Page 16

“Show-off.”

His grin widens, and he presses the side of his head into one of the headrest pads, turning the chair to face me properly.

“Well? How’s uni been?” I ask. He’s studying multimedia journalism at Glasgow Caledonian University.

“Mental, but I’ve only got one thing left to hand in, then it’s the summer holidays.”

“What’s the one thing?”

“A six-minute video package. I’ve got all the footage. Just need to cut it.”

“Nice. And…it hasn’t all been too much? The end-of-year assessments and everything?”

“Here we go.”

“I’m only asking.”

“Does it take it out of me? Yes, but even people who aren’t tetraplegic find this time of year tough. Doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying it.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry for caring.”

“Apology accepted,” he says with mock solemnity. “Now, dinner. I’m starving!”

There are two pots of chilli on the dining table because Mum and I don’t eat meat while Dad and Innes maintain that beans alone do not constitute dinner. Between the pots sit rice, grated cheese, and a plate of flatbreads that have gone beyond golden but haven’t quite reached burnt.

Penny settles herself under Dad’s chair rather than mine, which tells you everything you need to know about who’s been slipping her bits of cheese under the table for years. Unfortunately, neither of my parents has any concept of moderation when it comes to dog treats. I have to keep a close eye on them when I’m here.

“So, Briony,” Dad says, helping himself to a flatbread. “Have you met your new neighbour yet?” My family know all about the building noise I’ve been putting up with for weeks.

“Oh, don’t get me started. That man is something else.”

Dad raises his eyebrows. He has the same sandy hair as Innes, though considerably less of it these days, and the same blue eyes as both of us. “What’s he done?”

“Where do I begin? He had a party—on a Tuesday.” I tell them about the bass coming through my ceiling at two in the morning, and how I went upstairs in my pyjamas with Penny tucked under my arm. Mum and Dad make suitably sympathetic noises. Innes, on the other hand, finds the story far too entertaining for my liking.

I keep the after-party noises to myself. It was bad enough telling Emmy about them. My family? No way. I do, however, tell them about the basket fiasco, and about how I tried—very reasonably and very civilly—to clear the air earlier, only for Ryan to reward my efforts with another insult.

“And do you know what else? He had a fresh bruise on his face, and when I asked him what happened, he said completely casually that he’d ‘caught a hook’.”

Mum’s eyes widen. “He was in a fight? And this man is your new neighbour?”

Dad frowns. “What does he do for a living?”

“No idea. I know practically nothing about him, other than that he’s arrogant and apparently has an unlimited supply of money. He drives a sports car, bought two flats, and didn’t even blink at the price of my most expensive flower basket.”

“Do you know his name?” Innes says. “Maybe we can find something about him online.”

“Ryan Sloan.”

“Wait. Ryan Sloan?” my brother repeats. “As in Ryan Axe King Sloan?”

“Axe King?” I set down my fork. “Be honest with me, Innes. Is he an axe murderer? Because I have wondered if he has connections to the criminal underworld.”

Innes laughs so hard Mum has to lower the forkful of chilli she’d been holding out to him. Once he gets himself under control, he says, “He’s an MMA fighter. Mixed martial arts?”

“I know what MMA is, thank you very much. I’m not a hundred years old.”

“Right, but he’s not just an MMA fighter. He fights for the NMFC. He’s near the top of their light heavyweight division.”