Page 133 of When We Were Young

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 andwhatever 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 hersketchbook 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.

Chapter 61

July 2016

Liv

I pull out my new phone. Actually, it’s Dad’s old phone, but it’s better than the one that was stolen from me. Thank God he could download everything from the cloud. Well, almost everything. The interview with Brett Lewis was gone – it was too recent to get backed up – but the number Mary gave me was still there in my contacts.

I dial and a male voice answers on the third ring. ‘Hello?’

‘Is that David Matteson?’ I ask.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘My name’s Olivia Lawrence. I’m a journalist atAmplifymagazine,’ I say, mimicking Tumi. ‘I was hoping to talk to David Matteson for a Will Bailey feature we’re working on. Is he available?’

‘I’m David Matteson, but everyone calls me Matty.’

‘Matty, would you be willing to do an interview? We wouldn’t take up much of your time and we could come to you – wherever’s convenient…’

‘I work in Southwark. I could meet you in a café one lunchtime?’

‘Perfect. How’s tomorrow for you?’

‘Er… okay.’

We arrange to meet at one o’clock, around the corner fromhis office. I message him to confirm the moment I hang up, just like Tumi does.

I’m absolutely shitting myself.

Interview transcript – David ‘Matty’ Matteson

OL:Thanks for doing this, Matty.

DM:It’s good to talk about Will. I still think about him every day, even after all these years.

OL:I’ll dive straight in, if that’s okay? What was the band’s songwriting process?

DM:Will would come up with a riff. The three of us would jam along. He was always scribbling ideas for lyrics in a notebook. He’d have a new song every week. Songs came easily to him because he had girl trouble. He was in love with his brother’s girlfriend.

OL:Hisbrother’sgirlfriend?

DM:Yeah – Emily. She went out with Aidan for a couple of years. Will always maintained he saw her first, but Aidan got in there before him. He won her over eventually, though.

OL:How did he do that?