Page 83 of Fire Fight

Every time I push it away, it bubbles up elsewhere.

Halfway through my free period and I’m over everything. My face throbs. My torso aches, covered with dark bruises from body blows I didn’t even feel last night.

With just one day left before I’m yanked from school, abiding by their rules is a pointless activity and I head to the car. A fewhours’ drive might allow me a re-set before facing the journey home with Cadence.

It's not until I pass the seedy mall that I realise I’ve driven near my old home. The rear cycle lane into Alabaster is beside the train tracks and I stare along it, thinking how many times I’ve ridden that same path to school.

The semi-autonomous drive leads me further, into the row of shops by the roundabout, the pharmacy door painted a soothing pastel blue on the ground floor, a narrow strip of steep stairs leading to the shop.

I stick to the centre of the threadbare steps. The scent of menthol rub, and floral bath bombs make me smile, the jangling odours an immediate rope tethering me to my youth.

The top landing leads to a doctor’s office on the right, the chemist to the left. There are only two other customers in there, browsing in the bored way that suggests they’re killing time waiting for prescriptions rather than on the hunt for something to buy.

“There’s a bell,” the elderly woman standing in front of cold and flu remedies says, pointing to the counter.

“That’s cool. I’m here for advice so I’ll just let him finish. No use making you late.”

She gives me a sunken smile.

In five minutes, I’m the only one left in the shop and the pudgy man behind the counter adjusts his glasses, the smears on either side suggesting it’s a habit.

“You find what you were looking for?” He leans on the counter, whispering, “There’s only us here, now, if you wanted to show me something… you know… private.”

“No, its…”

His face is kind, the laugh lines cutting deep beside his mouth and eyes. Not the mask of a villain.

“My mother used to come here; I think.”

“We are the cheapest.” His chest puffs out with pride. “What’s her name?”

I step to the opposite side of the counter, resting my hands on the fake wood design. “According to her prescription, Madelaine Summers.”

His face goes still, the pleasant smile still in place, a wariness in his eyes. “Is that right?”

He glances into the corners where I clocked the cameras on my way inside. It could be out of thanks they’re recording or fearful they are, his frozen face doesn’t tell me which.

“Do you remember that name?”

“Madelaine’s been a good customer for years, but you’re not her son.”

“Then whose son am I?”

His eyes move to the counter, and I snap my fingers for attention.

“If you press a button, I’ll have to ask my questions to whoever responds. Is that what you want?”

“What I want is to keep serving my community the same way I’ve always done.”

“Good. Then you can answer my questions and I’ll be on my way in no time.”

“What questions?”

“First off, do you always trade unclaimed prescriptions for blow jobs or is that a deal you reserve for your teenage customers?”

His body relaxes, head shaking. The sting of disappointment isn’t bad because I already knew Cadence was talking shit and this man’s about to prove it.

“There aren’t any teenagers doing anything in here, mate. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick.” He arches an eyebrow, one hand patting his rotund stomach. “I like my women with a bit more mileage on them.”

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