Every inch of her was affected. Her body, her physical self, had become . . . what? Less corporeal; less present; simply less.
Kat focused on a single point on the far wall, a dent from a rogue yo-yo years before. The beast of panic was awakening, clawing. At the end of a long exhale she threw a fist sideways into the wall.
‘Ow!’
Pain throbbing in her knuckles was proof enough that she still existed, in one form or another. She had faded, like a chalk drawing in rain, but she was still there – just a little less there than before.
The block of flats Wesley called home was longer than it was tall, two storeys of brown brick that ran the length of a car park before dog-legging away to pull up short at a railway bridge. The top floor doors lined a sheltered walkway, almost like a shared balcony, so he could see his front door as he crossed the tarmac and came around the grubby metal bins.
His anger had only spiralled on the walk home, every hard step stoking the fire hotter, so he was fuming by the time he reached the main entrance. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys. Before he had it open he heard a soft mew behind him, and a scrawny, tawny cat appeared at his heels.
‘Hey, Buttnugget,’ Wesley cooed in reply.
Buttnugget was probably not its real name. The cat belonged to one of the old ladies on the ground floor, and was mostly allowed to roam freely. It had taken a liking to Wesley as soon as they moved in, possibly because he was always keen to offer prolonged head scritchings. Lately it had been spending some nights curled up with him in his room. The cat wound around his ankles now, mewing insistently, and Wesley scratched its ears and sank his fingers into the animal’s warm fur. It always seemed like a small marvel, to have his touch so welcomed.
It was enough, at least, to calm him down a little, and by the time he made it upstairs and picked his way along the walkway’s obstacle course of flowerpots and chained bicycles, he knew he wouldn’t shout. Like he’d promised Evie he never would.
The door opened straight into the sitting room, and he shut it too hard behind him, sending his little sister scurrying away from her usual position in front of the TV. Mum was through in the kitchen, wrapping a sad-looking sandwich in tin foil.
‘Do you want me to work there or not?’ Wesley said.
Mum dropped the sandwich into her bag. ‘Shady Acres care home needs an extra assistant for the night shift, and we need the money. I’m sure Dave doesn’t mind.’
‘I mind,’ Wesley said, following her back to the front door. ‘It’s embarrassing.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Mum turned on him, voice officially raised. ‘I have to work.’
Wesley shrunk back, knowing there was no arguing with that. Even after all this time it surprised him how powerless she could make him feel.
‘I’ve tried to get a job,’ he said, quieter now.
‘You know that doesn’t matter. I want you to focus on your exams.’
Wesley had let her down there too – he had failed almost all of them so far.
‘What kind of mother am I if the only way we can pay bills is for my son to work?’
‘Jordan did.’
Mum stiffened. ‘That was different.’
It was clear then that if he didn’t ask she would try and hide it from him for as long as she could.
‘When were you going to tell me he was back?’
Mum sighed, like she’d been caught stealing. ‘Dave and his big bloody mouth.’
‘After two years I think I have a right to know.’
‘You’re right. I just . . .’ Mum unhooked her keys from behind the door and squeezed them in her fist. ‘It was last week, and I still need some time to think about it.
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