I take my thumb off the screen of my phone and then I stop. I’m right at the start of a thread towards the bottom. The first post is from Lewi. I stare down at it. He hasn’t bothered to call round to see us. Or sent a message like everyone else has. Al’s been dead for four days and Lewi, who had known Al for so long, has just stayed silent. I stare down at Lewi’s post. He’s written:
RIP m8, I’m so sorry.
I can’t stop looking at the words. I’m so sorry. Wot did Lewi have to be sorry for? Cause he knows summat? Or cause he left Al when he would’ve needed a mate the most.
I take a screenshot on my phone, and then I click on to Lewi’s Facebook profile. I don’t really know wot I’m looking for, but maybe there’s summat that will tell me why they fell out. And, when I think about it now, that’s when Al started to change. He started spending more time in his room . . . or wanting to walk to school on his own.
I scroll through Lewi’s page. We’ve got fifteen friends in common, most of them from school, or from around Benchill and that, but Al ain’t one of them. They must’ve unfriended each other after they stopped talking. I go to Lewi’s profile pictures. There’s one of him in his bedroom with a bandana pulled up over his face, one of him with his top off standing in front of the mirror at the gym. In another he’s holding his dog, and there’s one where he’s sticking his finger up at the camera, holding a spliff and wearing a T-shirt that says: Smoke Weed Every Day. I click through them all till I’m right at the beginning of the album, in 2014, at Lewi’s first profile picture. It’s a picture of Lewi and Al in Civic Town Centre. The caption underneath it says: Me and mi best m8. Bros 4 lyf.
I click off Lewi’s profile pics, then go to his tagged photos. There’s loads of him taken with Eli and Cole. Pictures of them standing outside McDonald’s in town, one of them all lined up in the gym, their muscles flexed in the mirror, even tho it’s only Eli who seems to have any. There’s a tattoo down Eli’s forearm that says ‘Defender’. Which is Eli’s stupid nickname. A photo taken about seven months ago catches my eye. It’s of Lewi, Eli and Cole, standing round the back of the sports block, their arms draped over each other’s shoulders. I dunno wot it is, but there’s summat about Lewi in the photo that feels off. He’s standing between Eli and Cole. Eli is sticking a finger up at the camera, his hoodie pulled up, so that it’s covering most of his face, and it looks like he’s wearing a balaclava. There’s some writing . . . or drawing or summat . . . that’s been scribbled on Eli’s hand. Cole is laughing his head off, but Lewi looks scared. Frightened.
I didn’t even realize that Lewi was hanging round with Eli and Cole. Eli’s bad news – everyone knows it. And one time I saw Eli and Cole hassling Al. It was nothin major, but why would Lewi ditch his best mate to hang around with people like that? I put my phone back on my bedside table. Lewi let Al down. Wot if Al had killed himself cause he felt alone? Wot could have happened between them to make them fall out so hard?
I ain’t gonna find out wot happened by looking at a few pictures, tho. I need to talk to Lewi.
I switch off my bedroom lamp and turn over in the dark. I’d planned to stay off school for as long as possible, at least then I wouldn’t have to sit any of my GCSEs. But school was where I’d find Lewi, so I needed to go back on Monday. Maybe then I could figure out wot Al had been tryna tell me when he called.
There’s this painting that Picasso did, of a boy leading a horse down a dirt track. The first time you look at it, you think that the boy is holding on to some reins because his fist is clenched and his arm is out at an angle. But, when you look carefully, you can see that the reins were never there. You’ve just imagined them. And, once you see it, once you notice that gap . . . that space . . . you’ll never look at that painting the same way again. No matter how hard you try.
It had all been fine when we’d first got to town, going round all the shops, trying to find the right pair of jeans for Tara, or looking at tops we’d never be able to afford. And, for a bit, it all felt normal. No pain. No crying. No going over the last conversation I’d had with Al, again and again, in my head. Tara pulled me to one side as we left H&M, pushing through all the crowds on Market Street. She linked her arm through mine and stopped for a minute, so that the others could walk on ahead.
‘You know you can talk to me about anything?’ she said. ‘I mean, I am your best mate . . . right?’
I nodded and Tara looked away for a minute, like she was embarrassed that she’d even asked. We could talk to each other about almost everything. The boys we fancied, or the stuff that kicked off on our estate. The latest Beyoncé album, or this new series we’d both been bingeing on on Netflix. I could even talk to her about my dad. For ages, it was like we both kept each other’s secrets. When I started going to see this counsellor after my dad died, Tara never told anyone. And, when we’d all gone drinking in the park and I threw up all over myself, Tara never took the piss. She let me stay at hers cos she knew I’d get into trouble, and she stayed up with me. The whole night. While I cried and was sick. Cried and was sick. When Tara first slept with Eli, I was the only one who knew.
And, when her mum cleared off to London for three weeks, Tara came and stayed with me. We both had each other. But I dunno, I didn’t feel like I could talk to her the way that I could talk to Al. I couldn’t tell Tara how much I loved art, or the fact that I secretly liked school. Or that maybe I wanted to go to uni, too. Being around Al made me realize how much more there was to life.
But Tara was still part of that. She always would be, so I just laughed. ‘Don’t be daft,’ I said. ‘You’ll always be my best mate. Couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.’
Tara smiled. Then we cut through TK Maxx so that we could catch up with the others, and get inside the Arndale much quicker. Then Tara started picking things up, or shoving past people, so that she could go through one of the clothes rails.
‘Eh, Megs,’ she said. ‘D’you remember when we used to do this? Try on the ugliest thing you can find . . .’
And she started pulling on a grey jacket, and grabbing an old person’s hat. We hadn’t played it since we were kids. It was daft really, and it shouldn’t have made us laugh as much as it actually did, but we’d always end up in stitches. I just stood there for a minute cos I didn’t want to look like an idiot, even though it was only me and Tara.
‘Oh, come on,’ Tara said. ‘You really gonna leave me hanging? I swear, you’re the one who came up with this stupid thing in the first place . . .’
She ran over towards another rail, pulling on a fluorescent orange coat with all these feathers stuck to it. And I thought, Fuck it! So I started rummaging through all the different rails, pulling out old fleeces, or shiny PVC jackets. Tara kept shouting, ‘Megs, look at this one!’ I didn’t even care that the others would be wondering what was taking us so long, or that the shop assistants kept giving us dirty looks. It just felt good mucking about with Tara, like we used to.
Tara had put on this coat that was covered in green and yellow patches and was staring at it in the mirror. ‘What the fuck is this?’ she said. ‘Looks like someone went on a bender and threw up on it.’ She smelled the arm. ‘Urgh, smells like someone has, too!’ She turned and started fixing her hair and then her phone went. Tara stared down at the screen for a minute, then she pulled the coat off, and dumped it on top of the clothes rail.