Later in the evening, I work my evening shift at Wilson's. The café is surprisingly busy for a Monday, bustling with numerous nine-to-fivers all looking for their caffeine fix after a gruelling day at work. I try not to let the tiredness take over as I stand at the coffee machine, making latte after latte, cappuccino after cappuccino, because my gruelling work day doesn't finish until eight.
And, when eight o'clock does roll around, my achy feet and frazzled brain are beyond grateful to be headed home.
"Thanks for today, Jade," Ellie sighs, sounding a little achy and frazzled, too, as she leans an elbow on the counter. She blows a stray strand of blonde hair from her eyes, her neat bun now a messy nest of wisps. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
"See you tomorrow, El. Bye, Paul!" I call the last part out to the kitchen, where Paul is busy cleaning down the grill.
"Ooh, Jade! Could you do me one last favour before you go?" Paul calls back, appearing in the kitchen doorway only seconds later. He looks tired, too – and extremely sheepish as he holds up a bagful of rubbish in each hand.
"Ugh. If I must," I reply sarcastically, feigning an Oscar-worthy level of exertion as I trudge over and accept the bags. I hear Ellie's snort of laughter from behind me, and grin in response to Paul's exasperated chuckle.
"You're a star!" Paul calls out as I leave through the front door.
I laugh and turn back to him in the open doorway, placing a bag down as I point an emphatic finger at him. "I want a medal stating that, next time I'm in." I offer up a final wave and impish grin as I add, "Just so you don't forget!"
Then, I make my exit.
With a bag in each hand, I walk towards the main bins down the side alley, next to the café.
It's starting to get a little dark out, the fading light barely touching the opening as the alleyway gets shrouded in shadow from the buildings on either side. Carefully, I step around a broken glass bottle – Budweiser, from the looks of it – and try not to catch the bags on the side of the wall as I walk. It would be just my luck, for one of them to rip and spill out everywhere.
With both bags still intact, I finally reach the industrial-sized, black bin pushed back against the side of the café. I deposit the rubbish and shut the lid with a firm slam, the sound echoing through the night – and am rewarded with an unexpected groan of pain.
Yelping in surprise, I turn towards the sound. With my eyes now adjusted to the dim light, it doesn't take much squinting for me to spot him sitting there, leaning back against the fence at the far end of the alleyway.
It's Bradley Coleman.
You've got to be shitting me, is my initial thought, soon followed by, Holy shit. Is he dead?
He's barely moving.
"Hey, um..." I call out, taking a hesitant step toward him. "Are you okay?"
I trail off in an uncomfortable mixture of shock and horror, gasping when he looks up at me. Blood pours from his mouth as he spits some out onto the ground next to him, and his right eye is swollen shut from what looks to be an absolutely killer punch.
"I'm fine," he replies in a raspy voice, lifting a hand to wave off my concern. He winces and then uses the same hand to rub his jaw, opening and closing his mouth a few times as if to check that his face isn't broken. Then, when he notices that I'm still watching him, completely horrified, he lets out an unexpected chuckle. "You should see the other guy."
As if to make a point, he drops his hand from his face and flexes his fingers a few times, looking down to inspect his knuckles. Noticing the blood that stains his T-shirt for the first time, he plucks at the material and swears.
"My favourite fucking T-shirt..." he mutters, this time to himself.
"That 'other guy' won't be back here, will he?" I call out uncertainly, glancing around the alley to check that we're alone.
Go get Paul. He'll know how to handle this.
Only, Bradley speaks again before I can move as much as a foot.
"I doubt it," he replies, letting out a single, humourless laugh that looks to take more effort than it's supposed to. "Not yet, anyway."
His words don't fill me with confidence, mostly because I don't know what he means by them. Seeing my unease, he sighs.
"It's fine, just go. Don't worry about it, Jade," he waves me away, a clear dismissal, but shock shoots down my spine like an electric current, frying my nerves.
"How do you know my name?" I ask, my voice much sharper than before – because if his brothers have mentioned what happened this morning, that doesn't bode well for me.
Surprised, Bradley raises his eyebrows at me, the effort making his shiner appear all the more gruesome as the skin stretches around the swelling. "Political science?" he asks, posing it as a question – and one that he's asking a three-year-old. "We've only shared a class for a whole year?"
"Oh," I mutter awkwardly, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. "Right."
"Edgy, much?" he asks, leaning his head back against the fence to study me more closely – which only serves to put me more on edge, as I try for a laugh that sounds nothing close to authentic. His lips suddenly twitch into a smirk that he fails to contain. "Then again... I guess I would be, too, if I tried to kill Luke with a lamppost."
The words take a second to sink in. When they do, my cheeks flush so much they could probably thaw the entirety of Antarctica.
Oh, someone please just hit me with a brick. Just end it all, right now.
"Er..." I mumble, beyond mortified.
His chuckle makes him wince, and he raises a hand to the back of his head – much like his brother had earlier. His pain doesn't seem to curb his amusement any, a smirk still curving his bloodied mouth.
"Lamppost as leverage... that's got to be up there as one of the greats. It's impressive, really," he assures me, his eyes – eye? – practically dancing with humour. "It takes a lot to catch my brother off guard, you know. You're lucky he didn't deck you on reflex."
Growing increasingly uncomfortable, I want nothing more than to go home and forget that this entire day ever happened. Unfortunately, I'm also abundantly aware that Bradley still hasn't moved – at all – since the start of this conversation.
"Look, do you need me to call someone, or...?" I trail off as Bradley shakes his head, a barely there movement that still seems to make his brain swim inside his skull. He blinks a few times, slowly and owlish, to refocus his vision.
"No, I'm fine," he assures me again. "I can walk."
But can you stand? That seems to be the real question.
As if reading my thoughts, he places his hands down against the ground and struggles to his feet. It's a painful, agonizingly slow process. Then, when he's finally standing, it's impossible not to see how off-balance he is, swaying like a pendulum until he reaches out a hand to brace himself against the fence.
"Are you sure?" I ask sceptically. I point a thumb towards the café, awkward and unsure. "Because my boss is inside. I can ask him to–"
"No, it's fine," Bradley interrupts. He waves my concern away with the hand that's not holding him upright. "I've not got far to go."
Silently, I watch as he begins to walk forward, moving his hand from the fence to the wall opposite the café as he goes. He uses the wall to walk past me, making it as far as the broken glass at the entrance before he stops and looks down.
"Asshole," he grumbles to himself, his spare hand returning to the back of his head as he prods at a sore spot hidden beneath his hair. "Talk about a coward's fight... and the prick calls me a devious bastard."
I have no idea what he's talking about.
An internal battle starts inside me as I watch him stumble to the end of the alley, where the disappearance of the wall suddenly makes his step falter. I can't stress enough how much I don't want to get involved with this – whatever the hell this is – but it's also clear that he needs help, even if he won't admit it.
He can tell me he's fine all he wants, until he's blue in the face if he thinks it'll help – but I won't believe him. The majority of his face is already blue and that's partly the problem; he's in no fit state to walk alone.
Eventually, my good conscience wins.
I can't leave him like this.
"Hold up," I sigh, starting after him as he stumbles and almost eats shit on the ground. I rush to steady him, draping his arm over my shoulder so I can support some of his weight. "You look like you're about to drop dead. I'm not leaving you like this."
"Why are you helping me?" he asks, his voice genuinely confused and, if I'm not mistaken, a little bit guarded. He turns his head to look at me warily, his swollen eye even more grotesque up close.
"Because," I mutter, huffing under his extra weight, "if you get yourself hit by a car tonight, that shit's going to be on my conscience. I'll dump you as far as your doorstep. Then, you're on your own."
And, hopefully, I'll never have to talk to you ever again.
"I don't need–"
"We both know that's bullshit," I interrupt. "So, which way are we going?"
With a defensive huff that soon simmers to begrudging acceptance, Bradley points to the left and we start walking. Well, stumbling would probably be more accurate but, between the two of us, we manage.
In the end, what was described as a 'not far' walk turns out to be a thirty-minute trek to the opposite side of town. I sigh as I realise that being home late is now more of an inevitability, rather than simply a possibility.
Stella and George aren't going to be happy with me, when I get back.
It's a relief when Bradley finally points out a house ahead of us, signalling the end of our uncomfortable journey.
I'll be honest with you, whenever I've thought of the Coleman's house before, I've always pictured it as something sinister. Something big and scary, surrounded by barbed wire fencing that holds five or so huge, terrifying Rottie dogs. But, in reality, it's just a house. Detached and completely average, there's nothing about it that stands out, nothing that screams: 'Beware: criminals and delinquents inside!'
Red bricks, a brown front door that leads straight out onto the pavement, several front-facing windows, and a tiled roof that looks a little weathered from time – it all looks so normal.
Kind of like my old house. Nobody ever suspected a thing...
The thought turns my relief to unease and the sight of the Coleman's house, although entirely plain and unthreatening, makes me queasy.
Bradley's voice brings me out of my head. "I haven't got a key so I'll have to knock."
Helping him over to the door so he can lean against it for support, I notice the cuts on his knuckles as he raps them against the wood. I don't mention them, nor do I want to.
What I want to do is go home.
As promised, I've gotten him to his doorstep. My good deed for the day is done, Bradley's home in one piece, and his brothers can sort it from here.
"So, I'm going to just..." I start to say, pointing my thumb over my shoulder as an indication that it's time for me to go. Unfortunately, before I can finish the sentence, the door swings open and my words stop working.
Lucas stands in the doorway, a flicker of surprise on his face when he sees me. Then, he turns his attention to his brother.
"What the hell happened?" he asks, not sounding as worried as I'd expected.
If Owen or Oscar came home with a face like Bradley's, I would flip my shit. But Lucas just stares at Bradley, clocking his injuries as if he'd half been expecting worse. His detachment is eerily unsettling.
"Ricky," Bradley mutters, as means of explanation. "He jumped me out of fucking nowhere."
With a sigh of impatience – one that appears to be aimed at his beaten-up brother – Lucas opens the door wider so Bradley can get past. "Inside," he mutters. That's it, nothing else.
Before he disappears into the house, Bradley turns back to look at me, his hand on the doorframe. "Er... thanks, I guess," he mutters, awkwardly. Then, he stumbles inside and leaves me here, nervous and completely alone, with the king of crime himself.
Cue the silence, one so tangible I can practically feel it, blanketing around me like Clingfilm.
"Okay. Well. I'm going to go," I say awkwardly, when the silence becomes too much for me to handle. I take a single step back, then another.
"I'll drive you," Lucas replies, his words more of an order than an offer. No, 'Thanks for helping my brother,' or anything.
You're welcome, dickhead.
"Oh... no. You really don't have to," I try to argue, not wanting to be around him for longer than – well – ever, really. Before I can even finish my sentence, Lucas has already pulled the door closed behind him, his car keys in hand.
He walks towards the garage at the side of the house, not bothering to check if I'm following.
Which I'm not.
Unlocking the door, Lucas pulls open the garage door before finally glancing back at me. He raises an eyebrow, seeming no more thrilled about the situation than I am. Still, he persists.
"If you hadn't already realised, this isn't the safest neighbourhood at night. If you walk, you're likely to get stabbed, so just get in the damn car."
I stand in silence for a few seconds, considering his words. I suppress the urge to mention the possibility of me being stabbed by getting in the car, too.
There isn't a single part of me – not one tiny molecule – that trusts Lucas Coleman. I've heard the stories, and already seen far more than I'd like in support of them.
Still, he is right. This isn't the safest of places at night, especially not when I'm alone. Also, driving is much faster than walking and I'm already running late. Getting a lift from him would help me avoid getting into trouble; I'd be home in no time.
I find my decision suddenly swayed and, with a sigh, I walk over to the silver car and climb in.
Lucas asks where I live as he settles behind the wheel, turning on the engine. I rattle off my address with a reluctance I'm sure he notices, before he reverses out onto the road and we set off.
The short car journey passes in more of that Clingfilm silence, airless and suffocating. It seems to double the time it takes to get to my house, each minute passing with infinite seconds and, when we eventually arrive, I can't help the small breath of relief I let out. I move my hand to pull the door handle while turning to thank him for the lift, but he speaks before I can do either.
"I know you saw what happened this morning. With Finn," he mutters. His eyes glint dangerously, illuminated by the orange glow of a nearby streetlight. It makes him appear scarily sinister, his mouth dipped into a fierce grimace. "I'm warning you now that if you squeal to even one person... you'll regret it. Got it? Keep your mouth shut."
I nod slowly, my mouth suddenly too dry to talk.
"Good. And don't forget, because I know where you work." He looks out towards my house, his eyes scanning every inch of the place. I look out, too, seeing the light that radiates through the windows, lighting the pathway that leads up to the front door. "And now I know where you live."
Crap.
I should've just left his brother in the goddamn street.
Without another word, I push the door open and climb out of the car. I just want to get inside, crawl into bed, and forget this day ever happened.
However, even in the safety of my own house, tucked up in bed with the sound of the boys' voices floating through my wall, I don't feel any better. Lucas Coleman's voice swirls around my brain, his words repeating like a formidable mantra that won't stop chanting.
"If you squeal to even one person... you'll regret it."