Despite my resolution to not talk about this until Cece sobers up enough for a word I say to penetrate his brain, I can't stop myself from breaking the silence. 'How'd you even get in?'

My body is too jittery to drive yet. The adrenaline drains at a nebbish pace, making me feel like I've got thrice the usual number of limbs and somehow also zero. So we sit in the car while I try to breathe through the vines, negotiate their retreat to my spine until I get into bed and they're free to infest every joint.

'It's not Ocean's Eleven. Nicked a key, didn't I.' Cece finishes the text he's typing, checking in with Diwa and the others before they dig out a key card from their pocket. They toss it at me. 'Oh, also—got you this.'

A box lands on top of the lanyard in my lap. 'I'm not taking your stolen–' I pick up the packet of sheet masks. The text is only in Korean so they must be quality. Well... I can't go return them now, can I? I doubt Seamus will be as sparing about phoning the police a second time. Might as well use them, right?

I slot the packet into the compartment in my door and pick up the lanyard. The photo on the key card shows a handsome Asian man. Asymmetrical dimples, downturned eyes, tawny skin. Michael Khair.

I hold it out to Cece and when they don't take it, slip it into his thigh pocket myself. 'You'll give it back.'

'I don't know the bloke.'

'Google him then,' I seethe. 'You can send him a message on Facebook.'

'What century d'you think I'm from that you reckon I've got Facebook?'

When I don't smile, their confidence flickers. Through their intoxication, understanding is slow to unfurl until Cece realises that I'm dead serious about him returning it and the grin drops.

'Can't I just drop it at the police–?'

'No.' I'm about to lecture him that if they want to avoid awkward confrontations then don't steal people's shit when a silhouette rounds the dark corner of The Lowry and catches the lights from the front. It's Joe, out of her uniform.

I twist the key from the ignition in case Cece gets impatient and decides to try driving themself home. '¡Quieto!' I command as I climb out of the car and Cece flips me off through the windscreen.

I jog over to Joe, then jerk to a walk. Should probably not run at women who don't know me across car parks in the middle of the night. 'Hey!' I call when I'm several yards away and Joe's focus flinches from her phone.

An easy smile spreads on her face when she recognises me. 'Hi—um, sorry, what's your name again?'

'Nikki,' I say and grimace.

I don't have time to correct myself before Joe repeats, 'Nikki.' She smiles again and hooks her bi-flag tote bag higher on her shoulder. Her eyeliner, I notice now, is also done in the bi colours.

'Did you get off work?' I ask though it's a dense fucking question. I doubt she'd change out of her uniform just to go on a break. But on the chance she has, I don't wanna use up her fifteen minutes when I've already likely spoilt her night.

'No, I got sacked.' Joe laughs at my horror. 'Don't worry about it. It would've happened in a few weeks anyway. I have this thing where I can't keep a job for more than three months.'

I cover my face in my hands, rake my fingers to the back of my head. My eyes lock with hers, begging her to admit this is just a wind-up. But, though Joe continues to smile, all perfect teeth, she don't break the act.

'It's okay.' She sounds like she reckons it really is okay. 'I didn't enjoy this job and I was also very bad at it. My parents won't be thrilled but it's not like this is my first time disappointing them.'

I squeeze my head like it'll force this knowledge out before I drop my arms to my sides. 'I just wanted to say thank you. Or sorry. Why not both? So thank you. And I am well sorry. And now I'm sorry ten times over cause I've just got you sacked. Fuck.'

'It's okay. Honestly. It's not your or Cece's–' she says the name like a question and I nod '–fault. This is all me. I'm too incompetent to even keep a succulent alive.'

'Okay, first of all,' I grimace at myself using Cece's catchphrase unironically, but I have to admit that it's fun to say, 'succulents ain't an easy plant. Whoever started that rumour—fake news. Fake. News. That don't say owt bout your competency as an adult. Also, I'm sure your parents don't think that.'

'They're dentists.' Joe says this like it's a sufficient counter-argument. Her smile slides to the tarmac, calf eyes widening as she covers her mouth with a hand. 'Gosh. I'm sorry, I shouldn't be complaining. I'm so sorry for your loss.'

My brow knits. 'What? Oh! No. My parents ain't dead.' I gesture in the direction of my car. 'They made that up.'

I chew on the inside of my cheek. The question forms in her eyes and though she don't ask it, I answer. 'They're in Colombia right now. My parents are activists who protect indigenous claims to the Amazon. So it's just me and our kid.'

Question: Why the fuck've I told her that? Though I hardly have Cece's theatrics, I do usually give strangers the "dead parents" explanation. It's convenient. And I'd rather take ruth than the reproof, the confirmation I've just given them that of course I don't have parents. I'm Latino, I'm Black, I'm queer—people like me don't have parents. Tragedy can happen to anyone; abandonment is personal.

'That must be difficult.'

I expect the fire to start. I don't need people's sympathy; I'm not burdened by having to care for my brother. I'm tired of people acting like I'm some saint or a prisoner for having a family, like looking after people is some Nobel Prize-winning accomplishment and not the purpose of humanity. And I know I'm rubbish at it but that's not the point, is it?

But Joe's gaze is gentle. Not having parents teaches you to recognise pity and I don't see any sowed in the dark of her eyes.

'It's alright.' Offering her a smile, I tuck my hands into my pockets. 'Can I give you a ride? Actually, you probably don't wanna get in a car with a stranger. Um– I could get you an Uber.'

'Isn't that also getting in the car with a stranger?'

I chuckle, swaying on the balls of my feet. 'Got me there. But I've recently been told that I have serial killer vibes.'

'Who said that?' Joe laughs, an airy giggle that bubbles into the sky. Then her eyes harden as she looks me over, scanning for serial killer potential. 'I don't want to be a bother.'

'My brother just got you sacked. Driving you home is, quite literally, the least I can do.' I press my palms together, bowing a little. 'Please.'

After another second of hesitation, Joe accepts and I guide her through the car park. Cece is still texting though they've got earbuds plugged in, so low quality that I reckon I hear the music better than they do. That, or they're about to go deaf.

I tug the earplugs out. 'Go sit in the back.' He stares at me like he's forgotten the English language. 'Siéntate en la parte de atrás.'

'Like fuck I will.' But Cece groans his defeat and stumbles over the centre console because that's obviously so much more convenient than using the door.

I swipe the prints of their trainers off the canvas before I step back to gesture Joe inside. She gives an uncertain smile but gets in and I close the door behind her.

Fuck. That's weird, innit? I calculate the percentage of psycho murderer I'm giving as I round the car to the driver's side.

'Can I use the nav?' Joe asks as I start the engine and the screen comes to life. 'I've just moved here and I take the bus so I'm not sure how to drive there.' With permission, she types in her address and I check that Cece's wearing a seatbelt before I shift gear to first.

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, tryna come up with summat to say before the silence becomes sticky. I should've put on some music. It feels weird now. What's a question that won't sound like "I need to know everything about you cause I'm planning to murder ya on the side of the road"?

Joe beats me to it. 'This is a nice car.'

'Thanks. Pretty sure it's stolen.' My face burns. Likelihood of me being a serial killer: steadily going up. 'I just got it for way cheaper than any sane person would sell it for, used or not—I dunno shit about cars but even I know that. Must've been summat illegal going on. Or maybe the bloke were just well nice.'

I wait for her to ask for me to let her out. But she don't comment. All she do is wring the straps of her bi-flag tote.

'So, what drives you out of London, Joe?'

'Is it that obvious?' A hint of embarrassment seeps through her grin.

The corners of my mouth twitch. 'You have the well distinct air of someone from London. Not in a bad way,' I tack on, glancing at her. 'Believe it or not, I've nowt against London. Just... obvious. North, I'm guessing.'

'Finchley.'

Joe toys with her necklace, dragging the pendant back and forth on the chain. I don't miss the shift of her knees from leaning against the centre console to resting against the door. I glance at her when we pause at a red light, find her lips flattened and eyebrows knitted.

'To answer your question, I just got out of a seven-year relationship. I'm reinventing myself,' she says grandly. 'Did the big chop, gonna have lots of casual sex with strangers, eat ice cream in my bed—which my ex never let me do because according to her I'm fat. Okay, maybe. But I'm from Saint Kitts. This is what we look like there, you know. She never let me eat in bed in general, which like, I totally understand. There will be crumbs and it's kind of gross. But sometimes girls just wanna watch Doctor Who in bed and eat a packet of Oreos.'

'Right. I mean that's why we have feminism.'

'Exactly.' Her conviction crumbles into laughter. The streetlamps catch in her teeth, making them glimmer almost as much as the glitter on my arms.

'Why Manchester?' The question sounds more judgemental than I intended and I stumble to explain, 'Don't get me wrong, I were born here, I've always lived here, I wouldn't go anywhere else. But if I were from Finchley, I probably wouldn't come to Manchester to reinvent myself. Couldn't you go to Berlin or Prague? Make use of the EU while you still can.'

Joe fidgets with her necklace again. 'It was a "throw a dart at the map" sort of decision. I think it was daft though. I've never lived alone and I don't know anyone in this city so rather than liberating it's actually kind of lonely, if that makes sense.'

I glance at her again, offering a sympathetic smile. 'I'm new to that too, the living alone thing. There are nice sides to it. Like no one's gonna leave washing up in the sink for three days. My mate Caleb would do this thing where he'd just cram all the tupperware into a cupboard and when I opened it, they'd all fall out. Is it that hard to just stack them?' I grin though it fades quickly.

My chest cinches. I check Cece through the rearview. They're still listening to music, watching the glass buildings of NOMA pass. Orange lights glide over him, each one beckoning them closer to sleep.

'My brother actually just moved out at the start of the year. It's been an adjustment.'

'But he's sixteen.'

'They didn't move out out, just–' I cut myself off. What should I say, they just moved somewhere else because I'm incapable of taking care of him like I'm supposed to? Couldn't hack summat so simple as loving my own brother enough?

Change the subject: 'If you're a better bartender than you are a security guard, this club, Spectrum, is looking for one. I work there sometimes, I know the bloke who owns it, Sasha—Alexander,' I correct. 'He's sound. He lets us wear whatever we want and he's well flexible with timetables. And he pays well. I could give him your number.'

Joe stares at me, unable to decide whether to be grateful or suspicious. 'You'd do that for me? I don't want to be any trouble.'

'It wouldn't be.'

Annalise just handed in her notice yesterday since she did decide to back to uni. Sasha won't have to go through the hassle of putting an announcement out. And I did get Joe sacked.

'If you're willing to give Manchester another go.'

'That would be lovely.' She sits up, turning toward me as well as she can in a car. 'I do have a lot of experience with clubs so I promise I won't be completely useless. My parents won't think that's a real job but at least it'll be better than being an unemployed twenty-six-year-old again.'

I fish out my phone, unlock it, and hand it to her, telling her to write her number in. She takes a selfie to add to the contact and slots my phone back into the cup holder.

Shoulder pressed into the backrest, Joe watches me. 'Can I ask something?'

'Um... sure.'

'Do you pluck your eyebrows?'

'Yeah.'

'Okay, good. Cause if you had eyebrows like that naturally, I'd be very annoyed–'

Cece jabs my shoulder. I glance at them through the rearview and my stomach drops. Even with the black lens that swallows up one eye, I recognise the look. The haze of sleep is gone. What's left is a serrated edge.

Their breath trembles against my ear. 'Nicolás, I think that car is following us.'

I glance at the red Citroën on the lane behind us. 'No, course it ain't–' I cut myself off. I've googled enough about this to know that denying his paranoias is the worst way to go about this. Do: affirm their fear. Don't: rationalise.

I try to somehow look at Cece and the road at the same time. Should I pull over? Or do I drive faster to make sure we get home before it really hits? Maybe offering to drive Joe weren't the best idea. Of course she has to live in fucking Ancoats too, on the opposite end of the city from Moss Side.

I twist my arm back, try to find his hand. I don't. Cece has curled into a ball on the centre seat, hugging their knees to their chest, safety belt off. 'No one's gonna hurt you. I know you feel unsafe but no one is gonna hurt ya.'

They glance at the car still behind us. Where else could it possibly go? 'They'll lock me in. I don't want to. It'll make it so much worse, then I'll have to listen all the time. And it'll be dark.'

'They won't.' My attention flicks between his reflection and the road. My palms sweat around the steering wheel. 'I'll protect you if they try. They won't get through me. I'm right here.'

'What if there are wasps?'

I can't begin to make sense of it before Joe speaks. 'Here.'

She's holding summat out to them. It catches the next streetlamp and I recognise it as the trolley token with the NutriLents logo I got as a freebie when I started there. She fished it out of the compartment under the radio.

'This will keep you safe. It hides you from everyone with bad intentions.'

Cece stares at her, unable to recognise her—unable to tell if she's real, maybe—but stretches out an arm. They clutch the token in both hands and though they keep glancing at the Citroën behind us, they calm enough that I dare to focus on driving the last minute to Joe's address.

'Thank you,' I say though the words barely form in my exhale. Vines are too tight around my neck.

'No worries. I've had my fair share of weed paranoia. They'll be okay in the morning.'

Weed paranoia. That's what I'm hoping for.

Notes

¡Quieto!: (Lit: still) Spanish command for a dog to stay.
Siéntate en la parte de atrás: Go sit in the back.
Finchley: A residential district in the north of London associated with the middle class. Good to note that it is a relatively large district with a lot of variation within it. There is a street in East Finchley dubbed as 'Billionaire's Row' that is supposedly one of the wealthiest streets in the world.
The big chop: The cutting off of relaxed or otherwise damaged hair to grow out your natural curls.

07: serial killer vibe

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