It was so cold. I don't think I've ever been so cold in my life.
I left a note at my front door, alongside my bag and my phone.
Just in case.
I didn't go inside. I knew if it did; if I felt the warmth, if I saw the familiar sights and all the memories and felt the softness of my mother's embrace that I'd chicken out.
I had to do this for Phil, I owed it to him.
He had to have a good life – finally, after all his suffering. With me gone, Knuckles no longer interested in him, the drug gang shut down... Maybe he could start again.
I had to hope, it was the only thing that drove my feet onwards down the pavement.
*
Knuckles' house was a good hour's walk away. I normally took the bus but hey, I had twenty-three hours and walking felt good.
Alone with my thoughts it was impossible to block the memories out, so instead I let them flood, paying little attention to my feet on the wet pavement.
I remembered the first time we'd managed to get the bedroom alone for the evening. PJ and Chris had looked knowingly at each other and announced they were going out for dinner with a wink.
I'd come in from the shower and Phil had been sitting on the bed looking up at me, knees hugged to his chest. I'd never seen him look so shy. It was such a difference from the first time in the barn, where he'd taken control and shown me what to do with a gentle confidence. This time, I approached him. This time, I lifted his chin and kissed away the anxiety that lined his face. This time he asked if we could turn out the lights, and I said okay. Because it was nice. Without sight, everything becomes touch. Everything becomes slow and soft. Phil's fingers stroking gently over my body to find my face. My giggles as I fumbled with the bottle cap. The smell of cherry filling the close, warm air. Looking down where I knew Phil's eyes would be and reaching for his lips. Missing in the dark, and kissing my way along his jaw instead until I found them. The silence afterwards. Phil's fingers in my hair.
Tears fell freely down my cheeks, and as they landed it began to rain.
I remembered working in the library with Phil. Sniggers as I's snaked my hand up his thigh under the desk. His eyes were so wide and shining as he glanced over the computers to make sure no one was noticing and scolded me under his breath. But he didn't push my hand away.
I remembered the weekend at my house. I remembered Phil's glee as I pointed out my favourite climbing tree. How he'd ran to the bottom of the garden while I laughed, then climbed like a monkey and within seconds I was running after him with a whoop. I remembered the way PJ and Chris had shouted for us when they couldn't find us, while Phil burried his face into my leg to muffle his laughter at their bewildered expressions. I remembered having to loop my arms around his shaking shoulders to stop him falling out, and laughing myself.
Laughing so hard I thought I'd never be sad again.
I remembered pulling Phil up onto my favourite sitting branch right up at the top and showing him the view as Chris and PJ wandered back inside. I remembered his smile and his bliss.
His eyes so bright I thought they'd never shed another tear again.
I remembered sitting for what seemed like hours and yet no time at all. We clung to the branches and each other, picking out shapes in the clouds. Of course, I had to be the one to ruin it. Here, on top of the world and away from everything else, I'd brought reality crashing back down around us. I'd asked him about Jamie. What it had been like, when he had gone? I asked Phil if he got depressed, because I was naive and depression seemed like such an alien thing back then. You'd see the kids, the 'emo' ones. You'd hear everyone talking about them. You know Tom? The really weird one who doesn't talk? I've heard he cuts himself. Like with razors and stuff.
And then suddenly it's not the just the weirdo in the corner anymore, it's your best friend. It's the popular girl with the perfect life. It's that girl who's never shed a tear, I swear. And no one knows what to do anymore. So they talk behind their friend's back and try and figure out what to do and quietly debate whether they're really depressed or if they're just doing it for attention. And life goes on. I'd seen it happen. I'd seen the scars on my old friend's wrists but I never understood, not really. So I asked Phil to describe it.
He went very quiet for a moment, still watching the clouds. But I waited. Because I wanted to know. Because this time, I wanted to help.
It's like walking on the side of the road through the rain. He'd said.
And then people stop to offer you a ride, but you tell them that you're fine, and that you like to walk through the rain.
There's not a class for that. There aren't a list of instructions and a step by step guide, because the people in the car are human. They want to respect my wishes and be polite. And secretly they're glad, because I would have got their car all wet and they might have had to go out of their way to get me home.
And then I'd understood. That was why no one ever knew what to do when they traced the scars on their best friend's wrists. Because no one ever told them. So they did the only thing they were told. Pretend it's not there. Go on as normal.
As I walked on the side of the road, the rain grew steadily heavier. A people carrier full of muddy children in football kits slowed beside me and the driver rolled down her window and asked if I needed a lift, but I told her no.
I laughed at the irony then, splashing onwards over the paving slabs. Not even bothering to skip round the puddles or the dips where tree roots had lifted the tarmac.
I walked the long way round. I was in no hurry. I felt lost and vulnerable without my phone, but I knew it would be blowing up by now. PJ and Chris. Would they say anything? Or would they leave it, pretend I never existed, focus on Phil. Tell him what a dick I was. Tell him how much better he could do. Tell him the truth.
My mum. She wouldn't have found the note, not unless she had to go and let Percy in from the rain because he'd got stuck in the cat flap again. And then, what would she do? She'd call the police, of course she would. That was what any mother would do. But they wouldn't find me. Not now. It was too late, I was less than ten minutes from Knuckles' front door.
The area was rough. There was no other way of putting it. Council flats towered high into the sky, half the windows broken or boarded up or held together with duct tape. Graffiti covered every surface and hooded figures watched me pass before sinking into the shadows. I was one of them now, with my hood so far over my head my face was hidden in darkness. But the community in these places was strong, they would have known I was an outsider the moment I entered their lot. I started to wonder if I'd ever make it to Knuckles' place, and I pulled my hoodie close around me, feeling the cold for the first time.
Now that I was here, the prospect seemed so much more daunting. Maybe I should have tried to find some body armour before coming. That would have been a sensible thing to do, idiot. Some shin pads or knee protectors. A couple of extra jumpers to soften the blows. I swore quietly under my breath.
It was only standing here that it hit me, how smart Knuckles must really be under the loping bravado. There was no way any kid from here could afford private school with anything other than a full scholarship. And I bet he got a whole lot of shit from the rest of this little island for going to posh school. All of a sudden I felt sorry for him. Ugh.
I knew that would change soon enough.
And I knew that I couldn't possibly know what awaited me behind the peeling green door.
A part of me wanted to run in, wanted to get it over and done with, wanted to feel the pain that I knew I deserved for what I'd done to Phil. In reality, nothing Knuckles could do would be enough: Phil's was worse than any physical pain, but at least he'd be able to recover. Whereas I... I didn't want to think about it.
I was face to face with a small two story terraced house on the edge of the estate. You could tell that the person who lived here was respected by the lack of rubbish and cigarette butts tossed on the front lawn by passersby and the cans skewered onto the fence spikes.
I stared at the green paint. I stared at the darkened windows. I stared at the concrete walls. But mostly my gaze focused on the door knocker. Where most people had a lion head or a brass knob, Knuckles had a vicious iron knuckle duster nailed and hinged to the door. His trademark. Of course.
The black spikes were brutal. The heavy metal was thick and notched.
The last tear slipped down my cheek, and finally my eyes were dry.
I was ready.