Chapter 13 Malachi
Malachi
Malachi closed his eyes and breathed in the summer evening air as he walked a few steps ahead of Tilly and Ina towards the car, drawing in the sweetness of Mrs Johnston’s flowers deep into his lungs.
The noise of the wake still rattled inside his head—the scrape of chairs, overlapping voices, the clink of glasses, all stacking on top of one another until it blurred into white noise.
Every laugh was too loud. Every condolence too close.
His shoulders only dropped once the hubbub was safely behind him.
Inside, the wake was cramped and airless. Too many bodies. Too much sound trapped in too small a space. He’d spent the evening with his back pressed to the wall, counting the minutes until they could leave. The ringing in his ears would take hours to fade.
Funeral customs had their place. But Mrs Johnston had spent most of the night staring at the living-room wall, rising only to shake hands and accept sympathetic platitudes.
In rare moments of calm, she dabbed her eyes with a crumpled tissue, holding back the dam of tears that would flood the room if she was alone.
At Rhys’ wake, Malachi had done what he always did—folded himself into a corner with Ally and his cousin, Clare, watching from the edges.
It was easier to disappear than speak. He felt a heavy wave of sympathy for Mrs Johnston.
The parade of faces, never ending trays of sandwiches and the well-meant words, when she probably wanted nothing more than to draw the curtains and crawl into bed.
He'd been too young to remember Mum’s wake.
But Rhys’ had stretched on endlessly, even though it only lasted a couple of days.
After the funeral, when everyone finally left, the real grief would come—if Mrs Johnston let it.
He wasn’t sure if he ever had. Maybe that’s why the nightmares returned every year like clockwork.
The river. The blue eyes. The moment he froze. Maybe if he finally said it out loud the nightmares would stop.
And now, with the mayor dead from what couldn’t logically be a shark attack, staying silent was no longer an option. Regardless of how Dad would react.
“Why don’t you leave Malachi home, Ina love,” Tilly’s voice echoed around the courtyard. “And then come back to mine for a cuppa?”
Malachi glanced back at Ina and Tilly walking arm-in-arm.
Tilly had enjoyed a few whiskies while paying her respects—its effects making her louder than usual.
Ina unlocked the car and Malachi slumped into the backseat, whipping off his tie, unable to stand it clawing at his throat for another second.
“The boy will be fine for an hour.” Tilly fell into the passenger seat, almost crushed by her enormous handbag.
Malachi caught Ina’s eye in the rearview mirror and scowled.
The boy. It was usually affectionate, but tonight it grated.
Dad had already gone. He hadn’t even said goodbye.
A silent car ride with him would’ve been preferable to Tilly’s rolling chatter.
Ina usually made sure Tilly didn’t drink too much, but she had been working the room with the same untouched glass of whiskey all evening.
Dad had been behaving cagey back at Riverside. The business about the paperwork hadn’t sat right. After spending the morning trying to reconnect, he’d slipped right back into the distance. This was the first time he’d been caught in a lie.
Normally Dad just faded away for a few weeks before snapping back to reality once summer ended.
Halloween at The Wolf’s Den. Then the absolute chaos he created every year with his Christmas lights.
It made it easier to pretend the summer hadn’t happened—until the whole cycle started again the next year.
“I’ll maybe drop you off and head on home.” Ina stifled an unconvincing yawn as she started the car. “It’s been a long day.”
Malachi raised an eyebrow and tried to catch her eye, but Ina stared straight ahead, avoiding the mirror.
“Nonsense.” Tilly was not going to take no for an answer. “I’m sure he’ll survive an hour without adult supervision.”
“Yes, Ina, I’ll try to survive in my locked house all by myself.” Malachi’s hands prayed up to the Lord.
“The boy will be fine.” Tilly turned and winked at him. “Plus, I’ve some gossip about the McAllisters’ pig farm you’ll have not heard yet.”
“A quick cup then,” Ina relented, the car picking up speed as though she were late for an important meeting.
Malachi bit back a comment. Ina always gave in to Tilly. She was never that soft with him. It was hard to imagine what sort of gossip could exist about pig farmers, though Dad had always refused to buy meat from anywhere else on Latharna.
They drove the rest of the way in silence. Gravel crunched under the tyres along the laneway and into the courtyard at Riverside.
“I’ll be back shortly.” Ina rolled her window down as Malachi got out of the car. “Keep the door locked.”
A familiar tightness crept into Malachi’s chest. Ina had fretted about the back door for as long as he could remember.
“It’ll keep you safe.” Ina’s brow creased. “I think your dad still wants to have that chat with you when he gets back.”
“I’ll not hold my breath,” Malachi snapped, sharper than intended. Dad had gone from offering to make him breakfast and raising a glass to Rhys’ memory to actively avoiding him in the space of a single afternoon. Keeping up with his moods was exhausting.
“We will talk.” Ina reached out the window for his hand. He sighed and took it. “About Rhys.”
“Great.” Malachi slipped free and stepped back. “I’m sure that’ll go well.”
“It’ll do you the world of good.” Ina forced a thin smile. “Stay at home. Don’t be sneaking off to meet your friends.”
Malachi nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Jeff had sent over a dozen messages, but he’d ignored all of them.
Telling Dad about his plans to leave Latharna could wait.
They no longer seemed important. Owning up to what happened on the river couldn’t wait—not now that other people might be in danger.
Tilly waved grandly from the passenger seat. He mirrored the enthusiasm until the car disappeared around the curved driveway, the farewell beep startling a handful of nesting birds into the sky. They scattered over Riverside, abandoning their squawking chicks at the first sign of danger.
The gate creaked as he entered the back garden. His limbs were heavy, his energy tank empty. After an evening suffocating in grief and other people’s alcohol fumes, he needed fresh air.
The old hammock caught his eye, swaying gently between two old oak trees. He hadn’t used it in years. He tested the ropes, then lowered himself onto it, half expecting it to give, but it held.
For a moment he was ten again, pushing Rhys higher and higher. Rhys shrieking with laughter as he clung to the sides. The scent of Ina’s roses drifted through the air, deepening the memory.
Malachi’s foot nudged the hammock into motion. The swing was slow, gentle. The first real quiet he’d had all evening. Sleep crept in before he could stop it. A quick nap before the showdown with Dad wouldn’t hurt.