FRIDAY, OCTOBER 15TH felt like nothing less than the end of an eternity. Will was being set free from school for just over two weeks, until the Wednesday after All Saints’ Day.

Halloween is not a traditional holiday in France, but luckily for the international students at St. Michel’s, it coincides with La Toussaint—a Catholic celebrations that falls on the first of November. On this day, the French people mourn their loved ones who have passed on, but the night before, their children joined the Americans and Brits in drinking, smoking, and stuffing themselves with all things pumpkin and chocolate.

There was a great deal of celebration under Jean-Baptiste, the almond tree, that day. Even Nasreen had torn herself away from studying to enjoy a slice of pumpkin pie with the others. John had brought it, and they placed it down in the centre of their circle, eating it with plastic cutlery. On that day, they put aside their differences, and invited Thomas and Ramy to join them, which they did, gladly. After all, Pierre’s baking could make an Italian grandmother quiver in her boots.

“HAVE A GOOD break,” said the note he’d found in his locker that morning. “Don’t miss me too much. Love always, R.”

He pushed it back into his pocket and tried to banish the thought from his mind. It was the end of the day, and he was hiding in the toilets. Ramy had asked him not to read the note in front of anyone else, so he had pried himself away from the others before they walked home. He flushed the toilet with his foot, although he hadn’t used it. Nasreen was standing outside the door, and the walls were perishingly thin.

When he came out, she was standing with both hands against he stomach, staring down at her feet. Will tapped her shoulder, bringing her back down to earth. She felt as though she had fallen out of the sky, and hit stone-cold reality with full force.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

It took her a moment to answer. “Of course,” she said, with a small smile, which was hardly even a lift of the lips.

He didn’t believe her. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, but said nothing, taking his hand and leading him away.

THEY LEANED AGAINST the stone-brick wall along the back of the house. They were sitting in the garden, watching the setting sun bleed through the trees. Will was half-asleep on René’s shoulder, drawn by his heat like a moth to a flame. He wrapped his arm round Will’s waist and held him close. It was the last truly warm day of the year. The summer sun was slowly disappearing beneath the horizon, and the moon rising in the east. A long, dark winter was coming, but in that moment, it seemed as though the red autumn light would never fade.

Pierre called them in for dinner, and they sat down at the table, eating themselves to bursting point. They brought their dessert outside, but as Will went to take the first bite, he heard that old, familiar clink in the back of his mind. The spoon slid out of his hand and fell onto the dusty ground beneath the table.

He looked up, to find that the others had gone, venturing into the dark woods, leaping down the terraces, to pick the last grapes of the season in the vineyard, which would undoubtedly be the sweetest. He realised with a start that he was the only one still sitting in the garden, and immediately leapt at the opportunity to do the unthinkable. He slipped through the kitchen door, scraped his bowl into the bin and placing it in the sink, then padded barefoot up the stairs, to the bathroom on the second floor.

The door was closed. He rattled the knob, but it did not open. He pressed his ear against it, and heard crying on the other side. He knocked.

“Are you all right, Nas?” he asked. It went abruptly quiet, then the lock clicked, and the door opened a crack.

“Are you alone?”

He nodded, and she held the door open to let him in, then shut it just as quickly. She was sitting on the toilet. Her eyes were red and bleary, and she was wearing John’s coat over her clothes. She was clutching it tightly over her stomach, presumably to hide it. His blood ran cold.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, falling to his knees in front of her. He took her hands and held them with all his strength.

“I’m… pregnant,” she whispered. Her lower lip wobbled, and a tear slid down her cheek. Will’s hands closed like steel traps. The sharp bones of his fingers put an incredible strain on hers, making them want to snap.

“With John?”

She pulled her hands from his grasp and leaned forward, burying her face in them. “It was just one night,” she gasped. “I don’t understand…”

“How long have you known?”

“Only a week.”

“Nas, it’s going to be okay. I promise.” He gently peeled her hands away from her face. “I’m right here. We’ll figure this out together.”

“I can’t tell him,” she said, biting the bullet.

“Well, you’re going to have to, eventually.”

“I just want this all to go away. What should I do?”

“Nasreen,” he said, sternly, “I have made a lot of choices in my life, both good and bad, and my morals are questionable in the best of times, but that is a line I will not cross. This decision is between you and—”

Someone knocked on the door. Nasreen bent over, throwing her arms round his neck, and began to cry violently against his shoulder.

“Will, what are you doing in there?” John asked, in a frightened voice. Ramy was not the only person who knew what Will did when he was alone in a bathroom.

“The devil, apparently,” he finished. “Go away, John.”

He dropped his shoulder, which had been muffling her wailing, and the sound broke free, ringing out in the tiny bathroom. John knocked again, more insistently this time.

“Nasreen? What’s going on?”

“Do you want to talk to him?” Will whispered. She pulled back, and nodded. He untangled himself from her and opened the door, so that they could trade places. He leaned in. “She wants to talk to you.”

John nodded and closed the door behind him. Will stood there for a moment, listening to their murmuring through the door, then went downstairs, back out into the gardens.

“What’s going on?” René asked. “Where’s Nasreen?”

“I can’t tell you.” He closed the kitchen door, and walked out, sitting down across from him.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s personal.”

“John’s in there. Why does he get to know?”

“Because it involves him.”

“Are they breaking up?”

“I don’t know,” he said, before he could stop himself. And when he did, he clapped a hand over his mouth. “No, they won’t,” he amended.

“I hope not.” He reached across the table and took Will’s hand. “Promise nothing like this will ever happen to us?”

Will burst out laughing. “René, it can’t.”

René’s brows met between his eyes, but he said nothing. They lapsed into silence. After a while, the couple came out, holding hands.

“Is everything okay?”

They nodded simultaneously.

“Yeah,” John said, holding her hand tighter. “I’m going to drive her home, and we’ll talk about it more.”

They said their goodbyes, then disappeared back into the house. The Chevrolet’s engine roared, and they were gone.

The four of them sat at the table, barely talking. After all this time, they had finally exhausted the conversation between them. There was nothing left to say. After half an hour, they finished the coffee that Pierre brought out to them, and then Jean-Philippe and Éloïse began the long walk home, together. René stayed behind with Will.

And then there were two.

THAT NIGHT, THEY snuck up to Will’s bedroom, through the hidden stairwell behind the kitchen. It led up into an annex, secreted deep within the recesses of the house, with one door opening onto the second floor.

After weeks of waiting, this was it: opening night. He couldn’t stand the horrible anticipation of it another minute—that sickening feeling of being terrified every moment they were together, as though René were truly capable of hurting him in any way.

But tonight, he was hellbent on surviving. Something deep inside of him was trembling in fear, but he tamped it down, until he couldn’t see it. He felt like he could vomit. It wouldn’t be the first time that week, or even that day. But you knew that already.

They stood at the foot of the bed. Will pulled away from the kiss, drawing in a shuddering breath. He peeled off his shirt. René was staring at his stomach, hideously sunken-in above the waistband of his briefs, and at his ribs. He could count them all, and did, tracing his fingertip down Will’s side. He had never seen anyone so thin in all his life.

Will toed off his sandals and unbuttoned his shorts. He slid them over his hips, letting them fall round his ankles. He stepped out of them, trying to keep his breathing steady, and not to choke. He gritted his teeth. It was fine. He was fine.

René was still fully dressed, staring at him. He’d never felt so insecure in all his life. He wondered if René was disappointed by what he saw. He had always known he was repulsive, but he had allowed himself to hope, for a moment, that he was wrong. He folded his arms over his bare chest, sitting down on the foot of the bed and shrinking into himself.

René pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it atop the heap of clothes at their feet. He kicked his shoes into the corner. They slapped against the wall, disturbing the deathly quiet. He stepped between Will’s legs, placing his hands on his hips. Will flinched back, like a frightened animal. His face was on fire. He wanted to crawl under the sheets and disappear.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, biting his lip.

“Are you okay?” He nodded. René held on to his shoulders. “Listen, we don’t have to, if—”

But he was cut off by Will leaning forward, calm and collected, and unbuttoning his trousers. He stopped breathing, because his briefs hit the floor, and so did Will’s. They were lying on the bed, René on top of him, caressing every inch of his skin. Will clutched the sheets, to hide the shaking of his hands. René touched him lightly, almost afraid that he would break.

“You’re so—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “Don’t say it.”

Whatever René thought he was, it was wrong. His body was a crime scene, and his blood was on the hands of many. Even his own were dripping red. He didn’t want to acknowledge the scars on his wrists and thighs, or the bruises on his hips, which were the shape of his father’s hands. There was nothing to talk about. He wouldn’t hear it—he couldn’t.

“I was just going to say that you’re—”

“I know. Don’t say it.”

“Fine.” His expression telegraphed that he’d almost had enough.

Will tried not to look down at his body, because it was terrifying. René’s hands trembled against his skin, tracing outlines of muscle and bone. He pulled him down, so that their chests and stomachs met. René kissed him carefully, but it was too gentle, and too sweet—it was meant for someone else. For the person he used to be.

He wanted René to know everything. He wanted to push him off and tell him the story of his life, up until this moment, no matter how terrible. He should’ve been innocent, but he wasn’t.

His heart was beating out of his chest. The world blurred, then came into focus again. The room was spinning around him, electricity humming through the air, like the quiet before a storm.

In all his imaginings, the reality of the moment had escaped him. He had only been this terrified once before. Blood was singing in his veins. His heart was hammering. He looked out the window, at the linden branches scratching against the pane. He was trapped in that one moment of existence, beginning and ending right there on his rose-scented bedlinens. He heard René’s breath leave him, before he put his head back and faded into the quiet of the stream.

WHEN NEXT HE returned to consciousness, he realised that it was morning. It was over, and he was, despairingly, still alive.

“ ‘Morning,” René whispered, softly.

He turned over, looking him in the eyes. His fingers slid up and down Will’s arm, stroking it. Will held the sheet tighter to his chest. He could feel himself being stared at, and knew that René was waiting for him to say something.

“ ‘Morning,” he choked. He didn’t know what else to say.

Then there came the sound of Pierre’s voice, and bare feet running down the hallway, just outside his door. He sat up quickly, swinging his legs out of bed and reaching down for his clothes. René sat up too, and the bed creaked beneath him.

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“Where are you going?”

“Downstairs. Breakfast is ready.” He looked back at him, clutching his shirt to his stomach. “Can you turn around?”

René couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. “What?”

“I said: don’t look at me!” he shouted, fumbling with his buttons.

“What are you on about? Will you wait for just one second?” He slapped Will’s hands away and buttoned the shirt himself, trying not to look down. Will put both feet in his shorts, pulling them up round his waist.

“No.” He could taste the hatred in his words as they fell from his lips. He didn’t know why he was being so awful. “Just leave me alone, please. Come down to breakfast with me. Climb out the window. I really don’t care.”

René crossed his arms, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable. Will had split open his hardened shell. “I don’t understand what I did. Did I force you into this. Were you not ready?”

Will whirled on him. “I don’t know, okay?!”

“Well, you better figure it out!” René screamed. Will recoiled sharply, as though he’d been slapped across the face. All of René’s anger dissolved into thin air, replaced only by the horrible realisation that Will was afraid of him. “No. Will, I—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” He stopped down to pull the straps of sandals over his ankles, while René stood before him, watching.

“Will—”

“No.” He started toward the door, then turned around, feeling a strange pressure building in the pit of his throat—words that were dying to be said. “I’m going down to breakfast. Don’t be here when I get back.”

DURING THE FIRST week of break, Will finished all of his schoolwork, so that he had nothing left when it was in session again. He spent most of the day in his room, reading. He never went anywhere. When it was time to eat, Pierre called the boys down, and they ate together in silence, while his mother slept like the dead. And she was awake, she was drinking. It was almost time for the harvest, which meant that his father would be home soon. Most days, he only saw John and Pierre, when the boys came down to help him pick herbs and vegetables from the gardens, and make dinner.

By the end of those two weeks, Will was beginning to feel like a piece of furniture in a locked room. It was strangely comforting, not being seen, for no one could reach him in that world of loneliness and solitude, and that meant that no one could hurt him, either.

He imagined that, when he returned to school, Maël would have forgotten about him, and so had his father. He hoped that the imminent arrival of the future would bring with it no surprises. He wished that something would have happened to his father in Paris, and that when he returned, he would be a different person. He knew it was cruel to himself to be optimistic, but he couldn’t deny the urge. He spent days on end lying in bed, hoping and praying.

The longer he stayed in that house, with its stone walls and sealed windows, the more he felt that his story was only something that had happening to him, and not something he’d had any part in creating.

The sound of the rain tapping against the windows brought him to the outer reaches of the world. He listened to the raindrops with his eyes closed, sinking forever into the mattress, until there was nothing left of him but a hollow shell of a person. He surrendered to the abyss, falling through the floor, and the ceilings below, down into the ground, into the middle of the earth and out again.

He wondered what Ramy was doing.

THE HARGREAVES FAMILY spent the day before Halloween hosting an autumn festival for the people of Aix-en-Provence. Will and his friends wandered round the stalls and booths, laughing and causing trouble wherever they went.

Thomas and Ramy had come, as well, mostly out of boredom and lack of anything better to do, but Will did not acknowledge them. The festival was rather small, compared to those of earlier years, and so they passed each other frequently. Will had known they would be there—well, he hadn’t known, but he had hoped they would be—but every time he saw them, it was still as shocking as the first.

They ate a late lunch of caramel apples and pumpkin cheesecake, courtesy of Pierre Lévesque, and then the others went off in search of the haunted house, leaving John and Will behind. They began to walk through the autumn village, which was torn down and built up again each year on their property, gazing up at the fruit of their mother’s labours. This was her final hurrah of the season, before she settled into a long, alcoholic hibernation until the spring. Sometimes, they couldn’t help but wonder why she did all of this, and if she loved these children more than them.

“What are we going to do for your birthday this year, John?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking shopping in Vienne, and then dinner at La Pyramide.”

“John, your birthday is in December. It’ll be freezing.”

“And?” He looked back over his shoulder. “Wait. Will, look.” He hit him rapidly on the arm.

He turned back, to see Ramy running toward them. “Oh… fuck,” he muttered, under his breath.

“Oh, shut up, will you?” John hissed, as Ramy entered earshot. He flipped a one-eighty and turned his smile up to a thousand. “Hi!”

And because he had Will by the arm, he was dragged round, as well, grimacing. “Hi,” he mumbled, with significantly less enthusiasm. He didn’t know how to react. Two adverse worlds were colliding, and he was trapped between them.

“Your name is… Ramy Youssef. Am I right?”

“It is.” He smiled in the way he only did when he was about to cause unspeakable mischief. “Forgive me, but I don’t usually remember the names of assholes like you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said: remembering your name isn’t worth my time.”

“Right, of course,” he said, always infuriatingly polite. “Well, my name is John Hargreaves, and if you call me an asshole in front of my brother again, I’ll knock your teeth out.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, you snobby sack of shit. You lost that privilege last week, when you sold your brother out to me. I’ll call you whatever the hell I want.”

John’s smile tightened. “Right.” They both looked at Will, but he was unsure how to keep them apart, set as they were on ripping each other’s throats out at the next available opportunity. When he said nothing, John stepped in. “Well, if you can find it in yourself to shut the cock-hole you call a mouth, we were just talking about my birthday. Shall I save you a spot at the table, or will you spare us all your presence?”

“If you invite me to your birthday, you’ll wish you were never born.”

“Great. Glad we cleared that up.” He pushed his hands into his pockets. “Speaking of birthdays, did Will even tell you when his is?”

“No. It never came up. Just like it never came up that you’d be here today, or I wouldn’t be,” he said, in a way that conferred that he blamed Will for the situation at hand.

“You know, in all I’ve heard about you, somehow, it never came up how melodramatic you are. Did you rehearse this little speech of yours in front of the mirror this morning? Stunning performance, truly.” John briefly applauded him, then dropped his hands. “I’ll leave you two alone. Excuse me.”

“Nice talking to you!” Ramy called after him. John raised his hand in acknowledgement, but said nothing. As he walked away, Ramy looked at Will, and began to laugh. “Well, I think that went well, don’t you?”

“What are you doing here?” he seethed, ignoring him.

“Lose the attitude, before I slap it out of you. We need to talk.”

Will bit back every insult that flashed through his brain. “And you thought that the middle of a festival was the right place to do that?” he asked, taking note of the people who were watching them, eyes darting to the side, then back, hoping they hadn’t noticed. But Will certainly did.

Ramy seized his hand and pulled him away, slipping into an alleyway between two buildings. Will stood still as a statue, afraid that Ramy was about to leave him, and even more terrified, because he didn’t know. His heart and thoughts were screaming past, bleeding together in a cacophony of sound and light.

“Why are you here?” he repeated, the trembling of his voice betraying his façade of cold indifference.

“To talk,” he said, sighing. He fell back against the wall, sinking down to the ground. He patted the earth beside him, looking up at Will with innocent eyes. “Sit.”

And he did, holding his breath. Ramy’s lips parted, but Will interrupted before he could begin. “What’s going on? Are you leaving me? Was it something I did?”

“No. The opposite, really.” He looked away. “Will, I have something to tell you, before you find out from someone else. I did something bad.”

“I tried to tell you before. I already know what you did in the—”

“I hurt John,” he interrupted, clutching the sleeve of his shirt. Then, in a softer voice: “We got in a fight, last week. And… now I’ve done it, and I don’t know how to stop it happening again.”

Will seized him by the shoulders, shaking him back and forth until his hands fell away from his face. “Ramy, what did you do? Tell me! If you tried to kill him, I’ll—”

“What?” he shrieked. “Then you’ll kill me, too? You’ll cut me up and eat me, like Benedict? You killed an innocent person!”

“I didn’t… No, you don’t understand. He made me—”

“No one made you like it!”

He stopped, struck into silence. “I… I didn’t…”

“Stop lying, Will! Lie to yourself, but don’t you dare lie to me!”

“I just… wanted him gone. I couldn’t watch John he happy with someone else. I couldn’t watch him be happy with anyone but me.” He released his deathly grip on Ramy’s shoulders. “You’re no better than I am.”

“Will, I didn’t kill someone,” he said, slowly. “You did.”

And that made him pause, just for a moment. Looking down into those beautiful eyes, he couldn’t lie, even to save his life. “You’re right.”

“What I did to John… it isn’t forever. I only hurt one person,” he murmured. “But what you did hurt everyone around you. What your mother does is your fault. And when she dies because of it, that’ll be your fault, too.”

Will did not falter, but something inside of him certainly did. Why did he always lie? Why did he hurt everyone who ever loved him? But, more than anything, why did Ramy always have to be right?

“Everything is always… my fault.” He collapsed into himself, and began to cry.

Ramy stared at him, wishing that he could somehow make him understand. He wished Will understood how he felt, and thought, and acted. He wished he were different.

But there are no fairy godmothers in this world, and so he leaned over and held him as tight as he could. There was far too much to be said than can be expressed by words, and so instead, he refused to let him go, when perhaps he should have. Because that’s what best friends do: they push you to the edge, but they also keep you from spinning off the edge.

“Will… it isn’t your fault.”

His breath caught in his throat. Obviously, this wasn’t the answer he was expecting. But it was what he needed to hear—and because he did, Ramy unknowingly sentenced seventy-five people to death. But he didn’t know that then. No, then they were only two people, holding each other, hoping the world wouldn’t fall apart, like it always did; that everything they knew wouldn’t crumble in their hands.

“Why does it have to be like this?” Will murmured, clutching Ramy’s shoulder impossibly tighter.

“I don’t know. Everything just gets so complicated, and fucked up, and before you know it…” He paused. “Boom.”

Will pulled away from him, slowly. He laughed, albeit sadly. “We’re fucked up, aren’t we?”

And Ramy couldn’t argue with that, so he folded his hands in his lap, looking down at the stalk of lavender before him, swaying in the autumn wind. It was the last of its kind—perhaps in all the world. It was so completely fragile and innocent that at first he didn’t know what to make of it. In the end, he made a wish, then leaned forward and crushed it. And when he lifted his foot, the lavender was gone, disappeared into the earth it came from. It was lost forever in the darkness, and so was he.

“Look, Will, I don’t want to fight with you. It’s just… I care about you. Maybe a bit too much.” He hugged him again, and with his mouth beside Will’s ear, whispered: “I love you, and I want you to be okay. That’s all I should’ve said.”

He knew he should say it back. He cared too—so much he wanted to scream it. But when he tried, his voice came out in a barely audible whisper.

“Ramy, I…” He lifted his head, a glint of hope in his eyes. “I can’t do it. I can’t be the person you need me to be.” His voice shuddered, as he strained to move his mouth at the same speed as his mind. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he broke out in a cold sweat. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came forth. Ramy looked confused, if not a bit relieved that Will was even capable of human emotion.

“Will, stop,” he said, dumbfounded. “You don’t have to say it back. I know. I promise.”

He leaned over and rested his head on Will’s shoulder. They collapsed against each other, uncaring of who saw them. He took Will’s hand and held onto it like his last, dying breath. Everything that stood between them, and all that anger dissolved. For the first time in his life, but not the last, Will felt safe and seen.

He felt so wonderful, in fact, that he decided now was a proper time for revenge.

“Hey… do you want to come with John and I to Vienne? We’re going shopping, and then having dinner at La Pyramide. We can piss him off together.”

Ramy looked up at him, smiling. “What did you have in mind?”

THEY WAITED THROUGH the heat of the day under a cherry tree, lying in the shade. Then, when the cold wind blew, and the evening came, they walked back to the house, and that is where Ramy left him.

“Do you have to go?” Will asked. Ramy nodded, and embraced him tightly. “I’ll miss you.”

“It’s only till tomorrow,” he laughed.

“You say that like it isn’t twelve hours away.”

“What’s twelve hours between friends?” Ramy laughed. “Call me later. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

Will flushed with pride, and smiled after him. But before he went himself, he waved at Ramy, who had looked back over his shoulder. Then Will walked away, whistling a happy tune.

“SO, WHAT DO you know about Thomas Ramsay?” John asked.

Will licked the whipped cream off his pumpkin pie and pushed it into his mouth, glaring at him. It was five o’clock in the evening, and they were sitting on the terrace of their house. John had come to sit with him, because Nasreen had left with Ramy. It was his first and only plate of pumpkin pie that day, but for Will, it was the second. His first was splattered across the foot of an olive tree in the woods, and this one soon to join it—once he could untangle himself from this conversation, that was.

He hesitated before answering. “Why?”

“Well, it’s just… he came to sit with us the other day, and you didn’t seem to like him very much. I wondered what you thought.”

“He’s… a lot of things. He’s disagreeable, and not the nicest person, but he can get us—” Drugs, he almost said. “Lunch.”

“Lunch?” John balked.

“Yeah. He always buys us lunch.” He looked down at his plate, silently debating whether to lick it clean. Best not, he decided. “I don’t really know him, to be honest.” They sat in silence for a moment, while John finished the last of his pie. Then Will asked: “Do you not like Thomas?”

“Well, I like him more than Ramy. I’ve never seen him with anyone else. And if we’re being honest, I didn’t know he even had friends except for you.”

“You know, you should really give him more credit. He’s a great person when you actually spend time with him. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“I consider myself lucky I don’t,” he chuckled. “I know you’ve only known him since August, but I always thought you two would end up together in the end.”

“Shame that Thomas beat me to it, isn’t it?”

He held up his hands in surrender. “You said it, not me.” He nudged him under the table with his foot. “But it’s never too late for second chances.”

Will kicked his foot away. It took everything in him not to follow it with a sharp one to the shin. “You know I have a boyfriend, right?”

“I know. You told me. You might be angry with me now, but you’ve always told me everything. You just can’t help yourself.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s what you think.”

“God, you two were made for each other.”

“Obviously not.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have places to be.”

Whenever he thought of what it would be like if he and Ramy were together—well, actually that would be lying. The truth was, he’d never thought about it. But if he had, he would have imagined that he hadn’t had to become a drug addict to keep Ramy’s attention. In those dreams, they were each other’s first in everything. It was just the two of them, like it used to be, in those first, beautiful, gone days. In another world, they did their homework together, and went on dates on Friday night, and laid in bed all night, talking on the phone. They passed each other notes, instead of hiding them in lockers. They held hands on the train to Paris. They adored each other without question and without end.

And John… well, he would mind his own fucking business.

“And where is that? Puking under a tree?”

He pointed at him and clicked his tongue. “You said it, not me.”

ON HALLOWEEN NIGHT, while everyone else was at the party in Marseille, getting drunk and stuffing themselves with sweets, Ramy and Will were lying on the floor of his bedroom, sharing a blunt and a packet of masala crisps, flipping through magazines meant for teenage girls.

They were giving each other quizzes. According to whoever had written them, they were remarkably healthy and well-balanced people. That made them laugh, because nothing could be farther from the truth, and they knew it. They were the kind of insane where they realised it, and still went on living as they had before, making all those choices that inevitably led to sad, horrible ends.

It was easy to know which choice was correct, and what the answer would be when the quiz was over. They had spent the night indulging in self-deception, choosing those answers, and being told to carry on as they were, because they didn’t want to believe anything else, and because all they’d ever needed was that final confirmation.

“If you answered mostly with the right: at your school, you don’t follow trends, you start them, so you need a unique prom dress that no one’s ever seen before. The eighties are back, and with them, they’re bringing heaps of tulle in all the bright colours. You’ll want to pair your va-va-voom dress with metallic heels and matching earrings. This look is trendy, but elegant.”

“Va-va-voom?” Will laughed. “Am I going to prom, or a drag show?”

Ramy threw the magazine at his head. It slapped against the wall behind and landed on the bed. “What’s the difference? It takes the same amount of effort, doesn’t it?”

“I guess you’re right,” he conceded.

They laid there, staring up at the ceiling, which was revolving slowly, until Ramy said: “Thomas is coming back on Tuesday.”

“Where did he go, again?”

“Falkirk. In Scotland.”

“Bloody fucking Scotland. My mum is dragging us to Glasgow this summer. If I’m lucky, she’ll forget me at home.”

“What’ve you got against Scotland?”

“Halloween,” he slurred, with no further explanation. Then his vision began to fade in and out, as though he were about to lose consciousness. “What… the hell did you give me?”

He rolled over, and off the bed, landing beside Ramy on the floor. They both began to laugh hysterically, one in fear, the other in delight. Above him, the lights were flickering, and all around, the world was circling the drain. Will was terrified, but still laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe. And when he finally managed to drag one in, he was out cold, drooling on the rug.

When he woke up, it was Wednesday, and he was sitting on the bus, jolting down the road to Hell.