Someday Find Me by Nicci Cloke

one he’d rescued when they’dbeen chucking it out of the bar. It was too low for him to play on, but it was big enough for them and the stereo to sit on, out of the way of the kitchen and greasy fingers. They gleamed in the low orange light from the tiny kitchen window, and for a second I could see every pound he had spent on them, every tiny bit he had saved up, all the songs he had played on them, all the songs he could have played on them.
    ‘These will do nicely.’ He stacked them together, scratching them, tugging them free of their home. He grinned at us cheerfully. ‘Laters, guys. Cash. Next week. Don’t fuck with me.’
    And then he was gone. This time, he closed the door behind him.

 
    Sometimes, when people say something to you, the reply whispers itself in your head before you can stop it.
    ‘You look tired.’
    You mean I look rough.
    ‘You’re looking very thin.’
    Jealous?
    ‘You’re looking very thin.’
    Liar.
    ‘I went off him a bit.’
    He dumped you.
    ‘We want different things.’
    He dumped you.
    ‘We’re just worried about you.’
    You’re worried about what people think of you.
    ‘I love you.’
    No, you don’t.
    ‘I love you.’
    How can you?
    After he’d gone, the flat was silent again. I tried to look at Fitz, but he was squinting up at the ceiling and he didn’t look at me at all. When I tried to say something, he blinked once, hard, and then he squeezed my hand.
    ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’
    I wanted to disappear.
     
    We sat on the sofa, and though he put his arm around me there was a mile between us. The news was on, and he didn’t get up to turn it over. He wasn’t really sitting in the room with me any more. We were both alone.
    Police had released new CCTV footage of Fate Jones, and the news was playing it on a loop as they read the latest statement from her family and from the fat detective who was working on the case. It was grainy, black-and-white, and showed her leaving the doors of the pub at the top of the screen, and walking down to the Funky Chicken, the takeaway place at the end of the street whose cameras had caught her. She walked down our screen again and again while we sat there in silence, with the buildings looming black at the edge of the picture and her blonde hair turned white and her face grey in shadow.
    In the fuzzy image, we looked almost alike.

FITZ
    I was looking down at my chips, and that didn’t take long because there were only three left to look at, wondering if any of our cards had money on and if Saf had been paid yet. I had a couple of quid left in my pocket, which I thought I’d get changed up into silver and play on the fruities with. I’ve got a soft spot for the fruities. They may not be the most fancypants in the casino and maybe you don’t ever win or if you do you don’t ever win more than a fiver and that’s the jackpot, the big guns, but they’ll stay up with you all night long and flash nice lights at you to make you feel better and all they ask is 10p a go. They even have a little cup-holder, see, where you can stick your drink. Nice little stool to sit yourself down on if you’re so inclined. Everything is easy when you’re sitting at a fruitie; nothing is dark or sad. I put two of the chips in and looked down at my battered cards. It wasn’t going well but I didn’t mind that because in some little part of my little brain I still thought there was always a chance of things turning around.
    And then I heard a crash and a bang and a tiny little, ‘Whoops,’ and my leg’s all dripping wet and smells a bit like beer. I looked down at my wet leg and there was a plastic pint glass rolling around in a white frothy fluffy pool of lager on the grim carpet and a sticky tray with chewing gum on the bottom taking a little spin around the floor before falling down ring-a-ring-a-roses-a-pocket-full-of-posies. When I looked up again there was thisgirl stood there looking about as red as a bus and a