Wesley had known for a while that there was little hope for his future, but he would have thought he was at least qualified to wash cars. The one-hour tutorial before he was even allowed to hold a sponge suggested otherwise.
‘The second coat of wax is where it really counts,’ said Dave zealously, Mum’s latest boyfriend. ‘It might seem like overkill, but a good shine can really make up a customer’s mind.’
Although he was there to work, Wesley had known in advance that the whole endeavour would be set up like a bonding experience. Still, Dave seemed more interested in romancing the electric lime Ford Focus at his fingertips than playing dad-in-waiting. Even though he owned the used car dealership, he’d stripped down to a T-shirt as soon as Wesley arrived and started filling buckets with water (‘power hoses damage the paintwork!’).
While Dave dabbed on the second helping of wax, Wesley watched him closely. He was better looking than the last couple of boyfriends: head shaved to fuzz, tattoos so dark on his black skin they could have been etched there at birth. This was the first time Mum had dated anyone since they finally got away to their own place. Two months together and counting. Long enough that Wesley needed to worry.
‘How long have you had this one?’ he asked. The oil-stained forecourt was only big enough to hold seven or eight cars, parked in two tight rows.
‘A few months,’ said Dave. ‘I think the colour might put people off.’
Usually, Wesley would refuse to do anything like this with one of Mum’s boyfriends. They always got on better without them. It had been an unspoken rule with his older brother Jordan that they would never relinquish any of their power to some new bloke on the scene. Except Jordan had betrayed all that when he left.
If only Mum hadn’t looked so hopeful when she asked. Plus, the extra money would finally give him the chance to contribute.
‘All right, grab the chamois,’ said Dave.
‘You sure you two don’t want some alone time?’
Dave whipped the cloth at him playfully, and they spent the next few minutes quietly buffing the wax like it might magically transform the car’s fortunes.
‘That’s the ticket.’ Dave beamed, showing off his wheeler-dealer silver tooth.
The repetitive work did little to take Wesley’s mind off Kat Waldgrave. He had expected to feel in some way different when the attack was over. It should have proved that he wasn’t soft, that he could act like Tru said men were supposed to. The trolling campaign had been a success, but instead of basking in triumph alongside Luke and Justin he was still stuck here washing cars. He was still himself. Hopefully they had reported their success to TrumourPixel by now. He wasn’t sure exactly what might come next, but it had to be better than this.
Thinking of Kat made his stomach drop, like an airlock opening. He couldn’t shake the thought that the effects of their attack had been worse than intended.
Behind him, hanging on a hook in the dealership office, was Kat’s bag and MacBook. It would offer some answers. The more Wesley tried not to think about it, the more he needed to uncover the truth.
Kat woke inside the sweaty cavern of the duvet pulled over her head. Somebody was knocking on her bedroom door.
‘Are you coming down for dinner?’ said Dad.
The door was locked, and she knew giving no response would quickly make him give up. She couldn’t risk him seeing what had happened. Against all reason she felt embarrassed, as if she was to blame. On the way home she had kept her head down and walked quickly, determinedly not noticing if anybody was noticing.
If there was something wrong. She was still hoping the whole affair was some kind of hallucinatory panic attack. She couldn’t bring herself to check. She had fallen asleep while watching Tinker videos to comfort herself.
‘You need to eat,’ said Dad.
This was how he went through the motions: meals cooked, clothes washed, schoolwork checked. If he did what was expected of him, and she played along, they could both avoid ever acknowledging that the last year had reduced them to little more than strangers.
‘I’ll put it in the oven so it stays warm,’ said Dad.
Kat listened to his feet padding down the stairs and drew the duvet tighter to her skin, willing herself to sleep again so that waking afresh would chase the nightmare away.
There was no denying the iridescent shine of the paintwork after the second coat of wax. Wesley stood back while Dave circled the car, checking for any spots they’d missed. There was an ember inside him, smouldering guiltily in the dark. It felt dangerously like pride. Wesley quickly stamped it out.
‘Real boy racer car, this. You thinking of learning any time soon?’
‘I can’t even think about affording it.’
Dave nodded, leaving Wesley to wonder if he knew how tough they’d had it during the last couple of years. Mum’s zero hours contract, which meant they could never know how much money they’d have, was no secret. It seemed less likely Dave knew about having to outstay their welcome with friends and boyfriends because they had nowhere else to go, or the queues at the Salvation Army food bank, or shopping for his half-sister Evie’s clothes in charity shops so they could afford nursery a few days a week. If he knew all of that, Wesley wasn’t so sure he’d have stuck around.
‘What else needs cleaning?’ said Wesley, looking around at the assortment of cars on show. They all looked clean enough already. Mum had insisted Dave was shorthanded, but Wesley suspected otherwise.
‘I see what you’re thinking,’ said Dave. ‘That you’re only here cos your mum bullied me into it. It’s not true. Yeah, I’m happy to help you out. But it takes a lot of work keeping every car presentable. I don’t care about horsepower and nought-to-sixty or any of that. The real magic is in a properly clean motor, like you’re paying proper homage to the peak of human ingenuity.’
Wesley looked at him like he was mad, but he kept the smile off his face; Dave clearly believed every word.
Dave grinned back. ‘Come on, look around and tell me it’s not a glorious sight worth maintaining.’
Near the office door, tucked back in the second row, was a silver BMW that had caught Wesley’s eye as soon as he arrived. He knew nothing about cars except that this was the sort of thing he should be driving one day.
Dave followed his gaze, and his grin turned mischievous. ‘Wait here a tick.’
He slipped into the office and opened the wall-mounted lock box where all the keys were kept, returning with a fresh set. A button press made the BMW’s lights flash and doors click open. Dave tossed the keys to Wesley, and he caught them, bemused.
‘Am I cleaning inside?’
‘Just get behind the wheel.’
The plush synthetic leather exhaled a breath of cigarettes and sweat under Wesley’s weight. Dave dropped into the passenger seat and pointed to the ignition.
‘I thought we’d established I can’t drive.’
‘It’s clamped, so you can’t go nowhere,’ said Dave, knocking the gear stick so that it wobbled loosely. ‘All right, it’s in neutral. Start her up.’
The engine grumbled awake as Wesley turned the key. He gripped the steering wheel reflexively, as if the car might jolt forward and he’d have to wrestle it into submission.
‘It’s all right, you can put your foot down.’
They were parked two feet behind an old Peugeot, and Wesley peered through the windscreen uncertainly.
‘Hey,’ said Dave, making Wesley turn to him. ‘I wouldn’t let you behind the wheel if it wasn’t safe.’
What was supposed to be reassuring sounded to Wesley like condescension, and all at once he felt like a child playing at being a man. He gripped the wheel tighter and looked down at the pedals. There were three, almost identical. The shame of having to ask burnt hot inside his chest. ‘Which one is it?’
‘On the right – just apply a little pressure.’
Jordan would have laughed at him, but that didn’t matter now. He eased the pedal down, the car raising its hackles and growling in reply.
Beside him Dave was grinning. ‘A little more.’
Wesley pushed harder and the engine roared, thundering in his ears, quaking through the car and into his bones. He felt as if he were bullying it, and feathered the accelerator so the engine seemed to pulse.
‘Yeah!’ shouted Dave.
When he let it go the power ebbed, but the sensation of it seemed to linger in his muscles, itch at his fingertips.
‘How about that?’ said Dave.
Wesley couldn’t keep himself from beaming in response.
‘I’ll give you some lessons some time. It’s not fair your brother got them and you didn’t.’
Wesley’s stomach clenched. ‘How do you know about that?’
Dave looked puzzled. ‘He turned up in his car last week and I wondered when he learned.’
Any power Wesley still felt evaporated instantly. ‘Jordan’s home?’
Dave winced. ‘I thought your mum’d told you. Me and my big mouth.’
It had been almost two years since any of them had heard from Jordan. After everything they had been through together since, Wesley couldn’t believe Mum wouldn’t tell him his brother was back. ‘What did he want?’
‘Maybe your mum should—’ His phone rang in his pocket and he couldn’t hide his relief at the interruption. ‘Speak of the devil. Hey, love,’ he said, answering the call.
Wesley wrung the steering wheel between his hands. Jordan being back had to be bad news, and if Wesley had known he’d have . . . what? He was powerless against his brother and always had been.
‘It’s no bother, I’ll send him home now,’ said Dave, and ended the call.
‘Let me guess,’ said Wesley, his voice tight. ‘Last-minute shift.’
He nodded. ‘Needs you to watch Evie.’
‘I’ve still got two hours here, not babysitting my little sister.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Dave produced a twenty-pound note and offered it. ‘You can make it up another time.’
It was more money than Wesley had had for a long time. Even if he gave half to Mum he could make the rest last a while. That didn’t stop him throwing open the door and leaving it behind, grabbing his stuff to head home without another word.
Kat woke again, convinced it was all fragments of a dream caught in her mind so that they leaked into the waking world. It wouldn’t have been the first time: once she’d stayed home from school after dreaming somebody died in the canteen (plausible given the food they served). A few months ago she thought she had dreamed the pass code to the staff toilets; Miss Jalloh caught her repeatedly entering ‘1337 80085’ into the keypad.
‘Okay, grow a pair,’ she told herself.
Grudgingly, she cracked open her eyes and looked at her hands.
The room was too dark to see for sure, so she fumbled to open the blinds. Thin LED street light cut through her fingers. That’s all it was! There was nothing wrong, just unnecessary panic and fantastical hypochondria!
A car outside passed behind her hand, and Kat saw it move through her skin, like the hull of a ship in murky water.
‘The best thing you can do is stay calm,’ she told herself.
She practically fell backwards off the bed, holding her hand aloft like a live grenade, losing her balance and catching herself against a Doctor Backwash poster on the wall. The logo showed through like a paling tattoo.
‘I’m a leaf on the wind,’ she whispered, urging herself to be calm.
Automatically she reached for her phone, and then pulled away as if it would scald her.
It hit her like a blow to the chest; the reason this had happened. For so long, Kat had only been her real self online – or as close to her real self as it seemed possible for her to get – where she could escape the indefinable stress of everyday life. Now those proxies into which she had poured herself were gone, and hardly anything of her was left behind. The posters on her walls, the figurines and the merch lining her shelves, were mere covers for her lack of substance.
It almost made her laugh. It was pathetic.
She grabbed her phone and opened the self-facing camera, averting her eyes as she snapped a selfie. There was no mirror in the room – looking at her face wasn’t Kat’s favourite pastime – but she had always taken a selfie once a week to post online. It felt like a way to keep in touch with herself, every photo throwing down the gauntlet to her continuing existence, fortifying her online life.
This selfie was different. Every inch of her was affected. Her body, her physical self, had become . . . what? Less corporeal; less present; simply less.
Kat focused on a single point on the far wall, a dent from a rogue yo-yo years before. The beast of panic was awakening, clawing. At the end of a long exhale she threw a fist sideways into the wall.
‘Ow!’
Pain throbbing in her knuckles was proof enough that she still existed, in one form or another. She had faded, like a chalk drawing in rain, but she was still there – just a little less there than before.