I shouldn’t be here.

Too bad I figured that out after I was sat on Shane Holland’s piss-coloured sofa that stinks of dog and ash. Shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t still be doing this, but here I am again — shoes on threadbare carpet, eyes on the same football game muted on telly, waiting for a lad I hate to hand me something I shouldn’t need.

He told me to wait. Said two minutes.

It’s been twenty.

I light a cigarette. The wallpaper’s peeling like dead skin. There’s a hole in the plaster by the skirting board and it’s shaped exactly like someone’s rage. Familiar sort of place.

Someone sits on the loveseat across from me. Big eyes. Jumper sleeves pulled over her hands. Knees tucked up under her like she’s trying to take up less space.

I stare.

She stares back.

I blink again, frown. “What the fuck,” I mutter under my breath, not to her, just to the room.

“Are you… real?”

She tilts her head. “Excuse me?”

“Right. Yeah. No, sorry.” I scratch my jaw, feel the raw skin under stubble. “You’re just— I didn’t know Shane had a sister.”

“Not many people do.”

“Right.” I flick ash into an empty can on the table, still watching her like I’m waiting for her to disappear. “He never mentioned you.”

She shrugs. “Why would he?”

Fair. I’d keep Shan nice and faraway from this world.

I let out a breath through my nose, lean forward, elbows on knees, cigarette dangling between my fingers. She’s just… soft. Everything about her is soft. In this house. With Shane.

It makes no fucking sense.

“You live here?” I ask before I can stop myself.

She nods.

“Right.” I pause. “Sorry.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. Just— Sorry.”

She looks at my hands. “Your knuckles are bleeding.”

I glance down. They are. Hadn’t even noticed. Must’ve been from last night or the night before or the night before that. Thank you, father.

“Yeah,” I say. “They do that.”

She doesn’t ask why. Just looks at them like she wants to clean them. Wrap them in plasters with cartoons on them and tell me to be more careful next time.