Nick advanced cautiously, wishing this was as simple as creeping up on someone to kill them. “You okay?”
He wondered if other people ever realized how stupid half the things they said were. Alan was shaking and scared and obviously not okay, but Nick had to ask because that was what you asked, and no matter how stupid the usual words sounded, Nick had no words of his own to offer.
“I might be okay,” said Alan, who told lies.
He looked down again, into the basin of the sink and away from their reflections. There were dark circles under Alan’s eyes, Nick saw in the cold, uncompromising picture the mirror gave him, and deep lines around his mouth. He was so much paler than he had been even a week ago. It made Nick think of the demon they’d left behind, in a body that had looked young last week.
“Don’t,” he said, and cleared his throat. “You don’t need to worry.” He had to drag every word out. “It won’t happen to you. I won’t let it.”
“That’s not why,” Alan said, but his shoulders relaxed.
This encouraged Nick to go over to him, but once he was there he could only hang uselessly over his brother. Alan was the one who was good at this stuff, who was always hair ruffling or shoulder patting. Gestures like that did not come naturally to Nick, any more than comforting words did.
“Sure it’s not,” Nick said, trying hard to make his voice gentle. It cracked and came out sounding harsh.
He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, and after a moment Alan gave a sigh that was either tired or resigned. Nick kept his head bowed as Alan’s hand settled on his neck, palm gun-callused, and rested there.
Nick had never seen the point of just touching people, but if this made Alan feel better, he supposed it wasn’t so bad.
“Why did we come here?” he asked.
“I wanted to see the possessed patients,” Alan answered, his voice low. “But I didn’t want you to see them. I didn’t want any of you to see.”
“It’s all right,” Nick said, trying to be comforting. “They didn’t bother me.”
He glanced up at Alan, and Alan did not look comforted. He looked as if he was exhausted and in pain.
Nick felt a sharp pang of frustration, like when he’d been younger and teachers had asked him to read aloud or girls had expected some sort of gesture from him, but a thousand times worse because this was his brother and it mattered.
“I’ll protect you,” he said at last, awkwardly. He felt stupid saying it; Alan already knew that he would.
Alan looked a little steadier, all the same. “I’m counting on it.”
“Good,” said Nick. “You’ll be okay. I’ll protect you. Don’t — don’t be upset anymore.”
Alan made a soft sound, trembling between a breath and a laugh. “I’m not upset.”
“You liar,” Nick mumbled.
Alan stroked his hair just once, and then drew his hand away. “I’m okay now,” he said. “Really.”
It sounded true, sounded like something Nick could believe. He remembered feeling peaceful on the boat, just trusting Alan, and it seemed like something he could do again.
Nick’s phone rang. He cursed and half rose in order to fish it out of his jeans, and then looked blankly at the number that appeared on the screen.
“Who the…?” He shrugged and made to cut them off.
“Probably one of your many admirers,” Alan said. “Go ahead, answer it. I’m all right, I promise. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Nick had been busy lately. He didn’t remember giving his number out to any girls, but if Alan wanted a moment, he should have it. Nick scrambled to his feet, lingered for an instant wondering if he should say anything, and ended up just nodding at his brother. Alan smiled at Nick as he went out the door, and he answered the phone in a good mood. Whoever the girl was, he’d pretend to remember her.
“Hey,” he said easily.
There was a brief pause, and then a sharp inhale, and a woman’s voice. “Hello,” she said. “Is this the person who put Marie’s picture in the paper?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
Nick spoke automatically, so she wouldn’t go away before he had a chance to think.
“My name is Natasha Walsh,” the woman said. “Marie was my sister.”
“She’s dead?” Nick rapped out.
He felt nothing but satisfaction at the thought. She was dead then, that smiling blond girl, and if she was dead she could not lay claim to his brother. He had what he wanted. He almost hung up on her then.
The woman spoke an instant before he did. “Look,” she said, and then her words tumbled out, so fast they all rolled together. “Is this about Alan? Is he all right? I haven’t seen him since last Christmas.”
The way she talked about Alan sounded personal. Nobody whom Nick had never heard of before in his life should be able to talk about his brother like that.
“Last Christmas,” Nick repeated.
So Nick’s half suspicion had been true: Alan had gone away and left them for that dead girl. He’d lied about having to do a translation; he’d left Nick in a cold, dark house that felt abandoned, with Mum rocking upstairs. Nick wanted to know why he’d done it. He wanted to know exactly what this girl had been to Alan.
He put a hand to the back of his neck, his own grip stronger and rougher than Alan’s, and thought about trusting his brother.
“Look,” he said abruptly. “This isn’t a good time. Can I—I’ll call you back.”
He turned the phone off before she could speak again. Then he weighed it, small and stupid-looking in his big hand. He didn’t know why he even had a phone, he thought; he never wanted to call anybody.
He did know why, of course. Alan had given him the phone, and he’d kept it because he knew it made Alan feel better to know that he could get in touch with Nick whenever he wanted and check that he was safe.
Nick slid the phone into his pocket and came to a decision. He’d go to Alan and tell him everything. Nick had been hiding things too, but he’d tell Alan that he knew about Marie and what he’d done to find out more. Alan would understand that the secrets and lies had to stop.
He wasn’t in the bathroom where Nick had left him. Nick frowned and began to retrace their steps, going slowly back toward where they’d left Mae and Jamie. He was only halfway down the corridor when he was caught and held by the sound of his brother’s voice behind a door.
“I knew he’d be sick,” Alan said. “That didn’t matter.”
Nick had been about to open the door, and now he found himself staring at it instead.
“It seems a lot of things haven’t mattered to you,” said the voice of Merris Cromwell.
There was a small pause, and Alan replied, “I don’t regret anything I’ve done.”
Alan had been set on coming here, and Nick had been set on following him. He would have done it no matter what, but the thought that Alan had cold-bloodedly accepted that Nick would be ill made him feel an uneasy shift in his stomach, as if he was still sick. He couldn’t connect the image of his brother Alan — who’d raised him, packed his school lunches, and used to sit on the edge of Nick’s bed like a small, ferociously patient owl, waiting for him to fall asleep — with the dispassionate voice behind the door.
“You may not regret it, but the Market will resent it,” Merris Cromwell said, her voice low and cold. “If we had known, we would never have let you come among us. You’ll never be welcome there again.”
Alan had told Merris about Mum. Nick should have felt something about that, but he didn’t. He felt nothing. He stood in the cold, echoing corridor unable to make sense of anything.
“Do you think I care?” Alan demanded. “Can you help me or not?”
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