I Confess. Alex Barclay

sake. I said “you” because he doesn’t give a shit what I think. ‘He needs to get his head out of his arse!’

      ‘He’s sixteen,’ said Edie. ‘He’s cripped with—’

      ‘Oh God,’ said Johnny. ‘Anxiety – the Get Out of Jail card—’

      Edie stared at him.

      ‘Sorry,’ said Johnny. ‘But if he really had no control over his emotions, how am I the one who gets Angry Dylan and you get sad face? Or “Hugs”?’

      ‘We’re not getting into—’

      ‘No,’ said Johnny. ‘But—’

      Edie shook her head. ‘No—’

      ‘You know what you should do,’ said Johnny, ‘show him some of your “research” photos from the industrial school with those skinny little bastards running around out there – not a Netflick to their names.’

      ‘He’s already been rooting through my research,’ said Edie.

      ‘Jesus Christ. No wonder he has anxiety.’

      ‘Why do you have such a problem with it?’ said Edie.

      ‘Because it freaks you out,’ said Johnny.

      ‘It doesn’t freak me out,’ said Edie. ‘And I don’t have time for this. I have too much to do.’

      ‘I told you we should have got one of the chefs in,’ said Johnny. ‘We should have got staff in, full stop.’

      ‘We’re not going to get staff in when we’re closed for the season,’ said Edie. ‘And we’d have to pay them. But the main thing, I told you, was that I wanted to make an effort for my friends – which I still do. I just need time.’

      ‘Fine,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He turned to walk away.

      ‘Johnny – wait,’ said Edie.

      He looked back. His eyes were bright with hope and Edie wondered what he thought she was going to say. ‘Just …’ she said. ‘Stop … waiting for him to change.’

      Johnny frowned. ‘What?’

      ‘Dylan is all of what you see – the weight, the anxiety, the insecurity. But it’s Dylan – aged sixteen. It might not be Dylan at eighteen or twenty or twenty-five. But … what if it is? I’m saying – if you’re waiting for him to go back to being the happy little bunny … well …’ She paused. ‘Maybe that won’t happen.’

      She raised her chin, blinked and hoped Johnny wouldn’t notice she was fending off tears.

      When she looked at him again, she could see the triumph in his eyes. He stabbed a finger at her. ‘Don’t you ever give me a hard time again for grieving over that.’

      ‘I’m giving you a hard time,’ said Edie, ‘for letting him see it.’

      Johnny’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, and I’m the piece of shit? Because you can hide it better? These “feelings” everyone is supposed to be all open about?’

      ‘No one thinks you’re a piece of shit,’ said Edie.

      ‘Oh, I think we both know Dylan does.’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Edie. ‘I’ve never got that from him.’

      ‘Well,’ said Johnny, ‘maybe he raises his acting game when he’s around a champ.’

      Edie hated them both at this moment – individually, but mostly, as a couple.

      The grandfather clock in the hall chimed four times. Edie closed the door to the bar behind her and stood with her back to it, pausing to release a breath into the dense silence. The storm had been building all afternoon, and she could feel the powerful push of the wind against the walls of the inn, like the shoulder of a fairytale giant who didn’t want them there, who would keep pushing until they were gone. She knew that in her own house, the wind would be whistling through every broken part, reminding her of every unmet promise. ‘Remember the monstrosity we said he’d raze to the ground? And replace with our dream home? Well, we live in it! And we’ve barely done a thing to it! But look at the beautiful fairy garden! You can see it from our bedroom! Look at the pretty lights! I go there when I’m losing my mind to try to make myself believe in magic again!’

      She peeled herself away from the door and walked down the hallway. As she passed the dining room, a movement inside caught her eye, and she stopped. Mally was standing at the dinner table, taking a photograph with her phone.

      Edie walked in. ‘Hello, Mally.’

      ‘Oh!’ said Mally, startled.

      ‘What are you up to?’ said Edie, smiling.

      ‘Just – I love what you’ve done!’ said Mally, looking around.

      The room had been transformed from elegantly formal into elegantly mismatched. The dining table still had its white starched linen table cloth, but there was a brown tweed runner on top, covered with fresh greenery and a mix of squat cream pillar church candles on slices of polished woodcream taper candles in short brass candlesticks. The napkins were in muted blues and greens, with porcelain hummingbird napkin rings. The usual heavy silver cutlery was replaced with 1940s bone-handled knives, forks and spoons. The wine glasses were a collection of modern and antique – crystal, etched, gold filigree, all different, all beautiful.

      Mally was staring at Edie, eyes bright. Edie sometimes wondered whether Mally was hopped up on ADD drugs. There was a wide-eyed, nervous intensity about her that could sometimes veer into something darker. And why would Mally be looking at place settings? She barely ran a hairbrush through her hair.

      Edie’s gaze moved down to Mally’s hand. Edie had put a childhood photo at every setting, face down, peeping out from each napkin. Mally was holding Helen’s. In it, Helen was sitting at her kitchen table in a white dress, her tenth birthday cake in front of her, candles lit. She was beaming at the camera, chin up, eyes scrunched tight, a pink paper crown on her head. Clare was standing to Helen’s right, with her rosy red cheeks, looking like she was about to blow out the candles herself. Edie was in the back row, smiling serenely, her two arms neatly in front of her. Murph was standing sideways behind Clare, his arm up like a robot, but his head turned to the camera. His eyes were sparkling with mischief and he had three party blowers in his mouth. It looked like whoever had taken the photo had got distracted by him, because they hadn’t waited for Jessie – the birthday girl’s best friend – to make it into the frame. There was a glimpse of her at the edge – the end of her long black wavy pigtail, the sleeve of her bright pink dress.

      Dylan appeared in the doorway. ‘Hey, Mom …’ He frowned when he saw Mally.

      ‘I was admiring your mom’s party styling,’ said Mally. She held up the photo. ‘Look at your godmother – she was so adorable!’

      ‘She really was,’ said Edie.

      Edie smiled. She wondered would any of her friends realize how much effort had gone into the photo selection. She knew that Helen’s tenth birthday was her favourite, and among the few photos she found, she had chosen the only one where Jessie wasn’t right by her side. She hoped Helen wouldn’t notice the fraction of her, caught at the edge – she didn’t want to see the sting of a painful memory on her face.

      ‘Who’s this?’ said Mally, pointing to the picture. ‘Is this the girl who died in the fire?’

      Edie’s eyes widened. ‘Yes … How did you know that?’

      ‘Just a guess,’ said Mally. She shrugged. ‘I mean not a total guess – I read about the fire online and saw a photo.’

      Dylan frowned at Mally. ‘We have to go. It’s insane out there.’

      ‘I can give you a lift, if you want to wait,’ said Edie.

      ‘No,’