Hungry for Release

Part 6

It was still dark outside, and would be for some time. Beneath the wane yellow glow of the streetlight, the whole world glittered in a cloak of ice. In the distance, Zayn could hear a low hum from the highway, but apart from that, the only sign of life was his own shallow breathing.

He’d already done a few laps of the hotel, but he had at least twenty minutes to go before he was done. Then there’d be time for a quick shower, a nap, and he’d be down to breakfast bang on time. He’d so much rather be in the warm hotel gym - but that was now officially off limits to him. As were extra dance rehearsals, long walks, or anything that was deemed ‘excessive’. And, for now at least, three loosely supervised meals a day was a grim necessity.  

It had been almost three months since ‘photo-gate’. He’d been allowed to do the radio interview, but as the boys filed out, Zayn trailing along behind, a firm hand had grabbed his shoulder.

“You won’t be joining them for the rest of the day mate. We’re telling everyone you’ve got a family commitment,” said Paul, in a tone that broker room for any argument. “Come on kid.”

His heart was thumping so loudly, he was sure that everyone in the studio could hear it as he and Paul wove silently through the maze of corridors to the back exit. The others had left from the main front doors, into the colourful, cheering crowd of fans. The contrast to the empty back alley where Paul ushered him into the waiting black car couldn’t have felt ominous.

Unusually, Paul sat in the back seat, face to face with Zayn. For the first time, Zayn noticed that Paul was clutching a thick stack of newspapers. As the car hit the road, wordlessly, he handed them over to Zayn. His stomach plummeted when he saw the first headline: ‘Zayn Malik: Drugs Shame?’, illustrated by an awful, unfocused looking shot.

It was as though he’d never seen himself before. His eyes looked sunken and hollow, his cheeks sunken, and he could barely look at the disgustingly prominent bones in his chest. The boy in the photo had a vacant smile on his face, but he looked utterly wretched. It was the same knee-jerk horror shot across all the papers, only the headlines varied. ‘One Direction: Rehab!’, ‘The Shocking Story Behind Scary Skinny Zayn,’ and, worst of all, ‘Zayn the Junkie.’

“Which one is it?” said Paul, after a beat. “Drugs? Booze? Bad breakup? I’ve seen it all you know. I don’t care which one it is. I’ve seen it all before. All I want to know is how I can help you stop fucking up.”

“It’s a bad shot...just a load of lies…”

“Zayn, don’t. You know what’s at stake. We can do the easy way, or the hard way. But either way, you’re going to tell me what’s going on. And if you won’t tell me - you’re going to tell the doctor.”

He let out a long sigh, attempting to expel some of the tension before he spoke. Even so, Zayn’s voice quavered as he replied. “It’s not drugs. I’m not doing anything illegal. I haven’t been with anyone in over a year. I’m not even smoking.”

“So what is it?”

“Been working out a lot, guess I just took it too far maybe. And I’ve been so stressed lately, I’ve just not been that hungry... I’ll cut back and…”

“Right. We’re getting somewhere.” Paul smiled encouraging. “If you’re telling the truth, and I’m choosing to believe that you are, that’s far easier to manage than a smack addiction, ey?”

“Great, so, can we go back to the hotel now?” said Zayn, hopefully.

“Not a hope in hell. Full medical for you - management’s orders. If you’re telling the truth, then you’ve got nothing to worry about, have you?” The drill sergeant voice was back.