Take My Breath Away by Ali Ryecart

Chapter Four

JAMES

Perry’s been quiet for the whole of the journey. He’s embarrassed by his predicament, ashamed even. He’s been foolish, of that there’s no question.

I throw him a quick glance. Huddled in his seat, he looks small, defenceless, and fragile. Touch him too hard, and he’ll shatter. It’s a sharp reminder again of how much younger than me he is. I wonder about this Grant character. The guy sounds like a piece of work which makes me glad — very glad — that I’ve got Perry’s back.

“It’s the second turning on the left. See where the bakery is, on the corner?”

It’s a street of mainly small Victorian terraced houses, but there are some new flats too. We pass a newsagent, dry cleaners, and a minimart. In the depths of south London, the street is as suburban as you could get.

“Just here.”

I park outside a low-rise block and switch the engine off, plunging us into silence.

“Will he be there, do you think?” I nod towards the flats.

“I don’t know.”

Perry looks down at his phone. He’s been trying to get in touch with his turd of an ex on and off since we left, but has been met with a wall of silence. Not that it matters to me whether he’s there or not.

“He started going out on Friday nights and not turning up again until late on Sunday. It’s what caused the rows, or some of them. He wouldn’t say what he was doing, but it didn’t take being a rocket scientist to guess.” His words are edged with a bitterness that’s so at odds with his sweet nature.

“It’s irrelevant whether he’s home or not. We’re just here to collect your things. We’ll do it quickly and without fuss, and then get out.” I take his hand, and squeeze lightly to give him reassurance.

He gives me a shaky, worry-filled smile that makes me want to hug him close and tell him everything will be all right. I don’t, because I can’t promise it will be, but I’m determined to make this as pain-free as possible for him.

“I still don’t understand how you think we can get in? Not unless you’re going to try and kick the door down.” His eyes widen and I have to bite my tongue to not laugh.

“Nothing so crude. Do you trust me?”

“Sorry?”

“I said, do you trust me?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

I huff. “You suppose. That’ll have to be good enough, I suppose. Come on, I don’t want to hang around any longer than we need to.”

I click to lock the Range Rover, giving the small group of smoking teenagers who are nodding towards the car a steady stare. Don’t even think of touching my car… They get the silent message, and lope off.

Perry keys in a code and with a click the entrance door unlocks.

“It’s on the top floor.” Worry threads through his words, and I follow him up.

Moments later we’re standing outside a green-painted door with a new and heavy looking Yale lock. It might present a barrier to Perry, but not to me. I bang on the door. If this Grant piece of shit is here, it’ll save entry by alternate means.

My heavy hammering’s met with silence.

“How—? Oh…”

Perry stares open-mouthed at the small box of picks I pull from my pocket.

“You didn’t honestly expect me to kick down the door, did you? Really, give me some credit for a modicum of finesse.”

“But that’s breaking in. It’s illegal. Isn’t it?” he says, the words rushing from him as he watches, wide-eyed, as I insert the thin metal pin into the lock.

So’s being fleeced of your money…Except, Perry’s willingly if stupidly sunk his pay into a well that his scum bag ex has been drawing very deeply from. There’s probably little if anything Perry can do to get any money back, and he no doubt knows that. I don’t say anything because there’s no point in making him feel worse than he already does. This is a damage limitation exercise. We get in, get his stuff, and go. And then he comes home with me.

“Where did you learn—?”

“Later.” Now’s not the time for me to explain my somewhat irregular skill set.

It takes just seconds for the tumblers to click and the door to swing open. Perry goes to walk in, but I stop him with a hand to his chest and shake my head. He looks at me, a questioning frown on his brow. I’m listening hard for any sign of life, but there’s nothing.

“Let’s get this done as quickly as we can.”

“I’ll get some bin bags, from the kitchen.”

Damn. Of course. We haven’t brought anything to carry his stuff away in.

I follow him into the small kitchen. My nose twitches. The yeasty aroma of toast hangs in the air. Perry grabs the bags from under the sink and dashes out. I lay a hand on the kettle. It’s warm. Wherever Grant is now, he’s not long been gone.

Cupboard doors slam followed by Perry’s howl of distress, and I rush to find him.

He’s standing in the bedroom, in front of an open, and empty, narrow wardrobe.

“Everything’s gone. My suits for work. My shirts. My shoes. There’s nothing left.” He gasps, his eyes so wide they all but swallow him whole. “Oh no, he can’t have—” He pushes past me and I’m on his heels, as he runs to the living room and to a small bookcase in the corner. He’s pulling books out, left and right, throwing them to the floor. “They’re gone, they’re fucking gone.”

On his knees, he stares up at me, desolation dulling his deep brown eyes.

“They were my granddad’s, and they came to me when he died. He had them as a kid. Adventure stories for boys. He used to read them to me.”

The tears he doesn’t try to stop stream down his face. He’s deathly white and without thinking I pull him up and into my arms.

Every part of him is trembling. It’s shock, and anger too, I suspect, at how his life has spiralled out of control, and treasured possessions discarded, as it finally hits him that he’s been eradicated from the life he had in a place he’d called home.

“I don’t understand. Why’s he done this? Why? My clothes, but—but Granddad’s books? He knew how much they meant to me.”

The tears are flowing freely and I tighten my arms around him, letting him know I’m here and that he can lean on me.

His sobbing quietens, and he looks up at me. He’s a mess, no doubt about it. His eyes are red and puffy, his face wet and mottled and snot smears his upper lip, but all I want to do is to hold him tight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to… Oh, look, I’ve made a mess of your shirt. Sorry.”

There’s a gunky wet patch on my chest, and he tries to wipe it away but only makes it worse. I still his hand.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.” My voice is gruffer than I’d like, and I clear my throat. He’s staring up at me, blinking his tear glittered eyes. I pull a paper tissue from my pocket. “Here, blow your nose,” I say through the dry gravel that’s lodged in my throat.

Perry nods. Taking the tissue, he steps back, taking the warmth of his small body with him.

“Is any of your stuff here?”

“A bit. Not much. I didn’t have a lot, but—” He stops and gasps, and I’ve no need to ask why. He’s not the only one who’s heard the flat’s front door open and slam closed, and footsteps coming down the short hallway.

“What are you doing here — and who the fuck are you?”

I turn around to face the bulky, dark-haired man standing in the living room doorway. I grin, and it feels like my skin’s about to tear apart.

“Hello Grant.”