HIT ME HARDER

Chapter 4: Four Kilometres

The first kilometre was the worst.

Not because of the ribs. The ribs were bad. Four of them, broken, singing a little song inside his chest every time he breathed, a song that sounded like a man stepping on dry pasta. Not because of the collarbone, which had gone from "broken" to "broken and angry" somewhere around the second traffic light. Not because of his bare feet, which had stepped on something wet and cold and probably alive in the first thirty seconds and he had chosen, consciously, with the full authority of a man in penguin pyjamas at two in the morning, not to look down.

The first kilometre was the worst because of the cameras.

Northside had cameras. Everywhere. On every pole. On every building. On every shop front and every traffic light and every ATM and every bus stop. Cameras that belonged to the city and cameras that belonged to the Vane family and cameras that belonged to people who just liked watching other people walk. And Kai Ashford was walking. Barefoot. In penguin pyjamas. With blood on his chin and four broken ribs and a collarbone that clicked when he shrugged, and every single camera was watching, and every single camera was recording, and by morning, every fighter in Ashgate was going to see this.

He waved at one. A little wave. Fingers. Smile. Jaw click.

"Hope you're getting my good side," he said. "The left side. The left side is much better. The right side has a scar and a clicking jaw and a general air of 'I have made several poor decisions.' The left side is the side that women like. Or would like. If I had met any women. Recently. Or ever. In a non-hospital context."

He walked.

The second kilometre was quieter. Fewer cameras. More bins. A fox crossed the road in front of him. A fat fox. A fox that had clearly been eating well. A fox that looked at Kai, at his pyjamas, at his bare feet, at his blood, and made a face. An actual face. A fox face. A "mate, what is wrong with you" face.

"I know," Kai said. "I know. I look terrible. I've had a worse evening than you. And you eat rubbish. Literally. You eat actual rubbish. From bins. I saw you. That fox, the fat one, he was eating a kebab wrapper. A whole kebab wrapper. With the foil. And he looked happier than me. So. Perspective."

The fox left. Kai walked.

The third kilometre was where his feet started bleeding. Small cuts. Glass, probably. Or gravel. Or the general hostility of a city that did not care about his feet. He looked down. Blood. Little red prints on the pavement. Like a very small, very sad crime scene. Like a penguin had been murdered, slowly, over several blocks, by a road.

"Great," he said. "Now I'm leaving a trail. Like a fairy tale. Like Hansel and Gretel. Except instead of breadcrumbs, it's blood. And instead of a witch, it's a man who eats steak with his fingers. And instead of a happy ending, it's a toaster that doesn't work. So. Not exactly Grimm. More like mildly inconvenient."

The fourth kilometre was the longest.

Not because it was farther. Because he could see the academy. The gates. The lights. The little security booth where old Gerald sat every night, drinking tea from a thermos that had been the same thermos since 1987, watching the same three monitors, catching the same two students sneaking back after curfew, and going back to his tea. Gerald, who had once told Kai, "You look like a young man who makes poor choices," and Kai had said, "Thank you, Gerald, that's the nicest thing anyone has said to me all week," and Gerald had said, "It wasn't a compliment," and Kai had said, "I know, Gerald, that's what made it nice."

Gerald saw him. Gerald's mouth opened. Gerald's tea stopped halfway to his lips.

"Mr. Ashford," Gerald said.

"Gerald."

"You are barefoot."

"I am."

"You are in pyjamas."

"Penguin pyjamas. Yes."

"You are bleeding."

"Several places. Yes."

Gerald put down his tea. Picked it up. Put it down. Picked it up. His hand was shaking. Not a lot. A little. The tea rippled.

"Do I," Gerald said, "call someone?"

"Call Greg," Kai said. "Tell him to put the kettle on. And tell him to stop eating chips. It's two in the morning. No one should be eating chips at two in the morning. It's morally wrong. And it makes a noise. A crunching noise. A noise that says, 'I have given up on dignity and I am now just a mouth with a bag.'"

Gerald stared at him.

Kai walked through the gate. Bare feet on the gravel path. The gravel was worse than the pavement. The gravel was personal. The gravel had opinions. Each little stone had a little opinion about the bottom of his foot and was not afraid to share it.

The dorm was dark. The window of his room, third floor, second from the left, had a light on. Greg's light. Greg, eating chips. Greg, watching something on his phone. Greg, being Greg.

Kai climbed the stairs. Three flights. His ribs sang. His collarbone conducted. His jaw kept time. His feet left little red prints on the linoleum. He reached the door. Opened it.

Greg was in bed. Eating chips. Watching a video on his phone. The video was of a cat falling off a table. Greg was laughing. A wet, chip-filled laugh. A laugh that said, "I am a man who has found the meaning of life and it is a cat falling off a table."

Greg looked up.

Greg looked at Kai.

Greg looked at the pyjamas.

Greg looked at the feet.

Greg looked at the blood.

Greg looked at the pyjamas again.

"Are those," Greg said, "penguins?"

"They are."

"You went to see Silas Vane. In penguin pyjamas."

"I was asleep. They broke the door. I didn't have time to change. I would have worn the ducks. The ducks are more formal."

Greg laughed. A real laugh. A chip-flying laugh. A laugh that ended in a cough and a wheeze and a small piece of potato landing on Kai's foot.

"You look," Greg said, "absolutely destroyed."

"I feel absolutely destroyed. There's a symmetry to it. Very satisfying. Very balanced. Like a well-constructed sandwich. A sandwich of pain."

"Did he hurt you?"

"Four ribs. One collarbone. A general sense of existential dread. And he told me something about my dad. Which I'm not going to talk about. Because it's two in the morning. And I'm in penguin pyjamas. And my feet are bleeding. And I would very much like to lie down and stare at the ceiling and think about absolutely nothing for approximately nine hours."

Greg put down the chips. Actually put them down. On the nightstand. In the bowl. The little ceramic bowl shaped like a frog that his grandmother had sent him and that he had never once used for anything other than chip storage.

"Do you need a doctor?" Greg asked.

"I need a toaster."

"Kai."

"I need a toaster, Greg. A working toaster. A toaster that toasts. That is its job. That is its one job. And it does not do it. It sits on the counter. It looks at me. I look at it. We have a relationship built entirely on mutual disappointment."

Greg stared at him. Then he got up. Walked to the kitchen. Came back with a glass of water and two painkillers and a pair of socks. Clean socks. Grey socks. Socks that said, "I am a man who owns socks and has put them in a drawer and knows where the drawer is."

Kai took the socks. Took the water. Took the painkillers. Swallowed them. Drank the water. Put on the socks. The socks were warm. Greg's feet were warm. Greg was a warm-footed man. A man with warm feet and a frog bowl and a cat video and a general air of "I have never been to Northside in penguin pyjamas."

"Thank you," Kai said.

"Don't mention it."

"I'm going to mention it. I'm going to mention it constantly. For years. At every opportunity. At weddings. At funerals. At the opening of new supermarkets. 'Remember the time Greg gave me socks?' 'Yes, Kai.' 'Remember the socks, Greg?' 'Yes, Kai.' 'The grey socks, Greg.' 'Yes, Kai.'"

Greg got back in bed. Picked up his chips. Picked up his phone. The cat fell off the table again. Greg laughed.

Kai lay down. On his back. Because his ribs. Because his collarbone. Because his everything. He stared at the ceiling. The ceiling had a crack. A long thin crack that ran from the light fixture to the corner. He'd been staring at that crack for two years. He'd named it. He'd named it Derek. Derek the crack. Derek, who had been there longer than Greg, longer than the frog bowl, longer than the toaster, longer than most of Kai's relationships.

His right hand was warm.

Still warm.

After everything. After Silas. After the dark. After the fingers. After the napkin that stayed white. After the sentence that was still sitting in his chest, heavier than the ribs, louder than the collarbone, more persistent than Derek.

*Your father asked me to kill him.*

Kai closed his eyes.

Opened them.

Closed them.

His hand was warm.

And in the morning, when the sun came through the window and hit his face and Greg was already eating toast, cold toast, because the toaster was broken, because the toaster would always be broken, because the toaster was a metaphor and Kai was too tired to unpack it, there was a photograph on his nightstand.

He hadn't put it there.

Greg hadn't put it there.

It was a photograph of a young man. Twenty years old. Maybe twenty-one. Standing in a ring. A white-tiled ring. A familiar ring. His right hand raised. His fist glowing. Amber-gold. Warm. The same glow. The same warmth. The same stupid stubborn light.

The young man was smiling. Crooked. Arrogant. Showing teeth.

He looked exactly like Kai.

On the back, in handwriting that Kai did not recognise, in ink that had faded but not disappeared, in letters that had been written a long time ago by a hand that was probably warm:

*Thornwall. 1991. Round seven. Don't stop.*

Kai held the photograph.

His hand was warm.

The toast was cold.

And somewhere in the dorm, three floors down, in a kitchen that smelled like burnt butter and old tea, a girl with sharp eyes and a phone that she had not dropped, had not dropped, had placed, deliberately, on the floor of an arena, watched the door, and waited, and smiled.