Chapter 18
18
THREE DAYS AFTER I LEFT HER
I sit on the bed, looking in the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe: clean jeans, clean navy jumper, bloodshot eyes from that tiny matter of RUINING MY WHOLE LIFE.
I stare at my reflection. At the outfit Liv chose. My stomach hardens. I force myself to exhale, reminding myself that I’m doing this for her . I try not to think of my brother, try to ignore his betrayal, but I can’t. It’s festering away deep inside my core. My hand punches the wall before I’ve even registered I’m standing, a crack in the plaster splintering like a vein.
My knuckles sting as I knock on Mac’s door. He invited me for dinner as payback for feeding the sheep yesterday as he ‘dinnae expect folk to work for free’. He’d also told me to pour ‘that dram’ down the sink as it was ‘offensive’. Again, this makes me question if I’m on the right track. Being invited for dinner. Bringing over food parcels. None of this fits with the image of the man who left so much destruction in his wake .
‘It’s open!’ he yells. Caesar bounds towards me, immediately sniffing my crotch. I nudge him away and head towards the familiar sound of Elton John’s ‘Your Song’ coming from the kitchen.
Caesar loses interest, returns to his place by the fire. Mac is at the sink, hands in soapy water. The room is bright, the wall a Lurpak-butter colour. There is an Aga like the one at the cottage, but it’s cream. The cupboards are painted dark blue and each one seems to be brimming with contents, not unlike the lounge. The fridge is large. American. It looks out of place with the rest of the room. As he opens it, I can see that it is filled with pies of all shapes and sizes. He catches me looking.
‘What? A fella can’t bake pies?’
Elton has moved on to ‘Bennie and the Jets’. Of all the thoughts I’ve had about this man, not once did I imagine him baking pies. This is a man who shows no mercy. Not a man who bakes and listens to Elton John.
‘It’s just a lot of pies for one man,’ I reason. Caesar yelps from the doorway, making me jump. ‘Sorry,’ I say over my shoulder. ‘One man and his dog.’ He sinks down onto his paws but remains in the doorway, eyeing the provisions.
Mac shakes his head, a snort coming from beneath the beard. ‘They’re not all for me. I sell them at the farmers’ market.’
‘Right.’
He takes out a pie with high pastry walls and lands it on the table before returning to the freezer section and plonking a large ice cube into a whisky tumbler. He closes the freezer door with his backside. Returns to the counter. He pours two inches into both glasses, passing me the one with the ice.
‘Thanks.’ His eyes glance towards the grazes on my knuckles but he doesn’t comment, instead he pulls out the chair opposite and sits down. I take a sip as he opens a jar of chutney. The whisky is really good, smooth, hints of honey.
Mac nods towards my plate while he takes a bite out of the pie. I take a slice and slide it onto my plate. It’s like a quiche but super-powered. The pastry is rich, the insides filled with cheese, with a bite of mustard and something I can’t quite place.
‘So you sell at the farmers’ market… Any other businesses?’ I steer the conversation.
‘No. This keeps me plenty busy.’ I take another sip. ‘The writing not going well?’ he asks with a glint, wiping his beard with a folded napkin.
‘It’s fine. I’m getting plenty of thinking time in,’ I say in explanation and reach for a slab of ham and a piece of thick bread smothered in butter.
‘And?’ he asks.
I pause, the bread halfway to my mouth. ‘And?’
‘What have you been thinking about?’
Liv.
But I don’t say that. Instead, I take a mouthful of bread, the butter creamy and salted, and I rack my brains for a response. ‘Zombies,’ I reply.
‘What about them?’
The bread lodges in my throat and I reach for the whisky, taking a large sip.
‘How they, um, eat brains and why.’
‘Sounds riveting,’ he replies.
We both know I’m lying.
‘So…’ I place the tumbler back on the table. ‘Have you always been a farmer?’ I ask, all innocence.
He meets my gaze, unwavering. ‘Aye.’
I look away first, spearing two rounds of thick circles of tomato onto my plate .
‘What brings you here, really?’ he asks, my eyes drawn back to his. ‘You can’t write about’ – he looks away first – ‘zombies in… York?’
‘I can, but you know… a change of scene can help… fill up the creative well.’
Creative well?
‘Right.’
I take a mouthful of food.
Mac chews thoughtfully then swallows. ‘You know’ – he mounds more bread onto his plate – ‘I’ve always wondered why zombies eat brains.’
‘What?’
‘Zombies? Why do they eat brains?’
‘They… need it for their, um, intelligence.’
‘Really? Not for the vitamins needed to keep them walking about?’
‘No. Mine are clever. Clever zombies.’ I finish the food on my plate and knock back the whisky. I’m drinking too quickly. Mac swirls his in his glass as if to make a point. He waits. I wait. He swirls the glass some more. I look down at the plate, the flecks of tomato juice, the ripple on the top of the quiche-pie looks like it’s smirking at me.
I heap more salad on my plate to counter the carbs and continue eating. He finishes his glass and gets up. I sit there wondering if this is my cue to leave, but Mac places the bottle on the table and turns to retrieve what looks like bread and butter pudding from the oven. He scoops out a portion and passes me a plate then gets a jug of cream from the fridge.
‘I don’t like custard,’ he explains gesturing to the jug. ‘And if you’re going to keep knocking back the drinks you’ll need more than that bit of salad.’ He tops up my glass as I sit here with my head spinning. My life is falling apart amidst a farmhouse, good whisky, and bread and butter pudding.
I straighten. The whisky has taken down my guard and I need to focus.
‘How did you end up living here? I mean it’s pretty remote,’ I probe, shovelling pudding into my mouth. He pauses, a spoonful halfway towards him. He stares at me before leaning over the spoon and chewing slowly. I swallow. ‘No properties anywhere else?’ I ask, taking another bite.
There is a spark behind his eyes but it’s extinguished quickly. ‘Mam and Dad died. I inherited. That’s about it.’ He tilts his head, assessing me. ‘So… what really brings you here?’ he challenges holding my gaze. Neither of us blinks. Elton has finished playing. The burr of the fridge is the only other sound in the room and, for a second, I think he knows.
I think he knows exactly who I am.