Understanding Nora Read online

  “You really are sick if you think this shit is entertainment. There’s got to be something better to watch than this crap.”

  ”You are not changing channels, McGuire!”

  His eyebrows rise in disbelief. “You can’t seriously want to watch this shit?”

  “It just so happens I’m in the mood to watch shit!”

  “Where’s the remote?” His gaze travels along the duvet, as though he’s seconds away from giving me a strip search.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I snap, holding it out to him.

  “Got a couple of free hours, which means today is your lucky day, Appleby.” He shoots me a cocky grin. I roll my eyes, watching him flick through channel after channel, surprised when he stops on an old detective series. “Really?” I ask, injecting the word with scorn.

  His brows arch. “What? It’s good.”

  I’m all set to belittle his choice when he continues. “We used to watch this when I was a kid.”

  I catch the tinge of nostalgia that weaves through his words. I know it was just him and Tess. I know their parents were killed in an avalanche some years back and Carred took on the responsibility of looking after Tess when she was still in school. I secretly admire him for that, and for once I do the right thing―I keep my mouth shut. That is, right up until he lifts my feet, sinks down onto the sofa, and lowers my calves across his thighs.

  Startled by the intimacy, I forget all about going easy on him. “Make yourself comfortable, McGuire!”

  He raises an eyebrow, the one with the twin bar bells, and gives me a sideways glance. “Really? Coz I’m thinking I’d be more comfortable stretched out beside you.”

  “Yeah, not gonna happen.”

  “Nora?”

  “What?”

  “Shut up and watch the fucking TV.”

  “Carred?”

  “What?” His eyes flash with a mixture of temper and frustration.

  “Thank you for my MacBook.”

  He grunts and swings his gaze back to the TV, his mouth curving into a ghost of a smile.

  Chapter One

  Tess

  CARRED

  It hurts to breathe.

  Pain lacerates my chest, has me doubling over. My breathing is sharp and jagged. I release a groan and a wave of nausea follows on its heels, my mind a black hole that threatens to swallow my sanity.

  Head bent, I watch my tears hit the fake-marble floor. This is the second time my life has come to a shattering standstill. First it was my parents; this time it’s Tess.

  “I should have been there for her. She shouldn’t have died alone.” Guilt burns like acid in my stomach.

  “I’m so very sorry, Carred. I hope it will be of some comfort to know that Tess didn’t suffer. She wasn’t aware of what was happening.”

  She continues to talk but her voice is muffled by the guilt that swaddles me. This is my fault. If I’d been there for her ... Christ, what did Tess ever do to deserve this?

  It should have been me. I’m the fuck-up, the one who used to pop drugs like they were the only thing keeping me alive. I’m the one who got kicked out of school at sixteen. I was my parents’ disappointment. Tess ... Tess was perfect.

  “The end was peaceful ...” she continues in hushed tones, intending her well chosen words to be soothing, but they’re wasted on me because I know I’m to blame. I should have been in the UK instead of in fucking New York.

  “Is there anyone you’d like to be here with you? Someone you’d like to call?”

  I shake my head. This is my own personal hell and I’m not about to inflict this on anyone else; at least not yet. I feel myself withdrawing, sheltering from the reality of Tess’s death and the black misery that lies in wait. I’ve been here before. I know what to expect.

  The doctor pauses, crossing her plump legs before hesitantly explaining the procedure for registering a death. She speaks slowly, her smooth voice allowing my numb brain to absorb her words, and when she finishes we rise from our chairs. For a moment I think she’s going to shake my hand.

  I give her a nod and I’m out of there, treading through the maze of corridors, slowly at first, gradually picking up speed until I’m full on running. When I hit the exit, the automatic doors roll back with a judder and I escape into the stale darkness, breathing heavily, the icy-cold air stinging my skin, making everything sharper, more real.

  I make it to the edge of the car park before I vomit, heaving repeatedly as my legs shake, threatening to give out on me. I almost fall into the mess I’ve just spewed onto the tarmac.

  I think about the hours that have lapsed since I heard about Tess, hours spent praying and hoping, focused solely on reaching her. Fucking wasted hours that mean nothing because Tess is gone.

  Slumping behind the wheel of my car, I wait for the trembling to subside. It’s more than twenty-four hours since I’ve slept; I’m wired, mentally and physically exhausted, and I’m barely holding it together.

  Jesus Christ, my sweet, beautiful sister is dead.

  We were always polar opposites; Tess calm and stable as the sea at low tide, me wild and driven as a flood, always surging to reach the next goal. But we were close and I loved her―more than anything or anyone. She had more faith in me than I ever had in myself; it was Tess who urged me to keep going when our parents suggested I quit the band. She was my world―my haven from the madness of the music business.

  My stomach roils with guilt and self-hatred. I can’t get my head round the fact that she’s gone. I smack the back of my head against the headrest and a new, sharper thought bursts forth. I miss her. I miss her so fucking much, I’m not sure I can bear it. A low, keening sound rises from my throat. It’s unrelenting, and when it finally passes, I’m empty.

  I sit there for hours, until my hands are white, and my fingers are stiff and numb from the cold. A band of silver frost has splintered its way across the edges of the windscreen, creating an icy frame for the vast amber moon. Its colour stirs a memory of Tess’s house, of windows glowing tawny through thin curtains. It jolts me from my daze.

  I need to feel a connection with Tess. I need to be amongst her things. I start the engine and drive into town, through streets that become increasingly narrow, stop signs never more than a few feet ahead. I find a space outside her small terraced house. There’s no flowered garden or white picket fence; only a strip of pavement divides her house from the street. The windows are black voids; no amber lights filter through the curtains, no sounds penetrate the timber-framed, sash-windows. Its soul has gone.

  I fumble my key into the lock and step into the living room, reeling as the sweet, floral smell that was pure Tess hits me. Though it’s pitch black, I know exactly how the room looks, and when I flick the light switch I’m engulfed by girly chintz and chaotic colouring. An open book lies on the sofa, its spine bent back on itself. Nearby, discarded on the floor, her knitted boot-slippers lie bent out of shape, their pale soles worn and scuffed. On the oak mantelpiece, above the cast iron fireplace, there’s a photo of Tess, smiling at the camera, encircled by friends. I think of her zest for life, of the countless adventures she’ll never get to experience, and I lose it.

  Forehead to the wall, I power my fist against the brick, pounding out the pain, landing punch after punch until my blood stains the yellow paint a sickly orange. I don’t stop, at least not until the physical pain outweighs the agony within. Lurching on numb legs, I pass her small oak table and its matching spindly chairs, moving into the long, narrow kitchen at the very back of the house. It’s pink, and there’s girly shit on shelves that were intended for something else, but I like it. I just never told Tess I liked it. I played the macho card and told her it was like being inside a candyfloss machine.

  Searching the cupboards, I locate the bottle of Jack Daniels I left here at Christmas. Spinning the cap free, I curse a blue streak when pain slices through my hand. With the first swallow comes the welcome burn and I take several mouthfuls in quick succession, kno
wing it isn’t about getting pissed―I just need to feel numb.

  Chapter Two

  Two Souls

  NORA

  “Swear to god, I put my keys on the hall table.”

  “Yeah, not heard that one before,” Ella shouts from the living room.

  “Shit! Where are my bloody keys? Tess is gonna kick my arse if I’m late again!”

  “Have you checked your bag?” Frankie asks, her tone condescending as hell.

  “Do you think I’m stupid? Yeah, I’ve checked ...” My fingers curl around a metal ball of keys at the bottom of my bag. “Found them!”

  A chorus of groans echoes down the hall. “Let me guess, they were in your bag,” Ella says.

  “I swear I checked it. Damn bag must have a secret compartment!” I hurry through the front door, happy to shut out their derisive laughter.

  “Must get organised” I chant, running down the street towards Tess’s house. It’s only five minutes from my house to hers, and from there another ten to the High Street. Today, for once, I have some spare cash and we’re going clothes shopping. I send her a text saying ‘almost there’ as I turn the corner of my street and five minutes later I’m knocking at her shiny red door. I wait. And wait some more.

  Where is the girl?

  I hammer once more, glancing at my phone and debating whether to call her. Before I can make that decision, the door swings open. “Hey, about time ...”

  I trail off when my view is filled with a black t-shirt and its familiar whiskey-logo. Carred takes up the space in the doorway, his layered, dirty-blond hair tucked behind his ears, his blazing blue eyes red-rimmed and swollen. His appearance, coupled with the strong odour of whiskey, means that he’s been on the mother of all benders.

  I wait for his face to twist into its usual, mocking expression – the one he reserves especially for me – but he simply stands there with one hand in his pocket, the other holding the door, looking half crazy with god-knows-what. This isn’t the Carred I know, the guy with the attitude who glories in getting a rise out of me, the guy whose direct, unflinching gaze always makes me feel like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  At six feet three he towers over my five feet six inches, and physically at least, he’s as intimidating as ever. Muscled upper arms taper down to strong forearms and hands that are as tough and beautiful as the rest of him. The tips of the fingers on his right hand are shoved into the front pocket of his low-riding jeans, revealing knuckles that are bloodied and swollen. His arm is angled, giving me the perfect view of his dense tattoos. I can see soft swirls of grey intermingling with darker, solid black shapes, their lines curving along his skin, emphasizing the masculine shape of his arm.

  Glancing up, I see that he looks wild and unapproachable. His brows have snapped together and the twin bar bells above his left eye glisten in the low winter sun. He lifts a hand to the back of his neck and backs up a step, opening the door a little wider.

  “Nora.” His whiskey-roughened voice is infused with anguish and it takes me several long seconds to fully comprehend what I’m hearing. When he sways on his feet I hesitantly reach out, somehow finding the courage to curl my hand around his forearm.

  “Are you okay?” Terrified, and not fully understanding why, I look beyond him for Tess, knowing he needs help and that she’ll know what to do.

  He shakes his head, gazing at me beneath lowered brows; the pain that dulls his eyes is shocking.

  “Carred? What’s going on? Where’s Tess?”

  He withdraws further into the room, his movements awkward and uncoordinated, allowing me just enough space to enter and swing the door closed behind me. He draws in a sharp, pained breath that sounds like a muted sob, except guys like Carred don’t cry.

  When it comes again I begin to freak out. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  His expression is one of desolation and despair and the air in my lungs freezes when his reddened eyes pool with shimmering water that slowly bleeds over and trails down his face.

  That’s when I know. It’s the only thing that could make Carred lose it like this. I stare at him helplessly, dreading the moment he’ll confirm my worst fears.

  “Tess died,” he says.

  My heart rips apart and I can see that his is doing the exact same thing, most probably for the hundredth time. And as much as I believe him, as much as I know he is telling the absolute truth, I shake my head. “No. No, no, no!”

  He watches me helplessly, caged by his own grief, unable to help me with mine. A fireball of pressure builds in my chest and a sob rises up my throat. “It’s not true … Please tell me it’s not true.” I shake my head. “Not Tess,” I say, my fingers clenching and unclenching at my sides. “Not Tess,” I plead, covering my mouth with the back of my hand, thinking of Tess, beautiful, vibrant Tess, always smiling, always with the big attitude. My mind flips to images of her lying cold and still, and my heart fractures into tiny little shards.

  Submerged in my own despair, too distraught to consider that my pain might serve to magnify Carred’s, I spin round, blindly reaching for the handle. I want out of here, away from Carred, away from the reality of Tess’s death, but his strong arms wrap around my middle, pressing against my stomach, trapping my arms against my sides.

  “Don’t.” His voice is heavy and slow, a plea that he follows up with the silent press of his damp, warm cheek against my temple.

  He holds me tight, almost curling himself around me, the jarring of his chest and shoulders evidence of his silent sobs. I begin to shake; uncontrollable shudders that weaken my legs and have me falling. Carred follows me down and we hit the wooden floor. He twists so that his back hits the wall, and he pulls me into him until my head is resting against his chest and my legs are curled against his thighs. Cocooned in his embrace, I grip his t-shirt and sob.

  My thoughts flash back to Tom, to his attack and his quiet, slow death. I recollect the hope that shrivelled and died long before Tom passed away, the months sat beside a hospital bed that was occupied by Tom ... and yet not.

  I miss him.

  Clawing myself back from the brink, I ride out the pain with Carred. Connected by our mutual grief, oblivious to the passage of time and the shifting of shadows, we sit in our clumsy huddle, two souls melded by the loss of another.

  Long after our tears have dried to salty trails, I ask him the question that needs asking. “What happened?”

  He doesn’t reply right away. I think I hear him swallow and when he eventually speaks, his voice is bleak. “Black ice. Her car left the road and smashed into a tree. She died in hospital, alone.”

  My throat clogs with fresh tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. If I’d known ...” I pause and try again. “I would have been there with her. You know that, right?”

  “I know,” he says.

  “Do you know if she ... did she suffer?”

  “No. She was unconscious.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed and I can’t help but play out the collision, my eyes flickering open when the sound of a faint vibration intrudes on the silence. Carred reaches into his back pocket and retrieves his phone, balancing it awkwardly in his left hand, stroking his thumb across the screen until the buzzing stops.

  I notice again the dark swelling and broken skin along the knuckles of his right hand and watch as he twists and turns it, as though he isn’t quite sure how he sustained the injury.

  I can’t resist asking, “What happened to your hand?”

  He meets my eyes. His are filled with surprise, almost as though he’d forgotten I was with him. “I punched a wall.”

  I wince, knowing the pain must have been intolerable for him to have inflicted that kind of damage on himself.

  “Listen, I need you to do me a favour,” he says, lifting us from the floor, leveraging his shoulders against the wall. “I need you to drive me to the hospital.”

  My eyes drop to his hand. “Is it broken?”

  He frowns in confusion. “What?” He
catches on when he sees where my gaze is fixed. “Uh, no, it’s fine,” he says, as if his bloodied hand is irrelevant. “I have to pick up some documents and collect Tess’s things.” His ashen face signifies just how much of an ordeal this will be for him.

  I wipe my damp face with the back of my sleeve, feeling useless, knowing there is nothing I can do or say to make this okay. “You want to leave now?” I ask.

  He rubs the heels of his hands against his sore eyes. “Sure. Yeah. Just give me a minute.” I wait while he uses the bathroom and locates his keys, my mind and body becoming more sluggish and lethargic with each passing minute. Carred opens the front door for me and drops his keys into my hand as he leads the way to a black Range Rover parked out front. The air is biting cold and I notice the raised goose bumps along his forearms. Watching him struggle with the seatbelt, his damaged hand next to useless, I take the belt from his fingers and click it into place. He doesn’t thank me.

  He sinks down low in his seat, his shoulder pressed against the glass, his face obscured by his hair.

  I drive in silence, trying to adapt to the alien-feel of the car, when all my mind wants to do is drift off to thoughts of Tess and how much I miss her already. I think about Ella and Frankie at home, oblivious, and I wonder how I’m going to find the strength to tell them.

  Carred doesn’t move or make a sound during the journey. His demeanour is a stark statement of loss and pain that sends my thoughts spinning once again to bleak memories of Tom. For a few seconds the pain hollows me out, leaves me bruised and aching until I smother it down, just like I always do.

  I follow the signposts for the hospital, exiting a mini-roundabout and turning right into a car park. It’s rammed; seems like the whole town’s here. I complete a full circuit before finding a spot within sight of the entrance with just enough space for a Range Rover.

  My gaze drops to where Carred’s knee is jumping up and down in small, jerky movements. “Do you want me to come in with you?”