“Anything else?”
El shakes his head.
We wait outside the bathroom, standing opposite each other, backs pressed to the wall. The corridor’s so narrow I could reach out and stroke his hand, but would that be appropriate? I’ve no idea. So I just stand there looking at my shoes, and he stands there looking at his socks. Red socks with yellow lightning strikes. It’s the insignia of The Flash. Is he wearing them for me?Shut up, stupid brain! Not the time.
“Bradley Hinchcliffe,” he mutters.
I look up. Everyone in Ferrivale knows that name. My mum and dad had their twentieth wedding anniversary at Hinchcliffes last year. Mike and I had to act as if we’d never been before, and Mike almost overplayed it, walking around and pretending to be wowed by the glitzy nightclub decor, then pleading with my dad to buy us a couple of beers when we’d actually snuck in half a dozen times already. I’m not much of a drinker but on our last visit a supernaturally flexible Mike got so toasted he actually managed to throw up in the pocket of his pulling trousers. Yes, Mike has pulling trousers.
I’m about to ask El what he means when the paramedics trundle his aunt out on this mini-wheelchair thing. Her head’s patched and her eyes are a little more focused. She calls out weakly and El grabs her hand.
“Can I come with?”
The beardy paramedic nods. “But only one of you.”
“Dylan.” His eyes cut to me. “Could you do me a massive favour?”
“Course.”
He fishes in his pocket and throws me a set of keys. I catch them one-handed, which is a kind of miracle.
“Bring me some clothes to the hospital? I’m sorry, could you get a taxi or something? I’ll pay you back.”
The paramedics push on and the passage is so tight that El’s forced to let go of his aunt. Before following, he closes the gap between us and cups my hand around the keys. A little of the terror has gone out of him and I tremble slightly when he brings my hand up to his lips.
“Thank you, I won’t forget this.”
And then he’s gone and I’m alone in the flat.
A clock ticks, a radio plays. Someone downstairs starts a washing machine. I exhale. There’s one door here I haven’t tried. With the keys still tight in my fist, I wander down the hall. I almost feel like I should knock, show some kind of respect, I don’t know, because I’m about to experience a part of El that maybe he wouldn’t have chosen to share just yet. I turn the handle and step inside.
His smell hits me first. Almost every library afternoon, I’ve found an excuse to lean over, showing him some passage or drawing in a book, just so I can drink in this smell. It’s hard to describe: the citrus of his deodorant blended with his own natural El-ness. I paw at the wall and find the switch. A single bulb plinks on.
Drawings and paintings everywhere. Not a bit of wall left. El has made himself a cocoon, and it’s papery and perfect. Aside from his smell, my senses catch the dustiness of his pencils and a sharp sting from the turpentine he uses to clean his brushes. The tiny room is overwhelming. So many spiralling colours and images: a teenager in a red coat swinging on a branch, her mirror-self caught in a puddle; our school at twilight, something creeping and monstrous at the windows; a prison cell holding a little girl, her pudgy hand reaching between the bars, something white and broken in her palm.
My eyes drift to his bed, neatly made. I want to fall into it, roll myself in the sky-blue sheets, but I have to get to the hospital. There’s this neat built-in wardrobe in the corner where I find fresh T-shirts and a hoodie. I’m about to grab one of each when I realize my own black T-shirt is also smeared with blood. Will he mind? Trembling slightly, I take a canary yellow T – because El doesn’t do black – and quickly change.
I press my hand to my chest. The shirt almost swamps me and it’s garish and I love it. I can’t help lifting the collar and breathing him in. I can’t help kissing the fabric. Yes, I’m that pathetic. I carefully fold the spare clothes into El’s gym bag, and I’m heading out of the room, when I see another drawing at the head of his bed.
I drop the bag. Zombie-walk across the room. Place my fingers against the yellow sheet tacked to the wall. It’s me. Gangly, gawky, klutzy, freckly, bedheady me, and somehow he’s caught me exactly as I am andhas made me beautiful. I put my fist to my mouth and breathe slowly through clenched fingers. This is how he sees me. Beautiful. And then I realize how I’m positioned, smiling downwards, my eyes cast at whoever is sleeping in the bed below.
And I don’t think any more.
I know.
I know I love him.
No one’s up by the time I get home from Gemma’s party, so I manage to creep into bed unnoticed. In seconds, I’m asleep, and for the first time since I lost you, El, I dream no dreams of you.
Opening my eyes the next morning, I raise a hand to the sunlight pouring through the window. I yawn, stagger upright, and stumble across the hall into the shower. Bullets of warm water drum my back. It feels good. But it was my need to feel good that got you killed, and so I turn the dial until the water scalds me raw.
Stepping out of the tub, I rub an oval in the bathroom mirror. I wonder what you’d say if you could see me now, El? My skin has this blotchy texture and the circles under my eyes are as bad as Mike’s post-chemo. I cinch a towel around my waist and head back to my bedroom.
It stinks. Half-eaten sandwiches and mouldering bits of fruit circle my bed like offerings made to a mummified pharaoh. I dry myself and search my drawers for a fresh T-shirt. I’m about to pluck out the inevitable black when a swatch of yellow catches my eye. It’s the shirt I borrowed the day of Julia’s accident. My fingers shake as I tease it gently from the drawer.
The yellow T hasn’t been washed since that day. I can still see the sweat stains under the armpits. As I pull it up to my face, I pray to the god I don’t believe in, and maybe He answers, because your smellishere. Oh, El, you’ve no idea how many hours I’ve spent ransacking this room for something that still held a trace of you. How did I miss this?
It’s only when I catch the time on my Superman alarm clock that I break free of memories. 12.47 p.m. Crap. I place the yellow T-shirt back in the bottom drawer, promising myself that I’ll vacuum-seal it, so your smell will be preserved forever, then pull on the usual black T-shirt and jeans and race downstairs.
