“A few days ago. He came round for food. He was a right mess—dirty clothes, greasy hair, shivering. I think he’s back on the—” her voice faltered. His mother couldn’t bring herself to say ‘drugs.’
The family had been through hell the past five years. His stepdad Mike had died of a sudden thrombosis. His mother came home from work to find him cold and face down in the hallway. She was heartbroken. Dad had been her rock. He’d treated Nick as his own, and he’d been the only father he could remember. Mike and his mother had been together since he was two, after Nick’s father had run off to Spain with some woman from his job. They were the strongest couple Nick knew. They’d had Chris, his younger brother, when Nick was eight. Chris had always been unruly. If there was trouble, he’d locate it like a sniffer dog and join in. Worse, his mother refused to move from the Estate. It wasn’t safe for her there. When they’d been kids, it hadn’t been Hyde Park, but she could safely get around. That had all changed now. But she stayed because it reminded her of Mike.
Nick was always sent out to retrieve Chris and to warn the troublemakers off. Thanks to being the older one, he’d grown tough. He’d had to. When every third kid on a rough London housing estate owns a blade as sharp as broken glass, you learn to be one step ahead.
After his father died, Chris’s life completely derailed. He sunk into drugs, big time. No more cheeky little spliffs for him. He wanted the big stuff.
Chris had stolen to pay for it. And more often than not, he rubbed the wrong people the wrong way. The police had him in the nick a few years back, and when Nick was in his first year of an MBA, he was sent away for three months. Their mother had begged him to help her send Chris to rehab.
She’d been so depressed she couldn’t see that in order to help, he’d had to trash all his future plans and work all hours to pay the fees for proper addiction treatment. If she’d been thinking properly, maybe she would have seen what she’d asked him to give up. His future.
They had sent Chris away to a rural retreat where the closest thing to a stimulant was nettle tea. He got clean. But eventually London came calling. Old gangs sought him out. If there was one thing Chris was good at, it was running drugs. He was swift and always had a decent escape route. After all, London was his playground.
Nick had suspected for months that Chris was slipping back into old habits. And this disappearance all but confirmed it.
“Let me have a look around,” he said with a sigh. All he really wanted was a workout and a beer after his long day at work. He had a shift later at the bar. “Don’t panic yet.”
Nick pulled on a hoodie and a jacket and made his way to Brixton on his motorcycle. Normally, he would have taken the Tube, but this way he could check the streets for signs of his brother.
He arrived at the apartment block where Chris rented. It was a tall, grubby building with dusty windows and laundry hanging over the scruffy balconies. Beer bottles and cans littered the entrance and the elevator was pasted shut by a paper sign, “Out of order.”
Fantastic.
He climbed the three echoey flights of stairs, which reeked of piss, vinegar and stale fish oil, to find Chris’s floor. He could hear a baby crying in one apartment while a couple screamed at each other in another. He shuddered. He just wanted to check on Chris and get the hell out of here. Back to the life he’d carved for himself. This brought back too many memories of how they’d lived after his stepfather was gone.
Nick stopped at number 23. He made a fist, ready to bang on the door, but noticed it was opened slightly. He gave it a gentle push.
Oh shit.
Chris’s belongings were strewn all over. The sofa cushions were piled on the floor, picture frames lay smashed on the sticky, brown carpet. Squares of burnt tinfoil littered the coffee table. Heroin? You stupid little shit.
The room looked like the aftermath of a tornado. Clearly someone was after his brother. Or after something Chris had. There were no bloodstains, which ruled out various worst-case scenarios in Nick’s mind.
He frantically dialed Chris’s number. Pick up, you tosser. Please let this be some stupid fight with one of your mates. Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. There was no answer.
Nick rubbed his jaw as he thought. He wouldn’t touch a thing in here. This wasn’t his mess. But finding Chris was. He needed to set his mother’s mind at rest somehow. He couldn’t have her sliding back into the darkness. Not now that he was almost in a position to look after her properly.
He closed the apartment door with a tug, leaving the chaos behind and made his way back to his bike, flicking through every face connected to Chris in his memory, hoping for a flash of inspiration about whom he could be staying with.
His phone rang from an unknown number.
“Nick, it’s me,” came a slurred voice.
“Where the fuck are you?” Nick could barely contain his worry and rage. While he was relieved beyond measure to know his brother was alive, anger took over at the realization of yet more stupidity and trouble. He had tried so fucking hard to move forward with his life, yet somehow his brother always managed to drag him ten steps back.
“I can’t tell you that, mate.”
“Don’t mate me. Do you know how worried Mum is?”
“Yeah. I know, I know. I’ll get it sorted man.”
“Get what sorted?”
“I just need money.”
Again.
“This time, I don’t have anything to give you Chris,” Nick hissed. “I can’t keep bailing you out.”
“They’re going to kill me.”
His brother’s words hung in the silence. Nick held his breath. “What have you done?” he begged in a whisper.
“I used their gear. I spent their money. I’m a total fuck up.”
“Yes. You are…”
“I’m going to stop after this,” Chris vowed, his voice cracking, revealing his desperation. “These guys are wankers. It won’t be a pretty little bullet in the head. It’ll be a dramatic torture fest.”
Nick winced at the words. “What do you want me to do about it? Can’t you come and hide out at my place?” That was the last thing Nick wanted, but he wasn’t going to let his brother die.
“Don’t be stupid, bruv,” Chris jeered. “It’s not safe. They’ll come after you. I just need you to find the money to pay them off. Then it’ll all be over. I’ll get away from here after that. You never even have to fucking speak to me again if you don’t want to.”
“How much,” Nick sighed and asked with eyes closed.
“Ten grand.”
Motherfucker. Nick inhaled sharply. How the hell was he suppose to magic up ten thousand quid? The last time he checked he’d run out of wishes from his genie lamp.
“This is a new low for you Chris,” Nick said, his body shaking. What the fuck was he going to do? He didn't have that kind of money. But was he supposed to let his mother down? You might not have the money, but you know someone who does.
Shit. He wasn’t going to go there. That Simon guy made him feel slimy as fuck. There was another way. He’d figure it out. “You’ll need to give me a way to contact you. I’ll do my best. But this is the last time. I can’t keep covering your selfish ass. You are killing your own mother. You hear that?” He hung up.