Free Being Small by Chaz Brenchley Page B

be such a dead end sometimes, a real conversation-killer.
    “That’s – unexpected,” he said. “I thought – well, no, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Accident, leukaemia, whatever. But when you said your twin was dead, I did think it might make this easier, introducing you to Quin. If you’d been there before, one way or another. Never mind. Big change of subject, or at least I think it’s a change of subject. Michael, why don’t you have a dog of your own?”
    “I did,” I said. “He died,” and not such a change of subject after all, though no one had yet been crass enough to make the comparison. Except me, perhaps, and only in my head. Jack had been dependent on me too, and I was responsible for his death too, and he deserved to have his story told. Just not by me, not yet; I was still too guilty and too sore. Still hungry to suffer, my mother said, and she said I didn’t deserve it. She tried to blame Small, and I wasn’t having that. It was my fault, and I couldn’t talk about it without accusing myself, and it was hard to do that without sounding disingenuous, as though I were fishing for an absolution that I really didn’t deserve and didn’t want. So I kept quiet or did the other thing instead, did this, dropped that single heavy word and let it lie, the whole melodrama shtick that Kit had ducked away from. If he thought I was doing it for its own sake, for the impact, let him think. His thinking couldn’t hurt me, where I was hurt so much already.
    “That’s sad,” he said; and there’s no such thing as
telepathy so I really have no idea what he was thinking, but You see? You’ve been there before. One way and another , all of that seemed to be implicit somehow, in his head or in mine. “Well, look, any time you want to borrow Nigel, just help yourself. Gerard won’t mind.”
    “Gerard?”
    “The big man, you just met him.”
    “Yes, but – um, his dog?”
    “No, his house. Sorry, did you think he was just one of the team? He lives here.”
    “With Quin?”
    “That’s right. Absolutely with Quin. The rest of us come and go, but Gerard is constant. He’s not big on dogwalking, though. Nigel is a sop to Quin and a burden to us all, so we’d be grateful. Brownie-points all round if you find time for Quin on top.”
    “Sure,” I said. “I’ve always got time. And you don’t need to be grateful.” Nobody could lose here. They needed me, perhaps, a little; and what did I need more than time away from my mother, my brother, my self?
    ～
    Letting myself into a dark and unfamiliar house later than I’d reckoned and more drunk than I’d thought, being preternaturally cautious as I felt my way up the stairs, determinedly not talking to a dead brother nor to a dead dog when I might have done either of those things or I might have done both if I’d been sober and easy and at home, I found at the top that it had all been wasted effort, wasted silence, because my mother was awake and waiting for me, in bed but watching through her bedroom’s open door.
    “Michael. Come and talk to me. Did you boys have a good time?”
    “Uh-huh.” Perched on the edge of her bed and still wary, still feeling my way.
    “Are you going to tell me about it?”
    “Not much, probably.”
    “No, I thought – oh. Some things you can’t hide. Let’s see,” and her bedside lamp snapped on and her hand touched my chin and turned my head to face her. “Hmm. Well, at least you didn’t do it yourselves, with a needle and a candle and a cork. That was always our trick, and the holes always went septic. What does Small think about it?”
    “I haven’t asked.”
    “No. I think perhaps he’ll let you know, regardless. Well, on your own head be it. Don’t tell him I said so, but I think it looks fine. One stud, one ring – did Adam get the matching pair?”
    “Of course.”
    “Good. I’m glad you have someone other than your brother, to share these things with. United by the smell of TCP,