I fold the drawing and drop it back inside my drawer. Then I climb into bed next to Phoebe and stare up at the plastic comet. I look at it till the shape starts to blur and my eyes get heavy. I hear Al’s voice inside my head: ‘You wouldn’t know it, but all stars, all of them, are in this constant conflict with themselves. Like, all the time. There’s gravity and the mass of the star pulling it inwards, but then there’s this other force pushing it back outwards against the gravity. Then, in the middle, where they meet, you get this fusion. That’s where the energy comes from. The star collapses in on itself, and another one is born. Imagine that. Something in so much conflict all the time, so much pain, but it still creates something so . . . so . . . beautiful.’
*
There’s this tingling feeling creeping up all over my body. I’m standing at the bottom of the staircase that leads to the attic room, the darkness closing in around me. I place my hand on the wall, feeling the coldness of it spreading through my fingers. I take one step at a time till I’m outside Al’s door. His bedroom light is on. I walk in, staring at the walls covered in old Blu-Tack marks. I pass this map that Al had pinned up of the places he’d wanted to visit – the Atacama Desert, Death Valley, the Empty Quarter, the Brecon Beacons. Where he could go and see the stars. He’d drawn this route across the map that led out of Manchester and went right across the world. Like he wanted to escape, like he wanted to get as far away from this place as possible.
I look at Al’s paintings, his revision notes, at an exam timetable he’d highlighted. His bed hasn’t been touched, and his clothes are still neatly folded at the bottom. Above his bed there’s a hanging mobile of stars made outta cardboard. I walk over to his desk, looking at his open sketchbook, and I see that picture – Al cowering in the corner, surrounded by all those people with no faces. My throat tightens and I turn the page and the bodies are there again, but the faces get darker. I flick faster, going through page after page. It’s like the drawings are coming to life, moving across the paper.
And then I see the words Help me again and again.
I can’t stop myself from flicking through. Like I’ve got no control over my hand. The words get bigger:
Help me. Stop them. Help me. PLEASE.
I want to turn away, but I can’t. I just keep going, and then I hear it. A sound from somewhere above me, so faint that it’s almost a whisper.
‘Nate,’ I hear. ‘Please . . . please . . .’
I move my eyes upwards and then I see him.
Al.
His green-and-black tie wrapped round one of the wooden roof beams. His desk chair placed just beside his feet, his skin pallid and waxy. I stare up at his body, at the way that his feet hang, at the laces of his school shoes that are undone – frayed and trailing down. His eyes are open, and he’s kicking, struggling, like he’s trying to move through water – or something thicker. Treacle. Quicksand. Tar.
‘Help me,’ Al says.
Blood pounds in my ears, and my breath echoes all around me, filling the room, pressing hard against my chest. It’s like there’s this balloon inside me that’s being blown up and up and it’s gonna burst any minute. My palms begin to sweat and I climb on to the chair, my legs trembling, reaching for Al’s tie. I touch the shiny fabric, trying to undo it, but my fingers slide over the knot again and again. I can see the air slowly leaving Al’s body, his face tensing. I pull and tug, trying to undo the knot.
‘Hold on,’ I tell him. But it’s wrapped too tightly, cutting into his neck, hurting him. I shout for help, pushing my fingers against Al’s neck, trying to loosen the tie, slacken it, unravel it just a little.
‘Hold on,’ I repeat. I can feel my chest tightening and the tears starting to come.
I shout for help again, but no one’s there.
Al struggles, his face turning this weird colour, his hands raised up towards his tie.
‘Hold on!’ I shout at him. ‘Bro, you’re gonna be okay. You’ve just got to—’
I pull and I tug, but I can tell that it’s too late. That I’m too late. I shout Al’s name. Trying to stop him somehow, trying to keep hold of him, and then I feel it. A hand pressing down hard on my shoulder . . .
‘It’s all right,’ a voice says. ‘Nate, I’ve got you, yeah?’
I open my eyes. My room is so bright from the big light that’s been switched on that I have to shield my eyes. I’m drenched in sweat and the bedsheets are tangled and wrapped round me. Saul is there, his fade starting to grow back, a love bite on his neck. I pull at the edge of my duvet cover, wiping away the sweat. I shuffle myself upwards, resting my head in my hands.
‘I couldn’t save him,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t save Al.’
‘I know,’ Saul says. ‘I know.’
I start to cry. I feel stupid, fucking stupid, for crying, but I can’t help it. It’s like summat’s broken inside me and it won’t heal. Saul sits down next to me, making the mattress sag beneath his weight, his muscles showing under his thin vest. He pulls me to him, wrapping his arms round me, and I close my eyes, breathing in his cigarette and aftershave smell. Wishing it would all go back to how it used to be. Wishing I’d just answered Al’s call, or left school earlier, or fucking noticed that summat was up.
Wishing that I’d been a better brother.
I dunno how long we sit there, but I suddenly feel all awkward and it’s like Saul doesn’t know wot to do, either. I move away, turning to look at the tangled covers and the space in my bed.
‘Where’s Phoebe?’ I say.
Saul cracks his knuckles. ‘You started screaming, so she ran to get me. I put her back in her own bed.’ He pauses and opens and closes his fist, watching his muscles tense. ‘It scared her, y’know. When you started screaming like that. Saying those things . . . saying Al’s name.’ He stops. ‘It’s like you were possessed or summat.’
I stare at him. ‘You think I started screaming for the fun of it?’
‘I never said that,’ he says. ‘It’s just . . . I’m worried. It’s not the first time this has happened.’
‘Well, we can’t all be like you, y’know. We can’t all just go around pretending like none of this happened. Like Al ain’t gone.’
Saul turns to me, anger in his eyes. ‘You fucking think I ain’t upset?’ he says. ‘That I’m not hurting. Fuck, Nate. Not a minute goes by when I don’t think about him. When I don’t wish . . . I miss him, too. Just as much as you do.’
We sit there, in silence, staring into space.
‘Why do you think he did it?’ I say.
Saul stiffens and shifts over on my bed. ‘I dunno,’ he says. ‘How am I supposed to know that? How’s anyone supposed to know?’ He pauses. ‘It ain’t like he left a note or nothin.’
I think about the drawing and my throat tightens.
‘I suppose,’ I say. ‘But don’t you wanna find out? Don’t you wanna know? Wouldn’t you feel better if you knew the reason?’
‘Al’s dead, Nate.’ Saul’s words come out cold. ‘It ain’t like we can ask him, is it? And, even then, wot will it change?’