Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Another day, another pounding headache. Kieran dry-swallowed two chalky tablets and glared at his reflection. Dark crescents under the eyes, hair doing its own interpretative dance, and a general air of ‘man who’s slept on a park bench’.
‘I don’t know what’s going on, Prom,’ he told the cat weaving round his ankles. ‘That’s the second skull-crusher in a few days. I never get sick.’
Prom answered with a meaningful miaow, which Kieran translated as: and yet my bowl is half empty.
‘You’re on your own for a few hours, you furry freeloader.’ He topped up Prom’s bowl with the least-favoured kibble in a fit of pettiness. ‘No wandering. No pubs. No … whatever it is you do when my back’s turned.’
A train and a bus later, he was at his parents’ place. The same unassuming house they’d had for nearly forty years. New conservatory, same squeaky gate; a place he called home.
‘Kieran!’ His mum, Val, opened the door, nose dusted with flour as if she’d face-planted a Victoria sponge.
‘Hi, Mum.’ He hugged her, then braced himself for—
‘Son!’ Roger boomed from the hallway like a foghorn with volume issues, crushing Kieran in a hug that threatened spinal damage. Roger Davidson did nothing by halves: voice, hugs, opinions on government and gravy.
‘How was the journey? Is the app going well? You’ve lost weight. Good thing I did the chicken the way you like it – a lemon up its bum and loads of garlic. And I got an air fryer. The roasties! Magnificent. And—’
‘Darling,’ Val said, with the fond resignation of a woman who’d bought her husband a volume control and found it was purely ornamental. ‘Let him in.’
By the time Roger had tamed a stubborn cork, Kieran was at the kitchen table, the little universe where his life had unfolded: fractions homework, the day Beverley with pigtails had told him his nose was weird, the night he’d brought Lisa home, so sure the bubble would never pop.
‘You all right, love?’ Val asked, fingers working butter into flour for a crumble.
‘Yeah. Just … memory lane.’
‘Dangerous path,’ Roger declared, finally freeing the cork with a victory whoop. ‘Last time I took it, your mum had me up for thought crime over Barbara Silverwood.’
‘You should have heard him,’ Val said, sliding stewed apples into a dish. ‘Barbara this, Barbara that. He’s lucky I didn’t put the frying pan through his skull.’
Roger snorted. ‘Pay no heed. Barbara’s still lovely, but if I’d married her, I wouldn’t be here with this astonishing woman and her superior crumble.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Val said, prodding the chicken and shaking the air-fryer basket like maracas. ‘How’s things with your lady friend at the pub? Beth, right?’
‘She’s not my lady friend,’ Kieran said quickly, shoving the small warm jolt of her name back where it came from. ‘She’s … the chef.’
‘We’re just interested,’ Val said mildly, shutting the oven.
Roger clinked glasses. ‘To health, happiness and full stomachs. Now, this app.’
Kieran reeled off the pitch he could now do in his sleep.
‘ClosetAura is the smart, sustainable wardrobe in your pocket. Curates what you wear, suggests outfits, steers you to UK brands that match your style and values, nudges against impulse buys. Part stylist, part sustainability coach, part community.’
Val heaped roasties onto Kieran’s plate as if they were the ultimate proof of love. ‘So I should stop buying bargain tees at Primark?’
‘Pretty much, Mum,’ he said gently. ‘It’s the cheap labour and the landfill.’
‘I’ve a wardrobe of suits I never wear,’ Roger added. ‘Seems a waste.’
‘Donate. Someone will snap them up. Money to charity. Boom.’
‘Keep the nice navy for your funeral,’ Val said briskly. ‘Stripes make him look slimmer.’
‘Mum!’ Kieran inhaled a roast-potato fragment and dislodged it with a swig of water.
‘Practicalities, son,’ Roger said, getting up to stir the custard. ‘She’s planned the music, too. Though I’ve vetoed my coffin gliding away to a song about swingers. Sends the wrong message.’
They moved to the lounge, where Kieran admired the new telly and linen curtains, before heading into the garden for shade beneath the weeping willow. Roger produced sangria, like a magician with a fruit addiction.
The headache lurked, a grey smudge at the edge of his vision. ‘I might skip the booze,’ Kieran said. ‘Bit of a headache.’
‘One wee glass,’ Roger insisted, tipping half a jug into a tumbler.
‘Are you taking care of yourself?’ Val asked, spearing an orange slice. ‘Holiday, maybe? Sunshine? A week of doing nothing?’
‘I’ve got sunshine here and a cottage falling apart. And work.’
‘Have you named it yet?’ Val’s eyes lit up. They’d christened their own house Thistle Doo, purple ceramic sign and all.
‘Not yet,’ Kieran said. ‘At the minute it’s The Wee Scruffy Hoose, but only in my head.’
When he finally left, smelling faintly of garlic and parental concern, Val hugged him long and tight. ‘Call it motherly instinct, but something’s off. You know you can tell me anything.’
Weird gaps in my memory. Dreams like confetti. A woman with auburn hair who has me completely bamboozled. And a cat who might be the Antichrist.
‘I’m fine, Mum. Love you. Hide the sangria before Dad chugs the lot.’
On the bus back, he rested his head against the rattling window and watched fields smear into green brushstrokes.
The headache ebbed. Relief should have followed.
It didn’t. He had the distinct, uncomfortable sense that a knot inside him had tightened another notch.
And that whatever had caused it, he wouldn’t untie it alone.