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“So, let me get this straight: you decided the reason Rick had to go meet his maker – ie, God’s much less talented younger brother – is because he told you he liked your hair?”
Mike wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t find Rick excruciatingly annoying or that he wouldn’t readily support Vyvyan’s desire to smash his face in on most days but this just didn’t make any sense.
“No, no, Michael – he said it looked nice without the gel in it, which is an altogether very different statement!” Vyvyan countered, seemingly adamant that his reaction was justifiable.
Thankfully, no one had followed the two them into the spare bedroom after the events outside; Mike wasn’t sure if he had the strength to hold Vyvyan back twice in one night. He was exhausted and could feel the bed – he was having the actual bed on offer, not the camp bed – calling to him, practically singing. There were no two ways about it: today had been a long day.
“We’re splitting hairs here, Vyv, come on. Why did that warrant the destruction of Neil’s mum’s lampshade?” he asked wearily, hooking his shades over the headboard, “Those suckers don’t come cheap!”
“Look!” Vyvyan snapped back somewhat testily, “He was only saying it ‘cos he’s a poof and he’s got no taste!”
Mike climbed into the bed and put his hands behind his head, staring at the pale ceiling. Not a cobweb in sight. Not a crack. He had forgotten that some people lived in clean houses. On the other side of the room, Vyvyan appeared to be following suit, the air of murder still smouldering around him stubbornly. Mike turned over and saw him run a hand through his flat hair in frustration.
“Most of us tend to accept compliments when the postman comes delivering,” he sighed, quickly followed by a yawn.
“But it wasn’t a compliment, Michael!” Vyvyan insisted.
The camp bed creaked uneasily as the punk wriggled about in it, trying to get comfortable. He finally stopped and glared over at Mike petulantly.
“No?” Mike asked.
“No! It was an invitation for a beating!”
Something in Vyvyan’s eyes flashed cagily. It was very likely just tiredness setting in, although Mike himself wasn’t awake enough to tell for sure. As far as he knew, Vyvyan didn’t really get tired – he simply passed out when he was bored enough – which made his apparent tiredness all the more unlikely.
“Remind me to knock you off my party invite list, then,” Mike quipped jokingly.
The sound of Vyvyan chuckling at that comment reassured him as he shuffled down into the sheets. Unfortunately, Mike was discovering Neil’s old pajamas were extremely itchy and far too warm for summer weather. All things considered, the warmth may have been due to the fact that they absolutely buried him but the point still stood! He would have to buy himself a proper pair as soon as he had the money, though he knew that in reality if he ran into some cash that pajamas wouldn’t be first on his list of things to buy. In fact, with the way Vyvyan was going with lampshades, it wasn’t as if there would be any money left for him to even consider spending on pajamas at all! Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
“I would never hurt you, Mike…” came the scratchy mumble from across the room, jerking him out of his bedwear concerns.
Vyvyan’s voice sounded softer, which Mike inferred to mean that sleep was taking a hold of him. He supposed it was a nice admission from the usually hostilely violent punk – that said, he wasn’t sure that he believed him, even if he did mean it in the moment.
“I know, Vyv,” he replied, “I know.”
“Just that spotty little bastard…” Vyvyan continued absently, “Why can’t he just go away…?”
Mike opened his eyes in mild surprise at the almost desperate question. He would have probed further but found that, quite possibly for the best, Vyvyan was now asleep; the drool already pooling on his otherwise spotless pillow being a big indicator.
“Well, well, well…” Mike murmured, smiling fondly before he went to drift off to sleep too.
Of course, something was going on with Vyvyan and Rick – the cool person realised this. He would be damned if he didn’t get to the bottom of it sooner or later.
~~~
The next morning, Mike was up earlier than he could remember ever being in his life: 7:00am.
Why? Well, that was a little more uncertain. He suspected it was down to nervousness even though Mike did not get nervous and that was a fact. Maybe the pressure of looking out for the other three had gotten to him, especially now that they were living with Neil’s parents and Vyvyan had already proven himself to be a health hazard. Honestly, Mike was out of plans if this all went tits up – and he didn’t mean in the sexy way.
Currently, he was stood looking down at his sleeping roommate, which was a rare experience in itself as Vyvyan was quite a few inches taller than him. The fashion crimes daring to call themselves clothes he had found in the chest of drawers opposite the beds were itching him perhaps more than the pajamas and Mike’s hair wasn’t looking quite as suave without his product in it. His shades were all he had left to preserve his dignity.
“Just because you’re in Neil’s house doesn’t mean you gotta start acting like him,” he chastised himself grumpily.
“Huh? Mike?”
His sudden outburst appeared to have stirred Vyvyan. It was about time, anyway. Mike cracked a smile for him and backed off, straightening out the covers on his own bed for the umpteenth time – a worrisome development he wasn’t proud of. Vyvyan squinted at him before sighing loudly.
“Oh god, I need a drink,” he rasped.
Mike laughed though he wasn’t feeling very humorous.
“We can go down and have breakfast once you’ve got dressed,” he pointed out, sitting down on the sheets in an effort to prevent himself from straightening them again.
“No, I didn’t mean that,” Vyvyan explained groggily, getting up and almost falling into various expensive looking furnishing as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, “I want a drink, Michael.”
Mike nodded in understanding.
“Maybe later, Vyv,” he suggested.
The pair were following the scent of food that didn’t smell like manky lentils not long after that. In their matching flared trousers, they descended the staircase; Mike in particular feeling glad that they both looked equally stupid. Vyvyan’s oddly fluffy hair was causing him minor worry due to the shenanigans of the night before but everything else was under control. Well, it would be if he managed to keep a straight face when addressing Vyvyan whilst the punk had on a ratty old shirt with ‘Peace and Love’ printed on the front. So far, Mike had only allowed himself a small smirk.
As they entered the dining room, Neil looked up from across the table and smiled like a rabbit in the headlights.
“Oh! Hi, guys…” he greeted awkwardly.
Vyvyan grunted and took a seat near the door. His focus instantly turned to the display of food on offer: toast and jams, various cereals, sausages, bacon, boiled eggs, hash browns and black pudding. Apparently not able to come up with a negative reaction to this almost fantastical amount of options, Vyvyan simply poured himself a messy bowl of cornflakes and reached for the ketchup.
“Morning, Neil,” Mike acknowledged before sitting down too and nabbing a slice of toast, “You have a good night?”
He wouldn’t usually have cared but there were more cards on the table than Neil’s sweet dreams; it was quite obvious that Rick wasn’t here yet. It would be far easier to discuss what they were going to do now with the four of them present, even if one of them was a prick. Luckily, Neil’s surprise at being asked such a question and the subsequent clattering when he dropped his spoon into his cereal managed to distract from the elephant in the room. He apologised quickly for the noise – to the bowl, if Mike’s eyes weren’t deceiving him – and turned to peer warily at the hallway beyond the door. What, did he think Rick was going to leap from behind the coats screaming “FASCIST!” or something? Actually… that probably wasn’t such an unfounded fear…
“Well, sort of,” Neil disclosed unhelpfully, “I think I, like, woke up at some point.”
Mike frowned and bit into his toast.
“You think? Don’t you know?” he asked.
“No, no – I mean, when I woke up, right, I could hear Rick-”
“Ooer!”
“What? No, he wasn’t doing that, Vyvyan!” Neil shuddered and continued, “He was, like, crying or something. I tried to ask him if he was alright – y’know, since… well… y’know – but he told me to piss off and said I was having a dream about him because I’m a ‘disgusting, little pervy’. So I dunno if it actually happened or not.”
Mike nodded, chewing his toast. Whatever conclusion Neil had come to was his business but there were certainly no doubts about the validity of this event in Mike’s mind. He glanced over at Vyvyan to gauge his reaction and saw that he was pointedly squirting even more ketchup into his bowl whilst simultaneously mixing at a growing speed. Mike sighed and stood up – there was only one thing for it.
“Alright, where’s Rick now?” he questioned with a perfectly disguised hint of dread.
“He’s making a phone call in the drawing room,” Neil explained, gesturing with his spoon and accidentally flicking milk over Mike’s already shameful attire, “Oh gosh! I’m sorry-”
“Don’t mention it; they’re your clothes anyway,” Mike pointed out.
He left in hunt of the drawing room, which turned out to be at the back of the house. All along the hallway were embarrassing photos of Neil from his childhood – school pictures, judging from the pompous shirts and blazers that the Neil he knew today would never be caught dead in. The shadow of moroseness in his eyes made it obvious even without the context of where these pictures were that the ageing child within them was Neil. His hair suddenly began to lengthen out once he reached what Mike assumed were his later teenage years. Hippies, eh?
Mike could hear Rick’s slightly irate voice echoing out from the drawing room as he approached the door. Surreptitiously, as Rick was currently facing away from him, Mike lent against the doorframe and crossed his arms. Strangely, he could detect a small amount of patience in the other’s tone. Whenever whoever Rick was talking to cut him off mid-sentence, however – which seemed to be a reoccurring theme of this conversation – he clenched his right fist and his posture became evermore rigid. Mike hoped he wasn’t about to lose his temper.
“Yes, I realise that, grandma… they were my wruddy parents! Don’t I have a wight to know? … But, grandma- yes, I know, I alweady explained that. I didn’t have access to a telephone, wemember?” Rick sighed loudly before going completely still. “Of course I care!” he snapped indignantly, “Look, just tell me what happened and I won’t bother you until the funewral.”
There was an uncomfortably long pause that seemed to make the atmosphere distinctly more uneasy. Then Rick slammed the receiver down.
He turned around quickly and jumped at the sight of Mike watching him.
“How long have you been listening for!?!” he demanded, twitching and pale faced… apart from the recent bruise.
“Didn’t hear a word, Ricky,” Mike lied smoothly as he stepped into the room, “Who was it?”
Rick visibly relaxed and laughed one of those fake laughs he thought he had perfected but in actuality was less convincing than Mike’s display of women’s underwear… wait a minute… forget that last bit!
“Oh, just my grandmother,” Rick explained oh so casually, “We always finish phone calls like that, you know – slamming the wreceiver down instead of saying goodbye. It’s a sort of in-joke in my family because we’re all so anarchical and don’t obey the norms of conversation.”
Mike chose to be the bigger person here and not make a comment about how most people already knew that Rick didn’t obey the norms of conversation. If Rick wanted to spout bollocks then Mike would let him, just this once.
“And they say families don’t come together anymore. Well, Rick, she tell you anything?” he asked in hope of a topic change.
“Yes,” Rick revealed amidst a jerky nod, “She told me that – uh – they’re having some trouble finding my parents’ wills. Also… she said they… they died in a… in a car crash.”
Throughout this admission, Rick had point blank refused to meet Mike’s eyes. A swirl in Mrs Pye’s garish carpet was where his focus was instead directed though it didn’t look like he was really taking it in. Mike nodded solemnly and reached over to pat Rick’s left arm.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he offered.
He supposed it would have been quite possible for him to have found out this detail the morning that a tearful neighbour of the Pratts had rung the shared house and informed him of Rick’s parents’ passing. Why hadn’t he asked how it had happened then? It was such an obvious thing to do now that Mike thought about it. It made him feel guilty – here, in this moment – which was not an emotion Mike liked to feel. The guilt grew worse when Rick finally looked back up at him, his eyes not quite focused on the present. If Mike could have described him, he perhaps would have used the word ‘confused’. It didn’t feel quite right but descriptors weren’t Mike’s thing. Supposedly, they were Rick’s. This haunted looking Rick’s.
When it became clear that there wasn’t going to be a reply, Mike realised he was going to have to speak again.
“Come to the dining room, Rick, we’ve got a lot to discuss.”
Rick obliged – worrying in itself – in silence.
There was an ominous tension between the four of them that Mike was sure hadn’t existed in this way prior to last night. He was less sure of whether everyone was aware of it; Neil seemed to be, if his darting looks between Vyvyan and Rick were anything to go by. Vyvyan was ignoring Rick with some determination, still squeezing ketchup into his otherwise empty cereal bowl whilst Rick himself was sat on the chair closest to the wide, polished window and was staring out of it with little expression or reaction to life around him noticeable. Mike rubbed his chin.
“Alright,” he announced, trying to go for the tone of leadership, “Remember the plan, guys?”
No one responded so Mike coughed to cover up that his question hadn’t been rhetorical.
“We needed shelter – we’ve got that now.”
Neil cheered extra quietly.
“The next step is some dough. I know we’ve only just got here but we can’t stay forever – well, maybe Neil can – but as for the rest of us we’re gonna have to put that university education to work, if you know what I mean,” Mike explained, “The situation really is that severe.”
Vyvyan scrunched his face up and slammed the ketchup bottle on the table.
“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, Michael?” he asked, sounding both excited and vaguely disturbed. Mainly excited.
“In all likelihood, Vyv, no. Our minds very rarely come to the same conclusion first time round. I was talking about the dread of entering the jobs market,” Mike admitted.
What had he- Oh. Ohh.
Of course, it wasn’t that such an idea was abhorrent to Mike; it simply wouldn’t have been fair on the others. He obviously would have gotten the most work, what with that copyright policy. Did that still apply now that they had been evicted? It did, Mike assured himself, of course it did. Vyvyan huffed in disappointment but thankfully didn’t go for the ketchup again. Rick still hadn’t so much as moved.
“Being the responsible guy that I am, I’ll take a butcher’s at the papers for work,” Mike offered after clearing his throat once more. He reached for the only paper adorning the Pyes’ dining table: ‘The Daily Mail.’ “There’s SPG to think about too.”
This reminder elicited a strong reaction from Vyvyan, who scowled deeply and set about draining the ketchup again.
“We don’t need to bother, Michael, he was a bastard anyway,” he muttered bitterly, “Besides, I left him in my car and they’re both gone now so it’s pointless.”
Vyvyan was truly in a stellar mood this morning; Mike feared for when the ketchup ran out.
“That’s up to you, Vyv,” he told him carefully, “That just leaves Rick’s-”
Rick suddenly re-joined reality at the sound of his name, standing up and turning to face the other three – well, two. It was clear Vyvyan wasn’t alone in his pointed ignorance. The unexpected movement from the so-called Peoples’ Poet caused Neil to jump.
“Woah! Rick, man-”
“Shut up, Neil!” Rick snapped instinctively. A look of realisation dawned on his face and he pinched the bridge of his noise and groaned, “Look, I didn’t mean- Oh, what’s the bloody point… Mike-” he addressed the cool person directly, “-I’m not sorting out the funewral – apparently I’m ‘not mature enough’,” he sulked, badly disguised hurt shining in his eyes.
“Oh,” Mike said because he couldn’t think of anything smarter. There’s a first time for everything, after all.
He wouldn’t have admitted it then but not having to organise the likely pricey funeral of two people was a bit of a relief. Hopefully, Mike was right to be relieved. Things couldn’t get worse still, could they?
Unfortunately for Rick, who looked as though he wanted to say something else, it was at this point that Neil’s mother entered the room like a lamb to the slaughter… no, no, that implied something bad was about to happen, which Mike certainly hoped it was not. She still appeared nervous at the site of the four young ones together. Of course, she wasn’t the only awkward Pye in the room: Neil hunched over marginally at her presence. Mike quickly plastered an entirely fake smile on.
“Good morning, Mrs Pye,” he greeted cheerily, “Lovely breakfast!”
Mrs Pye smiled back at him a little too tightly.
“Thank you…”
“He’s called Mike, mum.”
“Thank you, Michael. Neil’s father has gone to work and won’t be back until this evening. I was going to watch a few episodes of my favourite situation comedy before doing the washing up and you’re all – ah – welcome to join me, if you wish to,” she explained in gradually creeping unease.
The fixation Mrs Pye had with the back of Vyvyan’s spikeless head as she spoke couldn’t be ignored. Interesting, Mike noted, that whilst she couldn’t seem to remember their names, she could remember their viewing habits. Or was it just Vyvyan’s rant that she recalled? Hadn’t Mike referred to her as a “daft old cow” at some point? He hoped she didn’t remember that.
Vyvyan grit his teeth, perhaps to bite back a rude retort. Mike glanced at Neil purposefully – to be fair, she was his mother.
“I’ll come and watch with you,” Neil assured her with a sigh, submitting to Mike’s will fairly easily and getting up to go.
“Oh, good!” Mrs Pye gushed.
She was about to drag her son off to the drawing room when she must have noticed Rick.
“Richard, did you ring your grandmother?” she asked in the gentlest tone Mike had heard her use.
This was weird. Why has this happening? Was Neil… rolling his eyes behind her back? Vyvyan caught Mike’s eye; something had clearly happened last night. Well, something else. To add to the mystery, Rick’s response to his proper name was not one of synthetic outrage, it was more akin to a swotty student being asked a question by their favourite teacher.
“Yes, Mrs Pye,” he answered unnaturally calmly, “She was very weassuwring.”
He then smiled one of his nasty, little smiles and it was only thanks to the fact that Mike had had to live with him for three years that he could see it didn’t reach his eyes. Mrs Pye beamed, clearly – as Rick would say – “weassuwred”. The smile vanished with the Pyes as they left the room.
“I’m going upstairs,” Rick muttered under his breath.
Logically, Mike would muse later on, Vyvyan must have followed Rick not so long after. He was absorbed in the paper but had he really been so out of it that he hadn’t noticed the punk’s exit? Could Vyvyan teleport these days? A scary thought. Not quite as scary as the reoccurring one that there just weren’t any jobs Mike could see the four of them doing and sticking at, especially if they wanted money to live off independently. ‘The Daily Mail’ probably wasn’t best catered to their circumstances and Mike realised this; anyone who had ever met Vyvyan would have instantly seen that he wasn’t suited to the roll of a typist… mainly due to a sure rejection on his part at doing anything remotely “girly”. Still, you had to try, didn’t you?
The section that brought Mike out of his gloomy thoughts and alerted him to the distinct lack of Vyvyan, however, contained one stand out word:
BALOWSKI.
It shouldn’t have shocked Mike; it wasn’t uncommon for their former landlord to advertise his properties in the papers. The man could have owned a monopoly of houses all over Britain for all Mike was aware! They hardly knew him! Their interactions had consisted largely of rent dodging and psychotic breaks – your normal landlord stuff.
No, what surprised the cool person about this entry was that it wasn’t an advertisement. It was a small article informing readers that Mr Jerzei Balowski was dead, struck by lightning the same day he’d evicted the guys from the shared house.
“Well I never…”
It appeared this mini article was something of an exposé. Mike couldn’t help but chuckle as he read about the other Balowskis fighting over his legacy and business. Who wouldn’t? Mike definitely would have been in there biting ankles, given the chance. The only issue they were having – as well as who was going to inherit everything – was that with Balowski’s death had come some uncomfortable truths. Truths that felt awfully familiar.
“The front door fell off the first night we were here.”
“My roommate fell through a hole in his bedroom floor last month.”
“He attacked us with an axe once because the rent was late.”
Complaints. Lines and lines of complaints. The Balowskis were doomed and Mike was grinning.
Were the complaints true? Who cared! Although, having experienced Jerzei Balowski for himself, Mike was inclined to believe them.
The family were having to give out compensation to disgruntled tenants and this was eating away at the stash they were fighting over. Now, hang on a minute, this wasn’t funny anymore. This was actually very serious. They – ie, Mike, Vyvyan, Rick and Neil – could squeeze the Balowskis for money, maybe more if this story really took off. Wow. There might be good news yet!
“Vyv, you’re never gonna believe this-”
Mike looked up to see no one. Shit. Visions of last night’s violence flashed through his mind. He had to find Vyvyan. The paper was dropped immediately.
The title music for ‘The Good Life’ was playing as Mike raced up the stairs. With any luck, Neil and his mum would remain too distracted by the lovely Felicity Kendal to notice whatever was about to happen upstairs. Mike couldn’t believe Vyvyan sometimes; did he want to end up back on the streets or something?
Upon reaching the landing, it was with no small amount of dread that Mike noticed that the only closed door was to the spare room and that Rick wasn’t in Neil’s room. He hurried towards the spare room with his heart rate increasing, pausing once he reached it to peek through the keyhole. Ah yes. Rick and Vyvyan were in there. Luckily, nothing appeared to be broken yet.
“-that night in the alley was just too good to be twue, wasn’t it? I should have known it wouldn’t last! You don’t actually care!” Rick was ranting from across the room, his face stormy with unspoken words. He certainly looked on edge if nothing else.
As for Vyvyan, Mike couldn’t actually see him until he stomped into the spotlight and briefly obscured his view of Rick. He was clearly equally pissed off – was that steam rising from his ears or were Mike’s eyes playing tricks on him?
“I’m not your mum, Rick! I’m not going to be there to dab your tears away whenever you have a meltdown!” he snapped.
Rick scoffed in fake disbelief.
“I know you’re not my mother, Vyvyan! Do you know why? Because she’s dead! Because some great wruddy fascist in his stupid bloody car cwashed into her and daddy and killed them!” he fired back.
There was a silence then where the two seemed to Mike to be weighing each other up like slabs of meat. Rick had murder in his eyes – this being Rick, however, diminished how threatening this facial expression actually looked. He did look hurt, though, deeply hurt. Mike wasn’t sure why arguing with Vyvyan was having such a strong affect on Rick now, even if his parents’ deaths were making him more emotional than usual. They were Rick and Vyvyan. Wasn’t it normal for them to spend most of their time together bickering?
“I know that-” Vyvyan cut himself off as if he wasn’t entirely sure what he had just been about to say.
“Oh, do you? Hurrah! Vyvyan’s memory extends more than five minutes!” Rick quickly butted in, stepping closer to the punk and scowling at him. “You know, just because your father wran away wather than face life with you-”
“Oi!”
“-and just because your mother is so nasty that you’d probably celebwrate if she died doesn’t mean it’s the same for me!”
And suddenly Vyvyan had Rick pinned to the wall opposite the door by the neck; Mike didn’t so much as see him move. This, to literally any other person, would have been deemed an obvious time to intervene and break up the fight. For Mike, on the other hand, it didn’t seem the right time to intervene at all – mostly because he didn’t think he could pry Vyvyan off Rick in that position but there was also the question of whether they both needed this confrontation in some way. The air needed clearing.
“You don’t know what it was like to grow up with her for a mother,” Vyvyan snarled in an unnaturally low tone, “So. Shut. Up.”
Rick – never one to pick the straightforward route when it came to practically anything – recovered quickly from his shock at being pinned to the wall and rolled his eyes at Vyvyan’s angry words.
“Ah yes, you’re wight, how silly of me. My parents actually wraised me wather than whatever dwagging up you’ve been subjected to!” he taunted; voice mildly squeaky thanks to the pressure on his neck.
He was goading Vyvyan on. He wanted him to snap.
“I’d rather have been dragged up and learnt how to take care of myself than been coddled my whole life by two middle class Tory voters until I was wetter than your bottom!” Vyvyan spat back.
Rick’s eyes widened in some form of outrage.
“SHUT UP!”
“Make me, Wicky,” Vyvyan teased him. He even laughed.
Naturally, Mike had seen enough of their fights to know that whenever Rick tried to be clever or gain the upper hand he failed abysmally. He always seemed to forget that Vyvyan was more capable of beating him – both physically and verbally – than he ever was of beating Vyvyan. In this particular situation, Mike had to wonder if Rick wasn’t some kind of masochist.
“I hate you!” Rick snivelled, having completely lost control of the argument, “I hate you I hate you I HATE YOU!!! GET OFF ME!!!!”
Gordon Bennett! He could really go from zero to eleven, couldn’t he? It was by some miracle that the Tom, Barbara, Margo and Jerry were managing to cover up Rick’s nigh-on screeching!
Unsurprisingly, Vyvyan didn’t abide by Rick’s request. Mike was beginning to think the time had come for him to make an entrance when he noticed Rick struggling to breathe. His hand was on the doorknob when-
“If you’re not going to get off then why don’t you end this once and for all? I can’t… I can’t cawry on like this, Vyvyan,” came Rick’s rasping voice. There was a tiredness that hadn’t been there before.
No reply.
“I know you’ve always wanted to and I’m giving you the opportunity,” he pressed more urgently, “W-why won’t you do it?”
Was this for real? The bottom dropped out of Mike’s stomach.
“Why won’t you let me see them again, Vyvyan?” Rick complained, unable to hide his sheer desperation, “Can’t you help me at least once? I-I want to see my parents again!”
Mike didn’t have a mirror handy but he was willing to place quite a hefty bet on the blood having drained from his face at Rick’s confession. This was bad. Very bad. Worse than he had imagined. Why wasn’t Vyvyan saying anything? He wasn’t going to bloody do it, was he!?! Dear God!
What happened next would change things forever. Mike went back to the keyhole just in time to see Vyvyan release a tearful looking Rick from his grasp. He wasn’t going to do it, then – phew! Still, the surge of relief Mike felt in that moment was replaced by absolute shock and an inability to form coherent thoughts in the one after. Vyvyan – angry, arguably insane and psychopathic, punkish Vyvyan – reached forwards and gript Rick’s face with both hands. Rick, for his part, barely had time to register any confusion before one of the hands had snaked its way to the back of his head and Vyvyan had pulled him into a vicious snog.
A snog. A kiss. Vyvyan Basterd and Rick Pratt were kissing.
Though he wanted to look away, Mike found that he could not. It was as if some supernatural force was holding him in place, mouth agape, forcing him to watch. A thought occurred in the seconds before Rick pulled away that this was all some crazy, drug-induced dream… but what drugs produced this!?!
More unbelievable still was that Rick didn’t appear to be in the slightest bit disgusted by what had just happened. The anger remained as did that gut-twisting misery in his eyes but he didn’t even look startled. Both of them were breathing rather heavily.
“That isn’t fair, Vyvyan,” Rick finally said.
He was quiet. His voice cracked. The tears that had been swimming in his eyes began to fall abruptly and he rushed towards the door.
“Oh no you don’t,” Mike muttered under his breath, diving, in his panic at being discovered spying, into the full washing basket that stood tall by the wall between the bathroom and Neil’s room. Was it repugnant in there? Yes. Could Mike smell all four of their body odours mixed in with the smell of old people? Indeed, he could. Nevertheless, all of that was preferable, in his view, to bumping into Rick like this and causing yet more drama.
Once he heard the tell tale sign of one door opening and another slamming shut, he allowed himself to come up for gasping for air.
“M-Michael?”
Vyvyan was stood in the middle of the landing and suddenly looked quite ill. Mike wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen the punk look scared before.
“You know, Vyv, there were several possibilities on my mind concerning what was up with you and Rick. I’ve got to tell you that sexual tension was only at number three.”
This was – of course – complete and utter bollocks.