Hurtling to the surface from the depth of the Northern Line I think I’ve lost him. For a minute, everything contracts but my face, which contorts into a panicked, liquid misery.
But then I see him.
He’s crossing the road, heading away from his old flat. I skeeter through the traffic, maybe risking death, I have no idea. I skippety-skip-run to catch up and realise I’m far too close. My breathing is in my ears, pumping so loud he’ll hear it.
I drop back.
His hair is the same, even after all this time. It had seemed so on the tube but now I’m closer, my view is clear enough to be sure.
I’d like to get closer still but fear there might be some residual animal power which means a sibling would sense me.
Does he have a limp? He does. Is it his boots?
I want to ask but he turns his face to cross the road and I look away. I don’t want to know.
As he walks on, I focus on his hair. The warmth of a familiar safety spreads from my insides to my out and the hot overflowing of my eyes begins. I remember his hair, the feel and the smell of it. His calm-inducing eyes, his relaxed embrace.
A thousand childhood moments catch in my belly, ten thousand unanswered questions about these five-and-a-half years.
I am looking at him as the car backfires, gunshot ripping into darkness.
I am looking at him as his head flicks round towards the source and I stop.
Legs sickened. Gullet full. Heart defeated.
Why can’t it be him?