evidence of his presence at our house. ‘That’s weird.’
‘Leo, get up.’ I try to keep my voice calm, but the thickness of anger and panic squeeze at my chest. Attempting to lift him, to move him, to get him off this porch immediately, I pull at his arm, his shoulder, but he remains a dead weight.
I glance up to our bedroom window, to Ronan.
Light still off. Please be asleep. Please. ‘Leo, let’s just—’
‘Can I come in?’ He’s dribbling. Foaming.
A white trail of saliva-paste hanging from his lips, all the way to join the sticky mess of blood beneath him.
It swings as he turns his head to look up at me.
So much evidence. So much body fluid evidence.
‘Everything fucking hurts.’ He starts to crawl towards the partly open door.
This cannot happen.
If Ronan wakes—
If Ronan sees—
A reflex moves me, making me grab the collar of his hoodie and yank.
He chokes, spluttering, but stands. ‘Fuckin HELL that hurts!’ It’s wet.
His hood. Sweat. I think it’s sweat. It’s warm.
But I keep my fingers clasped around the collar as I move around him and pull, hard, so he begins to stumble along with me, down the pathway towards the front gate.
Let’s just get out of the front garden.
To the road.
Then I can think.
But I can’t. Think. I need a plan. An immediate plan.
One is not coming.
I drag him until he is out of the glow of the porch halo, into the half-light of the pavement.
I don’t stop manoeuvring him down it, away from the front of our home, but not wanting to place him directly in front of the neighbours.
When I find a compromise – we’re shielded by the Arkells’ perfectly overgrown bush between the two houses – I let go.
He rubs his neck. Bruises. ‘Fucking hell, you’re brutal,’ he croaks.
Did I cause those? ‘You’re insane.’ No – I can’t have.
They are dark, a few hours old at least. Aren’t they?
The sight of them instinctively makes me want to pull him into me.
He spits.
‘Leo.’
My brain threatens to collapse. I almost lose my balance as it teeters like a block of worn and fragile rocks.
I suddenly remember the Jenga set Ronan got me for Christmas.
It was a stylish one. Each piece engraved with our initials intertwined.
His way of making me engage with him in a more playful manner.
He said I was isolating myself. Losing myself.
Becoming too serious. Too meek. It was expensive – I googled it. From Liberty.
He can be so sweet. So protective.
What have I done?
Will the neighbours hear?
They can’t—
‘Mallory Maddox,’ Leo growls, still rubbing his neck. He knows my full name. ‘Nice ring to it.’ He laughs a strained and hollow croak. ‘Fucking nice house you’ve got yourself. Must be minted.’
‘No,’ is all I can think to say. What do I say?
‘I...’ The porch halo flicks off, the sensor no longer detecting movement, plunging us into a merciful state of relative darkness.
I feel a momentary relief that both our sins are no longer so starkly on display.
The road is so quiet. So still. So safe.
Think, Mallory, think.
He smells indescribable.
I haven’t thought this through.
Any of this.
Reckless. I’ve been so... this whole thing... and if Ronan...
‘Got a tenner?’
‘How do you know where I live, Leo?’
‘Followed you.’
‘You followed me?’
His glazed eyes sharpen their focus on me. ‘You’re a funny one, you.’
‘I...’ He knows. He knows I’ve been watching him. ‘I am not funny.’
‘Just returning the favour.’
‘I don’t—’
‘You’re a liar.’
‘I am not.’
‘Do you have a bath?’
‘A what?’
‘A bath. I could do with one. I’m completely fucked.
’ He’s not wrong. He could do with a bath and he is completely fucked.
But now, so am I. How much does he know?
I glance over my shoulder, up the road and back down it.
Will the neighbours see him? They’ll start asking questions – questions are not good.
‘Bet you’ve got one of those stand-alone ones with swirly feet. ’
‘No.’ We do, actually. ‘You’re not fucked, Leo. You’re not. You just need...’ Oh, God, what does he need? ‘A good sleep.’ He croak-laughs again. ‘Shh. Please – let’s – let’s just...’
‘Ow, fuck.’ He suddenly clutches his head and sways. I reach for him, taking hold of both his shoulders in my hands before he falls.
‘Leo, what’s happened?’
Do I actually want to know what’s happened?
He looks like he’s about to vomit all over me.
‘Easy, Leo.’ I could order him an Uber? But I’d need my phone...
I could drive him back to his, to his...
I want to say home but what I really mean is canal bridge, and I’m not even sure there’d be a postcode for that.
And I’d need my keys. Shit. ‘Listen, Leo—’ I stop, because I see blood on his joggers.
Drip marks. Running down the inner seam.
‘What happened?’ I can’t help myself. For him.
Him. Not the book. ‘Who did that to you?’
He glances down, following my eyeline. ‘Oh.’ I feel his body make a small shudder. ‘Didn’t realise. Sorry.’
‘Where’s the blood coming from?’
‘It’s not mine.’
‘It’s not yours?’
‘Well. Might be.’ Jesus. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
I glance back up to the bedroom window. Mercifully, the light is still off. ‘Give me your phone, Leo. We need to call you an ambulance.’
He pulls back, taking a step away, releasing my hands from his shoulders.
‘No way.’ His voice comes out differently.
Lower. More assured. The most sober he has sounded since he turned up on my porch.
Even, in a way, since I’ve known him. ‘No ambulance. No police. No.’ He lifts his hand out in front of himself, into the air between us. Stop.
‘But... what are you going to do?’
‘I was hoping you’d have the answer to that,’ he says. ‘It’s why I’m here. I’m fucked, Mallory.’
Please stop saying that. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’
‘Yeah.’ He drops his hand. ‘And you are going to help me.’ He seems very sure about this. Very, very confident that this is what will happen.
‘I... I can’t, Leo.’
‘Why not? You told me you’d help.’ I did. I did tell him that. ‘I just need a hundred quid to get me into a hostel for a few weeks. So I can get my shit together.’ He lowers his voice. Narrows his eyes. ‘There are people after me, Mallory.’ People after him? Oh God.
I suddenly feel...
I don’t know.
Something at the base of my skull.
An unusual buzz.
Visceral. Vibrant.
And I realise.
I feel alive.
Like I am here. Living. Right here.
And it is completely amazing.
This world is amazing.
‘Who?’ My voice trembles. ‘Why are they after you, Leo?’
‘Cos I’ve done bad things.’
‘Bad things? What bad things?’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t have time. Are you gonna help me or not?’
‘I—’
‘Can I kip here for the night?’
‘What?’
‘On your couch?’
‘Leo—’
‘I’m low-maintenance.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Keep myself to myself.’
‘But...’
He steps back, eyes suddenly dark. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you? You said you were a sober alcoholic whose primary purpose is to help others. That we should go to any lengths. This is me needing those fucking lengths.’
He looks like he might cry. ‘Yes, but I have a family, Leo.’
He smirks. ‘No, you don’t.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You have a husband. No kids.’
How does he know all this?
Why is he bleeding?
‘Who hurt you, Leo?’
‘Why do you want to know so bad? Huh? What’s in it for you?’
‘What’s in it for me? Nothing is in it for me, Leo.’
‘Then why are you obsessed with me.’
‘I’m not obsessed with you.’
I stop. He stares. I don’t know what else to say.
Oh my God. He’s right.
Isn’t he?
Obsessed. What a horrible word. Secretive. Dirty. Used for someone who is not OK. Who is unbalanced or deranged or—
‘Well?’
‘I...’ Get your shit together, Mallory. Get rid of him. Now. ‘I want to help you. I do. Of course I do. But you need medical attention first. I can’t do that here. So let’s just call an ambula—’
‘Mal?’
Not Leo’s voice this time.
But one I know very well.
When I turn to find Ronan stood behind me on the pavement, it takes me a moment to register the reality of what I see.
For a split second, nothing makes sense.
It is an odd sight. One that makes my stomach drop and the buzzing in the back of my head reach fever pitch.
Not least because Ronan is here, stood in nothing but his boxer shorts.
But also because he is holding my special hardback copy of Pericles in one hand, and my mobile phone in the other.
It’s open.
My phone, not the book.
And I can see the Grindr app glaring back at me from the screen.
Aubergine emojis, Ronan’s hairless nipples, all.