Chapter Forty-One Zig #2
Fuck, that’s bitter! Zig swallowed with a grimace, wiped his hand on his jeans, and grabbed his phone to tell Kai they were a git.
Lovely, my arse. Then he remembered: no disturbing the airwaves here.
Right. It could wait. Smiling, he wandered on, up a slope to an area sparsely planted with trees and benches, only one of them occupied, by an older couple so wrapped up they were pretty much egg-shaped.
He could see the tor from here, the tower visible through the bare branches. Somehow it looked farther away than he knew it was. Kai was probably still there, out of sight. Zig hoped people were being generous to them.
Sitting on one of the empty benches, cold leeching through the still-damp seat of his jeans, Zig realised he hadn’t thought about his dad once since he’d been here.
Even now, the thought didn’t bother him as much as it had.
The threat—if it was a threat—seemed more distant, somehow.
More manageable. After all, what could Dad actually do to him?
Okay, he was probably still bigger and heavier—and meaner—than Zig; prison wasn’t likely to have changed that. But he couldn’t make Zig do anything, could he? Not now he wasn’t a kid anymore, living in Dad’s house. Dependent on him.
Zig had a new life now. A better one, with Si in it. I’m never going back to London, he found himself thinking, and blinked. Did he really mean that? Teenage Zig would have hated this place, he was pretty sure—too quiet, too rural, too limited.
Adult Zig appreciated the quiet. He liked Glastonbury, tiny as it was compared to where he’d grown up.
There was still stuff going on, and more than that, there was a sense of permanence he’d always missed out on before.
Like, while people moved on, the tor would still be here, like it had for thousands of years before.
London had old bits, yeah, but it was always changing despite that.
People moved on; businesses changed owners or were knocked down and rebuilt. It was all bland and commercial.
He’d made a decision. Whatever came, he was going to weather it.
If Dad turned up here, for whatever reason, Zig would tell him to sod off back to London.
If Trent came with him . . . Well, in the best-case scenario, Zig would take care only to come within a mile of the bloke if there were half a dozen witnesses.
Even if the worst came to the worst, what was Trent going to do to him?
Zig could take a beating if he had to. Probably.
If that was the price of staying here, with Si. The price of happiness.
And then I’ll have the feds on ’em so fast they won’t know what’s hit ’em, he thought with vicious satisfaction.
There was a chill wind blowing, and he’d started to shiver, so Zig rose, reluctantly, and headed back down the slope. Without his phone, he wasn’t sure how late it was, but it was probably time to grab something to eat before he was due at work.
Not wanting to face Esme again until he’d had some more time to think about her offer, Zig ate his dinner at a vegan café instead of heading back to the flat.
He’d picked up a book called Normal for Glastonbury in one of the shops in town, which kept him entertained while waiting for his order.
After a bowl of soup so thick and full of rough-cut veg it probably ought to be called stew, coupled with some bread made of spelt, whatever that was, Zig felt ready to face anything.
For a Monday night, the pub was pretty busy, probably due to people getting into the Yuletide spirit with less than a week to go to the twenty-fifth.
No wonder Ange had wanted him in for an extra shift.
Women were dressed in sparkly tops or warm shades of red and green, with novelty earrings shaped like holly or gingerbread men.
A couple of blokes had ugly Christmas sweaters on, and one wore a Santa hat that looked weird with the resolutely drab and normal clothes he had on.
Ange was done up like a Christmas present, in a tartan dress with a bow at her waist. Zig was grateful she didn’t insist on festive wear for her staff, just the usual black polo shirts. Although, he noticed Finn had accessorised with a Christmas tree earring. It didn’t look that bad, actually.
Finn noticed him looking and turned away with a flush.
Damn it. Zig had thought they’d got over the awkwardness. “Hey, nice earring,” he said quickly. “Think I ought to get more festive?”
Finn smiled wryly. “Thought you were too cool for Yule. Won’t it mess with the image?”
“Ah, sod that.” Zig decided it was possible to worry too much about looking naff. Also, that Finn really didn’t know him all that well if he thought Zig was cool. “Gotta get into the spirit, yeah?”
After that, the orders came nonstop, and Zig barely had time for a bit of banter with the customers. Everyone was in a festive mood, drinking a little more than usual. Letting their hair down. Tipping more too. It was a good night.
Until Zig turned to face the next customer. “What can I get—” He broke off, his mouth suddenly dry.
His dad gazed at him, a sneer twisting his lips. “How about a word?”