Roman — Roleplayer Guild

Location: Liverpool - England#1.03
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John and Chas stood on the other side of the street, leaning on a lamppost as they looked up at the home Chas had lead them to. The sun was out today but did little to dispel the Autumn nip in the air, and as John cast his eyes over the front of the terraced house he pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself, feeling the temperature dip another one or two degrees. John only had vague recollections of this building, this street; the colour of the brick and the row of gates and low walls certainly felt familiar, but he could summon no memories of the house's interior. They must have spent time here - between Thomas' drunken abuse and Chas' ogre of a mother, the Lester household was the only calm home the four of them had known - but it all escaped him now. Instead, he could only linger on the state of disrepair the house had fallen into. The garden wall was chipped and cracked, faded graffiti marking the front side; the gate hung limply off one hinge, the wood rotted; the front door was scuffed and scratched up its entire height, and a piece of roughtly-cut plywood had been nailed across one of the window panes. What little grass there was in the front yard was overgrown and yellow in patches, and the ground that could be seen was littered with cigarette butts. There was a dark sense of portent about the place; it loomed over them even from across the road, shadows stretching out toward them. John had a feeling like he and Chas were carcasses, splayed out across the asphalt, and the house were some starving, feral creature, desperate to eat and without the luxury of finding a better meal. He suppressed a shiver. 
"You sure this is the place, Chas?" John asked, secretly hoping it wasn't, but he knew already.
"Not certain, no. But I know it's not the wrong place." Chas answered, cryptically, but John had no need to clarify. He knew exactly what Chas meant. He felt it too. 
"On with ya, then." Chas said, sweeping his arm to usher John over the road. John looked from him to the house and back again, nervous; his carotid throbbed against his neck as his heartrate quickened.
"Me?"
"Yes, you. Your crusade, ain't it?"
John shrugged slightly, non-committal. He hadn't thought as far ahead as actually finding Gary, and certainly hadn't spent any time on what he might say on seeing him again. The phone call to Chas had had that degree of disconnection to make things easier - but he'd have no such advantages meeting Gary face to face. 
Chas elbowed him in the back.
"Yeah alright mate. I'm going."

John hopped briskly across the street and picked his way through broken glass and ciggie butts to the house's front door. He hesitated for a couple seconds, his fist hanging in the air, before finally bringing it to bear against the solid wood, three sharp raps on the door ringing out into the building beyond. There was a pause; a long pause, long enough to think no one was in, and as John didn't hear sound or movement from inside the house he almost assumed it had all been a failed endeavour and made to turn away, pre-empting a shrug to Chas - but then there were footsteps on the other side, and locks clicked and chains rattled and the door opened. Stood in the doorway was a young woman - older than Chas or John, but still young - dressed in a velour tracksuit and bearing an expression of thunderous defiance; yet still tempered around the edges by a look of quiet fear, as her gaze darted from John, to Chas across the street, and back to John, two strange men on her doorstep. They didn't know her either. 
"Yeah? What you want?" She said, demanding but shakey. John realized he has stood silent for a few more seconds than was appropriate. He cleared his throat and tried a friendly smile; the scrunched-up scowl he got in response did not bode well.
"Um, we're l-looking for, uh, G-Gary? Gary Lester? O-or at least his, um, his m-mum. She lives- lived here. Uh..." John floundered, unable for the life of him to remember Gary's mum's name. "...Mrs. Lester?" He settled on, wincing as he said it. The girl looked him up and down, and John felt familiar feelings of being weighed and measured against some obscured metric.
"Don't know no Gary. But old bat who lived here last was Helen Lester."
John's face lit up at that - 'Helen' rang dusty old bells. The girl must have read his expression, because she continued: "She left a forwarding address. D'ya want it?"
"Yes, please. Thank you." John answered, in his best attempt at a friendly and deferential tone.
"Alright. Two ticks. Stay here."
"No problem."

The girl stepped away, retreating back down the hallway into the depths of the house, disappearing around a corner at the end of the hall. John let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and turned back to look at Chas. He flashed a thumbs-up to his friend, which Chas half-heartedly returned, and then John pivoted back to the door to the house-

Cheryl walked across the end of the hallway and vanished around the same corner as the girl had gone previously. 

John didn't hesitate. He stepped into the house and took quick, fevered steps down that corridor, his mind consumed by the singular purpose of finding his sister. He reached the end and peered around the corner in the direction he's seen her but there was only more hallway; yet he couldn't let himself be deterred. He barreled around the turn, picking up his pace, footsteps stomping down vinyl flooring as he investigated doorways, cupboards, peered into offshoot rooms; the hallway went on and one, twisting into the bowels of the earth. John had crossed the threshold, already far deeper into this expanding corridor than he knew he could be - the house wasn't this deep, didn't turn like this, the floorplan was laid out all wrong - but he paid it no mind. It didn't matter. Cheryl was in here.

He turned another corner and there she was, idly fidgeting with some bits of paper, back turned to him. He was overcome with emotion, happiness and relief blossoming within him but also a deep anger: that she'd been fine this whole time, that she'd hidden from him, that she'd caused all this pain for him and his friends and had just been living in this run-down old house - he clapped his hand down on her shoulder, twisting her around and ready to embrace, to confront, to weep and prostrate before his lost sister...

It wasn't her. It was the girl who'd answered the door. The winding halls were gone and they were stood just around the corner off the end of the main hallway from the front door.
"John?! John!" Chas was hollering from the entryway. The girl's eyes were wide with fear.
"Get the fuck offa me!" She shrieked, and then the whole house erupted.

John was a panicking mess; he oscillated between profuse apology and stuttering explanation, trying to clarify what he'd seen and the reasons behind his actions to a deaf audience. Chas barreled in, committing his own trespass in order to pull John out, hooking him under the arms to yank full-bodied back down the hallway toward the front door, spilling his own apologies as he tugged and wrestled against John's flailing limbs. The girl herself was shrieking and hurling expletives, bursting with anger born of fear, and in the ruckus her partner had appeared - a large and ill-tempered man who now turned to violence in defense of his loved one, shoving and jostling and poking harsh fingers into John's chest. His temper only grew hotter and his face redder in the wake of John's babbling, and quickly he took a fistful of collar as John tried to wrench away from his arms, accusing fingers escalating to slaps and light blows. Above all this, Chas just kept apologising, kept pulling John out the door, and eventually they crossed back out through the entryway and, with a final shove from the boyfriend, tumbled to the ground in a dishevelled heap. The irate man stood in the doorway, a singular arm gesturing a strong warning to John:
"Your sister's fucking dead!"
John's ears rang. Part of him refused to believe he'd heard those words. "W-what did you just say to me?!" He demanded, which only stoked the fire; it would seem that only the woman's grip on his other arm prevented the man from continuing his beatings.
"I said I ever see your face again, you're fucking. DEAD!" He screamed back, and then slammed the door on them.

"C'mon, John." Chas said quietly as the street returned to stillness around them. The two picked themselves up, John pulling a couple small shards of glass and asphalt out of his palms, and they slowly walked back down the road the way they'd came.


John, Cheryl, Chas, and Gary all sat in a circle on the carpet in Gary's bedroom. The evening twilight cast dappled, purple-orange sunset rays through the window, and the lamp in the corner produced a warm ambience that kept the group cosy and coddled. Chas pulled a few puffs from a half-smoked joint and held his breath, counting the seconds down until he finally released, blowing smoke rings before expelling the rest and handing the spliff to John. The smoke hung in a thin layer from the ceiling, and only served to further the gloaming atmosphere that sought to swaddle them. John's effort with the joint was less heroic, but enjoyed all the same, and the depleting bifter next went to Cheryl, then Gary, and then the circle repeated until they were smoking the remnants of the roach. Cheryl made the call, stubbing the smouldering remains out on the sole of her boot before dumping the stub in an empty can. The four relaxed, sitting quietly in their collective high, soaking in what was left of the ambient smoke. 

Cheryl swigged a can of Irn Bru, wrinkling her nose slightly as she swallowed. She reached for the snacks in the center of the circle - the group was idly picking at Haribo, Twiglets, a half-empty packet of stale Hobnobs - and shoved a fistful into her face before swigging again.
"Shit ain't been the same since sugar tax." She said, breaking the silence and with it the hazy spell the boys had fallen under. John reached for the can, sniffing the opening suspiciously before taking a sip for himself. He produced his own grimace and passed it back.
"Seems just as vile as it's always been." He replied, and Cheryl only smirked in answer. Chas stood up, swaying on his feet slightly before steadying himself and traipsing over to a coolbox in the corner of the room; he lifted the lid, retrieved three cans of Stella, and rejoined the circle. He, Gary, and John all cracked their tabs and drank while Cheryl watched over the rim of her soda. John finished two-thirds of his can in one pull, and when he set it down, his sister picked it up and shook it a little, feeling the weight of it in her hand. She didn't say anything, but they were both thinking of Thomas. 

Gary rolled another joint and around it went again. The boys made their way through the eight-pack Cheryl had bought them from the offy - John declined a third can, conscious of his father in him, and instead let Chas and Gary polish off the odd two at the end of the case - and John zoned out to the stereo, Two Coffins' lyrics wrapping round and around his head as he sunk into the smog. One day soon, there'll be nothing left of you and me. Or you, or you. Counting off his only friends on his fingers. Four coffins for sleep.

His daze was interrupted by Gary's quick shift upright and onto his feet, darting over to the stero to switch it off. The sudden absence of music felt like a cold plunge, and John blinked hard as he came back to earth.
"White Crosses was so much better than this." Gary said, running a finger over his stack of CDs to pick something new. "And no politics getting in the way either."
Gary shouted as he was suddenly pelted with empty cans and one not-so-quite empty one that splashed its dregs up the nape of his neck. He whipped around, already holding his hands up in surrender while stumbling out a quick apology.
"Shut the fuck up, Lester." John answered, dropping the next can he'd scooped up as ammo. "Dysphoria Blues is a masterpiece, and you're an arsehole."
"They're both decent," Chas interjected, "but 'masterpiece' is a bit strong."
John waved him away dismissively. "What do you know anyway. You can't pick your Against Me's from your Rise Against's."
Chas shrugged, not really having a horse in the race. John was the only one in the group to get this worked up about music. 
"Cheryl, you have to back me on this. TBD over Crosses any day."
Cheryl gave her own shrug, showing John a wry smirk.
"I like Shape Shift." She said, and to this, Gary and John both jeered.

"Doesn't matter anyway." Said Gary, diverting the conversation. "Talking 'bout the wrong band."
He finally fished a CD from the rack and loaded it into the player, and suddenly powerful strums began to pulse from the speakers and swell into the room. John bounced his leg as the chorus exploded forth; Gary, meanwhile, disappeared downstairs and returned with more beer. John declined initially, but Gary insisted, pressing the can into his hands. John looked at Cheryl, torn; she just shrugged again.
"Thomas won't notice anyway." She offered, and Gary chuckled.
"Thomas ain't expectin' ya!" He announced excitedly, and John and Cheryl exchanged quizzical looks. "Had me ma cover. Said we was all workin' on a group project."
John rolled his eyes. "In the clink for the night would've been more believable, Gaz." He remarked. Cheryl hushed him and raised an eyebrow to Gary.
"What're you planning, Gary Lester?" She asked, lucid and to the point. Her eyes glistened with a hopeful suspicion. At this, Gary grinned wider than ever, and stuck his hand underneath his mattress to rummage around, pulling out a large brown envelope that he tossed to the group's feet. Chas swept it up and peeked inside.
"Fuck off." He said. Impatient, John snatched the envelope for himself and pulled out the contents.
"Fuck off!"

In his outstretched arm John held four tickets for Frank Carter & the Rattlesnakes, live at the O2 Academy that very night. 
"How the fuck d'you manage that, you cunt?!" John shouted, punching the now-laughing Gary in the arm before giving him a solid hug and joining in the laughter. He stepped back and cracked the fresh can Gary had fetched, raising it up while the others followed suit.
"Well fucking done, lad." John toasted, Chas giving Gary a fond slap on the back. "Let's go get fucked!"


John and Chas sat outside a Costa in the declining afternoon sun, thick silence hanging between them. John wrapped his still-shaking hands around the cardboard cup of milky, over-sweetened tea, focusing on the heat against his palms and the smell of the steam to try and ground himself. He replayed the incident in his head over and over and over, poring over every detail: the house, the girl, the Cheryl who was there and then wasn't, and then the rolling disaster afterwards. He had seen Cheryl; he had delved deep into impossible, twisting hallways; he had found her, seen her hair, smelled her perfume, heard her soft hums. And then he hadn't. He rubbed his eyes, pushing back a burgeoning headache. He couldn't let this happen again. Seeing things that weren't there, unable to trust his own senses, walking into warped realities. It wasn't fair. He was trying now. He fumbled for a cigarette, struggling to hold his lighter steady to spark up. 

"I can't do this again, John." Chas declared. "You called me to patch things up and I gave you the benefit of the doubt. But I'm not sticking around if you're just gonna regress. I won't watch you jump off the Runcorn again."
There was a long stretch where all John did was smoke and cradle his drink and avoid eye contact. Chas grew increasingly frustrated, ignoring his own cooling coffee, and eventually he pushed his chair back to stand and storm off-
"When Cheryl first went missing we thought it'd just be a couple days. We all did, right?"
Chas sat back down.
"Sure. She knew people all over Liverpool. Manc and Blackpool too. Not like she hadn't taken breaks from Thomas before."
"Exactly. Couple days and she'd reappear, like normal. We just got on in the meantime, us lads. Business as usual. Duck my dad and head down the park for some bevs."
John sat forward, dragging on his cigarette, sipping his tea, feeling the warmth from both cascade down his throat and pool in his lungs and belly.
"We only filed with the pigs after a week because she hadn't even texted. Dad couldn't give a fuck but couple of the old bills knew him from noise complaints and an old social services visit so they actually took it serious when we reported. God they looked into him right quick and they were right to as well, the cunt. Wasn't him though. Even I believe that now. No evidence of foul play at all - that's why it was all so slow. Nothing broken, no other suspects. Even her phone was clean when they found it; no funny calls or texts or emails or nothing. So when it turned up her little cash hidey-hole was cleaned out and her earings and necklaces'd been sold and there was a missing suitcase and empty hangers in her wardrobe..."

John trailed off. This was known to Chas; he was just recounting history, setting the scene, working up to the meat of the matter. 
"And then I started seeing her." John said, his burden revealed. "I started seeing her everywhere. And I'd run after her, because of course I did, who wouldn't? I wanted to find her, wanted to bring her home. I wanted to see my sister again. Didn't want to be alone in that house with Thomas anymore. And when I was alone, I'd screw my eyes shut, and I'd hear her instead. Gasps. Whispers. Little, little fragments of a sentence that I couldn't quite make out. Didn't tell anyone. Didn't say anything. Couldn't let you all know I was going completely fucking mental. You and Gaz were struggling anyway, I couldn't make it worse. And then when the coppers gave up...so did I. And I was just drifting, drifting, right up to the edge of the Runcorn Railway. And I saw Cheryl again on the way down, waving to me."
There was a break. Chas' nose and eyes were red and he blinked furiously. John himself felt oddly serene.
"Anyway. Was only after they fished me out of the Mersey most-of-the-way-dead that I actually got sat down in front of someone trained to hear this kinda thing. They called it a psychotic break and said I was a danger to myself. Suppose I was, given the jaunt they'd just pulled me from. Plus dear old dad had done a runner by then, so that was that. Committed. Marched me into Ravenscar and never looked back. Nurses in there threw pills and all sorts else at me for months and months. I did stop seeing things, hearing things, to be fair, but I completely shut down. Two years later they thought I could give the whole 'living' thing another go and let me out. Conditionally. They needed the bed space, I think. And here we are. Wasn't seeing Cheryl, but wasn't doing much else either."
"Jesus, John..."
"And then today I saw Cheryl again. And Chas, God help me it feels so real. I just fixate on it."
"John..." Chas sighed. He was reeling, torn, shredding his conscious to pieces wanting to help his oldest friend, but also desperately aware of a need to protect himself as well. He was stunned. John just soldiered on. 
"Everyone's like, 'healing isn't linear', like that makes it easier when things get fucked up. It doesn't, but it's not wrong. I am getting better. I want to get better, which is a few steps up from even only a couple days ago. But I might stumble. Hell, not might, I did. And I'm sorry! I'll always be sorry. I'll never not be sorry, for all of it, for all the ways everything got fucked up and ruined. But I promise - I promise - I am not going to try and hurt myself again. And I'm going to ignore what I can't trust. And when we find Gary, and I can apologise, and I can at least try to make things right with him as well - I'll give up on this city. I'll give up on Cheryl. Fuck Liverpool. Never did me no good. If you'll have me, I'll come back with you to London, and I'll start over. I'll leave it all behind."

John sat back, his spiel over, his confession made. His cigarette had burnt out but his tea was still lukewarm, and he finished it before lighting another stick. A weight felt lifted. Chas maintained his silence. John waited for him to get up and walk away; there was still time to catch a train back to London and not lose the entire evening.

"I got one last lead on Lester we can try. After that, we might just have to accept he's gone. Hope he's somewhere peaceful with your sister."
John tried to smile as he began to weep.
"Thanks, Francis."
"Don't mention it, Johnny."
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