Page 21 of Bare
FIRST EXPLOSION
The card livedin his wallet now
He hadn't used it.
He'd counted.
Twenty-one days since the staff room. Twenty-one days of the card in the thin slot at the back where he kept nothing. Except now he kept something there. A rectangle with a man's address in Rory's handwriting and the lingering trace of a pocket.
The card had changed the architecture of his week, invisibly, the timetable held, the routines held, the folders were still colour-coded and the lock still caught on the second turn. But a fault line had opened. The not-walking-through required daily effort and the effort was eroding him.
He checked it every evening. After Freddie was asleep. The same ritual, hallway, jacket, wallet, the address read by the hob light. The checking was no longer about information. It was devotional. The handling of a relic. The card was getting soft at the corners.
He didn't stop.
At school, the avoidance had collapsed. He hadn't given up. The building had. The corridors that had once been navigable were now charged. Every corner was a possibility. Every staff room visit was a countdown to the takeaway cup waiting on the counter with his name on it in Rory's biro, and Rory, who'd walked out at seven forty-five to buy it.
They'd settled into a pattern, the coffee truce, the courtyard glances, the four-second exchanges that carried more freight than staff meetings. Neil walked through his days performing normality while the ground gave way.
On a Wednesday in late October, the school newsletter ran a piece about the mural. A photograph, Rory crouched beside a Year 7 girl, both of them painting a root section, the girl's face bright with focus and Rory's hands guiding the brush angle , never touching her hand. The photograph was innocent. Professional. The caption read Mr Cavanaugh works with Year 7 student Jade Amir on the mural's root system.
Neil studied the photograph on his laptop. Rory's forearms. The rolled sleeves. The veins across his hand. The concentration on his face, the same Neil had seen in the art room when Rory talked about the scrape-back technique. Complete focus.
That was the problem.
He closed the laptop. Opened it. Closed it again.
The Friday before half-term, Gemma rang.
‘You sound terrible.’
‘You keep saying that.’
‘Because it keeps being true. What's happening?’
‘Nothing's happening.’
‘Neil, I swear to God, if you say nothing one more time I'm coming over there and making you eat a vegetable.’
‘I eat vegetables.’
‘Tinned sweetcorn doesn't count.’
‘It's a vegetable.’
‘It's an insult to vegetables. What's happening with the art teacher?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Your eye's twitching. I can hear it twitching. What's happening with the art teacher.’
He sat down. Kitchen table. The folders in front of him, blue, green, red. Freddie's drawings on the fridge. The magnet cat. The measuring jug beside the kettle.
‘He gave me his number.’
Silence. Then: ‘When?’
‘Three weeks ago.’
