Free The Devil's Trill Sonata by Matthew J. Metzger

Trev asked bluntly. “I saw ’em take your shirt off to have a look. You got maps on there, mate.”
    “I got stabbed,” Darren said, easing himself into a sitting position. Thankfully, he’d been wearing a stretchy T-shirt, so they hadn’t cut it off him, though it was a bit misshapen now. “When I was fifteen.”
    “Jesus,” Trev said. “They get him?”
    “Nope,” Darren said. “Mugging. Gone wrong, he didn’t get my phone he was after. Jammed a knife in the joint and fucked it up, hence you popped it out easily. Busted ligaments and tendons and shit.”
    “ Ouch ,” Trev said.
    “Er,” Darren said. “Hate to ask, but…can you help me with my boots?”
    Trev sniggered. “Sure.”
    “Tell people and die.”
    “It’s cool, mate, I have a kid,” Trev said. “You really a pouf, then? Amy said you was, but we thought she was winding us up.”
    “Bisexual,” Darren said.
    “Yeah? So who’s fit in our group, then?”
    “Amy,” Darren said promptly, and Trev guffawed, lacing his boots for him.
    “Can’t argue with that,” he said. “Got a bloke, then? You said no missus.”
    “Boyfriend,” Darren said. “He’s at university, though. Cambridge.”
    “Bloody fuck.”
    “Mm.”
    “So no offence, mate, but if he’s some Oxbridge toff, what’s he doing with you?”
    “Fuck knows,” Darren said, sliding down off the bed once his boots were laced. His shoulder ached, but the fuzzy edges of drugs were still blunting it. He wanted to be home when this wore off. “Let’s get these drugs and go. I’m going to pop the pills and go to fucking bed.”
    “Good plan. You gonna make it in tomorrow?”
    “Oh, fuck,” Darren grimaced. “I can’t drive.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” Trev said. “I’ll pass your address round the group and sound out someone to pick you up. ‘Ow long does it take to get to the centre from yours?”
    “Half an hour,” Darren said. “I owe you one.”
    “I owe you, for busting your shoulder,” Trev said. “You gonna be all right home on your own?”
    “Yeah, housemate’ll be back by half four at the latest, and it’s her turn to cook tonight anyway,” Darren said. He was suddenly struck by how different this would have been if he’d still been in school, and a little twinge opened up in his chest that was nothing to do with the injury.
    “Good,” Trev said. “Suggestion? Cold water, your face. You look like I beat you up.”
    Darren scowled. “How bad is it?”
    “We-ell,” Trev said. “Given I thought I’d broke your cheekbone, it’s not half bad, actually.”

Chapter 8
    “Oh, my God , your face !” Rachel shrieked the minute she let herself in.
    Trev had insisted on walking Darren up into his flat and leaving a message for Rachel on her mobile. “Just in case you doze off or whatever,” he’d insisted. He’d left after that, promising to text Darren with details of a pick-up. And Darren had been allowed an hour of relative peace to examine his bruised face in the bathroom mirror and take a couple of painkillers before there’d been boots on the stairs and Rachel had barrelled in.
    “That looks epic ,” she pronounced and grinned. “Did you not put your hand out?”
    “Well, Trev had one hand, and I was a bit preoccupied with the searing pain,” Darren said.
    “Bummer,” she said. “Still up for chilli con carne, though?”
    “Yeah, sure.”
    “Good,” she said, settling herself on the sofa and flicking Darren’s small telly on. “What happened, then?”
    Darren told her. He’d managed to gingerly shower after Trev had left, and replaced the sling equally carefully. He felt clean, tired, and ready to eat and sleep, preferably in that order. The flat was warm (the landlady had been cooking up a storm downstairs when they’d come home) and there was just something about sitting around in a dressing gown that made a man feel better.
    “I want to hug you,” Rachel said once he was done.
    “Don’t.”
    “What if I hug