And that man in the mirror. Except only Ryan had seen that. Maybe he was having the mental

breakdown?

Chapter Sixteen

The waiting proved difficult, and Ryan knew Ginger wasn’t the most patient of people.

“Shit,” Ginger muttered. “Bloody hell.” He uncapped the whiskey bottle and took another deep

swig. “How am I going to afford a psychiatrist, Ry?”

“Maybe he can get one on the NHS?” Ryan suggested.

“Hn.” Ginger snorted. “Not if the fucking Tories have anything to do with it, and I can’t afford a

private one. God knows Fizz’s parents won’t shell out. They never did before. You know, they’ve got

plenty of money, but they wouldn’t fork out for a private counsellor for their own son, they just sent

him on the rounds through his GP. Fucking cheapskates. I bet this is all a knock on effect from having

to put up with them for so long.”

“Well...Sheila said Beth would know what to do, right? And she won’t charge us, I’m sure.”

Ginger looked at him. “Ryan, it’s all rubbish. If Beth knows anything about psychiatry, then I’m the

fucking pope.”

Ryan smiled wryly.

“Either way,” Ginger insisted. “It’s all rubbish.”

“So...” Ryan fished for a solution. “I could get my laptop and search for his symptoms online?

Maybe Fizz just needs a specialist, or something like that?”

“Okay.” Ginger nodded. “Yeah, you do that. I’m going to go check on him.”

Ryan tensed. He knew that had been coming. “Sheila said to stay here.”

“I have to, Ryan.”

“But she said...I mean, we’d be feeding this...thing he has, his condition, by pandering to it.”

“I’m not bloody pandering!” Ginger snapped. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Shit. I’m

sorry, Ryan. I don’t want to have a go at you. But I’m not leaving Jamie in there on his own, either.”

“Okay,” Ryan said softly. “I’ll come with you.”

“No.” The word was clad in iron. “You stay out of that room. I don’t want him hurting you again.”

“But – but what about you?”

Ginger glanced at him. “I’ll be fine.” He strode out of the room like a man on a mission. Ryan’s

heart had barely slowed to a normal pace, now it was thudding hard all over again.

Shit.

He’d fucked up. But how was he supposed to stop Ginger from going in there? He didn’t want to

make him mad. And who was to say that it wasn’t the right thing to do anyway? Maybe they needed

another medical opinion before they agreed on a diagnosis?

God, this is all too complicated.

He hurried after Ginger. Ryan didn’t want to set foot in the pigeon loft again, but when he couldn’t

see Ginger in the hall, he had no choice. He took a deep breath, and stepped through the threshold. The

air seemed to close around him, dusty and old, too thick to draw into his lungs. Had it always been like

this? Ryan choked back a cough; he could barely breathe. It was still light outside; the fading daylight

filtered through the grubby windows all along the hallway. Somehow, it didn’t look sunny or warm in

here, it looked grey.

Ryan couldn’t hear anything. Ginger had to be in Fizz’s room, but what was he doing? What if Fizz

started throwing things again? Ryan took cautious steps forward. The floorboards creaked, and the

wood felt soft under his weight.

What the hell?

He glanced down, checking where he walked. The floorboards tilted under his feet, yet stayed still,

creaking ominously. Was he seeing things? It felt like he was walking on a ship. Staring at the moving

floor made him feel dizzy, so he looked up. The other end of the hall seemed to grow distant, far away.

Ryan felt as though he was staring down a long tunnel. He saw a flash of movement at the other end; a

shadow in dark green, the flash of brass buttons.

Oh, God.

He didn’t want to see who was there, didn’t want to know. His only thought now was for Ginger.

Ryan ignored the tilting floorboards, and kept walking. It was no more difficult than trying to walk

after a few drinks, he told himself, and he’d never fallen over drunk. Yet.

I can do this.

Ryan walked carefully to Fizz’s doorway, determined to reach it, tilting floorboards be damned.

When he looked into the room, he saw Ginger, standing in the centre. Ryan looked around in surprise;

the room had changed. It wasn’t the same run down, shabby old room. The walls were plain, clean.

There were beds, lots and lots of single beds, all lined up against the walls, with neatly folded, white

sheets laid on top. Fizz sat on one of those beds, about the same place where his mattress had been.

The boy’s chest heaved in great gulps, and Ryan heard wheezing.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Fizz? Are you –?”

Fizz looked up. Eyes of dark brown fixed on him, and a knowing smile played on his lips.

It’s not Fizz. Ryan didn’t know how to explain it, but he felt certain.

Whoever that was, it wasn’t Fizz. Those dark eyes shifted, resting on Ginger as the boy lifted his

arms, the way a child might do for its parent. Ryan’s gaze snapped back to Ginger. A worm of anxiety

curled in his belly. He opened his mouth to call Ginger, then froze as he saw what looked like blood

seep up from the floor. It collected in a small puddle around Ginger’s feet. Ryan’s heart caught in his

throat.

Was Ginger hurt? But no, he couldn’t be. He was unharmed, as far as Ryan could see. That pool of

blood on the floor wasn’t his. Even so, the blood was rising, like a pot overflowing, and it simmered.

Ryan watched, stunned, as a drop of blood lifted from the floorboards, and shot upwards, like gravity

reversed. His eyes followed the motion, and he gasped when he saw a larger stain of blood on the

ceiling. It was bright red, vivid in colour, growing bigger and faintly pulsing. The stain was darkest

right over Ginger’s head, and Ryan feared it would break at any moment.

“Daniel,” he choked out. “Daniel! Come here...”

Ginger turned slowly, his eyes dull and flat. He didn’t move, only regarded Ryan with a dazed

expression.

“Daniel.” Ryan reached his hand into the room. The air felt thick, as if it was trying to push him

back. “Daniel, please. Come here!”

“Go away,” the boy growled. Ryan glanced at him, fearing what he might do. Those eyes were too

dark. It’s not Fizz. But he’d made the mistake of breaking eye contact with Ginger, and when Ryan

looked back, he saw Ginger was once again facing Fizz. The boy opened his arms wider, and smiled.

“Daniel,” Ryan pleaded, but it didn’t do any good. Ginger went to Fizz, falling on the bed with him

in a tangle of limbs. Fizz chuckled as he closed his arms around him.

“Daniel, no!” Ryan stepped into the room. Blinding pain lashed across his face, and he cried out. He

felt the cuts on his cheek split open as something warm slicked down his face. Ryan stumbled against

the wall. With shaking fingers, he touched his cheek. It was wet, sticky. When he looked at his fingers

they were covered in blood.

How could this be happening? The pain felt real enough; his cheek sang with pain. Ryan’s temples

began to thump to the rhythm of his heartbeat, his blood running down his face. In desperation, Ryan

pleaded with the boy, the boy who wasn’t Fizz. “Why are you doing this?”

A low, dirty chuckle answered him. Fizz had Ginger laid out beneath him, straddling his body. His

hands played through Ginger’s long hair, then tugged at his t-shirt, pulling at the neckline and

exposing skin. The boy lowered his mouth, turning his face to look at Ryan as he darted his tongue

out, licking Ginger’s shoulder. “You want this, Ryan. You should have taken it while you could, but

it’s too late now.”