III
June, 2012.
It seems it did become a habit. He thinks as he exhales.
Andrew's days consisted of waking up and checking available flights, having breakfast and exchanging vague words with Roland (whom he refused to call rat) wandering around the city and its surroundings; he had bought different kinds of chocolate for both himself and Bee and a small snowball for Renee, which he found hilarious that they sold in the middle of June.
He hates to admit that the time he looks forward to the most is the evenings. It is at 9:00pm that the band, the one he now knows is called “Cats of the Alley” (did this happen with these people and their fondness for animals? Did everyone ignore that the vocalist was literally called “little bird”?) arrives at the venue to set up. When the redhead enters the room he speaks only to a girl with straight black hair and ignores everyone else: he looks at Andrew, there are no small smiles like there are when he sings.
There is a stark contrast between the man on and off stage. Standing there was a man with the presence of a thousand, charming as a witch and bright as the only fire inside a dark room. Off stage he seemed restless, looking in all directions as if he wanted to run away at any noise that wasn't music or as if it took a conscious effort to be here. The person who chose little bird was clearly stupid; this man looked more like a rabbit.
He feels a heavy gaze on him; Andrew wants to turn and meet Neil's eyes.
Neil. Neil. Neil.
The conversation that day, whispered as if they were talking about state secrets instead of just their identities; there was a weight to that interaction that even Andrew couldn't quite understand. There was no light, the moon had decided to leave them alone that night with the smell of cigarettes and hoarse words. Neil Hatford. Neil Hatford and Andrew Minyard.
“Staring” he speaks.
“It’s my turn to ask” he declares.
“Are you sure?.”
The man nodded. “You asked for my name.”
“And before that you asked for mine.”
“Keyword ‘before’. Then you asked for mine, so now it’s my turn.”
“I didn’t ask for your name, you offered it, birdie.” Neil wrinkles his nose at the nickname. Rabbit, Andrew thinks, definitely a rabbit.
“I’m pretty sure this doesn’t work like this.”
“Is there a way this is supposed to work?” he asks, and Neil’s eyes glisten in a way that rings a bell in Andrew’s system.
“No. I guess not.”
He tosses the cigarette to the ground and stomps on it; his hands move in the most practiced of movements. He pulls another cigarette out of the box and looks at Neil expectantly, the man gets the message and flicks his lighter on. He slowly brings it closer to Andrew’s mouth, where the cigarette is, as if he’s prepared to pull his hand away as soon as Andrew tells him to. He hates him.
“Ask, Rabbit,” he says only when he finishes the first drag. God knows he can’t stand Hatford’s presence without nicotine in his system.
“Rabbit?” he wrinkles his nose again, almost unconsciously. Andrew hates him so much.
“Is that going to be your question?.”
“You like music,” the man says, its irritable and annoying. Andrew opens his mouth and lets the smoke escape from inside him right into the man’s face.
“You know who I am while I don’t know anything. Unfair. Don’t you think, Hatford?.”
“Know who you are?” Curiosity drips in its tone like boiling coffee on a Pour Over machine.
Andrew didn't dignify to answer. Neil smiles, small and private, “I don’t know you, Andrew Minyard. I don’t know who you are,” gives a proven attempt to the cigarette in his hands, do not cough, “I only know you reside in the Eden’s Twilight, you like smoking and you don’t drink cocktails. I see only, Andrew. Three nights you sat and listen, you beat your fingers against the glass you have in the hand of Robin’s battery. You sit with your hands full of a drink and listen as few in the public do.”
“I hate you” words come out here so he can stop them, little moments of snatch, think. “Your question, rabbit.”
“What is your relationship to music?” his voice, for the first time since the four days he has known Neil, sounds bitter and resigned.
Andrew thinks with the same discomfort in the one he does in the sessions with Bee, where his comments and questions force him to think about everything he wants to avoid and reflect on parts of himself that he despises. Music, he think, was that little hole that kept the pool overflowing, it was the little lie he wanted to believe in despair. Life was boring, normal and daily; Andrew had designed it to be like this. In a world where one don't want anything, it's little that can hurt you. And Andrew Minyard doesn't want to and he'll never want anything.
Sometimes, Andrew was tempted to want music as more than an escape for repressed emotions and self-destructive thoughts. Sometimes he wanted to create something more than destruction.
Instead, he only says “Spend time until it’s over.”
Neil's eyes shine and Andrew hates, hates and hates, “I don't think that's what you care about.”
“Here is a gift truth. I hate lies.”
Andrew drops his butt on the floor and turns around.
“It’s your turn” says Neil.
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m in love, sweet love.
Don’t you ever go away, it’ll always be that way
Your heart has called me closer to you
I will be all that you need”
With his hand around a glass of black rum, Andrew remembers the few things he allows himself to miss. His ridiculously expensive battery with chopsticks that he forced to fit in his hand is not one of those things, missing is something dangerous, it is allowing himself to desire to some extent. But Neil's voice today is calmer and lower than usual and Andrew gives himself the action of thinking. When Andrew began to get money, when Tilda died, Andrew knew perfectly what he wanted. Clothes, a car and furniture for that cheap apartment in Columbia.
The clothes he wears now, all high-end brands to forget the fifth or sixth hand clothes that burned that day at the age of 16 in the courtyard of the building, an expensive car like those he read in the magazines of one of his few decent foster parents who did not touch him, furniture for his family that he protected.
Andrew thinks he can admit that he misses the Lexus.
The sleepless mornings that took him to the driver's seat, the cold wind that pushed his face and the almost lethal speed of the car. She misses the way his thoughts are reduced and his adrenaline shoots up. Maybe he also misses the gym a little, but he will die before letting Kevin hear that; his motivations are totally different. Kevin exercises and follows diets, looking more for an aesthetic body in front of the cameras than functional, that's how he was raised. On the other hand, Andrew began exercising on the recommendation of his psychologist, nothing more and nothing less. He doesn't care about the results, only the sensation of the weights and the effort of his muscles.
Andrew swallows and the alcohol warms his throat and stomach. The warmth, Bee had said, it’s not just something physical. Sometimes we associate the heat of summer, that of a drink, that annoying that it is too hot, too sweet with the warmth we think we do not deserve. Are you afraid of the warmth, Andrew? He hadn't answered. This was the only thing he would allow himself to have, the alcohol in his stomach and the infernal heat of the stage.
The hours go by and the bird sings and sings and people listen and listen.
Andrew watches the ice melt in the glass before raising his hand and asking for another one.
"I guess I thank you for listening to this shitty band one more day" then there is laughter in the audience and then noise of people moving, instruments stored.
Andrew is not going to look for Neil, after all he doesn't want anything. Roland fills his glass without questions and with a smile on his face.
"Today's presentation was incredible. I'm more of a rock but jazz is delicious."
When Roland speaks, he doesn't do it to him, instead Andrew can feel a pressure in the seat next to him and the slight smell of strawberries and mint that his stubborn mind has already learned to associate with a certain red hair.
"I think I could have a soft drink today," that damn mermaid voice replies instead. "Soft," he emphasizes.
Roland laughs and says "What does our star want today?"
Andrew watches only sideways as Neil takes his tongue out of his mouth in a thoughtful gesture "Something that tastes good."
“A cocktail,” Roland concludes. He nods his head and withdraws.
The minutes go by and no one speaks, there is no pressure or discomfort; it was as easy as saying that both existed within the other's orbit. They did not impose themselves, they only coexisted. This was strange because Andrew never had anything that could be described as easy, this was strange because Neil Hatford was strange, unpredictable and an unknown from head to toe. A puzzle without any form.
"This band" finally speaks. Neil looks at him curiously.
Andrew gets irritated, he gets irritated because Neil looks at him with bright, blue and warm eyes like only hell can be. He looks at it, analyzes it with the information that Andrew gives him and with what he can observe, but he does not ask or demand. Like Nicky who tries to hang on his arm and asks for things he has no right to know or how Aaron and Kevin who despair for silence and sometimes only explode in demands that ask and ask; a why, a reason, a do this, a if you will only make an effort.
“You mean why this band and not my band?.”
“Do you want a treat?” Neil snorts just in time as a strawberry daiquiri rests in front of him.
“A pleasure as always to serve you, little bird.”
“Fuck you, fourth-rate rat.” Neil sips the straw and looks at Andrew, curiosity shining on his face. “Everyone here knows that the Cats of the Alley is not my band.” He shrugs.
Andrew raises an eyebrow, Neil smiles toothily and says “You didn’t ask anything.”
“Fuck you.”
And no matter how serious he says those words, Neil chuckles as if this whole situation actually had a shred of humor to it. “I’m not in this band, or any band. I’m friends with Robin, the drummer, and sometimes when they need it, I do the second voices to their official vocalist, but she went on a trip to Italy for a few weeks and they needed someone. They already know me, Eden’s already knows me. It was the obvious choice.”
“You don’t play for anyone?.”
The question seems to surprise him, his eyes widen and his lips part, letting the straw hang loose. This is probably the first time Andrew has seen such a genuine expression on his face. I’m not in this band or any band, he had said, it sounded impossible. Who could listen to Neil Hatford sing and not desperately want him to be the interpreter of their songs, who would listen to Neil Hatford’s voice and not take a pencil in their hands because it’s that voice that inspires you to write and it’s that voice that you want to sing all your songs.
His voice, his poise and attitude. Everything, from head to toe. Andrew knew other artists and managers who would bleed to have him.
Instead, Neil Hatford finds himself singing in a hotel paying a pittance for a band that will dish out the pittance of pittance to him.
“That might cost you more,” he says at the end, sounding surprisingly calm and devoid of emotion.
Andrew pours all the last of the alcohol down his throat and thinks; Warm.
“Tik-tak. Question.”
Late September, 2012.
A birthday present, he makes a desperate excuse that he himself finds pathetic. Andrew knows Neil's birthday won't be until January. A present, sounds so much more appropriate.
A gift for a gift, action for action.
A melody that won't leave his head, a soft voice reciting that poem.
Andrew Minyard doesn't like Mary Hatford, no matter that she's ashes rotting on a beach, a woman dead for many years, a woman that loved. None of that matters when his hands run over Neil's ribs with their skin too thin and an alarming amount of fat missing to protect him from the cold, when his fingers brush wounds that have long since healed; that captivating voice losing the confidence lent by the stage saying in a forced joke "guess if it's from father or mom."
Andrew doesn't spend his time hating, but he hates Mary Hatford.
Because he doesn't want to admit that the idea terrifies him, that the story gets into his bones. Mary Hatford, a woman who loved and loved, a woman who would stand against a horde of people for her firstborn, a woman who bled and killed for her son. Hands stained with great amounts of blood, hands made to protect. Hands that pulled her baby's hair, that beat his child's face and painted beautiful purples, yellows and greens on her child's pale skin.
How can you love enough to kill, how can you love someone enough to hurt them like that.
How could Andrew feel comfortable when that woman's hands, so cruel, so overprotective, so bleeding, took a pencil and created art. A duality that Andrew himself fears so much; Andrew's hands, everything about him was nothing more than a being created to hurt and protect, just that. Betsy would contradict him, tell him that he is a good person, tell him that the human being is someone much more complex that cannot be described by just two words. Neil would say-
Neil would take Andrew's hands in his own, then look at him for permission with his horribly beautiful eyes, kiss each of his fingers then cup his own face, put Andrew's hands over his cheeks, smile at him and whisper "How can you be a monster? Do you really think you're made only to hurt when you take my face in your hands so delicately?.”
However, Neil is not here; this is something he is always aware of. The bed is ravaged empty, Andrew's body too warm with cold limbs holding him, a breakfast too loud in the wrong way. Andrew is terribly aware of the void that demon left in his life, now he was just paying the consequences. Neil Hatford was gone and Andrew would have to deal with that as he did with most things in his life.
Betsy, his psychologist, probably already suspected that something had happened on vacation; She tried to ask, but didn't press once she realized she wasn't going to get any answers. Always too understanding, good old Bee.
Andrew didn't want to talk about Neil, to do would feel like his chest was being ripped open to expose his damaged lungs and battered heart. Talking about Neil felt intimate, horrible, but it wasn't just that. If he were to talk about Hatford, about his scarred skin, the little tic that made him stick out his tongue when he was concentrating, or the tone his voice took when he read poems out loud. If he were to put it all into words it would be like breaking a spell, something that never really existed, nothing more than a figment of his imagination and twisted mind.
A boy who lives seven thousand miles away, a boy who for Andrew only lives in his memories.
So Andrew faces the situation in the only healthy way he knows how. With adrenaline he opens the battered notebook to pull from its yellowed pages a sheet that could be as old as Andrew himself. If you knew what to look for, you might recognize Mary Hatford's handwritten on it.
A woman who loved, who hated. Who hit and created art.
Andrew hates her, he means it.
When Neil gave him that poem, to carry with him, specifically. He hated him. He doesn't mean this much.
A gift, he repeats to himself compassionately as he approaches the keyboard. A gift for a gift. A poem for a composer that will be turned into a song for a singer.
Andrew hates Mary Hatford, Neil does too.
Yet she was his mother. And if Neil wanted a piece of her, the one who wasn't a mother but a woman-young-sister, Andrew would give it to him.
(Andrew thinks he would give him everything.)
June, 2012.
“What are you doing in England?.”
“Can’t I be a tourist?.”
“You don’t seem to give a shit about seeing this place” he had replied, sipping from his straw.
Andrew had stared at him blankly, not at all surprised that the little bird had noticed this, his eyes always seemed to see more than anyone else’s. “England was my stopover to Germany. All flights were cancelled when I was already here.”
After that they fell silent, comfortable surrounded by the noise of other people in the room. Neil drank slowly, as if he wasn't quite used to it, his blinks became slower but his eyes remained as sharp as ever. Andrew caught him humming to himself. It was amazing how Neil seemed to give off music in all his little actions, as if the lines of the score had joined together to create his height, the eighth notes his freckles and the whites his tiny smile. Almost as if he was composed by it.
Of course the situation can't last forever, nothing does. The redhead seems unable to close his mouth at this moment. "Well, what a fucking stroke of luck. How did you get to Eden's?"
Andrew wanted to tell him that it wasn't his turn to ask questions, to shut up and stop chewing the straw between his teeth, to stop blushing; unfortunately, Andrew had a small weakness for pretty and mysterious boys. “Do you believe in luck?”
“Only the bad.”
“Fate?”
“No.”
“Eden’s was one of the closest to the airport.”
“How appropriate.” Neil’s voice is low and loaded, as if there was more to that sentence than Andrew was able to understand. A problem, Neil Hatford was a fucking problem. “A bastard between a hotel and a pub that focuses almost exclusively on music. A show for a musician.”
“Did I say musician?”
“You didn’t need to. It was crystal clear.”
“A great ability to see clearly when drunk.” Neil gave him the middle finger. His drink was halfway done but there were already small signs, if you could see, that while Neil wasn’t drunk he wasn’t sober either. He has no tolerance, what did he think when drinking with me, a stranger. How dangerous.
“Do it again and I’ll rip your finger off.”
Neil looked at his fingers with mild curiosity and then said “I couldn’t play bass anymore then.”
Andrew tried not to let his surprise show on his face. Neil was, he felt like a box of surprises that you never quite learn about, each layer was a new piece of information that triggered the realization that there were 10 other facets you didn’t know and more unknown characteristics that were related to each other. Andrew hated surprises. “Too bad for you.”
“Hatford!” a voice came from behind them both. Neil frowned looking at the guy’s face, as if trying to recognize him. Andrew realized it was the guy who played the saxophone on stage “You should take Robin, she’s drunk as a skunk.”
Neil sighed and nodded, he looked the drummer in the eyes and Andrew prayed he had misjudged the small pout on his face. He stands up with a slight tremor of legs; The irrational part of Andrew wants to grab his hand or waist so he doesn't fall, but Andrew hates touching people and even more so when they're drunk and therefore, invaded from expressing any kind of consent. Neil's eyes leave Andrew and go to the same girl with the straight black hair he saw him talking to before. Robin, he reminded himself, Neil's friend and the surprisingly decent drummer.
Neil comes closer and Andrew has to make an embarrassingly conscious effort to stop looking at his legs perfectly hugged at the thighs by a pair of new-looking grey bootcut pants. His eyes stay on the obviously drunk girl who seems to be stuck to a tray of shots. They exchange words before Neil places his hands on her triceps and helps her up, barely. Andrew can't see this anymore. Influenced by whatever, the devil or madness, he approaches them both.
“Tell me you came by public transport.” And even that thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
Neil shakes his head. “Robin’s car, she picks me up and drops me off every day. I’ll have to drive this time.”
“No.”
“No?.”
“You’re drunk, Hatford. You’re not driving.”
Andrew was being stupid and stubborn, he knew it. From Neil’s point of view he was a stranger offering to take two drunk kids home, drop them off at their respective homes, give out this information that, although he had no proof, he assumed Neil was jealously guarding.
Blue eyes settled on him, bright as a demon’s, calculating as they have been since Andrew met their bearer; for a brief moment Andrew swore Neil was sober. Sober. That’s what they should do, Neil should wash his face, eat something and drink water, wait for the alcohol to wear off. It would be safer for everyone.
It’s irritating how Neil seems to watch, do nothing but watch. Watch, seek, and find. Andrew doesn’t know what they saw in his face that made Neil, against any non-existent instinct for self-preservation, rummage through his friend’s jacket and toss her the keys.
See, see, and see. Why was Neil trusting Andrew? What he found in him that no one else had seen.
“I’m armed,” he was informed.
If it were anyone else, Andrew would laugh. Neil was taller than him by a few inches, but taller at the end of the day. What Neil probably lacked was strength, and that was a guessing game, how his limbs were too thin and tapered; while Andrew could lift more weight than his 6’3” acquaintance. If Andrew were anyone else he would dismiss the comment with a wave of his hand. But Andrew is his own person and he knows perfectly well that Neil, as scrawny as he looks, is also dangerous. He knows it from the first shared cigarette and the first exchanged glances. Everything in Andrew's mind went off when he saw a head of red hair.
“Stop yelling like a chihuahua and pick up your friend.”
Neil nodded and put Robin's arm around her shoulders, then took her by the waist and helped her up. They walked a few steps until, suddenly, both bodies stopped in front of the bar. “Andrew is going to take us home in Robin's car. I'll pay for our drinks tomorrow.”
Roland, for a solid five seconds, stood paralyzed without moving a muscle from the bottle he was pouring into a mixer. None of those present gave him the chance to respond before continuing on his way.
“Damn!” he exclaimed when he realized, belatedly, that he had far exceeded the millimeters necessary for the preparation of any cocktail he had in his hands.
The summer night was still cooler and colder than the inside of the bar. Everything was dark, few stars shone in the wide black sky and all the light came from old, half-rusted lamps. A breeze brushed her face and she allowed herself to let out a small sigh of satisfaction, let no one say that the Minyards, and even Nicky (an honorary Minyard) are good at enduring the heat.
He looked at his side, Robin was babbling, dragging out the words with an increasingly strong accent while at her side a few shivers ran through Neil's body.
"Oh god, my god Neil, am I hallucinating or is The Andrew Minyard next to us?" The girl's cheeks turned redder and her eyes sparkled.
"You're hallucinating" the words came out of Andrew easily. She nodded as if it made sense.
Andrew looked at Neil and found that he was already being watched, his eyes heavier than ever and his brow furrowed, he bit his mouth as if trying to hold back words desperate to come out for a few more seconds. When they got to the car the singer threw his friend into the backseat, put her seatbelt on with significantly less clumsy hands and then sat in the front passenger seat. The only thing he told Andrew were the directions.
Once Andrew entered everything into the driving app on his phone no one spoke, minute after minute. If Neil didn’t want to talk, Andrew wouldn’t give him the pleasure of starting a conversation.
Small snores could be heard from behind. “So you’re that Andrew Minyard.”
Andrew settled for humming.
“The same one Robin rants about and has a fan account for.”
“I couldn’t confirm if your friend is talking about me.”
“You still don’t deny it.”
“If by that Andrew Minyard you mean the one who plays in “The Monsters,” yes.”
“That’s why, then, you thought I knew you.” Neil smiled with teeth and all the arrogance in his short stature. “A little egocentric, if you ask me.”
“Don’t ask.”
After five minutes, where the redhead let out small laughs under his breath that made Andrew want to kill him, they arrive at the house of the only woman on board; it was obvious that even if her home was located further away than Neil’s own, he wouldn’t get off before, much less leave his friend unconscious next to Andrew. That basic decency is something Andrew respects, it’s something that as a child would have warmed his stomach and made his heart beat. The kind of thing he was desperately needed.
“I’ll tuck her in and be back,” he informs her.
Andrew doesn’t trust Neil to help Robin up the stairs without them both falling on their asses; but never mind, Andrew Minyard doesn’t trust Neil Hatford at all. He doesn’t know him, he’s just a stranger, a stranger armed with all the stuff. Andrew doesn’t trust anyone but his psychologist, and only up to a point. Things won’t change now, they never will.
Andrew’s hands touch the handlebars decorated with a purple, multi-patterned cover, he tries to push away any thoughts too overwhelming locked in. The cover was tacky as was all the rest of the decor, with a Hawaiian Hello Kitty playing the ukulele moving to the car’s tune, a miniature skull hanging from the mirror, and Monster High decorations on the driver’s mirror. The car was a chaotic mess; And despite all these things Andrew found himself enjoying the feel of the steering wheel in his hands, the slow speed and the windows down. He was sure that if it weren’t for the context that led him to sit there, he would be thoroughly enjoying it.
The passenger door opens. Seeing Neil emerge makes his stomach turn, it’s so stupid how his body reacts to Neil’s presence, how he must stay still for a few seconds to process who he sees. Drinking in the full image of such a beautiful man. Neil sketches one of those little smiles he only gets when he’s singing and Andrew wants to kill him.
He sits in silence and once the car starts moving he takes out his cell phone, sticking his tongue out in concentration. Seconds later “I’m Not A Vampire” starts playing, one of the most listened songs from his latest album; privately because this is not a Nicky solo, instead the lyrics are perfectly divided between two.
The fans had gone crazy, they had heard Kevin Day sing enough since he had run away from the band “The Perfect Court”, a group of overly perfect boys who sing and sometimes dance with big smiles on their faces. No one in the audience knew why the Golden Boy stopped singing so suddenly, only those close to him knew the truth. Riko Moriyama, his adopted brother and leader of the band had choked him to the point of causing severe damage. She had taken away his freedom and passion. An abusive and exploratory adoptive family where the only escape is what you can sing so you don’t scream, had taken away everything he had in one moment.
I’m Not A Vampire had been one of the most genuinely fun songs Andrew had ever written, the moment of its creation had given rise to one of the few moments where Andrew found his entire team and band acceptable. Sitting around the tables looking for the most outrageous accusations about them, like the ridiculous theory that they were sweet potatoes because of their pale skin shining with sweat on stage, or that Nicky could seduce all men and steal them from their beds like some kind of Satanic bogeyman.
Hi, my name is Aaron, I’m am addict
(Hi Aaron!)
That sentence had been very fun to write, even he must admit. A direct blow to the reporters who don’t leave his brother’s past where it should be, dead next to his mother.
The next song started and even as he focused on the street in front of him, he could feel the weight of Neil’s gaze on him. “Is this you?”
“I don’t sing.”
Neil made a contemplative noise. “What about the songs?”
“Google it.”
“Why do that when I have the direct source right next to me driving me home?”
“So many questions. It’s not even your turn.”
“Then ask.” he sounded determined.
Andrew drove to the next red light, where he could take his eyes off the road and see Neil. He didn’t hesitate as he asked,
“Why did you move to England?”
Hatford stood frozen in place, everything tensed and Andrew knew he touched a nerve. His eyes were calculating and sharp like a well-sharpened axe; it almost looked like he wanted to rip out his throat. A cornered animal will always fight back harder, he thinks.
“When you talk to me. You slowly lose the accent, it never goes away completely but it becomes much more Americanized.”
Neil turned down the music. Andrew knew Neil was dangerous, not just to him and the whole mix of feelings he made him feel, but in general. “I’m armed,” he had said; what a nice coincidence, so was Andrew.
“What are you afraid of?.”
“Heights.” The answer comes out on its own. Neil rolls his eyes as if he doesn’t believe him. “What did you expect? Death to say?” His foot presses the accelerator. Death wasn’t a fear, you couldn’t be a monster if it was.
“If I told you I’m here because they tried to kill me.”
“I would say that I hope you’ve returned their favor.”
Neil inhales deeply and a flash of surprise floods his eyes. They had reached their destination, but he didn’t move a muscle; Andrew turned around just to stare at him.
“Let me ask you again. I killed my brother’s mother. Are you afraid of death, Neil?”
At first Andrew could have assumed that Neil would scream, scream words that everyone had said to his face before “Crazy, murderer. Monster, monster!” Neil's eyes shine, seeing more than anyone is capable of, understanding better than anyone has before. There is no fear in Neil's stance and he hates it. Look at me, fear me and go away. You are not the worst within these four walls.
“I don't fear him.” he says, another sneer more like I don't fear you and Andrew hates.
“Why am I going to get to England?”
“My father killed my mother. If I didn't run fast enough I would be next.” he straightens up and without wasting a second proclaims “Take the car to Eden's. Robin and I will go with someone else tomorrow”
He goes to grab his cell phone, but Andrew is faster. The idiot doesn't even have a password; he types quickly, intentionally leaving the Nickname area empty.
“Here” he hands him the phone once he finishes “I'll kill you if you leak it.”
Neil looks to where Andrew wrote down his number with shining eyes. “Why?”
“Because I presume you're going to be trouble, rabbit.”
He starts the car almost at full speed, tomorrow he will return the gas money to the girl.
But now? Well, Andrew needs to think and he has the car in his hands.