But he couldn’t stay with the emptiness. The piles were nice, but the patches of carpet and areas of room in between were vast like fields stretching on and on under dark skies and then sunlight.
He put his hands over his ears to block out the awful song. “Stop it.” But the ringing condemnation went on. At times, it seemed to be coming from inside; others, not. Earlier on, he’d tried ripping at the skin on his hands to see if he could find release, but it hadn’t helped.
What he needed was an enormous truck to dump load after load of stuff into his room—filling all the pain until there was no space. He imagined the ceiling opening up like a mouth to give the truck access, and its cargo pouring in to cover up the miles of mud, the broken people and the little family he’d lost in the waves.
“Please stop.” He began pulling at his hair to stop the memories. The sweet, bitter taste of the cider flooded his mouth, and then he knew he had to have it despite Zack and the pact.
He stumbled so badly that on the way past reception he bashed into doors and people. They swarmed in and out of his vision like dreams. “Sorry, sorry. I’m so sorry,” he mumbled.
“Kaz? You all right, love? Kaz?” He heard the voice on reception, but then he was out the doors, running so fast that only Coach could have caught him.
Only Coach.
***
The supermarket trolley was abandoned. If he didn’t take it straight away, someone else might notice and steal it from him. People always took what mattered most.
The taste of the cider was still teasing, but Kaz knew he could use that trolley—knew it with bleeding fingertips and flashes of red. It could be so full even he’d have to squeeze and then he’d have all instead of nothing, nothing, never-ending nothing.
Suddenly, he was pushing the trolley away from the back of the supermarket, already calculating how many bags would fit, and how many journeys would be required to and from the street with the bags out on that day. He’d worked out that different streets put out the bags on any days, but mostly Tuesdays and Fridays.
He didn’t notice much else as he ran with the trolley, picking up black bags and shoving them in until the trolley was stuffed full and high.
His heart beat, and beat, not quite enough to blast away the dull emptiness, but enough to diminish the need for the cider.
People looked, people stared, and one or two spoke, but he kept his gaze firmly ahead and didn’t deviate. One foot and the other could get him a long way; he already knew this. Something about the rhythm and the beat—the rhythm and the beat—and before he knew it, he was approaching the steep Citywise hill.
But he was used to toil, knew by now how to use it to generate more energy and keep going.
Along the edges of his vision, other residents were hanging about chatting. Sweat was pouring down his face and eyes, making the colours merge with the sky, but he was almost there.
“What the fuck are you pushing, bag man?”
“Just some rubbish I’m collecting for Lisa,” he lied, making sure to keep up the feet and never stop. At any moment he expected one of the crowd or a worker to stop with questions, but amazingly, he got around the back of the building behind the toilets and the window.
He hit the concrete floor and so did the trolley. Vomit sprayed the air then landed back on him.
The sky cascaded down with the bags and then the waves beat against him and the baby, and although he fought with everything he had, still it wasn’t enough.
Never enough.
The pain he couldn’t reach gave him energy enough to push the bags through the toilet windows, hide the trolley in some bushes, then slither through himself onto the floor.
By the time he dragged the last bag in, he was crawling on his hands and knees. But the instant he locked his door and collapsed, the ferocious pushing stopped and he drifted off to sleep.
“Goodnight, Coach.”
* * * * *