Delectable (Sinclair Bryant)

The Truth Will Out

Robbie Baker.

1961. Two years older than Sian.

Sinclair reread the plaque to himself slowly, not quite believing his eyes. It felt like someone had dropped a large stone into the pit of his empty stomach as his mind calculated quickly, ending only in one solution. He couldn't speak. How had she kept this from him? And more importantly, why?

"There's no way you could have seen me with Robbie...my brother...because he died...on the 24th of December, 1989." Sian sobbed,  hiding her face and her tears from Sinclair.

Sinclair's arms itched to wrap around her but she had told him never to touch her again. An order he took very seriously.

"The person you saw me with at La Croix," she sniffed, wiping tears and snot from her face, "was Stephen. Robbie's partner. We were coming here, as we do every Christmas Eve since he died."

Oh, you abominable fool.

Sinclair's legs buckled, feeling sure he was going to vomit. He reached out quickly, anchoring himself on the bench; he needed to sit but it would be crass to do so now. On that bench. Of all places and of all times. 

Losing control of himself, Sinclair's breathing became erratic, the skin under his t-shirt a burgeoning furnace of complete self destruction.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," he panted over and over, "What have I done?"

With a cautious step, Sian tried to edge closer to him as his body shook involuntarily, his words jumbling together. She knew the signs of a panic attack, so approached him with continued caution, doing her best not to spook him.

"Sinclair," she whispered softly to the side of him, "Sinclair, listen to my voice."

"You shouldn't...you shouldn't come near me...I'm not...ah fuck my chest hurts. Sian" he gasped, "...Sian, I can't breathe," he panicked, clutching the top of his t-shirt, trying to get it away from his skin.

"Sinclair...you can breathe," she raised her hands from her side, "I'm going to touch you okay..."

"Urghh," he rasped, hanging his head over the bench. When Sian's hands touched his back, he flinched.

"Just listen to my voice, okay?" she soothed, "Breathe, Sinclair...through your nose...you can do it."

He tried his hardest to hear her over the beating of his wild veins.

"I thought it was the same, I thought it had happened again," he suddenly sobbed.

"Shh, it's okay. Deep breath...please," she coaxed, rubbing her hand with a purposeful pressure, up and down his back.

This time, he did as he was asked.
Sinclair sucked in air through his nose, the rush tingling his aching sinuses.

His actions gave some slight relief, as she looked around for anyone who might be about.

"Okay...good..good, now out through your mouth," Sian continued to coach him. She did so through one, two, three cycles of breathing, until she managed to sit him down on the bench. Right next to her brother's name.

Sinclair was a mess, his face pale and sheened with sweat, snot, and tears.

"She...she went back to him...to Richard," Sinclair continued, his body expelling his secret with little control, "and sh...sshhe fucked him ou...ourrr bed. Andd, I told you...it was the last straw but that wasn't it."

"Sinclair...look at me...just look at me and breathe."

He tried but couldn't focus.

Sian had no idea what was pummelling its way through Sinclair's head, and at that moment she didn't care. She just needed to calm him down.