The Harm in being Honest

Chapter Five - Psychosis

CHAPTER FIVE

Psychosis

Jake was gone 'letting off steam' for quite a while. Making productive use of his absence, I prepared the ingredients for our meal; then I pulled a chair over to the sofa, sat down cross-legged on the cushions and stared intently at his brother.

There really was nothing in his scarred, disfigured face to suggest that he was capable of wonders. Even relaxed like this in unconsciousness, he looked more like a mass murderer than a miracle-worker.

I memorised every single contour of his face while I had the chance – each pucker of his skin, the exact shade of his pale blonde hair. And, in the process – oh so gradually – his whole appearance seemed to morph and shift. I stopped seeing the damage, the thickset features, the crushed nose, and instead saw...the face of an angel. Clearly, whoever had designed all those stained-glass windows of angels had never been fortunate enough to meet one. They weren't cherubic, rosy creatures; judging by this man, they were haggard, ugly and beaten. They weren't pretty. But they were capable of awe-inspiring deeds and that made them magnificent.

When Jake finally returned, I was still unabashedly staring.

"He's still out then." He came to stand beside me, smelling of perspiration and damp grass. His voice sounded wary.

"The shower's upstairs," I said without looking round. "First door on the right. I've left clean towels ready. I don't know what you want to do about clothing, but I don't reckon anything of mine'll fit you." I had also locked the only other door up there – the one to my bedroom – just in case he temporarily 'forgot' my directions.

He chuckled softly. "I think you're right about that."

"I'll get the dinner on." I stood stiffly and walked towards the kitchen.

"I know I'm saying this a lot today, but thanks, Miserie."

"Agenda, remember," I said. "You might not be thanking me tomorrow – once you find out what I'm after."

Our meal was sizzling by the time that he came back downstairs. Outside, the sun was setting in earnest: dusk fighting a losing battle against the rapidly approaching night.

"Hmmm, that smells good."

"Sit down," I instructed, not turning around from the stove. I had already laid the counter with cutlery and two glasses. "I haven't got any alcohol, so you've a choice of water or tea to drink." I lifted the saucepan, split the rice between our two plates and then did the same with the contents of the frying pan. Judging by the size of Jake, I had assumed that he would have a healthy appetite and had prepared a hefty amount of food.

Picking up our mini-mountains of curry, I turned towards the counter – and almost dropped the plates. Jake was wearing my dressing gown. He was perched on the same stool as earlier, wearing a cheeky grin, my black dressing gown and – as far as I could see – nothing else. And I could see quite a lot. The dressing gown didn't even brush his knees and the sleeves were ridiculously short. Even worse, his thick shoulders barely fit inside the straining fabric, leaving his chest completely exposed. Only over his waist and below – where, I suppose, it really counted – did the two halves of the gown actually meet. Here the cord had been knotted several times to preserve his modesty. His upper torso, replete with washboard stomach, was exhibited for my viewing pleasure.

Show off.

"You had better not be stretching that," I managed, barely keeping a grip on the plates. "I like that dressing gown."