The Buried

Chapter 3

'For the last time, we know it wasn't the chicken.'

'It wasn't the Yorkshire's either.'

'I get it.' Rosie tugged at her curtains, covering the last inch of blackness from the window; ten o'clock, and they were already in bed. Delwyn lay on the mattress beneath her, casting his glance around the small bedroom. Rosie's room had not changed much since he had seen it last. It was still painted lilac, with soft pastel curtains and shelves crammed with homework and books about dream symbolism and teenage boys with stupid names. Old fairy stickers adorned the walls (the grimy edges spelling an aborted attempt to peel them off,) a string of felt mice hung from the wardrobe door, and souvenirs clustered the windowsill.

A cork-board sat on the East wall, pinned with a multitude of Polaroids and old birthday cards. Delwyn noticed his own military photograph tacked amongst trips to beaches and birthday meals, sober in camo as Rosie's friends circled him, sticking their tongues out, posing with straightened hair and faces of shared cosmetics.

'I look absolutely tamping in that picture,' he said, gesturing to it. Perhaps it was the festoon of smiling girls that made him look angrier than usual.

'I know, you look like a school shooter.'

After more scanning he recognised his own handwriting and noticed the most recent postcard he'd sent over: "Hey Rosie, Hope Stockholm was good, sounds like you had fun. I've had a buzzcut and look like a white supremacist, also, didn't mean to grow a beard but didn't get the chance to shave this week. I'm still bright pink from sunburn so if I die now and you have to ID my body be aware that I look like a tit. Give Mam my love. See you soon kiddo x" The postcards had been volleyed between them every month or so, and they had been the sutures that had held their relationship together. He'd offer her bright fragments of his life, as if hoping it would sound less dangerous when reduced to A5.

He looked towards her now. She was sat up on the bed above him, rubbing moisturiser into her face. The removal of her foundation revealed a bright, rosacea-like acne across both cheeks which made her resemble a child who had eaten too much strawberry jam. Her changed appearance made him wonder if their relationship would advance beyond the fragments of conversation they'd managed to sustain over the past three years. Perhaps he'd lost his chance—her formative years had passed without him. He was no longer her older brother but an unwanted addition to her life, cumbersome, unemployed, one eyed—

'Are you okay?' she asked, unravelling her hair from her plaits. The thoughts seemed to unravel too.

'What?'

'Are you feeling alright?' She shot a look to the space between the mattress and the bed, where her old Disney Princess bin lay within arms' reach.

'I'm fine,' he said. 'I'm not going to puke everywhere. Don't worry.'

Rosie shook her head, smoothing the stiff kinks the plaits had left in her hair. 'You shouldn't worry about today, honestly. It's not as bad as Caitlyn.'

'Caitlyn?'

'You remember Caitlyn; we've been friends since primary school.'

'Oh, yeah, is she the—' he gestured vaguely towards his own face.

'Might have to be more specific?'

'The ginger one.'

'Right, how is this—' she mimicked his gesture. '—supposed to mean "the ginger one?"'

'Is she?'

'No, that's Frankie. Caitlyn's the one who set fire to the tablecloth on New Years Eve.'