Free Crossbones Yard by Kate Rhodes

from her face when she pushed open the living room door. His thin form was stretched out on the settee, like a living scarecrow.
    ‘Jesus,’ she whispered. ‘How long’s he been like that?’
    ‘About six months, but the last few weeks have been the worst. He won’t see a doctor, because he thinks his GP wants to slam him back in hospital. And he’s using every fucking drug he can lay his hands on, except the lithium he needs.’
    Lola sat beside me and pressed her hand on top of mine. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Al?’
    ‘What could you do? I’ve taken him to specialists, but he always runs away.’
    ‘God, you poor thing.’ Lola’s green eyes fixed on me. ‘When’s the last time you had a good cry?’
    ‘On my thirtieth birthday. Too much vodka.’
    ‘You worry me, Al. You really do. I cry if the bus is late, but you’ve forgotten how. You’re so bloody controlled.’
    ‘So everyone keeps telling me.’
    ‘Because it’s true.’
    ‘Someone’s got to be, in my family,’ I said sharply.
    ‘You don’t have to do it all by yourself.’
    ‘I do, Lola.’ I stared at her. ‘I’m all he’s got.’
    She wrapped an arm round my shoulder. ‘Do you know what you need to do?’
    ‘I dread to think.’
    ‘Watch Love Story . Do you the world of good to bawl your eyes out for a few hours.’
    Lola retreated back to bed with a plate of toast, and I carried on racking my brains. I’d already rung Narcotics Anonymous, and researched rehab centres in the UK and abroad, but none of it was any use unless Will agreed to be treated. He was still fast asleep, hands balled into fists, fighting monsters in his dreams. I tiptoed into the hall and peered under the flap of his rucksack. It was crammed with dirty clothes: socks, shirts and jeans that hadn’t seen a washing machine in weeks. Underneath them there was a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance , a scrap of paper with phone numbers scrawled all over it and a silver foil package, no bigger than my thumb. I held it to my nose: it was a lump of cannabis resin, giving off its odd smell of treacle and musk. God knows what other drugs he kept hidden under the seats in his van.
    I was just about to put everything back when something else caught my eye, glinting against the canvas. I fished it out and let it rest in my hand, cold and compact. Our teacher
showed us flick-knives once at school. He warned us that they were lethal, so all the boys wanted one. A gang of them disappeared behind the science block at lunch break to show off their weapons. I released the safety catch and a six-inch blade flicked out, sharp enough to slice my fingers to the bone.
    A picture of my brother as a boy appeared out of nowhere. I remembered the way he used to stand there, completely passive, when my father lashed out at my mother or me. For some reason it was never his turn. All he had to do was watch, and I’d never questioned why. I’d always assumed that he took the path of least resistance, too scared to run or call for help. But the expression on his face had been more complicated than pure fear. There was a mix of emotions there: excitement, voyeurism, maybe even envy of my father’s power.
    I stared down at the blade in my hand, then folded it back into its sheath. By now Will was shifting in his sleep, beginning to wake up, so I dropped the knife back into his bag.
    By the evening he was less agitated. Lola ran him a bath, and he didn’t even flinch when she teased him about his beard.
    ‘Going for the beatnik look, are you, William?’
    ‘I ran out of razors, that’s all.’
    ‘Use one of mine. Go on, liberate that handsome face of yours.’
    Sitting in my room I listened to Lola trying to flirt with Will, as if nothing had changed. It was months since he’d sounded so relaxed. He could string whole sentences together if he chose to. There was no more talk of strangers arriving in the night. Maybe he was fine with everybody else, and it was only me he