by David Haynes
Chris walked over and flung his arms around him. Despite his best efforts, he started to blubber almost immediately, and the sensation of Joe’s hand patting him on the back only made it worse.
“Let’s get inside before you wake the neighbours, eh?”
Chris took a deep breath and stepped inside. “Christ, I’m sorry about that, Granddad, I don’t know where it came from.”
Joe walked straight over to the microwave and started it up. “I think we’ll make this one Irish.” He reached up and opened a cupboard. In amongst the tins of food, Chris could see a jar full of brightly coloured lollipops and a half-finished bottle of Bushmills. Joe pulled the bottle out and put it beside two mugs he had ready and waiting.
“Do you want to talk?”
Chris shook his head. “No.”
“Good because neither do I. I’ve made up your bed and you can take this up when it’s ready. It’ll help us both get off to sleep.”
“I hope so,” he replied.
The microwave beeped and Joe lifted the hot milk out. He poured it into the two mugs, added a little sugar and topped it up with whiskey. Steam rose up and the spicy smell drifted over to him.
“I’ve made it a large one. You look like you need it.” Joe handed him the cup.
He looked down at the milk. It had turned a beautiful pale caramel colour. If anything was going to help him sleep, it was this.
“Right, I’ll see you in the morning. You know where everything is.”
Chris felt Joe’s hand on the top of his head but as he raised his eyes, Joe had already gone. He waited a minute until the creaking floorboards above his head had stopped and then followed Joe up.
The room was the only double in the house but Joe had moved into one of the other singles years ago. He always maintained there was no point in having a double all to himself, not when he had no intention of ever sharing his bed again. Chris stripped off and climbed into bed. This was the room he always stayed in with Lou. The third bedroom, little more than a box, was where Ollie slept. Although usually by the time morning came, Ollie was either in their room or taking up most of Lollipop’s bed.
He sipped the milk and tasted the toasted spice of the whiskey as it slipped down his throat. He hadn’t had a drink of whiskey since the last time they’d been here, which was what? Just over a year ago. He activated his phone and set an alarm for seven. It was just over four hours away but he would be awake to talk to Ollie, no matter what.
He finished the drink and put the mug on the boards beside the bed. The wind hummed gently around the eaves and he felt himself drift away. Somewhere, not too far away, the waves thrashed the rocks in Hawk’s Cove and hissed with spite. The sound crept up the lane toward Joe’s cottage and wriggled in through a slender crack in the wall. It slithered through the house until it found someone it had tasted before.
*
How long had it been since he’d been here? Thirty-three years, that was how long, and yet nothing had changed. The rock formations, the outline of the coast and the waves all looked exactly the same. He took a deep breath. Even the clean metallic smell of the ocean was the same. There was familiarity but there was no sense of pleasure. This was the spot where he watched the waves on the day he killed his dad.
The sky was a deep grey that could only mean rain was on its way, and the strength of the wind meant it would be with him sooner rather than later. There were no fishing boats out on the ocean today. They knew better than to risk being out in the storm that was heading this way.
He’d have to go back to the car park soon if he didn’t want to risk a drenching. And yet he wanted to leave it as long as possible. The longer he waited, the more chance he’d have of seeing... who?
Down in the cove, the slipway was partially submerged in the turning tide. Soon it would be entirely covered and then...
Who was that down there? There was someone standing up to their knees in the water. It wasn’t safe to be there when there was a storm coming. It wasn’t safe. He ought to go and tell them, to pull them to safety, just like his dad had done.
And yet if he went down there...
He opened his mouth and shouted as loud as he could but his words were blown in the opposite direction by the wind. He could almost see the letters scattered in an incomprehensible jumble along the coast behind him.
The waves crashed into the figure’s legs and made them stumble backwards. It was no good, he had to go down there. He ran back along the path, swearing under his breath. Whoever it was probably thought they were being daring, or brave or something else, but in reality they were just being stupid.
He called out again as he reached the first of the huts. The smell of the lobster pots was strong and unpleasantly bitter. He noticed as he passed them that each of the pots was crammed full of the rotting corpses of crabs, lobsters and fish. The stench was hideous.
He fell as he reached the slipway. Hadn’t he done that once before?
“Hey you! It isn’t safe. You need to come back up.”
To his own ears, his voice was sharp and loud, impossible to ignore, and yet the figure didn’t move an inch, just stared out at the storm.
He took a dozen steps and shouted again. “I said it isn’t safe. You need to...”
It was a man. He could see that now by his build and hair. His chestnut hair, with more than just a few grey streaks flashing through it, flew out at the sides like wings. Just like his own.
“Dad?” he whispered.
He jogged down the slipway. The sound of his heart beating was louder than the sound of the waves trying to smash the cove to bits.
“Dad!” He yelled this time and as he reached him, he put his hand out and touched his shoulder. It was wet and not just wet from standing in the rain or from being splashed by the sea but deep, deep down wet. Like his bones were filled with salt water, icy-cold salt water. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel right at all and he took his hand away immediately. He stared at his fingers and watched as raindrops jumped about on his flesh. Only the drops of water weren’t clear like they should be; they were rust coloured, like they were contaminated with something. But the rust was darkening, and now it wasn’t rust anymore, it was thick congealed blood, running down his hands and covering his arms.
He looked up. “What’s happening to me?”
And as his dad turned around to face him, Chris screamed like the little boy he now was.
Where the warmest of eyes had once been were now pools of the most fathomless water imaginable.
A blackened, leathery eyelid dropped down and then flashed up again in a revolting wink. “I can see you,” he said through a twisted, ugly snarl.
*
Chris almost jumped out of bed. He was sure he’d been screaming.
“Steady on there, boy.”
He jumped again at the sound of Joe’s voice. Joe was standing next to the bed with a mug of tea in his hand.
He rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Nearly half past six. I had a lie-in this morning.”
Chris blinked and stretched his facial muscles. His head felt woolly and the remnants of the nightmare were slow to clear. He took the tea. “Was I shouting?”
“I’ve heard worse,” Joe said.
After that day, Chris had wet the bed and screamed in his sleep for nearly a year. A lot of those times he’d been here in this very house; in the room reserved for Ollie’s visits. That was before his mum decided it was a bad place for him to be and took him away.
“Sorry.”
“I’m going out for my walk and when I get back we’ll have eggs.”
Chris nodded and took a drink of the tea. He never took it with sugar unless he was here but this cup had two good spoonfuls in it at least. It tasted good and it raised a smile.
“That’s better, lad.”
Joe walked out of the room, and a few seconds later Chris heard the door close. He checked his phone. Ollie might already be awake. He pressed the call bu
tton and scrolled down to Lou’s number.
It rang several times before Ollie answered it. “Hi, Dad.” He sounded sleepy and unhappy.
“Hey, big man. Sleep well?”
“I had an accident.”
Ollie had wet the bed again and it always upset him. “That’s okay, it’s not the end of the world. You’ll get the hang of it.” He said the same words every time and on each occasion he thought about the year he’d spent waking up in a cold, damp bed.
“But I emptied my tank five times last night.” Ollie sounded close to tears.
“Hey, hey, come on, it just takes a little longer for some boys. You’ll get there.” He didn’t like to dwell on it and moved the conversation on. “So, you ready for school?”
He heard Ollie sigh. “It’s too early. Mum says I’ve still got a bit of time left before I need to get dressed.”
Of course he did, it wasn’t even seven yet. He tried to think about what they usually said to each other in the morning, but that was a natural conversation whereas this felt forced.
“Don’t forget your kit, it’s football after school tonight, isn’t it?”
“That was last year, Dad. This year it’s on a Tuesday night because I’m older. I’m a junior.” He said the last sentence proudly.
He wanted to reach down the phone and take Ollie in his arms and kiss him. He wanted to say sorry for being absent for the last... he didn’t even know how long he’d been absent for. Instead he said, “I love you, Ollie.”
“Happy birthday, Dad. I love you too.” The reply came back instantly.
“Thanks.” He’d forgotten today was his actual birthday. “Okay, well, I’ll talk to you later.”
“Dad?” Ollie’s voice had changed now. He didn’t sound sleepy anymore.
“Yes?”
“I think Mum’s upset. I heard her crying earlier.”
Chris thought of all the times he’d heard his parents arguing and crying. The worst time was when he heard his dad crying. That was the worst sound in the world.
“Is she there?”
“She’s in your bedroom. Do you want me to shout her?”
“Please.”
He heard the sound of the phone being dropped onto the bed and the muffled sound of Ollie’s voice. “Mum!”
There was nothing for a few seconds, then Lou’s voice came through. “Hello.” Her tone was curt, almost aggressive.
“Morning. Ollie said...”
“I heard him but he’s wrong. I wasn’t crying, it’s hay fever.”
Now wasn’t the time for an argument. “Okay. Thanks for letting Granddad know I was on my way.”
“I didn’t want him having a shock in the middle of the night. How is Lollipop?”
“Oh, he’s fine. He’s gone out for his walk, same as always.”
“Okay, well give him my love.”
“Will do.” There was silence for a moment as both of them tried to find something to say.
“I have to get ready. Happy birthday, Chris.”
They said their goodbyes and hung up. It was then that Chris realised he had nothing to do. There was no packed lunch to make or office to retreat to. He was free to do exactly what he wanted. He flopped back down on the bed and drummed his fingers on his chest.
So how exactly do you straighten your head out?
*
He wasn’t aware that he’d fallen asleep again until the sound of Joe knocking pots and pans around in the kitchen jolted him awake. His eyes still stung, but if a ninety-one year old was up and about on three hours sleep, then he should be too.
He pulled his jeans and t-shirt on and walked downstairs into the kitchen.
“Morning, again.” The table was already set and a fresh mug of tea was waiting for him.
“Sit down, lad. The eggs will be two more minutes.”
Chris did as he was told. There was an egg cup on his plate and a thick slice of toast had been cut into strips. Boiled egg and soldiers was another thing he only had when he stayed here.
“How was the walk?” he asked.
“Not bad. The weather’s getting worse, but it’ll take more than a drop of rain to stop me.”
Chris laughed. He had an idea it would take a nuclear explosion to stop Joe doing anything he set his mind to. He looked out of the window. Blobs of rain had gathered in waxy pools on the bonnet of his car.
“Here you go.” Joe spooned an egg into each of their egg cups and sat down. He then poured a generous mound of salt onto his plate.
“Some people reckon you shouldn’t eat too much salt, or eggs for that matter, but I’ve eaten my eggs this way for the last seventy years and look at me.”
Chris poured himself some salt and knocked the lid off his egg. “I don’t think anyone knows what’s good and what’s bad anymore.”
He plunged a soldier into the egg. The yolk, which was a beautiful orange colour, bubbled over the top. He waited a moment and then bit into it. Why on earth didn’t he eat eggs like this at home?
“Good?” Joe asked.
“The best, Granddad. The absolute best.” He took a pinch of salt and sprinkled it into the egg. There was no need to say anything else. The food, as simple as it was, was enough. At that moment he knew he had made the right decision to come. There was no question about it.
After much scraping of shells, they both finished their eggs at the same time. Chris wiped his hand across his mouth and finished his tea.
“That was perfect.”
Joe pushed his chair back but Chris grabbed his plate before he could stand. “I’ll sort these out.” He took both plates over to the sink and started running the water.
“I take it the party wasn’t a success,” Joe asked.
Chris looked out of the window. Beyond his car were only fields. They were empty except for the hedges which gave them a patchwork effect. One tree, which had ceded to the wind and grown at an angle, stood guard in the distance.
“Not exactly.” He turned around. “What did Lou say?”
Joe sipped his tea and shrugged. “Nothing other than you were on your way and weren’t very good.”
“I’ve started seeing Dad again.” There was no point in soft-soaping it, at least not to Joe. “And obviously it’s my birthday and I’m now the same age as he was when I...” Joe wouldn’t allow him to say the same words he’d used with Lou. “When he died.”
Joe reached behind him and pulled open a drawer. He slid an envelope across the table. “You better have this then.”
Chris looked at it for a moment. “What is it?”
“Just open it.” He sounded serious.
Chris put his finger on the envelope and dragged it toward him. It wasn’t a birthday card from Joe, unless he’d changed the habit of a lifetime. Written on the front in faded ink was his name. The gum on the flap had long since dried. He lifted it and removed a folded sheet of paper. He looked at Joe whose expression was inscrutable and then back at the paper again. It was old.
“Should I be sitting down for this?” he asked.
“Probably,” Joe replied.
He pulled his chair out and unfolded the paper.
Dear Chris,
I love you. I have always loved you and will always love you. I hope you will be able to forgive me one day.
There are things which you don’t understand yet and I hope you never have to try to understand them. Life is difficult and some of us can cope with the decisions we’ve made and some of us can’t. I’m the one who can’t.
Please don’t blame Mum, it’s not her fault.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
I love you,
Dad.
Chris stared the last word then turned the paper over in his hand. What was he looking for? An explanation of some sort perhaps? What was he looking at here? He looked at Joe and opened his mouth to speak but he didn’t know what to say.
“Your dad wasn’t well.”
“What?”
/> “He hadn’t been well for a while, Chris. We didn’t know what to do, nobody did. Not your mum, nobody.”
“He was ill? What kind of ill?” Chris asked the questions but he thought he knew the answer already.
“His mind, his mind was...”
Chris pushed the chair back and threw the note onto the table. “This is a suicide note, isn’t it? This is my dad’s suicide note to me.”
The room started to turn, very slowly at first, but as his breaths became short and rapid, the revolutions grew quicker and quicker until he was forced to grab the edge of the sink to steady himself.
“No,” he whispered.
He was aware that Joe had stood up and was coming toward him but he held his hand up. “No,” he said, louder this time. Joe stopped in his tracks.
“I’m sorry, son.” Maybe when Joe had a cold the tone of his voice might change, but usually it was as steady as a rock. Some might say it was monotonous but Chris thought it reassuring. As he spoke now, Chris heard it falter. He’d never heard it before and it was shocking.
He looked up and saw Joe was holding onto the end of the table. The man had just been on a three mile walk, he didn’t need a table to steady himself, not unless he was struggling too.
“He was my boy and I couldn’t do anything to help him. Not a thing.”
Joe’s voice was slipping into the distance, a place that was in the shadows.
“I should’ve done more to help him but I didn’t know what to do. And then you came down here, all of you, for that summer and...”
Chris felt sick. Joe’s voice seemed to be coming from another place. It was a place that distorted his words and made them difficult to understand. It sounded like he was speaking through a long cardboard tube that caused dull echoes to form on each and every letter.
He needed to get out of there. He needed to get some air before he puked his guts up all over Joe’s kitchen. He staggered to the door and flung it open. He was aware that Joe was shouting at him but his words weren’t words anymore, they were just sounds, completely devoid of meaning.
