Chapter Thirteen Zig
Present day
Sitting on Si’s sofa—the man himself a solid, comforting presence beside him—Zig had been more than half planning to sneak out of the living room in the night and into Si’s bed.
The thought of those arms around him, that big body pressed against his, chasing away all the fears that’d followed him here from London .
. . Well, Zig was only human, wasn’t he?
And it was just so bloody good to see Si again.
Smiling at him, too. Hugging him, even. It was like the last six years and all the shit they’d brought him hadn’t happened.
Having a night or two—or maybe more—with Si wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, would it?
Not so long as he kept his head. Kept reminding himself it wasn’t gonna last.
But after Si went off to get those last beers, the mood had seemed to change, somehow. Had his mum been texting him again? No, he hadn’t taken his phone into the kitchen. But something had made him avoid Zig’s eyes after that, though.
It was like . . . It was like something had happened to make Si see Zig differently.
Like the night they’d broken up, six years ago.
Zig had been actively avoiding thinking about that night. He’d had enough pain to deal with in the present, since then. But now . . . now the memories were flooding back regardless of whether he wanted them to.
Shame twisted his gut in knots. Looking back, the blinkers finally off, it was no wonder Si hadn’t wanted to be with him anymore. Zig could hardly believe the bloke had let him in the door when he’d turned up out of the blue, let alone allowed him to stay.
So, they’d sat in front of a Taskmaster rerun, drunk their beers—Si ended up leaving half of his—and said goodnight.
Zig spent the night on the sofa, cuddling a bloody cushion instead of Si’s solid form.
Fuck it. At least this way Zig didn’t risk getting hurt when it inevitably went tits up, and Si deserved better than him, anyway.
Maybe he’d leave in the morning. Carry on going west until he . . . What? Landed in the sea?
He fell asleep at last, and dreamt weird, watery dreams.
Si seemed in a better mood after he’d slept, which made one of them. “Mornin’,” he called out cheerfully, plonking a mug on the table by Zig’s head. “Still take your coffee black?”
“Perfect.” Zig stretched, sat up, and reached for the mug. He’d been drinking it with milk lately, but life had taught him not to be fussy. He took a sip, and the rich texture and spicy aroma filled his mouth. “Oh, fuck me, that’s good.” Maybe it wasn’t such a shitty morning, after all.
Si’s grin was broad enough to shine through all the hair. “Proper stuff, that. From the Eden project in Cornwall. Mum and Dad brought some back from their holidays.”
“Cornwall. That’s even farther west than this place, right?”
“Almost as far west as you can get without getting your feet wet. Why? You planning on moving on?”
The grin was gone. He was disappointed. Zig was almost certain of it. His spirits rose with his caffeine levels. “Nah, thought I’d stick around here for a bit.”
Si nodded, which, what the hell did that mean? Zig couldn’t tell if he was pleased or pissed off by the news. “Crackin’. So, I gotta get off to work, but you can stay here, or you know, do what you want? Esme—that’s me landlady—she’ll let you in the flat if I’m not around.”
That was fair enough. Zig wouldn’t have trusted himself with a spare key, either. “Yeah, I’ll have a wander. See what’s what.”
“Twenty minutes okay to get ready?”
“Plenty, long as I can use your shower?”
“Course you can. I’ll grab you a towel.” Si looked shy, somehow. “I’ll introduce you to Esme on the way out. She owns the shop downstairs.”
“Witchy stuff, right?”
“That’s right. But don’t go asking her about naked sabbats, or you’ll end up with a bunch of incense sticks shoved where the sun don’t shine.”
Esme-the-landlady didn’t look much like a witch to Zig.
For a start, her hair wasn’t long or dyed.
It was neatly cut in a natural-looking blonde bob.
Okay, yeah, she was wearing a black dress, but it was knee-length and figure-hugging—and she had plenty of figure to hug.
With her smart heels, statement necklace, and subtle makeup, she looked like she’d be more at home in a boardroom than on a broomstick.
“Es? This is Zig. He’s an old mate. From London.”
Zig pushed down the stupid pang of hurt at mate, smiled, and stepped forward, putting out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”
She left him hanging and raised an eyebrow. “Likewise, I’m sure. How long are you staying for?”
Cheers for the effusive welcome, missus. “Not sure. Never been round this way before. Gotta see all the sights and that.”
“Oh, you’re here for the sights, are you?”
Zig’s smile didn’t waver. He made sure of that. “And to look up my old mate, Si.” See? I can use the m-word too.
“Si?” She cocked her head, her brow faintly furrowed.
Beside him, Si, well, sighed. “It’s me name, innit? Short for Simon.” He turned to Zig. “Course, she knows me as—”
“Mr. Greczik,” Esme interrupted him with a knowing look. “We’re very formal here. So what should I call you, Mr. . .?”
“Call me Zig.” He wasn’t gonna play this game. What did she need his surname for, except to stalk him online?
“Oh, really?” She folded her arms and placed a finger on her chin. “You know, it’s been a long time since I met a Zigmund. Quite an unusual name around here.”
Si snorted. “It ain’t short for Zigmund. It’s a nickname, Es. Or should I say, Ms. Vile.”
Zig narrowed his eyes. Was Si taking the piss? Was she? “Talk about your unusual names. Vile?”
“There were over two hundred of us in the county in the 1881 census. Almost common.” She said it smugly.
Right. “Course, could be worse. I used to know a bloke whose surname was Smelly. Everyone called him Fartface. You get any bad nicknames at school?”
“No, I can’t recall that I did.” Zig had to hand it to her: she had the best poker face he’d seen in a long time. “And I’m not surprised your friend decided to lose touch.”
Not a friend. If Zig saw Fartface again, he’d cross the street to avoid him, and not only because the bloke had developed a vicious temper and a fondness for knives. “His loss.” He smirked.
Si burst out laughing. “I can find some old boxing gloves if you two really wanna have a go at it. Es, give him a break.”
Esme’s smile made her look like a different woman. A much less scary one. “Oh, you know how I like to tease. Zig, welcome to our humble abode. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay. And if you trash the place, remember, I am a witch.”
“Uh, thanks? No worries. You won’t know I’m here.”
“Oh? That’ll be a shame. It’s always nice to have something pretty to look at.”
Zig gave her his best smile, and a knowing look. “Could say the same.”
She raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Really? Does your mother know you flirt with her contemporaries?”
Si was making frantic stop gestures.
“No,” Zig said. It came out a bit harsher than he meant it to.
“No,” Si agreed firmly, giving Esme a meaningful look.
Oh. He’d told Si his mum was dead, hadn’t he? It’d felt true enough, at the time.
Esme clearly had a degree in reading expressions, cos her face fell, then softened. “We all have our sorrows. Glastonbury can be very healing, you know.”
“I’m fine,” Zig said, because he was. Why would he worry about a mum who’d walked out when he was four and who hadn’t cared enough to keep in touch?
Maybe she was dead, at that. It wasn’t like he’d know.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said warmly. “Now, I know Scr— Mr. Greczik has to go to work, so if there’s anything I can do for you?”
Si shuffled his feet. “Yeah, I’d better be off, but I could meet you for lunch? Oh— Hang about. I said I’d see Adam and Sash, and Corin’ll probably be there too.”
“Sounds a bit crowded to me,” Zig said quickly. He wasn’t that keen on seeing Adam again. He was pretty sure the bloke had never liked him, and, well, these days he felt kind of guilty about what he’d done, back in the day.
Fucking moral compass.
“I’ll see you back here tonight.” Zig smiled brightly and strode out of the shop.
Right. Eight hours to kill in the freezing bloody cold.
He could do that.