Page 60 of When We Were Young

Will pressed the buzzer and waited. There was no answer, so he buzzed again.

Still no answer. He stepped back from the door to check the windows.

Emily’s room was dark, the whole flat was dark.

Perhaps she was out, or perhaps she was avoiding him.

He made his way around the back of the building.

It was difficult to work out which flat was hers on this side until he spotted a red chair on a balcony and recognised it as Scott’s.

The windows were unlit on this side too.

He stood underneath the balcony. If he got up there, he could see in.

He spotted a wheelie bin a few yards away and dragged it closer.

For the briefest of moments, he thought about what he was doing, how it might look, whether it was a terrible idea.

But he needed to talk to her. He was desperate, and there was no room for logic in his brain at that moment. The whiskey wasn’t helping.

He wedged the bin against the wall, climbed on, and wobbled his way up to standing. Using the railings to steady himself, he lunged a foot up, stuffed it between them, and hauled himself up. He took a moment to catch his breath before swinging his leg over and landing on the balcony with a thud.

If he smashed the door, there would be a lot of glass, and someone might hear. There was a little window beside the door. If he smashed the smaller pane, that would make less noise and he could reach around and open the door.

He picked up the brick. It was heavy and rough in his hands.

He took a couple of practice swings at the window.

Shit, what was he doing? They would be angry about the window.

But it was only a little window. He’d sweep up the mess, pay for it to be replaced.

He had to talk to her. Just five minutes.

He needed to explain, to tell her he’d do anything, he’d change, he’d be…

better. He had to fight for her. The first step in that fight was to smash the window. He swung his arm back and hurled.

The smash was quieter than he expected. Only a few shards fell on the balcony floor.

The rest fell inside the flat and whatever was there muffled the sound.

He reached through the window for the keys dangling from the keyhole in the door.

Stretching his arm until his shoulder butted up to the window frame, he could reach the keys.

It took several attempts to turn the key using only the fingertips of his left hand.

He retracted his arm, went to the door, and this time it opened.

It was dark inside and he bumped into a chair on his way out of Scott’s room.

He ran his hand along the wall until he found the light switch.

As light flooded the room, Will checked the damage.

The smashed window looked awful, so he went over and lowered the blind.

Much better. He turned back into the room and froze.

The wall around the light switch was smeared with wide, red arcs.

He checked his body – a long gash on his forearm was dripping with blood.

You could trace his route across the room with the red splatters he’d left on the floor.

The carpet was like a Jackson Pollock. How the hell would he clean that up?

Cradling his arm, he hurried to the bathroom. Even as he ran it under the tap, it kept gushing. What were you supposed to do? Apply pressure and raise it above your heart? He grabbed a towel and wound it around his arm. The towel would need replacing as well. Jesus, this was getting expensive.

He’d have to sweep up the glass and wipe the wall, but he needed to rest for a minute.

With his elbow raised, he stumbled down the hall to Emily’s room, turned on the light, and closed the door behind him.

Her room was messy; she must have been busy working on something.

Wooden letterpress blocks, in all different sizes and styles of lettering, were strewn across the desk.

Her sketchbook lay open at the end of the long table, plump with the stuff she had stuck in it.

For the first time since he broke into the flat, he felt guilty about invading her privacy.

He hesitated, then took the sketchbook with him to the bed.

He lay awkwardly on his left side, his elbow propped up on the pillow with the back of his hand resting against the headboard to keep it elevated.

Flicking through her sketchbook was like looking inside her mind.

She had filled it with scraps from her life.

A ripped strip of wrapping paper with an intricate floral pattern.

The ticket stub from an exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum, postcards of paintings.

Sketches of people and places, some washed with colour and outlined in ink, others in scratchy blue biro.

He didn’t have the energy to keep turning the pages, so he left it open on a page covered with scribbled words. It was getting hard to focus, but a few words stood out: lonely, odyssey, wish . What did it mean? His limbs were heavy. He’d close his eyes for a minute.