Hollow Oaks
Page 25
I lifted my glass, and gazed over its rim at the stove. It grumbled in its alcove, turf settling inside with a tiny avalanche. It struck me this was a home, a proper home.
One thing I now did not have.
"Any more of that?" Tommy said, pointing to the plate devoid of black pudding.
"There is," Debbie said, "if somebody wants to fry it. But I'm happy where I am."
"I will," Gernaud said. "I can never have enough practise in the frying of things."
He headed into the kitchen by himself. A second later, I excused myself and followed. He had already started slicing the pudding, and my closing of the kitchen door made him turn. His eyes narrowed. "You are thinking, McCullough. That is never a good thing."
"Gernaud." I casually leaned against the door. "I have … a suggestion." He remained silent, giving me the space to talk. "I need a place to live. So maybe, I was thinking I could, you know … live with you? As room-mates. Rent a room. That I could live in. You follow?"
Gernaud studied me with narrowed eyes, as if I'd suggested we start a bluegrass band, or eat individually wrapped cheese slices. He put the knife down.
"I do. And here is a countering idea. I will agree to that, even though it will drive me mad. But on one condition — that you work for me."
I took a step away from the door. "Work for you? Is that what you said?"
"Is it so strange an offer? The market for our products, it is small, and our business has now become dangerous. If we work together, we double our safety. I will pay you wages and the spare room, it will be yours, cheaply."
"So you'll be my landlord, and my boss? Is that the deal I'm getting?"
"Yes. I thought I was clear on that part. The room is not small. So I think this is fair."
I struggled to find a flaw in his suggestion, but couldn't. If I wanted to save up for my top surgery, and my recovery holiday after, this was my only option.
Starting from zero, but at least starting.
"Okay." I extended a hand, which he grabbed. "Room-mate."
I released his hand and reached for a fork, which I used to spear a sausage in the pan. I bit down, and the burst of salt and fat made me groan. It was only when I opened my eyes and saw Gernaud's expression that I realised how sexual that groan had sounded.
"Sorry," I said, speaking through pork. "Good sausage. I'll go back in—"
"No." He stepped away from the slicing board. "Wait here. I must go out and do some talking." He slipped past me, opened the door, and looked back. "Three minutes."
He closed the door, leaving me in the kitchen. I shrugged, and shut my eyes, to revel in the smells. And I probed a little, listening for her voice. But not a whisper was left, just the sensation of what it had been like, shooting through that lake, howling with light and anger and a power that could rip trees apart and squeeze between worlds.
Terrifying times. Something I should be glad to not have to think about. So why was I?
Five minutes later, Gernaud opened the door and called me out with a nod.
"What is it?" I said, edging suspiciously past him. "Surprise party? What?"
I strode past him and slipped onto my seat at the table, where my wine sat waiting. Tommy and Debbie were trying to pretend nothing was up. But something clearly was.
Gernaud sat. And nodded to Debbie, who turned to me, hands beneath the table.
"Bren, we … here. Just take it." She slid a folded paper to me. "From me and Tommy and Gernaud."
"But mostly me," Gernaud. "I feel it important that fact is clear."
I unfolded it. A cheque. That in itself was surprising. Who still used cheques? And the amount written on it … shit. I looked up in slack-jawed amazement. "But, but…"
"You've put up with so much," Debbie said. "Your finger. Your … mind. And we figured it wasn't fair you miss out on those plans. The operation and so on. It's a loan. Repayable when you can."
I barely heard a word she said. Fifty thousand euro. My head spun. The operation to fix my chest, long planned. A week or two to recover in a scenic Alp hotel. Maybe some hiking. And chocolate. Enough to build a house, a house I could then messily devour.
"It is a loan," Gernaud said. "This is clear, yes? My part you can pay back as slowly as you like. Or faster, if you want to work harder for me, which I have no problem with."
The paper was losing its focus because of welling tears. I couldn't bear all that kindness. My fuath-vacated head, now wired up again for human emotions, couldn't process it.
"Shouldn't be so hard making the money back," Tommy said. "I bet the fairies will soon be going mad for new craft stuff. And they'll be coming to you and Gernaud first."
"I … thanks. I mean it." I stood. "I need some air. This is just a lot to fill my head with right now." I circled the table, giving each one a hug, ending with the dog.
"Hurry back," Debbie said. "Gernaud's made a trifle. He says it's heavenly."
"The box said it was heavenly," Gernaud said. "I do not feel convinced of this."
I slid out of the room, cheque in hand, and into the hall, where I pulled on my coat. After stowing the cheque, I shoved back the door and stepped into the chilly morning.
The grounds of Brufort House welcomed me with a vista of twinkling frost, already melting. Throaty birds squawked, and muddy air swirled in my nostrils. I strode to the nearest corner of the house, slipped around it and stood, my back to the wall, deeply breathing.
Kindness, that most unexpected of things, was making me tremble. That, and a sliver of guilt. I hadn't told them the whole story, that I'd planned to do more with the savings I'd lost than just get the operation. The plan had also been to begin a new life, in a new place.
But now I couldn't. Or, I didn't want to. I'd stopped wanting it some time back but just hadn't noticed. I was sick of excusing myself, running off, keeping my head down. And this "starting over" was more of the same. Apologising to the poor souls who felt put out by who I was. Who were scandalised by having to adjust their creaky brains to fit me in.
But fuck them. It wasn't my job to make other people less uncomfortable. I was Bren McCullough, I'd been to the other side and back. And all of them — friends, fathers, those awful cousins with the ugly dogs — let them all snigger and point. Not my problem.
My hand slid into my inside pocket and emerged with a cigg, which it slid between my lips. The same hand was halfway to the lighter, when I stopped it. And pulled it back. I extracted the cigg, had a look at it, dropped it. Lifting a boot, I ground it into golden slivers.
No smokes today. I wanted to taste this world I'd been allowed back into. I took a breath, inflating tubes and alveoli, filling them with the desire to be alive, and to keep on being so.
Switzerland, I was on my way. A week or two, then home. Because home was where I was needed. The worlds were changing, one world, three worlds, whatever.
But let them. Bring it on. I'd be here. Bren McCullough. Perfectly whole.
Acknowledgements
This book was a long time in the making. A big thanks to the Stockholm Writers Group, who suffered through many drafts. Also the York Festival of Writing, who put me on a stage to read a very early version. Finally, cred to Harvey and Jenny, who inspire me to never stop scrawling.
A special nod to Terry Rodgers for the cover art.
About The Author
Paddy Kelly was born in Ireland and narrowly avoided being a farmer. A romantic accident moved him to Sweden where he remains, now a huge fan of standing in line, wind-driven snow and fermented fish. He’s had fiction and non-fiction published in many newspapers, anthologies and magazines, from Irish Times to Analog Science Fiction. Paddy dances Lindy Hop and Belly Dance and has, on several occasions, had his arm all the way inside a cow.
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