Chapter 26
26
FIVE DAYS AFTER I LEFT HER
I’m heading down the hill. The sun is shining. The sky clear. No hint of the storm that brought me here. Caesar is barking. He circles a few times, then on seeing me he bounds across the field, stopping in front of me, barking again. He turns. Bounds back towards the house. Hesitates and barks at me again like a scene out of Lassie .
Something is wrong. My insides start to thrum, like my veins are wound too tight. Like they could snap. I start running after Caesar. ‘Mac?!’ I shout. ‘Where is he, boy?’ I ask just as I see Mac inside the work shed, planing some wood.
‘Jesus Christ, Caesar, you’ve just given me a heart attack.’ Caesar’s brown ears are pulled back. He’s still in a state of warning. Or maybe I’m just spending too much time on my own with a grumpy Scot and his dog for company.
Mac looks up at me, the plane falling from his hands. I step forward. His eyes are off focus. Like he’s already been on the whisky. But it’s only nine in the morning.
‘Mac?’ I say stepping closer.
‘Fucking wind nut’s eaten the chopper,’ he says. I try to make sense of the words. This could very well just be Mac being Mac, but his skin looks clammy. Caesar barks again.
‘Mac, I think we need to get you inside.’
‘You don’t get to tell me what to do!’ he snaps and steps forward. His movements are clumsy and he’s leaning to the side.
‘Actually,’ I say bracing myself and wrapping my arm around his waist. ‘I do.’
‘You do?’ he says. He’s starting to lean his weight against me. Caesar is barking again.
‘Pipe down!’ Mac shouts.
I look over to Caesar whose snout is rummaging inside a canvas bag on the floor.
‘Yep, how about we get you sitting down, eh?’
I’m panicking. If he’s having a stroke then I need to get him to a hospital.
Caesar does another circle and barks again. I pick up the bag, rummaging through. Empty cans of Diet Coke, and a paperback, and some tissues, and tin foil screwed up. My hand hits on a Tupperware box. I open it. Inside is a Mars bar, a carton of orange juice. Glucose tablets.
‘Mac, are you diabetic?’ I ask. Ryan had a similar stash in his bag when he would sometimes come over after school. I never really paid any attention to it back then.
‘What?’ he shouts as if I’m hard of hearing.
I crouch down beside him. ‘Mac, are you diabetic?’ I repeat.
‘Yep.’ He gives me a strange smile.
‘Right, fuck, I don’t know what to give you!’
I recall Ryan drinking orange juice, so I go for that first.
‘Drink this.’ I puncture the carton with the straw and lift the box to his mouth.
‘Give me that.’ He snatches it from my hand, sucks on the straw and eyeballs me. I stand and look around the workshop. Spotting Mac’s phone on the side. I quickly google what to do if you’re hypoglycaemic and dial 999. According to Dr Google, it will take about fifteen minutes for the juice to work.
‘Emergency services, how can I help?’
I explain the situation and they stay on the line while they instruct me to give Mac four glucose tablets until he starts to feel better. He dutifully chomps through them and after ten minutes he starts to lose the glassy look in his eyes. ‘I’m all right. Stop making such a fuss. There’s folk who need that line open.’ They recommend I take him to the doctor’s to get him checked out. I thank them and end the call.
‘Let’s get you inside, eh?’
I go to help him up, but he shrugs me off. ‘I’m diabetic not a bloody invalid,’ he says then immediately stumbles.
‘Could you stop being a git for a minute and let me help you?’
I put my arm around his waist. Guide him into the house.
‘I’ll be fine. You’ve got zombies to get to.’ He rubs the space between his eyebrows.
‘Headache?’
‘Aye.’
‘We need to take you to the doctor’s.’
‘No need. I’ve been through this before. I just need to lie down and I’ll be right as rain.’
‘You go up to bed and then I’ll grab you some water and painkillers.’
‘Fine,’ he says like I’ve told him he needs to eat his sprouts.
I stand at the bottom of the stairs. Watch as he climbs them. He hesitates. ‘I can feel you watching me.’
‘I’ll… go and get you some water.’ Mac shakes his head and continues up the stairs. Caesar waits until he’s reached the top and then bounds up after him .
I head into the kitchen, pour water into a pint glass. I open a few cupboards and grab some painkillers.
At the top of the stairs, there are three rooms, each with heavy wooden doors and stable latches.
I knock on the open wooden door and step in. Mac is lying on his side, hand stroking Caesar, telling him he’s a good dog.
The room is surprisingly light, even though the furniture is dark. There are two wardrobes against the wall. A large sash window with pale green curtains. A writing bureau and bedside cabinets. I step into the room, placing the glass and pills down. There is a photo next to the clock. Mac is laughing, his arm slung around another man. He’s taller. Blond. Wealthy-looking in that home grown, good teeth, good hair, kind of way. I lean in closer, scouring the blond man’s face.
My heartbeat quickens.
I can feel my version of Mac changing. As if I’m adding water to the pages of a magic painting book that I had as a kid. Grey pictures suddenly transforming into colour.
He’s watching me like he’s daring me to say something.
‘Good-looking guy.’
‘Aye. He was. Too good-looking for the likes of me, but he loved me anyway.’
‘Where is he now?’ I ask, bracing myself.
‘I don’t want to talk about him, just now.’
I walk over to the bureau and reach for another photo. Mac, with a boy of about a year old on his knee. Mac is pointing at a green kite above them, his hand holding the plastic spool. The boy isn’t looking at the kite though; he’s looking at his father. I can feel Mac’s stare from the bed.
I don’t remember this.
I don’t remember being pulled onto his shoulders, can’t remember the feel of his hair in my hand as I gripped on as though he was a horse.
I look over at Mac. And then I realise. He’s always known. Right from the moment I turned up at his door and claimed to be a writer from York.
‘You never liked holding it on your own, thought you’d fly away.’
I swallow hard and turn to him. A thousand questions in my eyes. ‘What?’ He tilts his head and I feel nauseous. ‘You think I don’t recognise my own son?’