“Of course.” Ed dragged in a deep breath. “You’ve said why in every interview you’ve done. You hate your job. Winning is a way out.”
“And what else?”
The stench of piss and decay was strong here. Ed had smelled worse and had faced more obvious danger, but something about the tense set of Pasha’s shoulders made him edge closer very slowly. “And what else? You want to take the prize home to Scotland.” How many times had Ed heard him describe his motivation that way? Pasha had even shed tears on TV about it, right at the start of the show when they all got a chance to hold the winner’s crystal award. Home must mean as much to Pasha as it meant to him.
“I’d never take it back to Scotland. That’s not home. That’s just the last place I lived.”
“Well, wherever it is that you call home. You definitely said you’d take the prize there.”
“Yes, I’d bring the prize home.” Pasha pulled his arm back “Becausethisis what I intended to do with it.”
Ed caught Pasha’s arm split seconds before he could hurl half of a house brick through the window of a flat that looked the same as all the others. Nothing distinguished it as any different. There was no obvious reason why it was Pasha’s target.
Pasha strained against the grip Ed had on his wrist, only slowly lowering his arm, and then shaking free as soon as Ed’s hold loosened. “People keep talking about home like it’s always a good place.” He shrugged as if his skin was stretched far too tight and added, “That’s not always the case.”
“Pash, for God’s sake.”
“You know I lived in a dozen different places before I ended up in Scotland?”
Ed nodded, brow creasing when he saw how brightly Pasha’s eyes shone.
“Well, this was the first place I ever called home. I swore I’d bring the first prize back.”
“Pash—”
Pasha spoke as if he hadn’t heard Ed. “I swore I’d bring it home… and show my mum exactly what she missed.”
16
PASHA
Getting back to theBritPop!house from the block of flats was straightforward once Pasha concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He’d paid attention to the route for weeks, plotting mental map coordinates each day on the tour bus. There was less than a mile between the two locations, and Pasha kept a couple of steps ahead of Ed until they had covered half the distance. Only Ed’s expression made him stop when he finally glanced over his shoulder.
He wore the same blank expression as at the start of the contest. Back then, Pasha saw it as a game-play tactic. Now, though… now Ed being so guarded looked awful, weighing as heavily on Pasha as the hunk of brick in the front pocket of the hoodie he wore.
“I haven’t lied to you, Ed.”
Ed’s expression remained stoical. “Didn’t say you had.” They walked side-by-side. “Where you come from is none of my business.”
That neutrality was worse than Ed yelling at him. Pasha snagged at Ed’s sleeve. “I mean it,” he said as they retraced their steps. “I haven’t said anything to you that isn’t true.”
Ed looked down, gaze focused on where Pasha’s fingers had tightened, wrapped around his wrist now instead of tugging at his sleeve. He looked up as strangers approached, and his impassiveness slipped for a second. “Let’s talk about this at home.”
The house was only a few minutes’ walk away now. It was no more home than the flat they’d just left.
Pasha walked on, ignoring Ed’s instruction to wait. He only halted when Ed grabbed hold of his sleeve. It felt good to be held steady, for a moment at least, even better when Ed yanked him so much closer and didn’t give up asking questions. The urge to answer was almost overwhelming.
“You need to tell me what’s going on in your head.”
Pasha opened his mouth, then closed it when they were buffeted by people passing by.
“We’re not doing this here,” Ed said. “Come on.”
Following Ed was easier than explaining his actions. They crossed the same streets they’d been driven along so often, landmarks signaling they were almost there. The streets they walked down were progressively smarter, bay trees standing sentry before front doors glossy with bright paint. There were no puddles of piss staining these steps or gang graffiti marring these walls. Less than a mile separated expensive dwellings from the block Pasha had just come from. They might as well have been in different nations.
When Ed stopped stock-still on the pavement, Pasha glimpsed a group of fans blocking the pavement between them and the house. They’d been beyond supportive to him and Ed, especially during the last few days, but…. “I can’t face them right now,” he admitted.
Not while still carrying a brick. And not with Ed so intent on making him speak.