Page 24

Fifteen

Ysolde

It’s a few hours later and we’ve gotten Jo home, poured him into bed a little bit before midnight. I fell asleep next to him quite quickly, and I thought that’d be the end of it. Moment passed, crisis avoided.

Alas…

I wake at around 2 a.m. and roll over to check on Joah, and I freeze. His side of the bed is empty.

“Jo?” I call for him. ’Cause he’s in the bathroom, probably—right? He’s just in the bathroom.

“Joah—?” I call a little louder.

He probably can’t hear me. He said their concerts are so loud, he’s actually on track for being completely deaf by forty. I call for him again.

Still nothing.

And then I see powdered residue on Joah’s nightstand.

I get a wave of sick.

Lala says I’m quite good in a crisis, but I’m not so sure; I think she’s wrong—my heart feels like a stone and I can’t think properly, and my brain’s going down too, my heart’s pulling it under.

I used to find powder on my mum’s nightstand too. And on the kitchen counter. And sometimes on the car dashboard.

“Richie!” I yell, which sort of frightens me, because I don’t consciously do it, it just happens.

I’m moving towards his room even though I didn’t tell my legs to do that, and he meets me halfway—grabs me with a hand on each of my arms—gripping me in the dim light of the hallway.

“What’s wrong?” His brows are low, automatically worried.

“He’s gone.”

Richie’s face pulls. “What?”

“Joah’s gone.”

He shakes his head. “What do you mean—?”

“I mean he’s gone . He’s not in our bed, he’s gone—”

He stares at me, frowning, puzzling something out in that busy, weird head of his.

He’s bigger than I thought—? Like, buffer. I don’t know why—? I suppose in fairness, I hadn’t really thought about him without clothes on before, and he doesn’t wear clothes that really show him off…but he’s not… not hench?

“What?” Richie’s face pulls all confused because I’m absolutely fucking staring.

“What?” I blink a lot of times. “Nothing.”

He gives me this look like I’m being weird, but I’m not—I’m just tired and worried.

Rich rubs his eyes, tired. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“When we went to sleep?”

He sighs. “Are you sure he’s not in the bathroom?”

I give him a look.

“Sorry—” He shoves his hands through his hair. “Okay. Come on—grab your coat—let’s go.”

Five minutes later, I’m in my nylon trench coat from Prada, nothing underneath except my black lace camisole and hotel slippers, running around the Eighth Arrondissement with Richie Harrigan, in his oversized black hoodie looking ridiculously dishevelled, hands shoved deep into his pockets, and all I’m really thinking about is the white powder on Joah’s bedside table.

People take drugs, I get it. Sometimes I do, but not often.

Most people around me do, it’s fine—Lala doesn’t really either—at least, she doesn’t take a lot of coke—I think she does that for me.

Coke’s the one that makes me most nervous.

It just frightens me a bit, that’s all. It doesn’t matter when other people do it, but when the people I love do it, it feels a bit like my throat starts closing up.

“He’s knows when’s…when…right?” I ask technically Rich, but I don’t look at him when I do.

“What?” he says, walking still.

“Joah knows when to stop,” I say, trying to convince myself that it’s true.

Rich stands still, looks over at me under the flickering light of a streetlamp. “We’re going to find him.”

I nod, don’t say anything.

He tilts his head. “Don’t worry—”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I am worried.”

He shoves me playfully. “Well, that’s going directly against what I said, innit?”

I almost smile at that. Not quite though. Rich sighs, heavy. Like he’s sorry. “Jo does this.” He glances down at me. “I told you, he’s been good with you… He’s not…been…himself.”

“So this is him being himself?”

“Reckless? Impulsive? Selfish? Stupid?” Jo’s older brother scoffs. “Yeah, yeah—sounds about right…”

I roll my eyes, annoyed at him now. All those bad things roll too easily off his tongue.

“He’s your brother.”

Rich lifts an eyebrow. “You don’t have rubbish things to say about your sisters?”

I stop walking. “How do you know I have sisters?”

“I don’t know—” He sniffs a laugh. “I’m paying attention?”

Jo didn’t know I had sisters. That’s a bit funny, don’t you think?

“I have bad things to say about one of them,” I clarify.

Rich shrugs. “So I have rubbish things to say about one of my brothers too.”

I bump him on purpose with my shoulder. “You only have one brother.”

“Thank god—” He rolls his eyes. “One’s enough. Full-time job running about after this idiot—”

I stand still again, stomp my foot because I’m tired of it. “Stop.”

He doesn’t though, keeps on walking ahead.

“I mean—You’ll see…” He shrugs, resigned. “You’re seeing right now.”

I stare after him, trying to get a grip on their dynamic, because it is weird. They know each other impossibly well—the other night I watched Rich jump blindly into a fight, fists already swinging purely because Jo was in the fray—but there’s an undertone between them too. Resentment, I think.

“Are you jealous of him?” I call after him.

That stops him walking. He turns, both eyebrows up in the air now.

“Am I jealous of—Hah.” He’s offended. “No.”

I shrug, unconvinced. “You seem jealous of him.”

“Do I?” Something flickers in his eyes—he’s not just offended now, he’s angry. And something else—I can’t quite place it. “What the fuck does he have that I might want?”

And then his eyes quick as a whip flicker down me, and I wonder—? But, no. Surely, no.

But there is some resentment in him though, I can see it.

Probably it’s not for—never mind. I clear my throat.

“He’s the front man. Is that what this is about?” I ask him, eyebrow up. “Do you wish you were the front man?”

His jaw pulls tight.

“I’m not jealous of Jo,” he tells me. “Jo’s jealous of me.”

“Yeah, okay.” I sniff a tiny laugh, maybe that was meaner than I meant to be.

Rich holds my eyes, unflinching he says, “He is but…”

I roll my eyes. “Okay.”

I start walking again.

“You know he can’t write for shit—” he calls after me, jogs a few paces so we’re back in step. Says nothing for four or five seconds.

“None of our songs are his.”

I look over at him, surprised. “What?”

I didn’t know.

“It’s me,” he says with a shrug. “I write everything.”

I didn’t know that actually. Joah’s never said as much. I’ve never asked, I suppose. I just presumed—

Still, he’s being a bit more disparaging than I like, so I give him a stubborn look.

“If you genuinely believe that you writing everything equates to none of the songs being his, you’ve grossly underestimated how important your brother has been to the success of your songs.”

Richie’s jaw goes tight again, eyes darken—he’s cross now. Well and truly.

“Yeah, alright—” He nods coolly. “We don’t need to talk anymore.”

I nod back. “Great.”

We walk in silence the rest of the time, poking our heads into whatever bars we pass that are still open. And by now it’s been a while, more than thirty minutes and still, no sight of him.

We’ve wandered down Boulevard des Capucines and taken a right on Rue Daunou.

“Let’s try here,” Rich says, nodding at an underwhelming glass door.

I say nothing but follow him inside.

We look around; it’s dim and hard to see—nothing stands out and then I see Rich double take towards the back corner.

It’s him.

Him and some questionable-looking gentlemen, actually.

I go to step towards him, but Richie stops me.

“Maybe it should be me?” He says it some certain way, and I can’t pick what it means. I think he’s worried. I’m not sure who for though.

I breathe out my nose, impatient. “Why would it be you?”

Then I push past Rich and beeline over to Jo.

I lay my hand on his arm, gently.

“Jo—?” I say quietly. He doesn’t immediately look up. “Jo.”

He looks up at me, eyes bleary, blinking. “Hi.”

His face shifts as he recognises me.

“Hey.” I smile gingerly. It’s forced. I make myself, because he’s high as a motherfucking kite.

“Whoa.” He chuckles, sitting back in his chair. “Hey, boys—” He pulls me down onto his lap gruffly—you know when men forget their strength? He’s not just forgotten his strength, but like—his birthday, his name, probably my name—

“This is my girl!” He gives a big smile to who I presume to be two Parisian drug dealers.

I push his hair gently behind his ear. “Your girl would very much love for you to come back to the hotel now…”

I give his friends a cursory, apologetic smile, but Jo shakes his head.

“Nah.”

And I can feel Richie sidle up behind me. Weird that I can feel his presence, maybe? I’m not sure I’ve ever felt it before. Not that that means anything that I can feel it now—just that he is present, that’s all.

I shake my head at Jo, sighing. “Please?”

“Nah, I’m good,” he says, nodding towards the men across the table. “I’m here with my friends, Trouble. I’m good.”

“I don’t think you are so good, Jo,” I tell him gently, standing and trying to bring him to his feet also—to no avail though.

His face goes dark; he doesn’t look like himself for a moment. “So who the fuck asked you?”

He’s never talked to me like that before. It sort of takes my breath away.

“Oi,” Richie growls from behind me. “Fuckin’ get up.” Richie grabs his arm, yanking him out of the booth. “It’s time to go.”

“No,” Jo says, eyes as unfocused as he is unsteady on his feet. “I’m fuckin’ good.”

Richie scoffs. “The fuck you are. Let’s go, Jo. Now.”

I don’t know whether it was the “now” or just the combination of everything up until now, but Rich demanding Jo leave goes down like a tonne of bricks and he shoves Rich. Hard.

Richie shoves him back without even think about it, like it’s a pure knee-jerk reaction, but he’s sober as a judge, so it’s not a fair fight.

“Stop—!” I scramble between them. “Please stop!” I turn to Rich, give him these eyes to tell him that I’m fine. “I’ll talk to him. Just give me a minute.” Richie gives his little brother a long, irritated look before he skulks not-too-far-away.

Jo watches him leave like a dog watches another dog walk by its house.

I stand on my tiptoes, put both my hands on Joah’s cheeks. “I don’t want to watch you do this.”

“Just go then—!” He gestures towards the door. “You don’t have to fuckin’ be here. Go—”

“No.” I shake my head firmly. “I love you, you love me. You’re obviously going through something at the minute, and so you’re acting fucking insane, and so I can’t leave you, but you’ve already had enough”—I eye the powdery white on the table in front of him—“and I’m asking you please don’t make me watch you overdose . ”

My eyes go bigger and rounder at that. I try to tell him without actually having to tell him why it would be tremendously cruel and inappropriate for me to have to say aloud why I need him to get a handle on himself. “Please?” I say quietly.

And then it clicks.

All the anger and self-concern dissipates off his face and he swaps it straight for remorse.

“Fuck.” He takes a big breath, then starts nodding really quickly. “Yep. Shit.” He pulls me away from that table, towards the exit. Blows right past his brother—like he doesn’t even see him.

“I’m sorry,” Jo says once we’re on the street. He grabs me by the wrist, yanking me in towards him—he smells like everything under the sun. Sweat, alcohol, cigarettes, just like—generic-bar scent.

“Do you hate me?” he asks.

“No,” I say, muffled by his chest but maybe it’s unconvincing because he doesn’t buy it.

Behind Joah’s head, Rich nods his head towards the Main Street. Let’s go, he mouths.

I give a very subtle nod back.

“You hate me—” Joah groans. “Fuck!” He covers his face with both his hands. “Fuck, I’m such a fuckup.”

“You’re good—” I tell him, squeezing his hand. “We’re good. Everything’s fine.”

But I’m not really sure that it is.

***

Forty-five minutes later, Joah is showered and back in bed. I take a long shower after that myself. I feel as though I have a million different kinds of germs and feelings and thoughts trapped in my hair and on my body.

I come back out feeling a little bit more like a human, but still, admittedly, a fairly weathered one tonight.

I go to Richie’s room—I don’t know why—I’ve not gone to his room once so far on this whole trip, but I do tonight. Sort of without thinking about it.

I poke my head in.

He looks up from his bed—shirtless, grey sweats on, sitting on top of the covers all leant back against some pillows.

He’s watching late-night TV, and he puts it on mute when he sees me.

“He went down okay?” he asks like we’re talking about some impetuous child we’re babysitting. I suppose—considering all things this evening—that’s not all the way that far from the truth.

“Yes.”

He nods his chin towards me. “You should get some sleep,” he tells me.

“I can’t—” I shake my head. “I’m nervous he’ll run off again.”

Rich gives me this funny look, as though I’m silly for even thinking that.

“I’ve got this.” He waves me off. “You sleep. I’ll stay up. Make sure he stays.”

I pause, uncertain. “Are you sure?”

Rich says nothing, just gives me this solemn nod, and I know—I don’t know why or how—that this is neither the first, nor the last time that Rich will be on the night shift for Jo and his antics.

I give him a grateful smile, then turn to go back to our room.

“Hey—” he calls to me.

I turn back around, an eyebrow up.

“What was that before?” he asks.

“What was what?”

He nods towards our room, vaguely in Joah’s direction. “What did you say to him?”

I pause, the reason caught on the tip of my tongue, because the truth is, honestly, actually, I haven’t told all that many people about what happened.

I don’t know why… Like, sharing my pain with them might lessen it, and I think it’s important I feel it, lest I ever get too drunk or too carried away and silly with my friends—then I remember.

I purse my lips, and he sits there waiting for my answer all the same.

“My mother died when I was six from a cocaine overdose,” I say rather matter-of-factly.

Rich’s head pulls back. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.” I give him a sad smile.

“Ys—” Richie calls to me as I’m about to close the bedroom door. “Ys—?”

I pause, waiting.

“I’m really fuckin’ sorry that happened.”

I swallow heavy. “Me too.”