No One Left But You by Tash McAdam

Author:Tash McAdam
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Soho Press

after

9

FLOWERS ARE PILED up on the wall in front of Danny’s house. They’re lurid against the worn stones. The house itself is plastered brick, cracking away at wooden window frames that needed painting a decade ago. I inhale, hold it, exhale. Five times, concentrating on how my body moves as the air comes in and out. It helps. A bit.

My knock is inappropriately loud for the quiet pall hanging over the street. The door jerks inward, surprising me, and I teeter on the top step, my heel sliding off so I have to pinwheel my arms.

The large bald man in the doorway curls his lip at my gymnastics. The hair he’s missing on his head shades his jaw blue as steel. He has the look of someone who’s muscular under the beer belly, a rugby player gone to seed who could still lift me up in one hand. “Whaddya want?”

I have a split second of regret for telling Michelle she didn’t have to come here with me—Grant and Mike didn’t even offer—because this guy is an entire fucking unit, and she’s definitely tougher than I am.

“Uh . . . Kenny?” Grant made it clear that I should never, ever call this man anything other than Kenny. “Mr. Kensington” is a surefire way to get a slap, apparently. Come on, Max, use your words. “My name’s Max, I’m . . . I was a friend of Danny’s.”

He looks me over, and I try to stand square, be someone he can’t dismiss. “I ain’t never seen you before.”

Guess they didn’t release my picture with the story about my arrest.

“Yeah, I, uh, don’t live around here. I’m sorry to disturb you at home, but I was really hoping I would be able to, uh, have something of Danny’s to remember him by.” Is that why I wanted to come? “Just like, a little thing. Please,” I finish, praying my eyes aren’t glistening.

The man turns, leaving the door open behind him. “His room’s upstairs. Take what you want, I’m getting rid of it anyway.”

Kenny leaves me in the narrow hallway. The stairs are right in front of me, clad in worn khaki carpet that might once have had some pile. There are three men in the living room, right off the front hall. I can’t hear what they’re saying, only their angry, buzzing tones vibrating through the wall, competing with the rugby game on the television.

“Your son died yesterday,” I say to a fist-sized hole in the wall.

The stairs are a mountain. It takes all my oxygen and willpower to get to the top. I’m drenched in sweat when I get there, nauseated with anticipation. The hallway sways, and I put my hand against the wall to steady myself. It’s not the weed we smoked at Grant’s, it’s the intimacy. I’ve thought about what Danny’s bedroom would look like a thousand times. About showing him around mine. I’ve never had anyone over to my room. Not even Gloss. Only my parents have ever been inside, and I haven’t let them in in years.

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