Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13254588.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Westlife
  Relationship:
      Kian_Egan/Mark_Feehily
  Character:
      Kian_Egan, Shane_Filan, Mark_Feehily, Brian_McFadden_(Westlife), Nicky
      Byrne, Jodi_Albert
  Additional Tags:
      Foster_Care, Childhood_Trauma, Child_Abandonment, Child_Abuse, Implied/
      Referenced_Rape/Non-con, Self-Harm, Dreams_vs._Reality, Celtic_Mythology
      &_Folklore, Selkies, Fairy_Tale_Retellings, Children's_Literature,
      Repressed_Memories, Amnesia, Mystery, Water, Seaside, Phobias, Angst,
      Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Implied/Referenced_Drug_Addiction,
      Cohabitation, Sleeping_Together, Family_Secrets, Survival, Orphans,
      Loneliness
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-03 Chapters: 21/21 Words: 66737
****** Sea-foam and Pixie-dust ******
by chooken
Summary
     A little house, at the end of a desolate spit.
     A man washed up on the sand, naked and without his memory.
     A boy who believes in monsters and fairies and dark stories with
     unhappy endings.
     And Kian, who invites them in.
***** Chapter 1 *****
They had more beautiful voices than any human being could have; and before the
approach of a storm, and when they expected a ship would be lost, they swam
before the vessel, and sang sweetly of the delights to be found in the depths
of the sea, and begging the sailors not to fear if they sank to the bottom. But
the sailors could not understand the song, they took it for the howling of the
storm.
-The Little Mermaid, Hans Christian Andersen

It was the water Kian dreamed about most nights.
Green-grey and murky, rolling over itself in an endless loop, crested by foam
that shattered the sky above him.The moon an upside-down puddle, hands groping,
legs kicking towards depths more infinite than the heavens could ever be.
He sank. Lifted. Fell towards the surface, the water filling his lungs,
breathing out while he blinked in the darkness, the cold of the water an
embrace that cradled him in cupped hands.
It whispered to him, the sea. Sang to him.
He tried to sing back, not able to find the melody through the crash of the
waves.

*

It was raining, when Kian woke, though he wasn't sure it was the rain that had
woken him. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was darkness. A
moment later the ceiling was lit by the jagged green reflection of the window-
frame, printed momentarily onto the backs of his eyes before disappearing
again, leaving him blinking the flash away.
The wind sounded in pain, howling through the eaves. He didn't know when the
storm had started, though it had been building all day, blackened clouds
rolling in from the south like great sunken waves, sending the icy water raging
up to meet them. When he'd gone to bed they'd still been lurking out over the
sea.
He climbed from the bed, slid his feet into slippers to protect from the cold
boards beneath them. Another flash of lightning guided him to the door, the
thunder chasing it. He was left stumbling for a moment when it abated, and
reached for the light-switch, swearing when it clicked uselessly, the lights
staying off.
He returned to the bed for his phone, tapped the torch on. The view through the
window abruptly disappeared, such as it was, painted away by the reflection of
the light on the glass, the only hint to the outside world written in the
raindrops sheeting down the window.
The wind moaned. He heard something shift, downstairs, and swore again. Pushed
the door open and began to head down, one hand on the railing to keep his
balance, the other holding the phone ahead of him.
A shadow darted out ahead of him, barrelling up the stairs.
Kian jumped back, free hand already up in defence. Then he realised, when the
light fell on the face of the figure coming towards him.
“Shane! Jesus!”
“Sorry!” Shane grimaced sheepishly. “I was coming up to check on you.”
“You scared the living...” He unclenched his hand, rested it on his heart
instead. It was pounding. “What are you even doing here?”
“You gave me a key.”
“For emergencies. Not so you could let yourself in and scare the living
bejaysus out of me.” He sat down heavily on the step, trying to get his
breathing back under control. Shane sank companionably down next to him, not
looking nearly concerned enough. “Hey.”
“Hey.” The smile was bloody infuriating. “Sorry.”
“It's fine.” Shane was still smiling at him. “Okay. Fuck. Well, you can help me
close the windows at least. I've gotta go check the fuse box.”
“No point. Lights are out everywhere.”
“Of course they are,” Kian sighed, defeated. Shane patted his shoulder. “I'm
not a halfway house, you know. You can't just show up out of nowhere.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No...” Lightning lit Shane's face for a split-second, angles and shadow. He
looked very small. Young. Kian touched his cheek, saw a half-smile that didn't
help anything. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just...” He looked away. There was something else there, though Kian
couldn't tell if it was just the shadows. He leaned in closer to pull his
friend in, let his hand fold into a soft one that trembled slightly in his grip
when he tilted it into the light. “It's not as bad as it looks.”
“Shay...” Kian bit his lip. “Who?”
“Just this guy. I don't...” He was still looking away. Kian badly wanted to
look into his eyes, even if it meant not looking at the dark finger-bruises
squeezed into a corded wrist. “I asked for it.” A soft sob hiccuped out of his
chest. Kian held him a little tighter. “It's fine.”
“Shh...” He kissed a temple damp with rainwater. Felt Shane tremble. “You're
soaked.” He was about to suggest a hot bath, but with the power off that was
unlikely. “I'll get you a towel and some dry clothes.” The nod in reply was
almost imperceptible, disengaged. He wouldn't fight it if Kian insisted, though
that didn't mean enthusiasm. “Come upstairs.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”
“You terrify me,” Kian chuckled. Shane smirked. “I'll check the windows. Head
up.”
“I already checked them.” Kian looked at him in surprise. “Kitchen one was open
a crack, so I shut it. You might want to check the shed in the morning. I think
a couple of shingles have come free again.” He looked up, something pleading in
his eyes, looking for someone to say that he'd done the right thing. Kian ran a
hand through wet hair, smoothing it back down. Shane pressed into his touch.
“Is that okay? I can go check it now if you...”
“It's fine. Thank you.” A nervous smile darted at Shane's mouth. Kian kissed it
gently. Their foreheads leaned together. “What am I going to do with you?” The
answer was interrupted by the lights sputtering suddenly back on. They both
looked up in surprise. “That's better,” Kian laughed. “Hot bath?”
Shane stood without a word and began to climb the stairs.
Kian sighed and followed.

*

Kian wasn't sure what his first memory of Shane was, exactly. It was hard to
tell at that age, everything a muddled soup of time and confusion, though he
did know his clearest memory. They'd been ten, sat on a stoop outside the
foster home where they'd met, Kian with scraped knees beneath the hems of his
shorts and Shane leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky.
It had been a fine day. Kian couldn't remember how long he'd been there, though
it couldn't have been long. Shane had been there longer. There were six of
them, in the old house, under the care of a woman and her husband. He couldn't
remember their faces, now. Couldn't remember a lot of the faces. Shane, though,
he remembered.
“I know a story,” he'd said.
Kian had looked over. Shane told good stories. Some of them Kian had already
known, about glass slippers and magic lamps, though when Shane told them they
were different. More violent, somehow. People always got their comeuppance in
Shane's stories.
“What story?”
“It's about a mermaid. She fell in love with a human, so she went to a witch to
give her a pair of legs.”
“I know. We saw the movie.” They'd gone to see it in the cinemas six months
before. Kian had enjoyed it, liked the songs, though Shane hadn't seemed
fussed, had watched it with a troubled frown.
“No. That was all made up. This is different.” He got a stubborn look, and Kian
relented, shifting back to mirror his friend's pose.
“What happened next?”
“The witch gave her legs, but they were cursed. Every step she took was like
walking on fire and glass. The witch said if she couldn't make the prince fall
in love with her, the pain would never stop, that it was her punishment for
falling in love with someone who wouldn't love her back.” He looked up at Kian
for approval, a half-smile darting across his mouth when he realised Kian had
been caught by the story, was waiting for the next part. “But he didn't love
her back, because by the time she got there he'd married someone else.”
“Oh.” Kian pursed his lips. This was definitely one of Shane's stories. “So she
was stuck that way forever?”
“She went down to the water to find her sisters, to ask for help,” Shane
continued. “They gave her a knife and said if she could kill the prince the
curse would be broken, that she'd turn back into a mermaid and be free. So she
walked into his bedroom, on legs that felt like fire and glass, and stood over
the prince and his new wife.”
“She killed him?”
“She lifted the knife. And then the moon caught his face, and he was as
beautiful as she remembered, and she knew that even if she killed him the pain
would never go away, because she'd still love him, and have to live with
killing the one thing she loved, with taking her love away from someone else
who loved him too.” Shane turned to look at him sadly. “So instead she went out
to the balcony and stabbed the knife into her own chest.”
Kian stared in horror.
“She killed herself?”
“She fell into the sea, the knife still in her heart, and when she hit the
water she turned into foam. Became part of the sea again.”
“What happened to the prince and his wife?”
“Nothing.” Shane shrugged. “They probably had babies, he became king, all that
sort of stuff. It's not his story. He never even knew she was there.” He looked
over, and for a moment Kian had an unexplainable urge to cry. Shane smiled
back, one hand lifting to push hair out of his eyes.
“The cartoon one had a nicer ending.”
“It wasn't real, though,” Shane pointed out. “Just because it's nicer it
doesn't mean it's better.”
“I guess not.” Kian huffed out a breath, looking at the strange boy next to
him, the one that was quiet and sullen half the time, loud and telling jokes
the rest, like two people in one body. Sometimes he'd kick and shout over
something as simple as a bedtime, others he'd be the first one pitching in on
chores. Kian didn't know quite what to make of him.
Sometimes he'd cry, too. Kian would hear him, in the night. The other kids
pushed him. Called him soft. Sometimes Shane would fight back, but most of the
time he'd just put his head down and ignore it, eyes trained on the ground
until they'd get bored and go away.
“You want to go throw rocks in the pond?” Shane suggested. Kian smiled. They
were both terrible at skipping stones, had given up and just started tossing
them in instead, trying to make the biggest splash.
He stood up. Reached out a hand to pull Shane up too. The garden path was
short, the gate creaking behind them when they pushed it open. Nobody would
mind if they were gone, so long as they came back for dinner.
“Kian?” Shane's voice was soft, and when Kian looked over there was something
shyly expectant in his eyes. “Do you like me?”
“Course I like you.” Kian smiled. “Why?”
“No reason.” Shane kicked at a pebble, which went skittering off the kerb and
into the street. “They'll split us up, you know.” He bit his lip. Kian reached
out for a moment, wrapping his fingers around a bony wrist before letting go.
“You'll still be my friend.”
“Yeah,” Shane mumbled. He looked up again. “Promise?”
Kian promised, even though he wasn't sure the world would let him keep it.

*

He made tea while Shane ran in the bath. There didn't seem much point sleeping
now. It was past three in the morning, and after the events of the last ten
minutes it seemed impossible to go back to bed. When he pushed into the
bathroom Shane was in the tub, the bubbles piled high and starting to burst.
He'd always liked bubble-bath, had Shane, was always the one to use half the
bottle and leave none for the other kids.
“Thanks.” Shane took the mug carefully. Sipped. It was too bright in here,
bringing out the hollows under his eyes and the bruises on his wrist, though
the smile he gave Kian was genuine enough. “Too much sugar.”
“You said there wasn't enough, last time.”
“That was last time.” Shane took another sip, sinking down to let his shoulders
disappear under the water. Kian leaned against the side, back to the porcelain.
Not a great bathroom, the drains a bit prone to blocking, and the pipes rattled
whenever he turned the taps. Still, it was his, and that was a start.
He hadn't gotten the little house on purpose, the white-washed shack at the tip
of narrow spit, where the waves came hardest and gulls nested in the rocks. It
was desolate stone and raging water, no place to moor a boat, though there was
a sandy stretch to walk between here and the mainland, a road to drive, and
that was enough, to see the lit-up shadow of the town at night.
Shane had said he was mad, should have sold it the moment it turned up in the
will. Kian couldn't necessarily disagree.
Still, it was home. Something to have and rely on, after years of drifting
through foster care.. He hadn't known his parents, hadn't even been sure they'd
known where he was, but when the letter had come in the post, twenty-one years
old and stuck in a share-flat with other misfits who had aged unhappily out of
the system, he'd felt a tug of hesitant belonging.
There was no explanation, not properly, just a deed and a notice that his
mother had left it. No apology for leaving him alone so long, nothing to
suggest any other extended family he could turn to for answers. Just ink and
paper, and a little house on the edge of the sea, weathered by spray and wind.
That had been almost a decade before. It was still a run down little shack, but
he thought they had an understanding, he and the little house. A rhythm, a
feeling of tentative comfort, like even after all this time he couldn't make
himself believe he was allowed to stay.
“Are you staying long?”
“Not sure.” Shane took another sip of his tea. “Can I have more sugar?” Kian's
raised eyebrow earned a cheeky smirk. “Kidding.” He handed out the mug, which
Kian put carefully down on the cracked tiles. Shane went under, his departure
announced by a rush of bubbles. He came back up blinking water out of his eyes.
“Where've you been?”
“Around.” He was being cagey. It wasn't new. “Thought I'd travel for a bit. See
the world.”
“I haven't seen you in six months.”
“It takes a long time to see the world. I'm not even done yet. Still have to do
the rest.”
“Is that right?” Shane shrugged. “Lots of sights?”
“Loads,” he said confidently. Kian rolled his eyes. If he was right Shane
probably hadn't left Ireland, had been hanging out in a flat somewhere in
Lahinch or Dundalk, probably with someone Kian wouldn't approve of. “I took
lots of pictures, but then my camera got stolen before I could get them
developed. Met celebrities and everything.”
“Did you now?” He was used to Shane's lies. Most of them were reasonably
benign, and at least the ones that weren't were a good warning sign for when
things might be going slightly off the rails. They were like Shane's stories.
Interesting as long as you didn't take them too seriously. “Who were they,
then?”
“You wouldn't know them.”
“Those really famous people I've never heard of?”
“Exactly. Yeah.” Shane reached for his mug again. Kian handed it to him. “I got
this in a fight, you know.” He indicated the bruising on his wrist. “This lad
was beating on his girlfriend in the park and I was all like 'that's not on,
mate' and told him if he was going to start something with her he'd have to
deal with me first.”
“Oh, right.” He saw eyes dart at him, daring him to contradict the story, to
point out that it wasn't what Shane had said earlier. “You're a hero, then.”
“Exactly.” Legs kicked under the water, sending water splashing against the
sides. The bubbles were almost all gone. “I'll stay for a little while, if you
want. I was only going to hang out for a couple of days, but seeing as you
missed me I can extend my stay?”
“Can you? That'd be brilliant.” He stood, put both their mugs on the sink
counter, then reached out a hand to help Shane out of the tub and onto the
slippery floor. Handed him a towel. When he was wrapped up Kian pulled him into
a hug, felt hands clutch carefully at his back, the shape of his friend warm
and damp between them, the towel soaking water into his pyjama shirt.
Shane hugged him back. Kian kissed his cheek.
“Are you okay?” Shane murmured. “I can hang around longer if you're lonely, or
if you need someone to talk to.”
“That'd be really nice,” Kian replied. He felt Shane nod against his shoulder.
“Having a bit of trouble at the moment. Really wish I could be honest with
someone.” Shane pulled away, though when he did he wouldn't look Kian in the
eye. Kian brushed stringy hair out of his face. “But if I don't feel like
talking I'd be happy for you to stay anyway. For company, sort of thing.”
Shane nodded, pulling his towel tighter.
“When did you get so fucked up?”
“Not fucked up.” He smiled gently, saw a wary gaze peer up from under lowered
lashes. “Just having a hard run. It'll be okay.” Shane didn't make any sign of
agreeing. “I'm glad you're here.”
“Me too,” Shane whispered. Then he looked up, eyes hopeful. “Got any food?”
 
***** Chapter 2 *****
With that she became bitterly angry and threw him against the wall with all her
might. "Now you will have your peace, you disgusting frog!"
But when he fell down, he was not a frog, but a prince with beautiful friendly
eyes.
-The Frog King, Wilhelm & Jacob Grimm

Kian had never hated the water.
It was hard to say how he felt about it, exactly. He wasn't afraid of it, not
especially. It was there, skirting the rocks, practically surrounding his
world. There was something about it that had always drawn him. This raging,
crashing beast that battered itself over and over against the world, fingers
creeping along the sand and islands cresting its back. Beautiful and monstrous
in equal measure.
He liked to watch it. Sit at the bedroom window and imagine the little house
was rocking in it like a boat, the suck and push of the sea guiding their
course.
“Swim?” Shane teased.
“Funny.” Kian looked up. Not much grew, out here in the little garden ringed by
white stone, except the occasional rough tangle of stringy grass and patchy
wildflowers. Shane had tried to grow geraniums once, on one of his extended
stays, though they'd died before they'd even budded.
“One of these days you're going to have to learn.”
“Am I?” He looked out at the scrubby strip leading to the surf's edge, a
meandering path that blossomed into a patch of sandy beach that felt like an
afterthought. It was calmer today, the sun painting the choppy surface with
silvers and blues. “I'm not doing it out there. I'd like to live until dinner.”
“We'll go to the pool, then.”
“No thanks.” He dropped his sunglasses down over his eyes. It wasn't that he
was frightened of the water. There was just something about it, something that
had always made him feel like there was no place for him in there. It was
majestic, dangerous, like an animal in the zoo. Better seen from a safe
distance, though he suspected he was the one in the cage a lot of the time,
watching something enormous from a tiny vantage point. “You're not teaching me,
anyway.”
“Why not? I'm a brilliant swimmer.”
“Remember when you taught me how to ride a bike?”
“It worked, didn't it?”
“You shoved me down a hill,” Kian laughed. Shane shrugged, smirking.
“It worked, didn't it?” he repeated. Kian rolled his eyes. “You didn't break
any bones or anything. Absolute success. Anyway, you were ten. It was bloody
shameful that you weren't riding a bike yet.”
“Nobody'd taught me.”
“That's why you've got me.” Shane flopped down to lay beside him on the grass.
“Swimming next, then basic arithmetic. All the stuff you were supposed to learn
twenty years ago.” He looked up. “It's pretty today.” Kian smiled, but didn't
comment. “You don't even have to go all the way in. Just a paddle.”
“We're still having this argument?”
“Been having it for two decades. Why stop now?” Shane folded his arms behind
his head. Kian shook his own. Shane had never understood. Kian wasn't reluctant
much, would say yes to most anything, but the sea had always been a hard no.
He'd sit on the edge of a pool to dangle his legs in the water, and showers
were fine, but there was something wrong about being in it, something sucking
and choking that made him recoil before the breakers even reached his knees.
They stayed in the garden for a while, laid on the grass and looking at a sky
patchy with clouds. It was easy, talking to Shane. Listening to tall tales and
laughing over small things. Shane was beautiful when he was happy. His eyes
danced, hands gesturing while he spun a story that probably only had passing
resemblence to the truth. Kian would have to be back at work the next day, but
for now this was comfortable.
They didn't talk about why Shane was back. Kian didn't ask. It was enough that
Shane was here.

*

It was early the next morning when Kian kissed Shane's sleeping forehead,
grabbed his satchel from the hook by the door, and headed out to the car.
It wasn't a long drive, into town, though it was a pretty one. Up the sandy
belt of scrub that connected him to the mainland and then along the coast, the
sea on his right, the fields on his left, and he in the middle, cutting a line
between both, feeling like he was able to see into two completely different
worlds at once, depending on where he turned.
The little shop was closed when he pulled up, though there was already someone
sat on the front step, waiting for him to show up, apparently. He climbed out,
fishing for his keys.
“You're early.”
“Yeah.” Bryan handed him a coffee. Kian took it gratefully. “It was that kind
of morning, you know? Woke up early, went for a run, and by the time I was
showered and sorted it was only seven, so I figured...” He gestured at the cup
in Kian's hands.
“Next one's on me,” Kian promised. The lights came on fitfully, the one above
the door flickering slightly until it steadied. Kian made a note to check the
bulb again. It was always going out.
The store always looked strange in the mornings. He wasn't sure what it was.
The artificial light, maybe, or the fact that for once there were no customers
filling it, getting in the way and talking too loudly. It was quiet except for
Bryan, who was already making for the counter, winding between the racks of
tennis balls and kneepads. Kian headed to the office to sort out the accounts
for the day.
It wasn't a bad job. He'd been here for almost six years, working at the little
sporting equipment store in town, had been manager for three. It was steady,
was the best thing about it. In at seven-thirty to set up, home by seven at the
latest. The staff were mostly good craic, and the salary was comfortable enough
to pay the bills.
Bryan had only been there for a year or so. Nice lad, hard worker, though a bit
prone to chatting too long to customers who weren't worth the commission.
He sorted the money, checked over the sales figures, and an hour later was
opening the doors. Bryan looked up from where he was tidying a display.
“Watch out. Morning rush.”
“Yeah, right,” Kian laughed. The street outside was dead. They probably
wouldn't pick up until ten at least, though with the school holidays on he was
expecting a little more traffic, stocking up for whatever afterschool activity
the kids were like to have lost interest in by October. It was just he and
Bryan until eleven, and that was probably stretching it. “Good weekend?”
“Fine. Went to my kid's basketball game.”
“Any good?”
“It was nine year olds,” Bryan chuckled. “It was a good laugh watching the
parents lose the run of themselves when they didn't agree with the referee.
Like, maybe it was a bad call, but that kid's picking his nose and facing the
wrong direction, so I don't know that we're headed for glory regardless.” Kian
shook his head, laughing. “How about you? Anything interesting?”
“Not really.” The bell over the door jangled, and they paused for Kian to say
hello to a customer and ask if he needed any help. He didn't, made a beeline
for the martial arts equipment and settled in to stare at shin-pads. “Got a
mate staying for a bit, so we hung out.”
“How long's he staying?”
“Dunno.” He really didn't. Shane came and went like the wind. Would stay for
months sometimes, less than a day others. Kian generally didn't know where he
was unless he was directly in sight. “He's a bit of a drifter. Just kind of
shows up.”
“That's not inconvenient?”
“Not really.” The customer looked like he was heading back over, but before
Kian could make it to the tills he'd swerved and was looking at pool noodles.
Kian turned back to Bryan. “You know those friends that are kind of like family
and also kind of a pain in the arse at the same time?” Bryan's smirk indicated
that he did. “We grew up together.”
“What, like at school?”
“Sort of.” Bryan knew a little of his background, had asked him the year before
what he was doing for Christmas, and when Kian had said probably just having a
quiet one at home, there had been the obvious question about whether his family
minded.
He didn't tell people, generally. It wasn't that he was ashamed, but there were
only a few standard reactions to that sort of information. There was pity, of
course, or the awkward joke about how he was lucky because my family's
completely mental. And Kian would laugh along, reminding himself that they
didn't know. Couldn't know what it had been like. Not just not having a family,
but not having anything; no anchor, no certainty that this was where he
belonged.
But while he didn't really talk about being alone, he never spoke about the
time before that. He didn't remember it much himself, but at night when he had
the drowning-dreams it made it feel even more unreal, something he couldn't
describe to anyone else.
His screaming had alerted the postman. Just old enough to walk but not old
enough to do anything close to taking care of himself. Half-starved and filthy,
left in the little house on his own for almost three days.
He didn't remember. Had expected to, when he'd walked back in the door eighteen
years later, but there were only whispers that reflected what he'd been. Just
the little house and the waves beating against the rocks and a sense that
someone had been here, with a soft voice and a caring touch.
She'd never come back. A ghost, apparently. The police had looked, and Kian had
spent the rest of his childhood years waiting for a knock on the door of
whatever house he was in at the time, sure one day his mother would be standing
there, smiling and crying and asking where he'd been, because she'd gotten lost
on the way back home.
“You got this in pink?”
“Er...” Kian shook himself, realised the customer was stood in front of him, a
mouthguard held in one hand. “Child's size?” The man nodded. Probably for a
daughter starting Tae Kwon Do, based on the small white uniform in his other
hand. “Bryan, do you...?” He caught the plastic packet that came sailing
through the air. “Cheers!” he called out, then turned back to the man. “Ring
this up for you?”
The rest of the day passed slowly. It was dark when he locked up and ambled
back down to the car. Bryan waved absently on the way to the bus-stop, and Kian
waved back, slid in, and was on the road before Bryan was out of the parking
lot.
Shane was on the sofa when he got in, watching television. The keys went in the
bowl near the door with a clatter, the satchel back on it's hook. He sank down,
a groan leaving him.
“Good day, dear?”
“If we're playing that game, I'm going to ask if dinner's ready,” Kian shot
back. Shane smirked. “What did you do today? If you weren't slaving in the
kitchen.”
“Not much. Slept.” Kian nodded. “I broke your weird frog thing. Sorry.”
“Oh, er...” The little ceramic frog near the door. He'd gotten it at a penny
raffle fundraising for the local school. “That's fine. It was an ugly frog.”
“I liked it.”
“Why'd you break it, then?” he teased. Shane didn't smile, just shrugged and
looked down at his lap. “It's okay. I wasn't attached to it. It was just a
thing.” That didn't seem to make it better. “You want a hug?”
“Yeah.” Shane slid over, let himself be wrapped up. Kian kissed his hair. He
was doing the thing again, where he got gruff and a little defensive, usually
because he was turning a hundred things over in his head, none of which made
any sense out loud.
“Do you want dinner, actually? I can order in?”
“Not really hungry.” Shane had already closed his eyes. That was the other
thing he did, as though sleeping through whatever was wrong was the better
alternative.
“You've lost weight.”
“Mm.” When Shane opened his eyes he was looking in the other direction. “Do you
remember that time we snuck out and got drunk in the park?”
“Which time?”
“Yeah,” Shane chuckled. “No, it was when you were with that family, the one
with the dogs, and I was spinning my wheels at the group home.” Kian shrugged.
He did, sort of. He'd been twelve or so, had been taken on by a couple with two
other kids, though it hadn't worked out, and he'd ended up in residential care
for the first time nine months later, along with Shane, who was happy to show
him what it was like being on the wrong end of adoptable and left to the state
to manage.
“Why you asking?”
“No reason. Just...” There was something brittle in Shane's smile. “I guess I
just think about things, sometimes. Like, it was shit, but at least we had each
other.” He tucked a few strands of hair behind his ear. Kian didn't know quite
what to say. “I remember laughing a lot.”
Kian pulled him closer, saw eyes flick towards him, then dart as quickly away.
“I'm going to make a sandwich in a minute. Want one?”
“If you're making one.” It was dismissive, like if Kian wasn't then Shane was
just as happy going hungry.
“If you're sad again you can talk to me,” Kian urged. Shane shook his head.
“Doesn't help.” He pulled his knees to his chest.
“What does?”
“Nothing, really. Being here doesn't hurt, though. It's... less shit.” He
breathed out slowly, a shudder infecting it. “I can stay for a bit. I'm not...
I mean, it's not like I have a job or house anything, so nobody's expecting me
somewhere else.” He laughed brokenly. Kian rested his chin on the arms folded
on top of Shane's knees, nudging into a stubbly cheek. Saw half a smile.
“Sorry. Do you want me here or are you just being nice?”
“I'm never nice,” Kian promised. Shane snorted. “It's fine. Stay.”
“I'm sorry I broke your frog.”
“It's fine,” he said again. Shane nodded. “I'm going to go have a hot shower.
Why don't you make us a couple of sandwiches and we can have them on the back
porch. Get us a couple of beers as well.” He stood up. “If you're going to
stay, you can at least pull your weight.”
“Slave-driver.”
“Moocher.” He picked up a cushion just to smack Shane with it, laughing when
his friend giggled and put his arms up to defend himself.
Kian left him holding the cushion and trotted upstairs, trying to avoid the
urge to look over his shoulder and make sure Shane was still smiling.

*

They didn't stay up late. Kian had work the next day and Shane was looking
sleepy already, yawning into his beer while they sat on the back porch,
watching the moon rise over the sea. He made sure Shane was sorted on the fold-
out and headed up to bed.
He wasn't entirely sure what to do. Never really knew. Shane was hard to judge
at the best of times. Where one thing might set him off laughing, the same
thing two days later could lead to an hour of crying, or throwing things. It
had been hard for him to find a home, when he'd been younger. Maybe people
thought they were being charitable, taking on the troubled kid with the sullen
face and the short temper, but as he got older there were less offers, less
chances for a teenaged boy.
Kian got it. The opportunities dried up more or less the moment you left the
cute phase and started getting pimples and hair in weird places. People wanted
babies, not older kids who compounded all of the normal pubescent issues with
being from broken backgrounds. None of them were well-adjusted, not really, and
Shane was barely calibrated at the best of times.
He did wonder if the frog had broken accidentally, or if it had been something
else. If Shane had smashed it in a fit of anger and then realised too late what
he'd done.
Kian didn't blame him. It was just a stupid frog, after all.
He could hear Shane, pottering around downstairs. He'd looked tired, but Kian
suspected he wouldn't sleep for a while. He tended to pace, had done it since
they were small, like he could walk off whatever was keeping him awake.
Kian pulled the blanket up, closed his eyes, and turned into the pillow, the
moonlight throwing long shadows across the room, the pad of Shane's footsteps
creaking through the house.

 
***** Chapter 3 *****
It shall come to pass on a summer's day,
 When the sun shines hot on every stone,
 That I shall take my little young son,
 And teach him for to swim the foam.
 - The Great Silkie of Sule Skerrie, traditional Orkney folksong
 
Kian wasn't sure what to do with Shane, over those next two weeks. He wanted to
ask, wasn't sure what questions to start with or even whether he wanted the
answers. Shane drifted. Was silent, sometimes, so talkative others that Kian
was sure he was going to start interrupting himself. That was fine as well. He
was always happy to listen to Shane talk.
It was an early Saturday morning that he woke up to Shane curled up in the
chair near the bedroom window, staring out at the sea.
“Hey,” he croaked. He'd jumped, a little, when he'd opened his eyes and
blearily realised someone else was in the room, though he'd recognised Shane
within a breath. He rubbed his eyes with one hand. Shane didn't turn around.
“What you doing?”
“Not much.” He nodded towards the water. “You've got seals.”
“Do I?” They werent uncommon. There was a small run of rocks that surfaced just
off the coast, about fifty feet from shore, and they liked to sun themselves
there sometimes. There were otters and dolphins as well, though not nearly as
often. The seals tended to congregate more around the other end of town, near
the marina, scavenging from fishermen and arguing with the gulls for scraps.
“How many?”
“Three. Brown ones.” Kian nodded. “I ever tell you about the selkie wife?”
“I think I know this one.” He turned on his side to watch Shane properly,
though he wasn't committed yet to climbing out of bed. “A girl who can turn
into a seal, right?” It was an old folk-tale, one he knew the gist of, though
not the specifics. Just another Irish faery myth, like leprechauns.
Shane shifted in the chair, though he was still looking out the window. Dressed
in his pyjamas, his robe untied and hanging open around his hips. Waiting for
Kian to ask, probably.
“Tell me the story?”
“If you want.” A smile tweaked at his mouth. “The selkie aren't like mermaids.
They're not half-human, they're seals in the water, though they like to come on
land sometimes, and when they do they take off their seal-skins and walk around
like people.” Kian propped himself up on one elbow. It was grey outside. He
couldn't see the water from here, but the sky was blanketed with pale clouds.
“Like a costume?”
“Yeah, sort of.” Shane shifted again, up onto his knees, elbows rested on the
window sill while he stared out at the water. “One day a selkie woman came out
to sun herself on the beach, and while she was laying there naked, a fisherman
took her seal-skin and hid it so she couldn't change back. She was under his
control, then, and was forced to marry him and live in his cottage.”
“He's the villain, then?”
“No. Not really. You see, after a while they began to fall in love with each
other. They had children, a boy and a girl, and they were happy together, in
the cottage with their family.”
“It wasn't really her choice though.”
“It's never our choice who we fall in love with,” Shane pointed out. “But
you're right. She may have loved him, and the children, but she was still a
prisoner, and as much as he tried to make her happy, every day when he came
home from fishing he'd see her sitting at the window, staring out at the water,
the saddest look on her face. And he'd come inside and kiss her, and ask what
was wrong, and she'd tell him it was nothing, that she had everything she
needed and there was no reason to be sad.
“The children grew up. They loved the water, would play for hours at the shore.
Seals would swim up to them, let them ride on their backs, though when the
fisherman found out he shouted at his wife and said she wasn't to let them near
the water any more, and though they cried he was just too frightened of losing
them.
“On the children's seventh birthday, he came home to find her sat at the window
again, staring at the sea, and he finally couldn't take it any more. He went
inside, took her seal-skin from it's hiding place, and told her she was free,
if she wanted, but that if she loved him he wanted her to stay, because he
couldn't bear the thought of a life without her.
“She took the seal-skin, nodded, and went back to her room. Stayed there. For a
week. Two weeks. He didn't disturb her. He went away fishing, came back. She
cared for the children while he was gone, and when he came home he fed them and
put them to bed, but didn't see his wife, except for when he'd bring the boat
in and see her sat at the window, and he'd wave, and she'd wave back.”
“This is going to have a sad ending, isn't it?” Kian interrupted. He could feel
it already. Shane's stories usually did. He could see Shane's face, reflected
in the window, saw a smirk drift across it. He wondered if the seals were still
there, sunning themselves on the rocks.
“One morning he woke up and her door was open. He searched the house, but she
wasn't there, and neither were the children. He ran outside, shouting for them,
and heard his daughter calling back. He found them at the beach, and realised
what she'd been doing sat in her room for two weeks. She'd cut her seal-skin,
and sewn three new ones, one for herself and two smaller ones, for her
children.”
“There was enough for all of them?”
“She's a magic seal-woman,” Shane reasoned. “Anyway, she stretched it as far as
she could, but she'd run out at the end, and had to give her own left flipper
to her son. The father ran down the beach, shouting to them, trying to convince
her to stop. He begged her to leave his children, that she could go, but that
she couldn't take his children too
“He fell to his knees, crying. Pleading and trying to hold his children, and
her heart broke for him, though she was determined to leave. She knew their
daughter was his favourite, so she agreed to leave her, to only take their son,
and she helped him into his suit, and they disappeared into the waves, leaving
her daughter and husband behind.”
“They never saw them again?” Kian asked. Shane shook his head.
“They never did. Though he looked every day while he was out fishing, for the
seal with the missing flipper. He hid the daughter's skin, and after a while
the daughter forgot what had happened, though sometimes he'd see her staring
out the window, watching the seals play, and knew that if she found it again
he'd lose her forever. That she'd go to the sea and never come back.”
He trailed off. It took Kian a moment to realise that was the end of the story.
Shane tugged his robe tighter, sinking down into the chair to face him, the
glow of the cloaked sun sending soft shadows across the room.
“Are the seals still out there?”
“Yeah.” Shane nodded. “Saw a dolphin too, but it was only for a second.”
“Don't suppose you've got any stories about dolphins?”
“A couple.” He pushed himself out of the chair. “I'm going to go make coffee.
You want one?” Kian nodded. The conversation was apparently over. The door shut
behind Shane and Kian lay back down, staring at the ceiling for a moment to
collect his thoughts.
Then he grabbed his robe and headed downstairs to find his friend.
 
*
 
Kian had been fourteen the first time he'd been frightened of Shane.
It was a guilty feeling, now. He understood it, of course he did. A child,
himself, Shane a year older and both of them in the group home, becoming
increasingly sure that the great hope of a real family was out of their reach.
Still, they had each other, and that was more family than either of them had
ever known.
He knew a little of Shane's background. More than he knew of some of the other
boys in the home. They were all friends, sort of, or at least civil enough to
spend time in the same house without throwing punches. There were staff around
the clock, most of whom were okay as well, and a social worker who came in
three times a week to make sure none of them were crazy or being mistreated.
Kian wasn't crazy, as far as he could tell. Some of the other boys he was less
sure about.
Shane was... unstable.
Kian didn't mind. Shane was fine, most of the time. Funny, interesting, always
had something to say about something, and they got along. Shared the same sense
of humour and agreed on most things, even if sometimes Shane got a little
overexcited about unimportant stuff, started ranting and having loud opinions.
Usually it was funny. Kian would smile, and wait for Shane to rein himself back
in, and eventually his friend would sit down, a slight blush glowing in his
cheeks.
He'd been removed from his family at six years old. As they got older Kian
began to suspect there were good reasons for that, if the way Shane spoke was
any indication. There was something odd in the way he approached things. Sex
things, especially. Kian knew he was naïve himself, but Shane wasn't. Knew more
in a graphic, frank way that came across as almost violent. There were drugs,
probably, definitely alcohol, and the scars on Shane's back looked like belt-
marks at the very least.
Shane didn't talk about it. He just got on with things.
He was Shane.
Kian had been sitting in the living room, watching TV and working on his
homework when he heard a bang from upstairs.
He looked up. The social worker was in, along with a therapist that came in
once a fortnight to chat to them about how things were going. Things were going
okay, all things considered. Kian was trying his best at school, though he was
under no illusions about his academic abilities. Still, most of the time he was
content enough. Things had certainly been worse.
Something being dropped, probably, a chair accidentally knocked over. He
settled back over his book, one eye trained on the television.
There was a thump, a loud one. He saw two of the male staff head cautiously for
the stairs.
There was a high-pitched shout, almost a scream. They ran.
Kian didn't know what to do. It was Shane, of course it was Shane, but he'd
never heard it before, something frightened and angry and savage. There were
more thumps, feet and fists colliding with walls, the sound of something being
knocked over.
His feet moved without him thinking. He was halfway up the stairs when the
office door slammed open, and the two staff members who'd gone to check dragged
Shane out by the armpits, Kian's friend twisting and shouting between them,
kicking while the therapist tried to calm him down, talking low and careful
while Shane ignored her, his eyes wild and mouth set in a snarl.
He was crying. Kian covered his mouth. Realised her arm was bleeding, just
above the wrist, her shirt torn. They twisted his arm and the letter opener
fell from his hand.
They made Kian step aside. Dragged Shane outside.
He remembered, though. The look of fear and anger on Shane's face when he was
pulled through the door, eyes begging and filled with tears, looking to Kian
for some sort of futile help while he was dragged out of sight.
He'd come back two weeks later. Kian hadn't known what to say to him. Had just
leaned in and hugged him tight, felt hands clench on his back and a soft sob
blurt into his shoulder. Shane had been on limited privileges, more
supervision, and pills that took the fire out of his eyes and made his laughs
sound delayed and mechanical.
He wouldn't talk about it. Wouldn't say what had set him off. What he'd been
thinking. The therapist had been replaced with a middle-aged man who was
adequate at his job, though not as good as the one before had been. The other
boys had whispered. Kian had ignored them. Shane had ignored everyone and shut
himself in his room.
Kian had been allowed in. Slept in with him, most nights, because as frightened
as he'd been he could see Shane was more scared. Scared all the time, like he
was hiding from something only he could see.
 
*
 
“How's work?”
“Fine.” Kian poked at his dinner. Shane had made it, was generally a terrible
chef, though he could turn out an edible dish when he put his mind to it. The
chicken was cooked through at least. “Deputy manager's going on maternity leave
in a couple of months, so I'll probably be doing more hours while she's gone.”
He wasn't too excited about the idea. Half the time he felt like he did
everything anyway, while she hid in the office or went on long lunch-breaks.
“I had a job.”
“Did you?” Shane shrugged. “What happened?”
“I quit. It was boring.” He shoved an improbably large piece of chicken breast
into his mouth. “Boss was a paranoid fuckhead anyway. He kept acting like I was
stealing.”
“Were you?”
“Course not.” Shane didn't seem offended by the question. Kian had asked worse,
over the years. “And if I had been, he wouldn't have noticed. Dozy twat.” He
reached for his glass. “It was a shite job, anyway. Who wants to stack shelves
all day and talk to idiots who don't know what they're buying? No offence.”
“None taken,” Kian chuckled. “What are you going to do now, if you're not doing
that?”
“Dunno. Got some money saved. Hang out here for a bit.” He looked at Kian
warily. “I'm not imposing, though.” It wasn't a question. Kian suspected Shane
didn't want to leave room for an answer. “I'll keep out of your way.”
“Shay...” Kian sighed. “Stay as long as you like. Of course you can.” Shane
looked back at his eggs, though a relieved grimace pinched his face. “You're
not in my way.” He leaned his head in one hand, looking at his friend. “I love
you. You know I love you.”
“Love you too.” Shane's smile lit up the room, for the moment it lasted. “Can
we go for a walk tonight?”
“Where to?”
“Just a walk.” He stood. “I'll go put on a jacket.”
“Finish your dinner first,” Kian urged. Shane sank back down, looking at his
plate like he'd forgotten it was there. He did that a lot, got distracted
halfway through a thought when he was hooked by another one. “We'll go for a
walk after food.” He held out his glass. Shane's clinked cheerfully with his.
“Are you happy?” he asked. Didn't know where the question had come from, except
sometimes he had to ask, with Shane.
“Are you?”
“I'm... yeah. I guess I am.” He wasn't unhappy, anyway, though he supposed they
weren't the same thing. “I'm okay, at least.”
“Then I'm okay too.” It didn't really answer the question. Shane smiled. “We're
both okay. Look at us, being okay.”
“Look at us,” Kian echoed. He looked back down at his plate, realised he wasn't
hungry any more. Shane hadn't picked his cutlery back up again. “Walk?”
“I'll get my jacket.” Shane dashed from the table. Kian listened to footfalls
thud up the stairs and across the ceiling above his head. Laughed to himself.
Shane was back down and zipping his jacket before Kian had even cleared the
table. “Ready?” Shane demanded. Kian rolled his eyes.
“Ready,” he conceded. Shane grinned and headed for the door.
 
*
 
It was warmish outside, though the sea breeze always made the air feel about
five degrees less than in town. Beautiful night. The moon low, a frozen
yellowed pendulum that seemed to rise out of the water, sending dim coronas of
green light up through the starlit sky.
The beach was quiet. He took Shane's hand as they clambered up the rocks,
leaned on each other for support, and then were on the other side, where it was
rough sand all the way along the spit to the main shoreline, the suck and rush
of the water soothing in the darkness, Shane's hand warm in his.
“Pretty.” Shane's head was craned back, eyes fixed on the sky. Kian kept his
gaze on the ground to make sure neither of them would trip, knew Shane would go
stumbling into the sea if he didn't.
They were both so fixed on what they were looking at that neither of them
noticed the boy before they were almost on top of him.
It was Shane who saw him first. Looked down, mouth opening to say something,
when he paused, eyes narrowing and fixed on something over Kian's shoulder.
Kian raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“What's that?”
“Erm...” He turned. Looked like a bundle of rubbish, cloth and driftwood,
moving slightly with the breaking surf that spread around it and then back out
again. “Dunno.” He stepped closer. Saw it shift again in the water fanning
about an inch high around it. Shane was ahead, stepping down over the edge of
the foot-high ridge they'd been strolling along.
He stepped back with a gasp. Kian tilted his head.
“What is it?” Shane was already digging out his phone.
There was a soft moan. Dark hair, clotted with wet sand.
“Shit,” he breathed. Shane was asking for an ambulance.
Kian sank to his knees and began to look for a pulse.
 
***** Chapter 4 *****
...and what he found in his net was a fish —
 no ordinary fish, but a golden fish.
 The fish begged, the fish begged and implored;
the fish prayed in a human voice:
 'Release me, set me free in the sea —
 and in return you'll receive a grand ransom,
I'll grant you whatever you wish.'
- A Tale of a Fisherman and a Fish, Alexander Pushkin

It all happened quite quickly. It felt only seconds before blue and red lights
were flickering over them, Shane waving to get the attention of the paramedics,
who rushed over, a medical case in hand. Kian stepped back. The guy was
breathing, at least, and there wasn't much else he could do for him.
Shane grabbed his hand. Kian squeezed it back, feeling sick.
“Is he okay?” he asked numbly. One was shining a light into unresponsive eyes,
the other pulling a stretcher from the back of the ambulance.
“He's alive.” Naked, Kian could see, now all the crap was cleared away. Not
clothes, like he'd thought, just debris, probably tangled around him by the
surf. He was pale, bleeding in a few places, though didn't look wounded from
what Kian could tell. Exposure, maybe, abrasion from the rough sand and salt-
water. His lips were cracked badly, hands and feet as well. They covered him
with a blanket and got him loaded up. Kian didn't know what to do.
There were more blue lights. He looked up. Saw a police car as well, off to the
side to leave room for the ambulance. A couple of officers stepped out. They
looked out of their element already. Shane began to chew his fingernails.
Then the doors closed and the ambulance began to trundle away into the night.

*

It was easier talking to the police with a cup of tea in his hands. Shane made
a pot while Kian got them settled on the sofa, though he didn't know what else
they expected him to say. They'd been walking, and apparently they'd managed to
find an unidentified naked man washed up in the surf. It wasn't something he'd
had to explain in detail before.
There was a detective there. Seemed in charge, had a better jacket, though Kian
didn't really notice, was too busy staring into his tea and seeing blue eyes
peel open, hearing thin, pained breaths that didn't seem like near enough.
“I don't know what else to tell you,” he mumbled.
“You've never seen him before?”
“No. I mean...” He shrugged. The words got lost so he trailed off instead. The
detective gave him a sympathetic smile. He was youngish, maybe a little older
than Kian, with blonde hair and a permanent pout. They'd cordoned off part of
the beach. Weren't calling it a crime scene, apparently, just an area of
interest. It felt unreal.
“You been living here long?”
“Almost ten years.” The detective was looking curiously at Shane, who had been
too busy staring at his own knees to contribute much. “Shane's been staying
with me for the last three weeks.”
“And your home address?”
“Don't have one,” Shane said brusquely. If the detective was surprised he did
well hiding his reaction.
“No mailing address?”
“No,” Shane sighed. Kian supposed he should be concerned, Shane over the line
into thirty and nothing to call his own except a shabby suitcase of clothes and
a mobile phone he'd probably bought at the supermarket. He'd known Shane too
long to bother with worrying. There was nothing he could do about it anyway.
“Just say I live here, if you have to. I'll be visiting for a bit.”
“Okay...” The detective scribbled something down. Kian peered at his badge, not
wanting to admit he'd forgotten his name already. Nicholas Byrne. He wondered
if he was a Nick or a Nicky, then lost the thought when Shane's hand settled on
his shoulder.
“You okay?” Shane whispered. Kian realised he was shaking.
“Yeah.” He swallowed, forced his teeth to ungrit. “Yep.” He looked at the
detective. “Was he okay, at least? Do they know...?”
“I haven't heard yet.” Nicholas stood. “If I'm allowed to tell you something
I'll give you a call.” Kian nodded. He supposed that was fair enough. They
didn't know the guy, probably it was none of their business. “You did well,
lads. If you hadn't found him it could have been much worse.” Kian swallowed.
Or if they'd found him too late. Tonight had been bad enough, the idea of
driving to work the next day and finding a lifeless body was sickening. “I'll
keep you updated.”
He left with thanks for the tea. Kian sat back down on the sofa once the door
was closed. Shane squatted at his feet, taking his hands.
“You want to talk about it?”
Kian shook his head. He didn't know what to say.
“You want something stronger?”
“Yeah,” Kian laughed, wincing at the slight hysteria in his voice. Shane kissed
the back of his hand. “Fucking hell. Good thing you wanted a walk.”
“Must be psychic,” Shane agreed. He stood again. “Make it a double?”
“At least.” He leaned forward as Shane headed for the kitchen, resting his
elbows on his knees. Breathed out slowly. “Fuck.” A glass pressed into his
hand. He took a grateful sip, almost choked as it burned down his throat.
“Jesus, Shane.”
“Thought I'd make it a triple.” Kian coughed. Studied the drink, amber liquid
swilling the the bottom of a whiskey glass, a trickle of soda mixed uselessly
in. Shane shrugged.
The rest went back in two large, stinging gulps. Shane settled down onto the
sofa next to him, his hand on Kian's knee, though it moved around his shoulders
a moment later. Kian put the glass down.
“Want me to sleep in with you?”
“Yeah,” Kian admitted. Shane kissed his hair. “But I'll have another one of
those first.”

*

Bryan let out an amazed whistle, low and long. Kian had just finished telling
him the story, what blurred details he could remember. He felt tired. Hadn't
slept at all well the night before. Shane hadn't either, but he never really
did, so instead they'd laid in bed, Shane talking quietly about nothing and
Kian trying to find comfort in the presence of another person.
They'd woken up snuggled together, Kian's head in Shane's neck, arms around
each other. There wasn't any embarrassment in it. They'd been through too much
together to worry about a bit of a cuddle and some morning wood.
“Lucky you were there.”
“Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Hopefully he's okay.”
“You haven't heard?” Kian shook his head. “You know who he was?”
“Not a clue.” A customer had just walked in the door. Bryan made a beeline,
stalking over and looking purposeful while Kian stood blankly in front of a
half-stacked shelf, two boxes of stock at his feet.
The day passed slowly. By the time Kian was packing up he was asleep on his
feet, ready to go home and try to get the rest he'd missed out on the night
before. He slid into the car, turned on the radio, and honked at Bryan, who
waved back.
“...Police are asking for assistance in identifying an unknown man who was
found on Leanan Spit last night and is currently in stable condition. He is
five foot eleven with dark brown hair and blue eyes. If you have any
information about missing persons, please contact...
There was a van parked in front of the house when he arrived, which was odd. He
pulled in behind it, wondering who they were and if they could move the hell
out of his drive. Tradespeople maybe. He rounded the van, looking for a phone-
number he could call, because he sure as hell hadn't called a plumber or
repairman.
He blinked when he realised it was the local television station.
There was nobody in the van. He headed numbly up to the front door, which
wasn't locked, and peered inside.
“Kian. Hey!” Shane looked up from the armchair. There was a woman in a pantsuit
on the sofa facing him, two lads setting up lights in his living room.
“Er...” Kian stepped inside. He didn't like the way the woman was looking at
him, too cheerful, but with something pointed hiding beneath it. “What's all
this?”
“They came to ask about the guy,” Shane explained. “He doesn't know who he is,
apparently. Amnesia. Like in one of those TV movies.” He looked nice, Kian
realised, was dressed in one of Kian's good shirts and a pair of black
trousers, looked like he'd thrown it together in a hurry. “They wanted to ask
about him.”
“Oh. Well... I guess that's fine.” He wasn't sure, but there was no stopping it
now. Shane looked excited. Kian supposed it was sort of exciting, objectively,
but he was finding it hard to see it that way, especially when all he wanted
was a shower and his bed.
They asked if they could interview him. He said no. Thanks. But then he saw
Shane deflate slightly and sighed, trying to avoid the urge to order everyone
out of his house so he could have a cup of tea.
It was over relatively quickly. The questions were basic. You found a dead guy
who wasn't actually dead. How was that? It was weird, and sort of upsetting,
and he wanted to cry. Instead he found himself saying what he'd always heard
other people say on the telly, that he'd just done what anyone would do, and he
hoped the lad was okay. Shane began spinning some utter bollocks about just
having this weird feeling, you know? That it was fate or something, that
something had told him to go for that walk, though Kian knew very well it had
just been Shane beging impulsive and he'd been staring at the sky anyway.
They left after a bit. Shane plonked down beside him after he let them out,
grinning. Kian smiled weakly back.
“We're going to be on telly!”
“We are,” Kian sighed. Shane tilted his head.
“That's exciting, isn't it?”
“It is. I'm sorry, Shay. I'm really tired.” He touched his friend's cheek, felt
the smile swell under his hand. “Hey. How was your day?”
“S'okay. Slept for ages, and then the TV people showed up. I borrowed your
clothes. Sorry.”
“It's fine. You look nice.” Shane looked pleased at that, at least. “I'm going
to have something to eat and go to bed.” Shane nodded. “You staying up?”
“It's only eight,” Shane pointed out. “Might watch TV. Can I eat the rest of
the ice-cream?” Kian agreed that he could. “They gave me money for the
interview. A hundred euro.” Kian blinked in surprise.
“Oh.”
“You want half?”
“You keep it,” Kian decided. Shane could probably use it, though Kian doubted
he was going to spend it on anything worthwhile.
He suspected that was the answer Shane had wanted to hear. He didn't begrudge
him for it. Fifty euro wasn't much, to Kian. To Shane it made a difference.
He'd considered seeing if he could get Shane a job at the store, if he was
going to be around for a while, but had decided not to. Maybe it was shitty,
but Shane's behaviour reflected on him, and his friend wasn't reliable at the
best of times. Kian didn't want to be the one responsible for whatever fuck-up
Shane orchestrated on the job, whatever shifts he didn't turn up for. Whatever
money might go missing.
Maybe Shane wouldn't. Maybe their friendship was worth more than that. But he
knew Shane as well. Knew it wouldn't be his fault, that there'd be a hundred
horrible, sensible reasons he'd had no choice in doing whatever he decided to
do. He was sad. He was too tired. He was just trying to...
He'd seen the pill-bottles in Shane's bag, the ones that had prescription
labels on them in other peoples' names. He wasn't going to comment. It was
better than what Shane could have been doing, and at least if he was stocked up
and had a little cash on him he wasn't like to do anything reckless.
Maybe it was enabling, but Kian loved him too much to risk hating him over
something as stupid as that.
“What you thinking? You've gone all quiet.”
“Tired,” he said again. Shane was watching him earnestly. Shane cared, was the
hardest thing about it. Cared so much he broke Kian's heart. “I love you,” he
murmured. Shane's eyes softened.
“I'll leave you some ice-cream.”
“Thanks.” He wanted to heave himself up. Couldn't find the energy. “It's your
birthday in five weeks. You still going to be around?” Shane shrugged. Probably
not an exciting one, thirty-one, but Kian had missed thirty. Shane had missed
his, come to that, had shown up two weeks after. They were passing the end of
May, now, summer about to start. “I'm not going to bother about dinner,
actually. Might just go to bed.” Shane nodded. “Come sleep in with me when
you're ready, if you want. It's better than the sofa.” He wanted Shane there,
suddenly. Needed someone there.
“Okay. Might be up for a while.” Kian nodded, relieved.
Shane helped him up, walked him up the stairs to bed. It was the first time
he'd been tucked in in years, but there was nothing wrong with that. Shane
kissed his forehead.
“Night, Ki.”
“Night Shay,” he murmured back, and turned into the pillow just as Shane
flicked the light off, his shape silhouetted in the narrowing hallway light.

*

He woke with Shane beside him, tangled in the sheets and facing the other
direction. He slept like an octopus, did Shane, limbs everywhere and tangled
into improbable positions, clinging unconsciously to everything including Kian.
There was a foot hooked around his ankle, and when he shifted it hooked
tighter, Shane letting out a soft grunt.
He lay still. Didn't have to be at work today, thank god. It was almost nine in
the morning. More than twelve hours sleep. He didn't know if he felt better or
not, a bit groggy and everything aching, but at least he felt rested.
He wasn't sure the last time he'd had someone else in his bed. Certainly not in
the last six months, though it had been maybe five years since he'd had
anything he could come to close to calling a boyfriend. It sounded a bit sad,
out loud, but he couldn't say he'd been trying, particularly. His last
therapist had wanted to talk about it, when he'd been bothered to go, had said
lovely things like 'fear of abandonment' and 'intimacy'. It made clinical
sense, he supposed, but he thought it was maybe more that he'd gotten too used
to being self-sufficient, that someone else's presence, someone else's needs,
felt almost stifling, like there was only so much of him and he didn't have
extra pieces to give.
It had served him well enough, in childhood. The constant feeling of rejection
and loneliness had only hurt as long as he'd allowed it. Other people were
other peoples' problem.
He was rolling over, eyes still shut while he huffed into Kian's chest and
tossed an arm across him.
“Hey,” Kian whispered. Shane grumbled something back.
They got up, eventually. Shane burnt some toast while Kian had a tidy. The news
people had pulled the rug out of alignment with all their lights and shuffling,
so he tugged it back into place and vacuumed. It felt better to have a tidy
house. More like he was in control of things.
“Kian.” He looked up. Shane had just come in from the porch, was holding the
paper in the other hand. “Check it out.”
“What... oh.” It unrolled, and Kian was caught for a moment, by a picture of a
man about his age, dark hair and blue eyes, smiling bemusedly at the camera
from a hospital bed. “What's it say?”
“Erm...” Shane peered at the front page. “They still don't know who he is.
Mystery man found on beach by local, blah blah blah...” He tilted his head.
“Apparently they think he was out there for a while. Water in his lungs,
malnutrition and exposure.”
“What, just floating around?”
“Dunno. Continued on page three...” He shuffled through. “Right. He was wrapped
in part of a boat sail, so they think maybe he fell overboard, or was in a
life-boat or something, but there's no record of any accidents in the area. The
police say they are investigating all possibilities...”
“So they don't know anything.”
“Not a fucking thing,” Shane said cheerfully, “though it took them about nine
columns to say it.” He passed the newspaper over. Kian peered at the picture.
He looked sweet. Confused. A brooding, frightened look that didn't quite jibe
with the smile he was giving the camera.
“Poor guy.”
“You really think he's got amnesia? Maybe he's faking it.”
“Why would you fake it?”
“Dunno. On the run, maybe. Can't be that guy the mob are looking for, because
he doesn't know who he is.”
“The mob?” Kian laughed. Shane shrugged. “Doubt it. No.” He looked at the
picture. “He looks scared. Must be awful, having no idea who you are. Just
being all by yourself one day, and nobody to...” He trailed off, realised Shane
was staring at him. “What?”
“Sound like someone you know?”
“I was a kid. It's not the same.” He closed the paper. Put it down. “You want
to do anything today?”
Shane opened his mouth to reply.
The phone rang.
“I'll get it.” Shane picked it up. “Hello?” He pulled a face. “Sorry, who are
you? No thanks, we don't want any.” He hesitated. “Oh! Oh... erm... just a
sec.” His hand went over the mouthpiece. “It's the newspaper. They want to know
if they can do an interview. About...” He gestured at the paper on the coffee
table. “You know.”
“No thanks.”
“Okay.” Shane turned back to the phone. “No, we don't want to...” Something
bright and guilty snuck into his gaze. “How much? Erm...” His eyes darted
towards Kian. “Okay. Sure. Yeah. No, just me.” Kian raised an eyebrow.
“Brilliant. See you in a bit.” He put the phone down.
“You said yes?”
“They offered me five hundred to do the interview,” Shane explained, a little
breathless. “Five hundred, Ki. That's...” He grinned. “They're coming round in
an hour. Can I borrow one of your shirts?”
“Yeah, but...” Shane was already dashing up the stairs, feet pounding a
drumbeat that darted across the ceiling above Kian's head, down the upstairs
hallway.
Kian sighed.
Right.
 
***** Chapter 5 *****
“...the boy Icarus was standing nearby, unaware that he was facing danger, now
with a beaming face was capturing his feathers which the wandering air has
moved.
- Metamorphosis: Daedalus and Icarus, Ovid


It seemed a lot of people were in and out of Kian's house over the next few
days. Their picture appeared in the newspaper after he grudgingly let Shane
pull him over to pose, and the police came back to ask questions Kian wasn't
sure how to answer, odd details he'd never thought to notice. The area of the
beach they'd found him on was still cordoned off with police tape, but with the
weather and the waves Kian didn't know what they expected to find apart from a
lot of sand and maybe a confused crab.
He kept getting calls at work, too. Mostly from the press, and not just local
as the story of the mystery man of the spit turned into a national story, one
of those novelty bits people would probably wonder about for a few weeks and
then lose interest in. It was frustrating, seeing Bryan pick up the phone at
the register and then sigh, roll his eyes, and motion Kian over. He could
hardly help it, would hang up on them as soon as he realised.
It wasn't just the news. Snoopy locals on the phone, a couple of people who
even came in wanting to ask about it, as though he could offer anything more
than what he'd already said to the press. He got two calls from some conspiracy
website, and suddenly his email was flooded with strange messages about cover-
ups and other crap.
Shane took it in stride. Kian got the feeling he was enjoying it, almost.
Wanted to tell Shane to stop picking up the phone, to stop playing into all the
mess. He couldn't do that, though. Shane was an adult, and as much as he hated
to admit it, Kian did wonder if it wasn't just the money that was making him
say yes every time someone called. If it was the attention as well. Somebody
who wanted to listen to what he had to say so much they were willing to pay for
the privelege.
The owner of the store called to tell him to go home on Wednesday afternoon,
that until all this stopped to not bother coming in. He wanted to protest. To
say the calls would still happen anyway. But he was exhausted, and going home
to sleep sounded better than arguing and trying to avoid his new fans.
Shane was on the phone when he got in. Kian hesitated, then went to change into
his pyjamas without comment, shaking his head when he realised what Shane was
talking about. Again.
The door creaked open just as he was shrugging on his robe.
“Hey,” Shane said. Kian nodded. “You're home early. Everything okay?”
“Fine.” There was no point saying anything. “It was quiet, so I figured...” He
shrugged. Shane was still lurking in the doorway. “Shane...” He bit his lip.
“Can we turn our phones off tonight? Please? I'm just...” He ran a hand over
his face, saw Shane's own fall in a way that wasn't just concern. “I'm really
tired and I don't want to talk to anyone.”
“Oh.” Shane's mouth pursed. “I... yeah. I guess so.” He tilted his head. “Are
you really okay? You look a bit pale.”
“Tired,” Kian repeated. He reached out a hand. Shane's fell into it, squeezing
as Kian pulled him closer and into a hug. Relaxed slightly when he felt arms
around his waist, warmth against his skin. Shane kissed his cheek. He stayed
there for a long time, until it felt like it was getting weird, and then a
little longer after that. When he let go Shane was looking at him curiously.
“Do you want something to eat?”
“Okay.” He wasn't really hungry. Hadn't eaten all day.
Shane left the room with a glance back over his shoulder.
Kian went to look for his slippers.


*


It was awkward, watching Shane that night. Kian hated to think it, but his
behaviour reminded him him an awful lot of a boy in their old home.
Kevin had been a bright kid. A few years younger than them, surrendered to the
system after his parents hadn't been able to deal with his obvious drug
problems any more. It was sad. Thirteen when he'd arrived, already suffering
under the twitching rollercoaster of high and withdrawal. He was loud, hard to
predict, occasionally charming, and very good at talking his way out of
trouble.
He was also a fidgeter.
Kian hadn't understood first hand, but he'd known it was to do with the drugs.
Of course it was. Even if he was up, even if he'd somehow gotten a hit, Kevin
would fidget. Chew his nails. Jiggle his knees. Toss a ball from hand to hand,
bottom lip gnawed over and under in an endless, reddening roll. He'd change the
TV channel a hundred times before settling back on the same program, then go to
look in the fridge, walking back and forth from the kitchen in an infinite,
futile loop.
He'd still been there when Kian had left, no closer to getting clean, no closer
to anything resembling stability. They hadn't been close. Kian hadn't thought
about him in years.
Now he felt like he was back in the house, watching Kevin march in and out of
the kitchen.
“What are you looking for?” he said finally. Shane paused. There was a carrot
in his hand, a bite taken out of the end. Kian didn't think Shane had really
wanted it, had just grabbed it for something to do.
“Dunno.” He sat back down. Kian saw his eyes dart to the phone on the wall,
which had been silent since Kian had unplugged the jack. Their own phones were
in the study on charge, switched to silent.
Kian turned on the television, thinking maybe it would distract Shane. And for
a while, it did. Then the news came on, and Kian saw Shane's eyes dart to the
phone.
“Why don't we go for a walk?” Kian suggested. He didn't really want to. It was
cold outside and he was exhausted, but anything was better than watching Shane
fidget.
“I'm okay.”
“Why don't you tell me a story, then?”
“Not really in the mood.” Shane pursed his lips. “Do you mind if I go check my
phone? It's just I'm expecting...”
“I never said you couldn't,” Kian reasoned, though he couldn't help his stomach
sinking. “I just asked if you minded as a favour to me.” That made Shane pause.
He looked utterly conflicted. “If you want to spend all night on your phone,
fine. That's your business.” Kian looked back at the television. “I'm just
getting sick of people calling at all hours of the day. It's pissing me off. We
didn't do anything.”
“We're heroes, though.”
“Why? Because we were in the right place and called an ambulance?” Shane
deflated slightly. He was really believing it, Kian realised. All the hype.
“They're not interested in us, Shane. They just want to harass us until
everyone gets bored, and I'm bored already.”
“Maybe we were meant to be there,” Shane said. “Did you ever think of that?
Like...” He bit his lip. “I knew. I don't know how I knew, but I knew I was a
supposed to be there. What if someone wants to talk to me about it?”
“Iwant to talk to you.”
“No, you don't want to talk to anyone.”
“Because there's nothing to say.” Kian knew he sounded frustrated. Shane's face
was going flat, the way it did when he wasn't sure if he was annoyed or upset
yet. “We told them everything we know. There's someone in a damn hospital bed
who doesn't know who he is. This isn't about you.” He stood up, crossed into
the study, and unplugged Shane's phone. Tossed it to him. “There you are. I'm
going out.”
“Kian...” He looked sorry, but Kian saw it. The flash of greed and relief when
he caught the phone. “I didn't mean...”
Kian shook his head and headed upstairs to get dressed.


*


The strange thing about finishing early was that it made everything seem later
than it was. Between coming home and stropping out Kian had already put on his
pyjamas, watched a few hours of television, had dinner, argued with Shane, and
gotten dressed again. He was surprised by the amount of people on the street
and then remembered it was six thirty on a Friday night, and of course there'd
be families about with children.
He didn't know where he was going. Hated himself for bringing his phone, though
it was mostly just in case Shane called with an emergency. What emergency, Kian
wasn't sure, but in a pinch he was certain Shane could make something up.
There were two news vans parked in front of the hospital when he passed it. He
shook his head and kept going. Vultures, apparently. It had been a week and
nobody appeared to be any closer to finding anything out, were just repeating
the same fucking information over and over again.
He wondered what the poor guy was doing up there. What he thought about the
sudden flurry of interest, trapped in a hospital room with everyone wanting to
ask him questions he didn't know the answer to. If he knew how to feed and
dress himself, or if all the important stuff was there, just not who he was, a
blank slate in a body that remembered how to walk and talk.
The message came through just as he was thinking about heading home.
I'm sorry, it said.
Kian turned the car around.


*


The house was dark, when Kian got home. He found Shane in bed, squashed over on
what was slowly becoming his side. Kian sank down beside him, pulling himself
over until he could sit cross-legged, looking down at his friend.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Shane mumbled back. He was out of it. Kian could tell already. Had taken
something, probably to calm his nerves. He'd been crying. Kian wanted not to
feel guilty. He hadn't done anything wrong. Still, with Shane it wasn't about
blame, it was about whatever muddled, fucked up feelings were going on in that
head of his, getting confused with rational thought and drowned under whatever
cocktail of prescriptions he was on at the time.
“What did you take?”
“It's safe. I'm fine.” That had to be good enough. “I'll sleep for a while.”
“That's probably a good idea.” Kian pushed dark hair back from a forehead that
wrinkled under his touch.
“Are you angry with me?”
“No.” He sank down to lay alongside Shane. “I'm not. I'm just frustrated.” He
reached out an arm, let Shane roll into it. Wished for once it wasn't up to him
to be the comforter. “Do you understand why?”
“Yeah,” Shane huffed. “Why do you always want things to be boring?”
“I don't. I just...” He looked into vacant hazel eyes that probably wouldn't
remember this conversation in the morning anyway. “I've got a life, Shane. I
can't just fuck about enjoying my fifteen minutes over something stupid. I have
a job to go back to after it's all over.”
“A job you don't even like.”
“I do like it.”
“You always complain about it.”
“I'm happy to have one,” Kian reasoned. “I'm comfortable. This wasn't something
I needed.” Shane had, he realised. A stable job was foreign to him, but Kian
knew he avoided boredom at all costs. Boredom to Shane was sitting in one place
stuck in his own head. He was like the sea, needing to move and rage before he
could be calm again, sweeping everyone up in the tide until they either got to
safety or drowned. Kian wasn't sure which one he'd been doing for the last
twenty years, but he was still here, at least, bobbing in Shane's currents.
When he looked down he realised Shane was asleep.
Kian went to put his pyjamas on and slid into bed. He rested his head on
Shane's chest and pulled an arm around himself, wanting to feel held for once,
if only until he fell asleep.


*


He dreamed of the sea.
It was dark, the wind a howl around his ears, yanking wet hair and blowing salt
into his eyes. The waves were angry, the little house a cold pinprick in the
darkness. He cried out. Tried to swim. Legs kicking far above the sea-bed, the
water dragging him backwards while the house floated further away, the candle-
light in the upstairs window turning it into a lantern being carried into the
night.
A wave slapped over him, slammed him down. He surfaced spluttering. Couldn't
see the house. Couldn't see anything. The next one threw him under, his mouth
open in a helpless scream.
He floated. The rage above him, the water a slow, beating heart that held him
still, green and golden and shattered with starlight, the rush of the currents
like a song from another room.


*


Shane wasn't in bed when Kian woke, though that was nothing new. Probably
pottering around downstairs. Maybe outside. The window was open, blowing the
cold in, so he shut it with a grimace, clumsy in his hastily kicked-on
slippers, robe flapping about him until the latch was flicked shut.
He raked his hair back, out of his eyes. Windy, today. Cold too. The sky was
clear, though, a blustery early-summer day.
Shane wasn't downstairs. There was no sign he ever had been. No incidental
mess, no door left carelessly open. Kian opened the front door and peered out,
knotting his robe tighter when the wind found him again. The sea was beautiful,
the same greying blue as the sky, rippled with indecisive breakers that rolled
under and crashed into themselves. He shielded his eyes against the sun.
He forgot Shane for a while. There wasn't much point fretting, really. Shane
would come back when he wanted. Was probably hunting down a news reporter to
tell more stories to. He made toast. A cup of tea. Enjoyed the silence for long
minutes, the solitude of being in his own house on his own time, not worrying
about intentions or comfort or bad memories. After he ate he went outside and
sat on the beach with another cuppa, staring out at a yacht that bobbed in the
distance, a triangular white cloud drifting over the waves.
He was walking back up the garden path when he was hit.
He yelped. Jumped back. Hadn't seen it coming, just a dark flurry and the
impact, the one that was making his heart slam defensively in his chest as he
looked at the ball of wet leaves on the path in front of him.
“Take that.”
“Shane...” He looked up. On the roof, peering over the edge of the gutters. The
open window, he realised too late, though how could he have suspected? A smooth
wall capped with a high slant of crumbling slate. You'd have to be stupid or
crazy.
“Good morning.” Shane hurled another handful of leaves. Scooped from the gutter
Kian had been meaning to clean out. They landed with a wet splat on the pavers.
“That's disgusting. Shane...” He began to brush green muck of his shirt. “Don't
touch that. It's probably got mould or something.” Shane shrugged. “What are
you doing up there?”
“You closed the window.”
“Why didn't you yell?”
“I wasn't ready to come down yet,” Shane reasoned. “How was your tea?”
“It was fine.” Kian sighed. “Stay there. I'll get a ladder.”
“I'm fine.” Shane pushed himself up, wobbling slightly. Kian felt his stomach
knot around his heart. Heard the rattle of loose shingles. Could see it
already; through the roof and into the attic, probably. Best case it'd just be
the house that was hurt, worst case he'd break his bloody neck. “I'll climb
down the pipe.”
“Please don't.” He put both hands up. Shane wobbled again. “Seriously, Shane.
I'll get a ladder. Just...” He stared at his friend for a long moment, trying
to somehow communicate how serious he was. That this wasn't just a laugh, the
two of them climbing trees or shimmying up walls. “Stay there.”
Shane rolled his eyes. Kian ran. To the shed. Wrestled the ladder out and was
halfway back to the house when he heard a ceramic smash.
Then another.
There was no cry, no shout, but he heard the silence. Felt it, even as he ran,
his shoes slapping on pavement.
Heard the sudden, sickening thump.
He let the ladder go, heard it clatter, ignored it. Eyes already stinging with
tears that caught the wind as he rounded the corner, choking on his own breath.
“Shane?”
He slid to his knees. Felt the stone shred his pyjama bottoms, then his skin in
the same breath. Was too scared to touch. You weren't supposed to touch, not in
case you made it worse, but Shane was on the ground, twisted all the wrong way,
and...
“Kian.” It was dazed. Kian couldn't reply. “Don't worry about the ladder.”
Kian's laugh was choked with tears. Shane blinked at the sky. There was blood
on his cheek. He was too still.
“I'm not dead,” Shane said. “Part marks for that?”
“At least,” Kian agreed. “Please keep being alive while I call an ambulance?”
Shane shrugged. Actually shrugged. A good sign, Kian hoped, though he hissed
with pain. His left wrist looked wrong.
Kian sprinted for the house.


 
***** Chapter 6 *****
"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myself - I'm somebody
else - that's me yonder - no - that's somebody else got into my shoes - I was
myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my
gun, and every thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my
name, or who I am!"
-Rip Van Winkle, Washington Irving
 
It felt surreal, calling the ambulance again. Waiting for it to come. The
horrible vigil, watching every breath, talking fast and pointless and telling
Shane to stay awake, please stay awake, though Shane kept smiling vacantly and
looking off into the distance, his eyes drooping shut.
They checked him carefully. Gave him gas and strapped him to the trolley and
asked Kian about prior medical history. Asked if he'd taken anything. Kian
couldn't, in all honesty, say that he knew. Just said it was possible. They
asked what prescriptions he was on. Kian couldn't help with that either.
Two hours later, watching Shane sleep, he finally let himself cry.
It was brief. A fury of tears that left as quickly as it came, leaving him with
a sore throat and tear-stained cheeks. Couldn't say that he was sad, or even
angry. Just helpless and frightened, about more than the concussion and the
cast on Shane's arm. The creeping knowledge that he'd not worried about Shane,
for only half an hour, and this had been the result of his carelessness.
Ridiculous, probably. Shane was a grown-up. One who was away for months at a
time. Who'd done something so stupid as to climb onto the roof because there
hadn't been enough reasons not to.
It was exhausting. Kian was exhausted.
He left Shane asleep. Went for a walk. The coffee was dreadful, but it was hot.
He sipped it. Wandered through the downstairs foyer, around the gift shop,
looking at smiling teddy-bears holding cheerful hearts. Thought about getting
Shane some balloons then figured it was more trouble than it was worth when
Shane would insist they come home with them and Kian would have to clean up
deflated rubber after watching them wilt for two weeks while Shane promised to
throw them out.
He was staring at a row of champagne flutes that said Congratulations It's A
Girl when he felt presence beside him.
“Hey.” The detective they'd met a few times before. Byrne. Shane had said some
fairly suggestive things about men in uniform after he'd left the last time,
and Kian understood. He was very cute, though this time he was in day clothes,
a polo shirt and jeans, sunglasses propped up on his hair. “Fancy seeing you.”
“Detective.” He stuck a hand out for a companionable shake. “You here to see
the mystery man?”
“No. Cousin's just had a baby so I'm dropping in to say hi.” He picked up one
of the champagne flutes, turned it over, then put it back down with a grimace.
“Meant to buy something better, but the little bugger didn't want to wait three
more weeks for the due date, so needs must.” He turned to look at the shelf
behind them. “You can call me Nicky, by the way. Your part in the whole thing's
basically done, so don't worry about it.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Girl.” He looked up. “What are you in for?”
“Visiting.” He probably looked a mess. Had thrown on jeans and a shirt while
the paramedics had been getting Shane sorted, though his hair was still messy
from bed and the wind, and he suspected he needed a shower. “I mean, I came in
the ambulance, so it's probably not visiting exactly, but...”
“What happened?”
“Shane was... cleaning the gutters.” It wasn't technically a lie, and it was
better than explaining. “He fell off the roof.”
“Jesus.”
“Just a broken wrist and a concussion.” The look of alarm ebbed slightly from
concerned blue eyes. “I'll head home soon, have a shower. Come back in later
when he's awake.” The detective nodded and picked up a pink stuffed rabbit from
the shelf, looked at it, then put it back. “You're probably sick of being here,
right? With the investigation and everything?”
“It's been interesting,” Nicky agreed carefully. Kian got it. He probably
couldn't go chatting about it in detail. “Are you two still getting the press
annoying you?”
“It's slacked off a bit.” Nicky nodded. “Saw them outside. Think they'll get
bored soon?”
“I hope so. There's nothing new to tell them.” He glanced at Kian. “Saw Shane
in the paper a few times.”
“Yeah,” Kian mumbled awkwardly. Nicky was giving him a look he wasn't sure how
to read. “How's he doing?”
“Shane?”
“No. The... you know.” He gestured upwards, in the general direction the lad
probably was. “I mean, it must be scary, right? They haven't found family or
anyone? Like, does he remember how to dress himself and stuff, or is he just
kind of... y'know.” He paused. Nicky was smiling. Kian realised he'd been
thinking about it more than he'd realised. “Sorry. You're probably not allowed
to talk about it.”
“It's fine.” Nicky picked up the rabbit again and began to head towards the
counter. Kian trailed beside him. “He's lost. I feel for the guy, you know? I
think he's lonely more than anything.” He hesitated, looking sidelong at Kian.
“Would you like to meet him, maybe? I'm sure he'd appreciate the company.”
“I don't know.” He bit his lip. “I wouldn't want to annoy him.”
“I'm headed that way. Come upstairs if you want.” Nicky paid and took the bag.
“If you don't want to, it's fine. It's a weird situation. He might say no,
anyway.” Kian shrugged awkwardly. “He's asked after you a few times.”
“Me?”
“Well, you did save him.”
“Haven't you read the papers? Shane did that.”
“I'm sure he helped.” A hand clapped down onto Kian's shoulder. “If you're not
coming, I'll see you.” He began to move away. Kian swallowed.
“Wait,” he called out. Nicky looked back. “Okay. Yeah. There aren't any press
up there, are there?”
“Not that I know of.” Nicky lifted a hand in invitation. “Hurry up. My cousin's
got a baby I still haven't met yet.”


*


It was quiet upstairs. The sign said the maternity ward was to the right, but
they turned left instead, down a corridor. Nicky was friendly out of uniform,
was chatting and asking questions and talking about his cousin. By the time
they made it to a door at the end of the hallway they were arguing about the
football, Nicky laughing and Kian wondering if it was okay to thump a police
officer for supporting the wrong team.
“This is him.” The blinds were closed. Nicky reached for the doorknob. “Wait
here. I'll see if he minds.”
He disappeared, leaving Kian stood uncertainly in the hall, looking at a
vending machine that had a crisp packet stuck halfway out of one of the
pockets. It was absurdly infuriating. He was considering giving it a shake when
the door opened again.
“He's just woken up.”
“Oh... I'll go then, if he's not...”
“He wants to say hi,” Nicky assured him. “I have to go. He'll let you in when
he's dressed.” Kian nodded. “Are you okay? You look a bit pale.”
“Just... a really long morning.”
“I getcha.” Nicky clapped him on the shoulder. “Hope Shane's alright. I'll
probably see you around. Take care of yourself, yeah?” Kian said he would. Then
he was alone, watching Nicky jog back down the hall towards the maternity ward.
The crisp packet was still sat halfway out of the pocket, caught on the metal
coil. Kian stared at it. He could hear shuffling in the room behind him, but it
appeared he was alone for a minute at least, and he stepped closer to peer
through the glass.
He gave it a quick shake, then glanced around to make sure nobody had heard.
They hadn't. Private rooms, obviously, a bit more secluded from the rest of the
hospital.
He gave it a gentle rock, then harder when he saw the packet shift slightly. It
was quite low down. He wondered if he could reach up and grab it through the
slot and then decided that was too much like stealing and not enough like
letting gravity take its course. Still, somebody had paid for it, had probably
been annoyed when it had gotten stuck, so if anything Kian was doing them a
favour.
The door clicked behind him. He didn't have enough time to turn around, both
hands still on either side of the machine.
“Tried that.” It was a soft voice, a little cheeky. Kian glanced over his
shoulder. “It's been stuck since I got here.”
“Thought I'd bring you a gift?” Kian attempted. The man rolled his eyes. He
looked better than last time, at least. Dark hair pushed back, a little stubble
around the jaw that suggested a shave the day before. His eyes were laughing.
Blue, like the ocean. Badly chapped lips pursed into a smirk, though there was
a healing cut on the bottom one, a healing graze on his left cheek, red against
the pink of fading sunburn
He was taller than Kian. Broader, though it was in a slightly hunchy way that
made him look awkward and unsure. Kian smiled carefully back.
“Hi.”
“Hello.” He shuffled in his slippers. The gown was a little too big over
hospital pyjamas. “Kian.”
“That's me. Yeah.”
“I remember you.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “I mean, that's
not something I've gotten to say much, but... I'm sorry, it's all jumbled. Did
we know each other before?”
“Before?”
“Before... you know. I remember there was water, but they said you found me at
the beach, so I wasn't sure if that was when I remember you from, or if it was
another time? Or maybe just from the papers and I put it together wrong. I'm
not sure.”
“We didn't know each other before.” He saw the man's face fall slightly.
“Oh. That's fine. I figured. Thank you, anyway. And... Shane?”
“That's him.” Kian resisted the urge to sigh. The man was looking at him too
hopefully. “I feel like I should ask you your name, but...”
“Mark.” He shrugged. “It's all I remember. They said not to let the press know
in case vultures started making things up and pretending they know me, but I
figure you're probably okay to tell considering you saved me and everything.
Maybe if enough people start calling me that I'll remember or something.” He
smiled weakly. “Er.”
“Mark it is,” Kian agreed. The lad was sweet. Very earnest. Kian liked him
immediately.
“Do you want some help? Maybe we can do it together. I'll kick, you shake.”
“Teamwork,” Kian chuckled. “Wait, I think I have...” He rummaged in his
pockets, came up with a handful of loose change and quickly counted it out
before starting to push coins into the slot. He hit the buttons, and both of
them watched as the spiral turned, dropping the packet into the tray. Kian
pulled it out triumphantly.
“Success.”
“Want to split?” Kian began to open it.
“Okay.” Mark looked at the packet curiously. “I don't know if I like cheese and
onion.”
“You're about to find out.” He held out the bag. Mark took a crisp, popped it
in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. Then he swallowed and reached out for
another.
“I like cheese and onion.” Kian laughed. “Come in?”
Kian went in, shutting the door behind him.


*


It was a small room. Better than Shane's, down in the shared outpatient ward.
Obviously for extended stays. There was a window, but it looked out onto the
parking lot instead of the sea, and the bed was a little more comfortable than
the basic reclining plank Shane had been in. This one had proper blankets, not
just paper-thin sheets.
“Do you want a cup of tea or anything?”
“Just had a coffee.” He sat down in a nearby chair, which wasn't too
uncomfortable, and put the packet on the nightstand where they could both reach
them. “You like tea, do you?”
“I like tea.” Mark sat back on the bed. “I also like steak sandwiches,
Skittles, and cabbage soup.”
“Not together I hope?”
“Not sure. Haven't tried it.” The twinkle in his eyes said he was joking. Kian
laughed. Saw a faint blush steal into pale cheeks. “I like the Simpsons as
well. I watched Friends last night. It wasn't bad.”
“The old episodes were better,” Kian pointed out. Mark shrugged. “This is
really weird. I'm sorry. I have no idea what to say.”
“That's okay. Most people don't. Or they ask a lot of questions I don't know
the answer to. I think some of them think I'm faking it, basically. Which is
stupid. I wouldn't do this on purpose. Or maybe I would. I might be that sort
of person and not know, though I don't think I am.” He hesitated, and for a
moment Kian saw the smile fade. Then it fixed back in place. “Anyway. I've been
talking about that for over a week, and it hasn't helped, so...”
“It must be scary,” Kian murmured. The smile faded again. This time it stayed
gone.
“Yeah,” Mark said, after a long moment's silence. He looked up. “Can I tell you
something?” Kian nodded. “Like, I know we've just met, but then everyone's
someone I've just met, so I guess technically I've known you longer than
anyone, if you know what I mean.” He was rambling a little too fast. Bryan did
it sometimes, when he didn't know what to say, so just said everything at once.
With Bryan it was different, a need to fill up space, a little exhausting at
times. This felt more like Mark was scared of it being quiet. “I erm... I'm
sort of worried that someone out there does know me. Like, saw me in the paper
or whatever, and doesn't want me back.”
“Oh.” Kian nodded, a sympathetic ache blooming in his chest. “Well, I suppose
if that's true, there's nothing you can do about it.”
“I suppose not,” Mark sighed. “I'm sorry. That's depressing. There's this
psychiatrist who keeps wanting to talk about everything, but it feels a bit
like there's nothing to talk about? Like, they're asking me my feelings and
about past traumas and all this other stuff, but like, I don't have anything to
talk about. I only just found out I like Skittles.”
“It's a good start.” Kian leaned his chin in one hand, watching Mark smile at
him. “I don't know who I am either.” Mark tilted his head in surprise. “My mam
abandoned me when I was three. I mean, I know my name and stuff, but
otherwise...” He shrugged.
“What did you do?”
“Kicked around the foster system mostly. They tried to make me talk about my
feelings too.”
“Did it help?”
“Not really. I think in the end I just had to decide for myself who I was.”
Mark nodded seriously. “That's all you can do, I suppose. Your situation's
obviously different than mine.”
“Do you like who you decided on?”
“I think so. A lot of it was out of my hands, but yeah. For the most part.”
He'd never really thought about it before, but he supposed he was doing okay.
Better than a lot of the other kids he'd grown up with had.
Mark was nodding slowly. Kian waited. It looked like he was turning things over
in his head. He reached for a crisp, ate it absently, then glanced over towards
the window.
“I remember how to do things,” Mark said finally. “Most things, anyway. And I
remember what most things are. But I don't know how I feel about any of them.”
He reached for another crisp, eyes darting to Kian for a moment as though
checking that he minded. He didn't. “Like... there was another me, and I'm a
photocopy of that one, but he did the living and I don't know yet. Or maybe I'm
just crazy.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I think I'm crazy, actually.”
He sucked in a breath. “Thanks for talking to me. I'm probably holding you up.”
“No.” Kian hesitated. He was exhausted. Really wanted to go home and have a hot
shower, but Mark looked fragile and tired and he didn't know how to leave him.
“Are you allowed to go outside?”
“Yeah. They took me for a walk yesterday, just around the hospital. I think
they're going to kick me out soon. Probably would have already, except with the
press still interested they don't want to look like they're throwing me onto
the street.” Kian blinked in horror, not sure what to say. “I get it. There's
probably sick people who need the room. I'm just taking up space.”
“Where will you go?”
“Dunno. They were talking about putting me in a care home or something. I heard
someone say dementia, which was fun.” His voice cracked slightly. Kian heard
him swallow, saw trembling lips purse while he got himself under control.
“You're hardly thirty. They're just going to put you in an old folks home?”
“I guess so. Or a psychiatric centre.”
“They're not so bad. Sh... my friend was in one for a bit. He said he did a lot
of arts and crafts.”
“Maybe I'll find out if I like painting too, then.” He sounded detached. Kian
bit his lip. “Maybe I'll be really good at it. Or sculpture or something.”
“I think it's more playdough and macaroni art. Less sharp edges.”
“Fair enough.” Mark looked up. He was trying to smile. It wasn't working. They
both looked up at a knock on the door, and Kian scooted back to let a nurse
come in and around the bed with a tray of food. Mark lifted the crisp packet
out of her way, replied that he didn't need anything else when she asked, and
they both watched her leave again.
“I'd better let you eat.” Kian stood. Mark was looking down at the tray. There
was a small plastic cup of Skittles in the side pocket with a smiley face drawn
on the outside. The rest of it looked not much better than airplane food. “I
have to come back later to pick up a friend. I can drop in on you again if you
like?”
“Oh. Yes please.” The smile was genuine this time.
Kian smiled back, unable to help it.


 
***** Chapter 7 *****
It is man who forces himself on things, not things which force themselves on
him.
-The Hunter and the Tortoise, West African folktale


The second journey to the hospital was a lot easier than the first. When Kian
climbed back in the car, still groggy from four hours sleep and hair damp from
the shower, it felt like that morning had been a particularly horrible dream.
The highlights were there: the leaves, the fall, Nicky, and Mark; but the rest
was blurred, like it had been sitting on an oil slick of panic and adrenaline,
and had been washed away in the hot water while he'd stood there, eyes closed
and trying make his muscles relax.
They asked who he was here to see. He meant to say Shane.
They took him to Mark's room, a nurse looking curiously over her shoulder as
she led him through the upstairs hallways.
It was probably fright, he reasoned, but part of him didn't want to see Shane.
Didn't know how to look at him without shouting or bursting into tears. He
wasn't sure which one of them he was angry with, but he was angry, a burning
knot of fear that solidified into fury when he tried to untangle it.
Mark was sat on the bed when he stepped in, looked up with a surprised smile
that lit the room.
“Hello.”
“Hi,” he managed. Mark stood up.
“You came back.”
“Promised, didn't I?” He liked the smile. It was genuine, a little shy,
reaching curious eyes that peered at him from under long lashes. “Had a shower
and all, so at least now I look like a human being.”
“You look nice.” A pink blush rose to his cheeks. Kian smiled helplessly back.
“I mean... you looked nice before too.”
“I looked like I'd been dragged through a skip.” He wondered if he should sit
down, but Mark was standing, so he supposed he was standing too.
“I wouldn't know. I think I live in pyjamas now.” Mark pulled a face, tugging
the shirt away from his skin. “I mean, they brought me some clothes from
goodwill and stuff? People donated or something. There just doesn't seem much
point wearing them when I'm in bed all the time.” He glanced towards the
window.
“It's a nice day.” Kian looked as well. Blue sky and a light breeze, a
radiating warmth in the air. “Do you want to come out for a walk?” He needed to
be checking on Shane, he knew, but maybe this was the best place for him. Just
for a little while. It sounded awful, but at least here someone else was
keeping an eye on him for a bit.
“I'd like that. Erm...” Mark looked around. “I'll have to get dressed. Do you
mind...”
“Oh, I can...” He turned dutifully around, heard Mark laugh over his shoulder.
“I meant do you mind waiting, I'll get changed in the bathroom.” Kian turned
back around, rolling his eyes. “I'll just...” He went to a shelf in the corner,
where there was a plastic bin bag, and began to rummage through, pulled out a
baggy blue t-shirt and a pair of shorts. “These okay?” Kian nodded. “Cool.
Erm...” He headed towards the door in the corner. “Two minutes.”
They headed downstairs when Mark was ready. The clothes weren't amazing, were
too big on him and obviously second hand, but he looked better out of pyjamas,
less sickly. His hair needed cutting, but otherwise he looked like a tidy,
rather normal young man. Kian caught him staring at his own reflection in the
mirrored walls of the lift more than once, gaze careful, like he wasn't sure
who he was looking at. Kian caught his eye, once, saw a smile when their gazes
locked, and smiled back until Mark went back to studying himself.
“Where are we going?”
“Not that way.” Kian steered them away from the main entrance, where he knew
the news vans were still waiting, and down a side corridor. A couple of nurses
looked up when they passed.
“Everything alright?” one of them asked carefully.
“Just going for a walk,” Mark explained. “I'll be back soon.”
She looked like she was going to protest, then hesitated. Kian supposed there
wasn't anything concrete to protest. Mark was an adult, there was nothing
physically wrong with him, and he wanted to go outside. Still, he understood.
All Mark's interactions so far had been from people who'd wanted things from
him. Wanted to use him.
Kian wasn't sure what he wanted from Mark, exactly, except the boy looked too
pale and there was nothing wrong with going outside.
They took the stairs to the underground parking garage. Mark looked nervous,
but they headed out the other way, through the fire-escape, into a sunny area
on the other side of the building. A short climb down a side-path later and
they were walking past the bus stop behind the hospital, headed for the park.
“How'd you know about this?”
“I work a couple streets over,” Kian explained. “Some of the staff get the bus
from here.”
“Oh.” They crested the hill, Mark lagging slightly behind, though his eyes lit
up when he saw the park. Not a huge one, maybe a block in size, just a mostly
kept lawn dotted by trees and a play area up the other end with a swingset and
monkey bars. Kian sat down on an available bench, leaving room for Mark to
settle beside him.
They didn't speak much, not right away anyway. Mark looked slightly
overwhelmed, was blinking around at everything, his skin almost translucent in
the sunlight with a thousand expressions ebbing over his features. A lava-lamp
of worry, delight, curiosity, and something so far away and lost Kian didn't
have a name for it. He stood, walked around restlessly for a few minutes, then
kicked off his shoes. Sat back down again. Kian put a hand on his shoulder.
“You okay?”
“Think so.” He pursed his lips. “No,” he admitted. “I'm not. I'm...” He looked
around. “There's so much of it.”
Kian shrugged, not sure what to say. Supposed there was nothing to say, not
when he couldn't make it better.
He was interrupted from his thoughts when Mark let out a sudden cry of panic
and leapt off the bench.
“What is it?” Kian stood up a beat behind him, looking around, sure there had
been a spider or something. Instead Mark was staring to the right of the bench,
backing away, and Kian laughed when he realised. “It's just a magpie,” he
chuckled. It was, looking at them sidelong and pecking at the grass near where
they'd been sitting. A moment later it flew away, something wriggling in it's
beak. Mark flinched at the flap of the wings.
“Don't like it.”
“It's just a bird. It's a kind of animal, but there's lots of kinds, like
chickens and...”
“I know what a bird is,” Mark retorted. “I just don't like them.”
“Why not?”
“Don't know.” He still looked defensive. “Think it's the wings, maybe.” He
hesitated, then moved back toward the bench, casting his gaze quickly around as
if to make sure there wasn't another one about to sneak up. He sat down
gingerly. Kian sat beside him. “Just when I think I can't get crazier...”
“You're not crazy,” Kian said quickly. Mark gave him a disbelieving shrug.
“Everyone's scared of something. If anything, it makes you more normal. Maybe
it's a clue, even, about who you were before.”
“Like we check the papers for a bird-attack victim and hope it's me?”
“No,” Kian admitted. “Still, there's a reason for it, probably. Like, I'm
scared of water.”
“Really?” Kian nodded. “Why?”
“Can't swim,” Kian admitted. “It's not even that I'm scared, I just won't go
in. Something about it I just don't like, or maybe it feels like it doesn't
like me. You know?” Mark nodded. “Stupid, probably.”
“I thought you said it was normal to be scared of things,” Mark teased. Kian
grimaced.
“Yeah, well.” He looked up. “I'm scared to go see my friend in hospital.”
“We're friends now?”
“No. I mean, yes, if you like, but I mean my other friend. He's why I was there
this morning, really. I think I'm frightened to see him hurt like that, because
I couldn't help.” It rushed out quickly, and he looked away to hide his blush.
“Because I always try to, but maybe it isn't enough, and next time I won't be
able to help either, and it'll be worse, and I...” His voice thickened, and he
swallowed quickly to clear it. “I'm scared I'll lose him, maybe.”
“Was he hurt that bad?” Mark was looking worried now. “What happened?”
“Just a broken wrist and concussion. He's fine. He fell off the roof.”
“Why was he on the roof?”
“I don't know, honestly. I never know.” He exhaled slowly, forcing his
shoulders to sink. Mark was watching him carefully. “Sorry. You don't want to
hear about this.”
“If he's not that hurt, why are you frightened of losing him?”
“It's... complicated.” Kian chewed his lip carefully, trying to think. “Maybe
that's what I'm actually afraid of. Water, and losing Shane.”
“So you're wasting time with me to avoid being with him?”
“I'm not wasting time,” Kian said firmly. Mark was looking a little hurt. “I'm
not. I wanted to see you.” He wasn't sure why. Mark was nice, but he knew a lot
of nice people. Mark was also cute, but Kian knew a lot of those as well.
Something indefinable in the way Mark smiled at him.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Wanting to see me.” Mark shrugged. “I'm not sure why you would, but it's nice,
anyway.” He hesitated. “If... you wanted to come see me when they move me, I
could send you the address? Or you could give me your number, maybe?”
“You hitting on me?” Kian joked. Mark rolled his eyes.
“Forget it.”
“I didn't mean it like that. Sorry.” He put a hand carefully on Mark's forearm,
gave it a gentle squeeze. Mark looked shyly back. “Would...” This was a stupid
idea. Of course it was a stupid idea. “If you want somewhere to stay, why don't
you come stay with me for a bit?” Mark's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “If you
want. Until you get on your feet, sort of thing. I can help you find a job, and
it's got to be better than...” He let go, still able to feel the sunkissed
warmth of hairy skin on his palm.
“I'd have to think about it.” Mark's voice was slow, careful. He peeked up from
under lowered lashes, tongue darting out nervously. “I wouldn't want to be in
the way.”
“I've already got someone in the way,” Kian snorted. “It's fine. Shane's on the
fold-out downstairs, but you can take it and he can sleep in with me.” Mark bit
his lip. “It's just an idea. No pressure.”
“I appreciate it,” Mark murmured. “Can we head back? I'm tired.”
“Sure.” Kian stood. Mark did as well. He did look tired, like even being out
here had taken it out of him. They began to walk slowly back towards the
hospital, moving in silence. Mark looked like he was thinking. Kian was doing
the same, wondering why he'd been so impetuous as to ask a stranger into his
home. Something, maybe, about Mark looking so lost, no idea who he was and with
nowhere to go. It cut close to home, obviously, but it wasn't just that. He'd
never wanted to foster other kids, never felt that need to give back apart from
occasional donations to charities when he thought of it, but this felt
different. Like something was drawing him to Mark, even if it was even more
responsibility to pile on his already overflowing plate.
He left Mark in his room, was surprised when he was pulled into a hug on the
way out the door. Hugged Mark back, able to feel a hot blush in the cheek that
pressed to his.
When he pulled back Mark's face was ablaze. Kian pretended not to notice and
promised to visit the next evening after work, then said goodbye and headed for
Shane's ward.


*


“Kian,” Shane murmured. Kian opened his eyes, not sure when he'd begun to doze.
It was late. There was a dark silhouette cut into the column of light made by
the half-open bedroom door.
“What's wrong?” he murmured. Shane shrugged. It was awkward, with the sling.
His elbow was sticking out. Kian flicked on the lamp, saw sleepy eyes dulled by
the painkillers Kian had been dismayed to find Shane had been given a
prescription for at the hospital.
“Can I have a cuddle?”
“Course you can.” He pushed back the blanket, felt his heart melt when Shane
crossed the room shyly, and climbed in. Kian lay back down, waiting until Shane
had found a position that worked with half his left arm in plaster, and then
sidled over, arm reaching across to drape over Shane's waist. A dark head
turned into neck, settling there. Kian kissed his forehead.
“Sorry.”
“S'alright.” It wasn't. But Shane was safe, and alive, and for now that had to
be enough. “I wish you'd stop frightening me. Please try to be sensible? Just
for a little while?” He felt Shane nod into his shoulder.
“I'll just ask myself 'what would Kian do?'”
“Will you now?” He laughed gently. “What would he do?”
“Probably something boring.” Kian thought about getting annoyed, but he knew
Shane didn't mean it like that. Not really. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No. Course not.” He kissed Shane's forehead again. “You always belong here.”
“I don't though, not really,” Shane murmured. Kian looked down in surprise. “It
was given to you, because somebody loved you. It's yours. I just take up
space.”
“The only person who's ever loved me in this house is you,” Kian assured him.
He felt Shane smile. “You'll always belong.”
“People said that before. Then they got sick of me. Or tried to tell me what to
do.”
“I won't do that,” Kian replied. “I can't tell you what to do. I can ask,
though, and hope you'll want to take care of yourself, because I worry about
you. I can ask if you'll please try to not be so out of it all of the time,
even if that means not numbing the pain as much as you want. It's not good for
you. It makes you sick and it makes you do silly things. You know that, right?”
“I know,” Shane breathed. “It hurts all the time, though. And anyway, I'm
injured.” He lifted his arm with a smirk, and Kian knew as much as he wanted to
believe it he probably hadn't gotten through to Shane, not properly. That maybe
he never would. “I'll try,” he promised. Kian nodded.
“Thanks.” He brushed dark hair back from a forehead smooth above dozing eyes.
“Would you like to tell me a story before you go to sleep?”
“Too tired.” His eyes were already shut. “In the morning.”
“In the morning,” Kian agreed. “Love you.”
Shane huffed a sleepy breath into his collar while Kian held him in the dark
room.


*


Kian had been eleven when Shane had told him the story about the tortoise.
He didn't know where Shane got the stories from. Suspected a lot of them were
made up, had to be, because he'd never seen Shane reading. There were books in
the house, of course, a couple with fairy-tales and nursery rhymes, but they
were the pretty sort, with princesses and magic kisses and happily ever afters.
They'd been sat in the kitchen of the house, eating peanut butter sandwiches.
They were the only two there now, not the six there'd been when they'd arrived.
The others had gone to real homes, to new parents who wanted them forever. The
people who had taken on he and Shane were fine, but they weren't parents, not
really. They were just nice people who wanted to help.
Kian had met a lot of nice people who wanted to help.
Shane had cut his corners off, was turning them out around the octagonal centre
of his sandwich.
“It's a tortoise,” he announced, as he put a little piece of celery at one end.
Kian snorted. Of course. Corners for flippers. Shane was dotting two little
blobs of jam onto the celery for the eyes.
“It's a turtle,” Kian pointed out. “Tortoises have legs. That has flippers.”
“Oh.” Shane looked down at it again. “There was a singing tortoise once, did
you know?” Kian shook his head, already leaning forward slightly. One of
Shane's stories. He was growing to love them, a little moment of startling
interest between homework and the evening news.
“One day, a hunter wandered the wrong way, and he heard a beautiful song, so he
stopped to listen. He crept closer. And closer. And even closer than that...”
“It was a tortoise?”
“You're jumping ahead. Don't jump ahead,” Shane scolded, glaring. “Let me tell
it.”
“Sorry.” Kian folded his hands on the table. Shane studied him, for a long
moment, and then he nodded in satisfaction and continued:
“The hunter pushed aside the grass, and he looked through, all quiet and
secret, and there in the middle of the clearing was a tortoise, singing the
most beautiful song and playing a tiny harp.” He looked sternly at Kian, as if
daring him to deny it. Kian shook his head. “The hunter came back the next day,
and the next, and the tortoise was always there, singing its song and playing
its harp, and he fell in love with the music.
“One day, he couldn't hold back any longer, and he climbed into the clearing.
The tortoise tried to run, but tortoises aren't very fast, so the hunter caught
up and begged the tortoise to let him hear her song. So she began to play for
him. Every day, for weeks and weeks, and as the days went by it became harder
and harder for him to leave, because it felt like the music was inside him, and
it hurt to let it go.
“So he asked her to come back with him to his hut. He'd treat her well, he
said. Give her food and water and comfort and she'd never want anything, not
for as long as she lived. He'd treat her like a queen. Eventually the tortoise
agreed, but she said it was only to sing for him, that she was to stay secret.
“He agreed. And for a while he was happy. The tortoise would sing to him and he
would take care of her in return. But soon he couldn't help himself. A singing
tortoise was amazing, and everyone would have to love the man who had it. So he
told one person, who laughed and called him a liar. Then another, who did the
same. But soon everyone was talking about the hunter who said he had a singing
tortoise, and when the chief heard this he called the man in and demanded to
know the truth. So the hunter told him that he had a singing tortoise who
played the harp, and everybody laughed at him.
“The hunter got angry. He was insulted, that people would call him a liar for
this beautiful thing that he'd found, and so he shouted that it was true, that
if he was lying may he be struck down dead.
“The chief took him at his word. He was sent to collect the tortoise, which he
did, and he brought her back to the chief's hut and asked her to sing. But she
wouldn't. He begged, and shouted, and cried, and reminded her that he gave her
food and water and comfort, but she still wouldn't sing. Wouldn't even open her
mouth to speak. The harp lay on the ground, useless, and again people began to
laugh, at this crazy, lying hunter who was trying to give a harp to a stupid
tortoise.
“Hours went by, until the chief demanded the hunter be beheaded, as he had
sworn to die if he was lying, and a promise is a promise. So they cut off his
head, and as he lay on the floor, head rolling around and blood everywhere, the
tortoise very quietly asked to be taken back to her clearing.”
“Bet they were embarrassed,” Kian pointed out.
Shane shrugged. “They were angry. Our brother was telling the truth, they said,
and you let him die. The tortoise shook her head. 'He did not tell the truth,'
she said. 'I was happy in my home, and he promised me comfort and safety, and
forgot I was his friend and not his property. I was happy to sing to him,
because it made him happy to hear it, but it wasn't enough.'”
Shane reached for a flipper and popped it in his mouth. Kian stared, his own
sandwich forgotten.
“What happened next?”
“Don't know. They cleaned up the body, probably let the tortoise go. Or they
might have eaten it. That bit's not in the story.” He swallowed, smiling.
“S'pose it's a bit like us, really. People say they want us, then get pissed
off when it turns out they can't tell us what to do.” He stretched slightly,
looking smug.
Kian shrugged, beginning to pick at his sandwich again. He supposed he knew
what Shane meant. He tried his best, but he always seemed to get into fights,
couldn't help himself when his anger got hot, usually because someone was
picking on Shane.
They finished their sandwiches in silence, until it was time to head upstairs
for homework.


 
***** Chapter 8 *****
"I will willingly go away with you, but I do not know how to get down..." They
agreed that until that time he should come to her every evening.
- Rapunzel, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm


They slept together all that night. When Kian left for work the next morning
Shane was still in the bed, snoring gently. Kian nudged him into a position
that was better for his arm, kissed his cheek when he stirred a little, and
tucked him back in.
It was cold outside. He pulled his coat up to protect him from the hard wind.
The sea was in turmoil. Beating itself against the rocks sheltering two seals,
huddled in out of the spray. By the time he slid into his car they were gone,
probably deeper under the water where it was calm, maybe headed for the caves
towards the point. He saw them there sometimes, maybe fifty or more, lolling in
the sunshine, all crowded in at the water's edge.
Work was exhausting. Bryan welcomed him back cheerfully, said all sorts of
nutters had been calling. A couple did that day as well, but Kian could already
tell the interest was dying off. There had been nothing on the news the evening
before, and when he reached the hospital after work there was only a lone van,
idling near the hospital, a man and woman stood outside it chatting
disinterestedly into their coffees.
He went down to the parking garage, took the lift up, and a few minutes later
was in the upstairs hallway, his journey not stopped or questioned by anyone.
He wondered if the hospital had lost interest in Mark too.
He knocked on the door.
Mark answered, his smile like sunshine.


*


“You're home late.”
“Sorry.” Kian wasn't sure what he was apologising for. Wasn't sure if Shane's
tone had been accusatory, at any rate. His friend was sat on the sofa when Kian
finished hanging up his coat and stepped into the living room. “Have you
eaten?”
“Not yet. Was waiting for you.” He looked up. Clearer-eyed and a little
unsettled looking. He was trying, Kian realised suddenly, had probably held off
for hours waiting for Kian to come home, the pain getting worse, the impulse
getting harder to ignore. “I had lunch.”
“Did you take your pills?”
“Just one. It doesn't feel so bad today.” Kian saw him wince as he shifted.
“How was your day?”
“Not bad.” Kian sat down beside him. “I'm going to order in. Can't be bothered
cooking.” Shane hitched an elbow.
“I'll chip in.”
“On me.” Shane wouldn't eat much anyway, so it probably didn't make much
difference, and Kian knew he was burning through the money he'd saved from all
the wankery with the press. “Maybe it's time to look for a job, if you're
staying? I don't mind paying for bills and that, I'd do it anyway, but...”
“Maybe.” Shane glanced down at his arm. Kian already knew what the excuse would
be. “I could come sell hurling sticks with you.”
“We're not hiring,” Kian said quickly. “Why don't you ask in at the career
centre when you're feeling better? Someone's always looking for backpackers to
hand out flyers and all that sort of thing. It's casual, so if you go again it
won't matter so much.” Shane nodded thoughtfully. “I can help with your resume
if you like?”
“Okay. Thanks.” He tilted his head. “So what are we eating?”
They ordered Chinese. Shane waited until he was almost halfway through his Kung
Pao chicken before slipping upstairs. He came down looking slightly less edgy,
and settled next to Kian with his legs crossed on the sofa, eyes fixed on the
television and the carton held in one hand, chopsticks navigating clumsily back
and forth to his mouth.
“Working tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” Kian nodded. “I erm... I might have to stay late a few nights this
week. Just a heads up.”
“How late?”
“Nine-ish?”
“Yuck.” Shane pulled a face. “Why?”
“Manager stuff. There are accounts and things I have to do.” They'd take him
all of ten minutes. He wanted to go see Mark, didn't want to tell Shane in case
he was on the phone to the papers the moment Kian walked out the door. Maybe he
was worried Shane would get jealous, a little, wasn't quite ready to tell him
about asking Mark to stay. Whatever the reason, there was nothing to be gained
by mentioning it.
Shane seemed to accept that well enough. After dinner Kian went upstairs for a
hot shower, and then they stayed up late together, watching TV and laughing
over stupid things. Shane seemed clearer tonight, more like the old Shane, who
was funny and interesting and told outlandish stories that weren't true but
were at least entertaining to listen to. By the time he went to bed he could
feel it, that old soft warmth, the one that wanted to treat Shane as his equal,
not this lost boy he needed to protect.
He dreamed of the ocean. Of Mark, sat on a rock, the spray a cascade around him
while he reached a hand down and Kian tried to claw for the surface.


*


Kian began to look forward to being with Mark, as the days went on. Every
evening after work he'd close up the shop, lock the front door, and walk the
few blocks to the hospital. Sometimes he'd walk with Bryan on the way to the
bus stop, if the other man was on the later shift as well, but usually it was
alone, hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets as the air got colder, the
antiseptic smell when the automatic doors opened becoming far too familiar a
scent.
There were bags whenever Kian arrived, charity parcels, and letters from both
people who were nice and people who seemed to be slightly unhinged, often
ranting that Mark was their grandfather who'd gone missing in the war, or
somesuch impossible bollocks. Kian read them so Mark didn't have to, showing
him the ones that had something funny to say, and crumpling up the upsetting
ones to throw in the waste-basket near the door.
“I'm going in a few days,” Mark announced one evening, not long after Kian had
arrived. He'd been visiting just over two weeks, had managed to hide it from
Shane. He was beginning to feel guilty about that. He could see Shane was doing
his best, was clearer than usual and had even contributed around the house, the
place vacuumed and tidied more often than not when Kian finally arrived home.
He didn't trust it, not entirely, but Shane was trying and that was enough for
now.
“Where are you going?”
“Halfway house.” Mark reached for a card from the deck. They were playing poker
badly. Kian had explained the rules from what little he remembered from playing
for matches over a decade before, and they'd both lost interest in trying to
win and were just passing the time. “Call.”
“Pair of threes.”
“Three nines.” Mark began to scoop up the cards.
“Are you okay with that?”
“Suppose so.” He hesitated slightly, looking up from under lowered lashes.
“It's probably easier. I wouldn't want to be a burden on anyone else, and they
can help me get work there. Reskill. Or skill, I suppose. Maybe it'll turn out
I was really good at working at Starbucks, in my past life.”
“Could be a rocket scientist?”
“Get me something radioactive to poke and we'll find out.” Mark began to deal
the cards. “I don't know what I want to do, really. It feels so weird, like
I've just been born and I have no idea what's going on, but I'd better hurry up
with being a productive member of society.”
“Do you know your times tables at least?”
“I know how to spell boobs on a calculator, does that count?”
“Good enough,” Kian laughed. Mark smiled. “The offer's still open, if you want
to come stay with me.” Mark shrugged, and fixed his gaze intently on his cards.
“If you don't want to, I won't be offended. Really.”
“I do,” Mark murmured. He glanced up shyly. “I don't want to be in the way.”
“You won't be.” He covered Mark's hand with his own, returned the hopeful smile
that twitched at full lips. He really was beautiful. Dark hair, pale skin, red
mouth. Like a porcelain doll. Kian realised he was staring and shook himself.
No, that was an inconvenient thought. Still, he couldn't deny that as they'd
gotten closer he'd felt it. That undeniable pull, the thrill when Mark's eyes
would lock with his, when he'd laugh. The feel of warm skin under his when he
squeezed Mark's hand.
“I...” His tongue darted out for a moment, and Kian waited while he swallowed
and looked down at his hands, the one with the cards and the one held in
Kian's. “Thank you. For offering, even. I...” He leaned in, and Kian was
surprised when a kiss pressed shyly to his cheek. Mark pulled back, blushing.
His hand was still in Kian's. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” Mark repeated. “But if I'm in the way, even a bit...”
“I'll kick you out on the street, I promise.”
“Cheers.” Mark smiled. Looked down at his cards. His hand slid from Kian's.
“Erm... ooh!” He grinned at his cards, then sobered, forcing himself into a
poker face. “It's just an okay hand. Not even good at all.”
“I'm sure.” Kian peered at his own. “Nothing.”
“Three kings.” Mark threw down his cards. “It's getting late. Can you stay?”
“One more.” Kian glanced at the clock. “I've got tomorrow off. How about I pick
you up around midday. Gives me time to tidy the place and make room for your
things.”
“What things?” Mark rolled his eyes. “Yes, please.” His smile was beautiful.
“Thank you, Kian.”
“You're welcome.” He found himself smiling helplessly back as he began to
shuffle the deck again.
He wondered what the hell he was going to tell Shane.


*


“I'm sorry?”
“He's... going to stay with us.” Shane was tilting his head, like he was sure
he'd misheard and was waiting for the wax to trickle out of his ears. “I ran
into him while I was waiting for you in the hospital.”
“That was three weeks ago.”
“Yeah, well...” The gaze fixed on him narrowed. “I was a bit all over the place
with you hurting yourself, and then I sort of forgot. Then the other day after
work I just... I got this feeling like I should go visit, you know? They're
going to put him in a halfway house otherwise.”
“Oh.” Shane didn't believe him. Kian didn't know that he minded, so long as
they didn't have to talk about it. “Where's he going to sleep?”
“Thought he could take the fold-out. You can sleep in with me.” Shane was doing
that anyway. Climbing in late and snuggling up to Kian, often sneaking back out
to the sofa before dawn, as though he wanted to pretend he hadn't.
“Thanks for the charity.”
“If you don't want to...”
“Didn't say that.” Shane pursed his lips. “Suppose... I mean, that's sort of
news, isn't it? We saved him, and now he's our room-mate.”
“Please don't,” Kian sighed. Shane's face fell. “I've had enough of the press,
Shay. I doubt they even care any more.”
“People could be interested in a story like that. Fairytale ending. And if they
pay us, we can split it. I mean, he hasn't got any money, has he? It'd be a
good thing.”
“No,” Kian said firmly. Shane stared blankly back. “He's not a toy. If he
suggests it, we can talk about it, but otherwise I don't want you bringing it
up.” Shane's mouth opened to protest. “Remember the story about the singing
tortoise?”
“What about it?”
“How does it go?”
“Who cares? I'm not...” Shane must have realised Kian was glaring, because he
sighed. “Fine. I get it.” Kian didn't know if he did, but his friend looked
away, crossing his arms. “You know, the tortoise was kind of shitty as well. It
let someone suffer just to prove a stupid point.” He stood up. “Guess I'd
better move my things, if he's going to be taking up the sofa.”
His departure was marked by the sullen thump of suitcase wheels up the stairs.


*


Kian felt a little like a spy, smuggling Mark out of the hospital. He took over
an empty suitcase around lunchtime, and together they filled it with what few
possessions Mark had. They left a lot behind. Donated clothes that didn't fit,
gifts that weren't really needed. The nurses promised to make sure the teddies
and useable items made it to good homes, and Mark thanked them and said goodbye
before being ushered out a back entrance to Kian's car.
There was a social worker. Nice enough lass who was in charge of making sure
Mark didn't get taken advantage of, but even she didn't seem enormously
concerned. Kian supposed she had other things to worry about, people who
weren't of sound mind or more vulnerable than a cheerful enough young man who
had somewhere concrete to go.
It was sweet, driving with Mark in the passenger seat, watching him stare out
the windows as they wound through town and out toward the spit, face pressed to
the glass and asking questions like he was a tourist in a foreign country.
“This is where you live?” he asked, as they pulled up. Kian nodded.
“This is it.” He pulled the handbrake, tugged the key from the ignition. Mark
was still staring out. It was a beautiful day. The sky glass-blue, sea a
heaving swell of green. He could see the silhouette of Shane in the upstairs
window, staring out, and he lifted his hand in a wave, saw it returned before
the curtains were drawn and the figure disappeared.
“It's pretty.”
“Thanks.” He climbed out, retrieved the suitcase, and began to lug it up the
path and across the small front lawn while Mark stared around with wide eyes
that seemed to take everything in at once. When he pushed the door open Shane
was in the kitchen, his shuffling a harmony to the whistle of the kettle,
though he stuck his head out.
“Hiya.” He looked at Mark. Mark stared back. Kian stayed silent, aware that
they were sizing each other up and not wanting to break the careful equilibrium
that was trying to settle. “You take milk?”
“Oh... yes please.” Mark reached out a hand. Shane shook it. “Thanks. For
having me. I told Kian I didn't want to be in the way, but...”
“Course you're not,” Shane said quickly. “Sugar?”
“Two?”
“Grand.” Shane disappeared back into the kitchen. Mark stared after him, teeth
worrying his bottom lip.
They got Mark settled quickly. Shane showed him how the couch pulled out, Kian
got his things stored away in the study, and just like that they had a new
house-mate, a third toothbrush in the cup beside the bathroom sink, an extra
body taking up space in the living room while Shane flicked absently through
channels on the television.
They seemed to get along okay. By the time Kian was serving dinner the stilted
conversation had developed into soft laughter, the two of them sat on the sofa,
Shane telling stories about Kian from their youth and Mark asking questions,
giggling whenever Kian would come into the room and ask what Shane was making
up about him.
They ate at the garden table, the sea murmuring over the ridge.
“We're glad you're here,” Shane said. Kian tried not to hug him.
“Thanks.” Mark glanced at Kian, who smiled back. “And for... before. Kian said
you were the one that found me.”
“I'm psychic,” Shane announced.
“Are you?”
“He's just very lucky,” Kian interrupted. Mark was looking confused. Shane
pouted. “We were all lucky. You got found, and we were in the right place at
the right time.”
“Kian doesn't believe me. I know things.”
“What things?”
“Like... sometimes I get a feeling, right? That something's going to happen.
Like I knew we had to go for a walk, and we found you. Or once I had this
feeling like I had to go back home, and when I did I'd left the oven on.”
“Or you just remembered you'd left the oven on, possibly,” Kian pointed out. It
was a surprise it didn't happen more often, with Shane's mind three steps
behind itself half the time. “It happens to everyone, Shay.”
“Once I was at work, and I got this feeling like I had to leave, and the next
day it turned out there'd been a gas leak and four people were in the
hospital.”
“Where was that at then?” Kian asked.
“Just... work.” Mark was watching in rapt attention. “Once I knew a car was
going to run a red light, and I jumped in front of it before it could hit an
old lady. Broke both my legs but I saved her life.”
“Really?” That one was definitely made up.
“Well, we should all be so lucky. Anybody want dessert?” Kian stood up. “Shane,
could you clear the plates, please? I'll get the ice-cream.” Shane began to
dutifully collect the dishes, joined Kian in the kitchen just as Kian dug the
tub out of the freezer. The plates went into the sink with a clatter. Kian
thought about saying something, then decided not to. “Chocolate or strawberry?”
“Chocolate.” Shane began to dig out bowls. “Kian?”
“Yeah?”
“He can stay.”
“Good.” He leaned in, kissed Shane quickly on the cheek. “Thanks for being
sweet to him.” Pink flush spilled into pale cheeks. “He's part of our gang now,
right? Just us lost boys?”
“Yeah.” Shane grinned shyly. “Extra numbers against the pirates. Captain Hook
won't know what hit him.”
“Definitely not,” Kian chuckled. “Just don't snore tonight, and they'll never
hear us coming.”
 
***** Chapter 9 *****
They were good bears - a little rough or so, as the manner of bears is - but
for all that very good-natured and hospitable.
-The Story of the Three Bears, Robert Southey


“So he's just staying in your house?”
“Yeah.” Kian shrugged. He'd said goodbye that morning, left Mark in Shane's
care for the day. Been a little reticent about doing it, but he was running out
of holiday pay, Margaret's hours had dropped pending her maternity leave, and
he supposed he had to let go eventually.
He'd pulled Mark aside, before he'd gone. Felt guilty doing it, but had to say
something or fret all day. That if Shane offered him anything, any sort of
medication, that Mark wasn't to take it. That he was to let Kian know. It had
felt like giving a talk to a twelve year old about peer-pressure, but Mark had
nodded solemnly and agreed, his eyes darting towards the other room where Shane
had been making breakfast out of earshot.
“What's he like?”
“Lovely.” Kian found himself smiling. He really was. Sweet and helpful and
always watching everything with those big eyes. “He's a really nice guy. Shane
gets on with him too.”
“That's your friend? He's still staying with you?”
“For now, yeah.”
“You're turning into a B&B.”
“Should start charging rent,” Kian mused. Bryan snorted. “You want a place to
stay? I'm running out of beds, but I could put an air-mattress in the shed?”
“Tempting, but I think I'll stick to my actual house if it's all the same to
you.”
“Mm.” Kian picked up the box of swimming goggles he'd meant to put out when
he'd gotten distracted. “It's fine. There's a social worker coming every few
weeks, but it's all a bit indefinite. Like, there's supposed to be government
allowances, but because he doesn't exist there's no name to really attach it
to, and he can't get a job because he can't get a bank account or ID or
anything.” The plan was to get him fresh identification, eventually, but until
the investigation finished there wasn't any way to rule out his previous
identity, especially if his memory might come back. He couldn't very well be
two people. “We're just calling him Mark.”
“That's his name?”
“Apparently.”
“Hm.” Bryan trailed him as he began to head back to the shop floor. “Still
getting calls from the nutters, by the way. Had one this morning, going on
about him being an alien. Or a government experiment. Not sure which. Not even
sure he knew himself, to be honest.”
“Brilliant,” Kian sighed. “I'm sorry. I had the news calling me this morning as
well. Apparently they've twigged he's not at the hospital, seemed to think I
might know where he is.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That I've no idea, and to please go away.”
“Polite.”
“When I said it, 'please' started with F.”
“Ah.” Bryan smirked. “Fair play.” Kian put the box down, was about to start
unpacking it, when the bell above the door rang. They both looked over. “I'll
get it,” Bryan announced, and wandered off, leaving Kian staring into a box of
goggles, not sure why he suddenly felt so tired.
The day dragged. It was raining when he left, and he gave Bryan a lift to the
bus-stop on the way, made it home just after eight, a swell of worry having
filled him as he'd wound towards the spit. Why, he wasn't sure. They were both
adults, and he left Shane at home all the time. He pushed open the door, tense
at the silence that greeted him, the dark front hall, then relaxed when he
heard the sound of laughter upstairs, a low chuckle matching a high, smirking
snort.
They were laid on their stomachs on Kian's bed watching TV, a bowl of crisps
between them. Shane looked up, still laughing, when Kian pushed open the door.
“Welcome back.”
“Thanks.” He glanced at the crisps. “You're not getting crumbs in my sheets,
are you?”
“I'm sorry. I was hungry. Shane said...” Mark looked nervous, bless him. “We'll
clean up.”
“It's fine,” Kian assured him. A shy smile began to creep into pink cheeks.
Kian smiled carefully back. “I was just taking the piss.” He sat down on the
edge of the mattress between Mark and the window, began to pull off his shoes
and socks. When he looked around Shane had lost interest again but Mark was
watching him, though his eyes darted away when Kian caught him. “How was
everyone's day?”
“Good.” Shane rolled over onto his back. “Local news called.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Told them to fuck off.” He looked triumphant when he said it. Kian reached
across to touch his shoulder fondly, then bent over to kiss his cheek.
“Thanks.” He saw Mark's eyes dart away again. “Well, I was going to suggest
ordering in, but it looks like you two have already ruined your dinner.” Kian
shrugged off his jacket, then stripped off his t-shirt, threw it in the hamper.
A clean one was on a minute later, his jeans dropped until he flopped onto the
bed in his boxers, feeling finally comfortable for the first time that day.
“That was sexy.”
“It was meant to be,” Kian shot back. Shane snorted and turned back to the TV.
He realised Mark was still looking at him. “You okay?”
“I'm okay.” A smile darted across full lips. Kian smiled back, nudged him with
a shoulder. “I'm ehm... I'm glad you're home.”
Kian didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't, just nodded and nudged him
again, saw a blush blossom in stubbly cheeks.


*


Being gay had always been an odd thing in the system. Kian had always suspected
it of himself, when he'd been younger. He'd never really been frightened of it,
nor ashamed. Had just known that he liked boys better than girls. Shane had
always been upfront about it, wore it like armour, as though he was pre-empting
anything people might say about him. He'd not been surprised when Kian had told
him. If anything, Kian had almost felt like Shane was a little put out, as
though Kian had stolen his thunder.
There were lots of gay kids, though. Some that had been disowned by their
parents, or run away from home rather than face the consequences of something
they couldn't help. Still, it was a house full of defensive, generally angry
boys, so if something was an easy target, it was a shot you could expect to be
taken.
Kian had mostly been quiet about it. He'd never seen it as his identity, not
really. Had his first time at fifteen with a sweet lad who'd lived in the house
for a bit. Not a boyfriend as such, just a lad a year older than him who had a
bit more experience. They'd gotten on okay. Kept it between the two of them,
though everyone had known including Shane, who had asked him quite frankly if
they were fucking.
Kian had said yes, they'd slept together. Shane had snorted, rolled his eyes,
and stalked out of the room, as though he was completely dismissing the entire
thing.
He didn't think he'd ever seen Shane with a boyfriend. He doubted Shane had
ever been in love. Sometimes felt a little sad for him, in the pit of his
stomach, though his own love-life was hardly cracking along.
He hadn't felt that in a long time. That tentative, sweet feeling that started
as a thorn in the bottom of his stomach, tendrilled out whenever he got a
smile, a laugh. Was determined not to feel that way when every evening Mark
would look up and greet him as Kian came through the door, give him an almost-
excited grin that was barely hidden with an affectation of disinterest. And
Kian would smile back, and ask about his day, and try not to notice the times
Mark would shift closer to him on the sofa.
Shane's birthday came. They had a small party, the three of them. Mark made a
cake. Kian was a little concerned about him burning the kitchen down, but he
did well, gave Kian a list of the ingredients to pick up and spent the whole
day stirring and pouring and icing, eyes glued to the recipe he'd printed off
Kian's laptop.
Mark liked cooking. Often when Kian came home he was in the kitchen, poking
around the fridge. Was good at it too. Shane would help. Both of them laughing
and nudging each other while Shane whisked and Mark chopped and Kian would come
in to amazing smells that filled the house.
Shane blew out his candles. When Mark asked what he'd wished for, he just
smirked and refused to say, then kissed Kian on the cheek when his knife
touched the plate.
Early on a Saturday Shane went out, said he had errands. Mark was still asleep,
was proving to be a late riser, and for the first time in the three weeks Mark
had been here Kian found himself sat alone, basking in the silence.
It wasn't something he'd expected to enjoy so much, but after an hour of
watching television on his own in the bedroom, getting his laundry sorted, and
maybe having a bit of a wank in the shower, he was feeling much better. Not as
harried, even if he was trying to be quiet in deference to the boy asleep on
the fold out.
He put the radio on and opened a book, sat at the window to read it. It was
overcast, the sea a sullen grey swell, and the seals were back again. He found
himself watching them more than he was reading, humming along to the radio, and
was so absorbed he didn't notice Mark coming up the stairs.
“Hi.” It was soft, but Kian jumped anyway, turned to find Mark peering in
through the bedroom door. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn't mean to scare
you.”
“No harm.” Kian smiled. “I was watching the seals.”
“Oh...” Mark stepped closer. Looked out, over Kian's head. The radio was still
playing, was on an advert, but while Mark stood there it changed to a song.
“Sit down, if you like.”
“It's okay. I'm intruding.”
“You're not,” Kian promised. Mark looked torn. “Shane's got a story about
seals.”
“He hasn't told me that one.” He'd been telling others, though, Kian could
tell. “He likes stories.”
“Are you sick of them yet?”
“No. I like them.” Mark settled on the bed, pulling his knees to his chest.
“The ones that are definitely made up, anyway. Sometimes I can't tell if he's
telling the truth or not, with the other ones.”
“I'd take them with a pinch of salt,” Kian admitted. “Half of the time Shane's
stories about himself are as made up as the ones with fairies and goblins in
them.” Mark nodded sagely. “You're okay being alone with him? He's not giving
you grief or messing you about?”
“No. He's nice.” There was something else, though. Kian tilted his head, saw
Mark hesitate, then smile nervously. “Just... I mean, when you asked me to move
in, I thought we'd see each other more.”
“I'm sorry.” He was. Wanted to see Mark more too. “Are you not happy here? I
didn't mean...”
“I am. Happy.” Mark was going pink. “Or... I mean, I'm grateful, and even
though I'm all messed up, I do feel like this is home, sort of. Or it's more
one that I remember having. I'm happy,” he said again. “I liked it when it was
the two of us, you know? I like Shane, but sometimes he's just a bit...” A
guilty look darted across his face. “He tires me out.”
“He's a bit like that,” Kian admitted. “Do you want me to speak to him?”
“No. God.” He shook his head furiously. “I'm not complaining. Really. Forget I
said anything.” He lowered his chin to rest on top of his knees, regarding Kian
quietly. “It's okay. It's not all the time. Sometimes he sleeps for ages and I
get the house to myself.”
“What do you do when you're by yourself?”
“Nothing, really.” Blue eyes darted away. “I erm... I think, a bit. Sometimes I
think if it's quiet enough, maybe I'll hear myself telling me who I am.” Kian
felt a lump fill his throat that he couldn't explain. “It gets lonely when you
don't even have yourself for company.”
“Mark...” Kian pushed himself out of the chair, sat down beside the lost
looking boy on the bed. He wrapped an arm around hunched shoulders, pulled him
in until he could kiss soft hair. “I'm sorry. I want to help.”
“I know.” Mark's head leaned on his shoulder. “I suppose I'm okay. If I don't
know the old me, it's harder to miss it.” He looked up. “Do you think I was
nice?”
“I think you'd have to be,” Kian assured him. “I think you're one of the nicest
people I've ever met.” Mark looked bashfully away. He brushed dark hair away
from a lined forehead. “Tell me what you need, okay? If Shane's tiring you out,
I'll take him out and distract him. If you want to come talk to me I'll make
time. This is a unique situation for me too.”
“Thanks,” Mark murmured. Kian kissed his hair again. “I erm... I'd like to go
outside, actually. Maybe for a proper walk? I feel like the world's all new,
sometimes, but I still haven't seen any of it except the hospital and the
house.”
“We can do that.” Kian smiled. “Where would you like to go?”


*


It was the perfect day for a walk, really. Cool and grey, a gentle breeze
washing the smell of salt inland while they meandered down the packed wet sand
of the spit, baseball caps shielding them from the squinting glare of the
hidden sun.
Mark looked different outside. It was something Kian had noticed before, in the
park, and the times they'd sat in the garden. Pale and not quite real, a
vulnerable feeling that swathed around him like a peeled grape, shiny and
fragile. Everything beautiful. Lips, eyes, hair, the set of him, loping legs
and the slope of his nape to his spine, clumsy fingers carrying his shoes; but
it was in a way that didn't quite fit, as though all the parts didn't equate to
a whole. Something missing. Something connective that couldn't be solved with
spit and glue.
He was lovely, though. Better when he smiled. Kian's heart ached, and he put a
hand on it to stop it, felt it beat against his palm when he saw blue eyes dart
to him, reflecting grey water.
“It's a nice day.”
“It is.” Kian looked at the surf instead, eddying in florets of foam just by
their feet. Lines of breakers as far as he could see, threatening choppy
weather later. He laughed when Mark crossed quickly in front of him to walk in
it, starting a splashing wade through the first inch or so. “How is it?”
“Cold.” He didn't seem perturbed. Moved a little deeper and laughed when a low
wave crashed around his ankles, sucking sand away when it retreated. “Was this
where you found me?”
“No. Up there a bit.” He pointed to where there was a short climb up the rocks
to a foot-high ridge running parallel to the water, though it was partly
collapsed where the paramedics had been, all those weeks before.
They approached it slowly. Soon they were climbing the rocks, Kian's hand out
to steady Mark, though he didn't appear to need it. The wind was calling louder
now, and when Kian looked he could see blue sky inland, over the hills, though
the clouds were moving fast to fill it.
It was different in the daytime. Kian realised he hadn't been back here since
that night. Passed it from a distance, of course, driving to and from work, but
the road was thirty metres away, through scrub and sand. Now it looked small. A
wonky, crumbling dip in a sandy ridge, dry and eroded by the outgoing tide.
He glanced at Mark, saw a tongue dart out nervously to wet bitten lips, then
retreat.
“You okay?” Mark nodded, stepped a little closer. Kian took his hand without
thinking, felt it squeeze fretfully into his. “If it's too much...”
“It's not,” Mark murmured. Their fingers laced together. “I don't remember
this.” Kian nodded. “I remember you, but I don't...” He glanced sidelong at
Kian. “I'm supposed to remember, aren't I? I mean...” He sighed and stepped
down, leaned back to sit on the edge of the ridge. Kian went with him. Unlaced
their hands to put an arm around his shoulders. “Fuck.”
“I'm sorry.”
“It's not your fault. I don't know what I expected.” Mark bit his lip. “I feel
like I died here, but I'm still walking around. It's not...” He closed his
eyes, pressed his hand to his forehead. “I think things and I feel things, and
I don't know if it's the first time I've thought them or if they're old and I'm
just finding them again. Who the fuck am I?” He kicked savagely at the loose
sand by his feet, sending a spray of it into the water. Kian stayed silent.
There was no point interrupting. “Fuck.”
“Fuck,” Kian agreed quietly. Mark snorted. “I don't think you died,” he added,
when it became clear Mark was done. “Maybe it was the opposite. Mark, born 27th
of May, right here.” A grimace pinched Mark's mouth.
“Does that make you my dad?”
“I hope not,” Kian chuckled awkwardly. “Anyway, there's nothing wrong with not
having a dad. I didn't, and I think I turned out okay. Family's what you make
of it.” He leaned in to kiss Mark's cheek. “You're family, if you want to be.”
“Family,” Mark breathed. “Honorary Egan?”
“If you want,” Kian snorted. “Not that there's much honorable about it.” Mark
smiled and turned towards him, their foreheads nuzzling together. “You stay
until you want to go, alright? It's your place too.” Mark nodded, and their
noses brushed. Kian pulled away, not liking where this was heading, nor the
feelings it was stirring up. It wasn't okay, offering help then making it more,
especially when Mark was confused and vulnerable. “You want to keep walking? We
could go get the car and find a cafe for lunch, maybe. On me.”
“Sounds nice.” They helped each other back onto the ridge and started to head
back. Clambered back down the rocks and were almost back at the house when it
began to rain, a light spit that started as needles and quickly turned to
bullets.
He was about to start running, turned to say something, and stopped, caught by
dark hair beginning to soak, closed eyes turned towards the sky. Mark's lips
were curved into a smile, and when Kian stepped closer he saw raindrops
trickling down his cheeks, almost like tears.
“You okay?” he murmured. Mark opened his eyes, raindrops webbing the lashes.
“Yeah.” He ran his hands back through his hair, slicking it. His cheeks were
flushed, and for a moment he looked startingly alive. "Perfect.” A hand reached
out. Kian took it, stepped in closer, and turned his face up too, felt himself
shiver in the cold. Hot from the squelching contact between them.
“We'd better go inside,” he said after a minute, though he didn't want to.
Wanted to stay here holding Mark's hand, draped in raindrops and listening to
the howl of the wind's song.
 
***** Chapter 10 *****
“Well, now that we have seen each other,” said the unicorn, “if you'll believe
in me, I'll believe in you.”
-Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There, Lewis Carroll


Lunch was eaten quietly, sat in the back deck of a cafe in town. Nobody
bothered them. Baseball caps on and Mark wearing sunglasses, everyone too
caught up in looking at their phones or their food or their company to pay them
much mind.
Kian wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it wasn't this. Sat casually under the
awning and watching runnels of raindrops sluice over the gutters, the patter a
calming din on the roof.
He saw a brief smile, flashed from over the lip of a mug, and smiled back.
Drying hair where they'd both had a hot shower before getting dressed and
coming out. The day was starting to get away from them. Kian wasn't sure where
Shane was. He could take care of himself.
“The waiter's looking at you,” Mark mumbled. Kian glanced over his shoulder,
saw a lad in black trousers and polo shirt, a white apron knotted about his
waist.
“Oh... yeah.” He smirked self-deprecatingly into his chicken salad. Mark had
already polished off a hamburger and was picking at the fries that had come
with it, though Kian had stolen a couple. “I went out with him last year.”
“Ah. And?”
“It was fine.” Kian shrugged. “Nice enough lad. I said I'd call him.”
“Did you?”
“Not in the end, no.” Shane had shown up, fucked off his face, almost
hysterical, eye black and needing a place to stay. By the time it had all blown
over Kian had almost forgotten about the nice enough lad, the one he'd seen a
movie with and gotten along with okay.
Mark was looking at him curiously.
“He doesn't seem like your type.”
“If you figure out what my type is, let me know,” Kian sighed. Mark snorted. “I
don't know. I date, occasionally.”
“What about sex?” Kian almost choked on the lemonade he'd just taken a sip of.
Mark was going pink. “Sorry. That was inappropriate.”
“It's fine,” Kian laughed. “Just unexpected. Um.” Mark was still watching him.
“I have sex occasionally, also.”
“How long?”
“Er...” He resisted the urge to count on his fingers. “A year and a bit.” He
expected a look of surprise, maybe disbelief or disdain, but instead Mark was
still staring at him, absorbing his words like a sponge. “I went away for a
work thing, just for a couple of nights. Like, a supply roadshow thing. Hooked
up with some lad who was visiting from Dorset, peddling mouthguards and safety
padding.”
“Ooh, kinky.”
“Ha.” Kian kicked him gently under the table, got a teasing grin in reply. “It
was fine. Took him back to my hotel room, we fooled around a bit, then the next
night I went to his and we slept together. In the morning we packed up, checked
out, and I never saw him again.”
“Tragic.”
“Yeah. Well.” He pushed his plate aside, then stole another of Mark's chips.
“This is going to sound like a totally odd question, but do you know if you
like boys or girls yet?”
“Bit forward.”
“How long since you had sex?” Kian teased. Mark kicked him. “It's fine if you
don't want to answer. I was just wondering.” Mark nodded, but didn't reply. “Do
you want dessert?”
“I think I like boys,” Mark said hesitantly.
“I don't think that's on the menu. I can check with the chef.”
“Ha. Fuck off.” Mark scowled playfully while Kian waited for him to continue.
“I don't know if I've had sex, you know? I mean, I guess I probably have,
because I'm not a teenager, but I don't know...” He worried his lip, then
reached for his ginger ale and took a careful sip. “It's hard to say, I guess,
because I don't know what I was like before, so maybe this is a new thing, and
it's not like I've had a chance to see whether it leads to anything, but yeah,
I think I'm... you know.”
“Gay.”
“Yeah.”
“Is that okay?”
“I don't know. It just feels like a thing that sort of is. In a way it's
comforting. At least I know one thing about myself.” He smiled awkwardly. “Do
you think that's why nobody wants me back? Maybe my family's ashamed of me. Or
maybe someone did this to me. Because of what I am.” His fingers twisted
nervously together on the table. Kian covered them with his hand, gave a gentle
squeeze, and got a questioning look in reply.
“I think if you think about the reasons they didn't want you, you'll go mad.”
Mark nodded. “You get to realise, eventually, that it's never about you.
People's reasons are whatever makes sense in their own head, or gives them
permission to do what they were going to do all along. You are wanted.” He let
go and grabbed a chip.
“You've thought about this a lot, huh?”
“More than I'd like to admit.” Mark took the last chip, wiped up the streaks of
sauce, and popped it in his mouth. “Split an apple crumble?”
“Sure.” He pushed himself. “Going to the bathroom. You order.” He wandered away
from the table, but as he did Kian saw a bright smile darted over a sloping
shoulder and smiled back, got a bashful grin in reply.
He flagged down a waiter and asked for dessert.


*


The first time Shane had shown up at Kian's it had been not long after he'd
moved in. It had been a strange, unreal sort of time. The letter, the realtors,
meetings with lawyers that confirmed that yes, actually, the house did belong
to him. No sign that anyone had lived in it at all after his mother had left,
just abandoned to sit there, power off and falling into disrepair, the paint
weathered by salt and wind.
She was somehow even more of a mystery than his absent dad had been, the one
that he remembered his mother telling him about when he'd been very small. The
man who'd come in from the sea, some transient fisherman probably, who'd seen a
good time and left without afterthought.
Kian didn't blame him. Couldn't blame any of them, not when it meant
acknowledging that lost anger that sat as a tight cold stone in his chest.
So instead he'd worked. Fixed the place up, used his meagre savings and the
small sum of money that had come with the property to repaint the inside and
outside until it looked a bit more respectable. Filled the floor with buckets
to stop the drips and done his best to repair the roof himself. Spent weeks and
months cleaning out cobwebs and throwing out what furniture had rotted and
couldn't be saved until all that had been left was the heavy wooden bed in the
master bedroom and a chest in the attic carved of dark wood, the clasp a brass
sea-shell.
He hadn't thought about that chest in years. Finding it had felt like hope.
This strange, unique thing that felt like it was calling him. An heirloom
perhaps, full of secrets. Though all it had been full of was some old clothing,
the linens moth-eaten and the furs shiny and ragged with time, and a small
wooden boat painted blue and white.
It was still in the attic, somewhere, amongst bags of clothes he meant to
donate and boxes of old tax receipts.
He'd not known where Shane had been at the time. And over the following year
he'd almost forgotten about him, in that strange way of youth where treasured
school friends became absent memories after graduation, this boy who'd meant so
much to him for so much of his life. It was a fresh start. New house, new town,
new friends. A job he'd earned and was doing well at and the beginning of
something that finally felt like it belonged to him.
It had been a bright Saturday afternoon, the laundry basket at his feet while
he pegged wet shirts to the line in the garden when he'd seen a small figure
moving down the spit.
It had been slow. A black shape that had to be coming his way, eventually,
because there was nobody else out here and no reason to come, though seal-
watchers did occasionally make the trip as far as the gate a hundred metres
from the house, the one that reminded people that this was private property.
He waited. Finished pegging the laundry then went inside to make tea when he
saw the lope of a familiar stride, weaving slightly in a purposeful amble. He'd
just put the pot and two cups on the table in the back garden when Shane
clambered over the gate and began the walk up the drive.
Kian met him at the front door, returned the wave, then was pulling his friend
into a hug, feeling the soft breath of Shane's squeeze on his ear and a kiss on
his cheek, the narrow barrel of ribs beneath baggy clothes.
“Hey,” he'd said. When he'd looked Shane's eyes were closed and there was a
smile on his mouth that might have been relief.
They'd had tea silently in the garden, then he'd put Shane to bed. Sat on the
sofa by himself while the sunset trickled by in a sputtering blaze of burnt
scarlet, then a little longer, watching television and eating his dinner the
way he always did, not sure what to make of the figure lying heavy somewhere
above his head.
He'd been about ready to go to bed himself when he'd heard a creak of a door
and the track of footsteps, had looked up to Shane hesitantly descending the
stairs, a hand on the railing like a small child sneaking down well after
bedtime.
“Do you want to stay?” he'd asked. Shane had nodded, then come to sit beside
him, snuggling in while Kian had put an arm around him and kissed his hair.
“I missed you.” Kian murmured it back. Didn't mention the scabs on Shane's
arms, marching in lines, nor how thin he was beneath his clothes. “I'm sorry.”
“For what?” Shane shook his head silently. “Do you want to talk about it?” He
didn't ask how Shane had found him. There wasn't any point. Had a feeling, no
matter what, that Shane would always find him. “What happened?”
“You should see the other guy,” Shane murmured.
Kian nodded, and kissed his hair again.


*


They were driving back along the spit when they saw the seals.
Five of them, sunning themselves on Kian's lawn. He didn't see them at first,
was too busy focusing on the road, but then Mark made a soft grunt of surprise
and Kian saw a brown head lift up, then the rock of a brown seal lumping it's
fat body across the grass on clumsy flippers.
He expected them to scatter when the car pulled up. They never came in this
far. To the rocks, or along the sand a bit, maybe, but never right up to the
house. He turned off the ignition and climbed out, not sure what to do, whether
he was supposed to call someone or ignore them or what. You weren't supposed to
touch them, he knew that. There were laws about it, to stop people or the seals
getting hurt, but they were between he and his front door, one sprawled beside
the path watching them lazily.
“Hello.” Mark was already stepping over to the closest one and crouching down.
Kian meant to say stop, don't. Expected it to flee, the way they usually did
when people came too close, but...
He watched it nuzzle his hand, Mark giggling at the touch of whiskers.
“What's your name?”
The seal nuzzled him again, then rolled over onto it's back. Mark patted it's
belly, and when he looked up Kian couldn't find the words to say stop, because
Mark was reaching out a hand and he was going over, crouching down as well to
pat the belly of a small brown seal.
It was surprisingly dry, a thin layer of fur that looked like skin in the water
but was soft under his palm. It let out a soft snort, making him jump, then
blinked at him lazily and allowed it.
“This is mad,” he breathed. Mark looked up.
“Why?”
“They don't usually...” He didn't know how to explain, not while Mark was
giving him that curious look, like he wanted Kian to tell him why this wasn't
an entirely normal thing to be doing, petting a seal on his front lawn. When he
looked over he realised another was coming their way. It sniffed at Mark when
it arrived, then flopped down, looking content when Mark gave it a pat. “Looks
like you're the seal-whisperer or something. Don't have fish in your pockets,
do you?”
“Not that I know of,” Mark chuckled. He stood, dusting his hands. “Do you have
any? We could feed them.”
“I don't think you're allowed,” Kian admitted. “Anyway, I'm sure they can sort
that out on their own.” Mark nodded. Two others had come closer, looking at
them curiously. The fifth was watching them from near the fence.
“Sorry, lads, nothing for you.” One tilted it's head, then turned away, and
Kian had the unsettling feeling it had understood.
They both looked up when they heard the creak of a window. Shane peered out,
sleepy eyes widening when he saw the seals, Kian and Mark patting one on the
front lawn.
“What's going on?”
“We've got visitors, apparently.” The words sounded disbelieving coming from
his own mouth. They were already leaving, the one on the path rolling over to
begin it's course over the lawn and toward the fence. There was a hole, Kian
saw, a gap where the wind had eroded enough weedy sand to let them wriggle
underneath. By the time Shane came out the front door the last one was just
slipping through and they were off, down the hill and towards the water, where
they disappeared into the waves.
An arm settled around Kian's waist. He saw Mark's eyes dart to it, but none of
them commented, not even when Shane kissed his temple, and he realised
belatedly that it was the injured one, that the cast was off for the first time
in six weeks.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” Kian put an arm around his friend's shoulders. “Your arm's better.”
“Got it cut off this morning. Itches like a motherfucker.” He seemed okay, if
still drowsy, and when he waved his arm gingerly Kian could see that it was
pale and pinpricked with red. “I'm making dinner. Wash your hands first.” He
threw a contemptuous look towards the seals. “You don't want to catch
something.”
Then he pushed back into the house without another word.


*


Neither Mark nor Kian were very hungry after the late lunch, but Shane had
tried and so Kian forced his way through most of a plate of roast potatoes and
chicken parm. It was dark when he cleared the plates away and wrapped up the
leftovers for the next day. Mark helped, washing while Shane dried, and for a
while it was companionable in the little kitchen.
Shane was off, though. Talking too fast, all at once, then going silent for
long stretches until he was engaged again, like a wind-up toy running on a
single twist at a time. Kian didn't miss the sideways looks, nor the lack of
conversation about what had gone on that afternoon. If he knew Shane he'd
dismissed the whole thing. Because with Shane all the stories were about him.
Other people's stories were just a launchpad to something outrageous and oddly
impersonal, a fabrication in the tale Shane was building about his own life.
It sounded harsh. Didn't feel harsh. Shane didn't mean to be selfish. Kian
wondered sometimes if it was easier, maybe. If caring about other people was
too much like letting go, dropping that shell of self-defence that Kian felt
privileged enough to peek through, on the odd occasion Shane could see past his
own demons. If maybe it was jealousy. That something exciting or happy might be
happening to someone else, while Shane sat in a fog weaving the beginnings of
another pretense.
“What did you do today?” Mark asked, as Kian finished wiping down the kitchen
table.
“Job-hunting.” Shane took the wet plate Mark offered, wiped it carelessly with
a tea-towel, then put it away. “Went alright. Had a few people interested, but
apparently I was over-qualified.”
“To do what?”
“You know. Things.” Shane dropped the last fork in the cutlery drawer, then
pushed it shut. “I'll try again tomorrow.”
“Well, good luck,” Mark offered. “I'm sure you'll find something.” He pulled
the plug out then dried his hands on the damp tea-towel Shane handed him. “What
would you like to do?”
“Dunno. Anything.” They went through to the living room. Kian collapsed onto
the sofa, saw the two of them jostle for a moment over who was going to sit
where before Mark sank into the armchair and Shane sat down beside Kian, legs
pulled up on the seat. “I worked at a supermarket for a while, and I worked in
an office too.”
“Doing what?”
“You know. Emails and clients and things.” He'd worked in the mail-room for
almost six months, Kian knew, probably the longest he'd held down a job. It had
been a brief, wonderfully lucid period not long after he'd arrived the first
time, and Kian had been happy for him. For the sudden drive and commitment, the
way he'd barely call in sick and would come home with stories about the people
he'd met and the friends he was making.
Then he'd come home one day and said he wasn't going back in. That the boss was
a cunt and he was quitting out of protest.
Kian still wasn't sure how true that was.
“What about construction?” Kian suggested. “They're always looking for day
labourers at the quarry, or to help with harvest on the local farms.” Shane
wrinkled his nose. “I know you're delicate, but a bit of sweat never killed
anyone. Or there's the temp agency in town.”
“I'll look into it. What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Mark's got an appointment with the social worker, then I thought we might head
into town and see a film, if you'd like an outing?” Shane shrugged. “Something
loud and violent?”
“Can we have Nandos?”
“If you like,” Kian chuckled. “I'll text you, yeah? You can come meet us after
your job-search.” Shane looked pleased with that. “I was thinking, actually. If
you're both staying for a while maybe we should clear out the spare room and I
can put an extra bed in there.”
“I don't mind the fold-out,” Mark said quickly. “I don't want to be in the
way.”
“You're not. I've been meaning to clear it out anyway. God knows I haven't used
that treadmill in forever.” Nor the desk, nor the other crap he'd shoved in
there and left. It had become more of a large, tidy storage closet than a room,
in recent years. “We could use a bit more space around here, anyway, and I
wouldn't mind my living room back.”
Mark shifted uncomfortably, but it was true. Having to always step around
someone, tiptoeing around because Mark was still sleeping. Knowing Mark was
staying up later than them when he was tired because he didn't want to have to
kick them out of his makeshift bedroom...
“It's just a thought,” Kian said. “I really don't mind.”
“Whatever you think's best,” Mark said diplomatically. Shane was already
distracted by the television.


 
***** Chapter 11 *****
They replied that they had seen nobody leave but a young girl, very shabbily
dressed, and who had more the air of a poor country wench than a gentlewoman.
- Cinderella, Charles Perrault
 
The stars were bright, painted in a white, shattered brushstroke across the
midnight sky. Kian reached for them. Cold pinpricks that smudged as his fingers
passed, disturbing the surface of the black water. Felt it fill his lungs and
then breathed it out, starlight and salt on his tongue.
The water was alive around him. Shapes lurking miles below, drifting whales,
scattered fish. The indivisible banks of jellyfish on the surface. For a moment
he could feel it. Down to the smallest worms and crabs in the rocks. Monstrous
deep-sea fish all teeth and deadened inner light just as beautiful as the
flowering anemones waving in the reefs. The bacteria around the scalding vents
on the sea-floor, life where it should be impossible.
He breathed in again. Felt the ocean breathe too and hung there, knees to his
chest, curled in the embrace of the sea.


*


The stars were still bright when he woke. Startlingly clear late-spring night,
and the moonlight was streaming in, a perfect painted ring of yellow leaving a
trail across the bedroom floor, it's fingers reaching the duvet when Kian sat
up, disoriented, the cold of the sea still trickling out of his dream and into
his veins.
He shook himself. Shane, snoring beside him, the moonlight picking out eerie
trails of shadow across his face. Kian bent down to kiss his cheek, felt a
snuffling shift, then watched him settle again, turned in towards Kian and
hands clasped into his own chest like a prayer.
Kian crept out as carefully as possible. Used the bathroom then headed
downstairs with the lights off, letting his feet find the way on the creaky
floorboards, a hand on the wall to steady his path.
He blinked in the light of the fridge, stood there staring into it sleepily,
then scooped out a bottle of ice water and took a swig. Happened to glance to
the side, and saw the fold out, sheets pushed to the side and the mattress
bare.
Hesitated. A clinging uncertainty in his stomach dulled by sleep. Put the
bottle back and took a few steps closer, but the bed was empty, the pillow
turned sideways and scrunched in the middle like someone had been clinging to
it.
Mark wasn't in the downstairs bathroom either. Kian checked all the rooms.
Heard a creak above him and went upstairs to investigate, but instead it was
just Shane, stood at the bedroom window and looking out.
“What's he doing?” Shane murmured sleepily, and when Kian went to stand beside
him he could see a dark figure breaking the endless moonlit band of the water's
edge.
“Dunno.” He leaned his elbows on the sill. Shane was half asleep. Kian wasn't
sure what had woken him, though Shane had always been an erratic sleeper,
either tossing and turning all night or out like a log, depending on the
circumstances.
It had kept Kian up in their first foster home; the squeak of springs and the
constant rustling of sheets as he changed positions. Then, when he'd thought
Shane finally asleep, sometimes he'd open his eyes and see dark ones looking
back at him, spilling silent tears, and he'd climb out, feet quick on the cold
floorboards, and slide in beside him. Hold him tight until the tears stopped
and Shane would fall asleep, tense and troubled in his arms.
A soft pang tugged at his heart. He put his arm around his friend's waist, got
an absent smile until they both looked out the window again.
Mark was sat at the edge, cross-legged in the sand. Kian couldn't see him
properly, just the distant shape on the other side of the fence, but the water
was rushing up around him, and Kian watched it cover him up to his hips before
rushing back out again.
It had to be cold. After midnight, a wind shifting the scrub climbing the
dunes, but Mark didn't seem perturbed. Was just sat there, in the surf, hands
braced behind him for purchase.
“Should we go out?” Shane asked. Kian shook his head.
“Leave him, maybe.” He looked at Shane, saw worried eyes. “Give him some
space.” Shane nodded carefully. “Maybe he's one of your selkies,” he teased
gently. “Got washed ashore and now he can't find his skin or whatever.” Shane
snorted.
“Yeah. Good one.” Shane pushed away from the windowsill, from Kian's grip. “I'm
going back to bed.” He flopped back onto the mattress, rolled clumsily under
the covers. “Night Kian.”
“Night, Shay.” He turned back to the window, but as he stood there watching
Mark he felt eyes on his back, ones that were were studying him carefully, a
hot trickle down his nape.
When he looked around again they were closed.
Kian turned back to the window.


*


Mark was back on the foldout when Kian came downstairs, fast asleep and looking
as though he'd never left. He was beautiful. Peaceful and soft and his hands
tucked under his cheek, legs tangled in the duvet and pyjamas a little twisted.
His damp clothes were in the hamper in the bathroom, scrunched where they'd
been wrung out, and when Kian bent to brush his teeth he could see a few last
grains of sand caught in the edges of the plughole, though they were gone with
a spit and a rinse.
When he came out Mark was sat up, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
“Morning.” Kian nodded on the way past. Mark nodded back, yawning. “Sleep
okay?” Mark nodded again. “Social worker's coming in a couple of hours. We'll
have a tidy when you're awake.”
“Cool.” It was half-muffled with another yawn. “Shane?”
“Still sleeping.”
“Mm.” Mark flopped back down, eyes closing. Kian smirked and sat down beside
him to stretch his legs on the bed. A hand groped gently at his thigh and he
patted it, laughing. Mark wasn't good at mornings. “Are you and Shane sleeping
together?”
Kian laughed out loud, surprised. Saw an eye crack open and a blush spill into
pale cheeks. “Er...” He chuckled. “No. Only in the most literal sense.” The eye
closed again and Mark turned his face downwards, hiding it slightly. “Why do
you ask?”
“Don't know. You're close. Figured I should check.” Kian ran a hand gently
through his hair. “Have you ever?”
“With Shane? No. We're not like that.” Mark nodded. “I told you yesterday. It's
been a while.”
“Yeah, but...” Mark shrugged awkwardly. “Forget it. I'm being stupid.” He
rolled away onto his back, putting both hands over his face for a moment before
dropping them. “Um.”
“Hm?”
“Nothing.” Mark had been about to say something, Kian was sure of it. “It's
nice, then. That you're that close.”
“We've always been there for each other,” Kian explained. “Even when we had
nobody else. He's about the closest thing to a brother I've ever had.” Mark was
watching him curiously, and for once he wanted to say more, even if it was just
because someone was actually listening. “I don't remember my mam much,” he
said. “I remember what she felt like, these big soft hugs, and sometimes she'd
sing, sit me at the kitchen table with cereal and do the housework and put the
radio on.”
“What about your da?”
“Never knew him. I don't think she did either, to be fair. Some one night
stand, probably a lad off one of the fishing boats that came in for the
seasonal trawling then fucked off back to wherever he came from.” Mark nodded
seriously. “I guess I'm a bit of a mystery too.” He attempted a comforting
smile, but didn't get one back. “She just left one day. Locked the door and
went out, and left me in the house.”
“Jesus.” Mark looked shocked. “That must have been scary.”
“I don't remember,” Kian admitted. “I remember my mam, a bit, and the next
thing I remember is a policeman dropping me off with this couple in a house in
Dundalk. That must have been almost four years later. The rest...” He shrugged.
“The psychologist said I was repressing, but I don't know really. I just
remember Shane asking if I wanted to help him build a blanket fort.” Mark
giggled softly. “It was a good fort.”
“Castle Greyskull,” said a soft voice from the stairs. They both looked round,
Mark propping himself up to see over the back of the sofa. “Morning.”
“Morning.” Shane slumped across the living room to the kitchen, then put the
kettle on. “Anyway, that's the really interesting story of my amazing family.”
Mark snorted and sat up properly, began to clamber off the side of the bed.
Kian did too and they began to strip the sheets and pillows, tossing them onto
the floor for the meantime.
“What about Shane's family?”
“I only know he was removed,” Kian said simply, voice low so Shane wouldn't
hear him. Shane didn't like being talked about, especially when it meant he
couldn't control his own narrative. Mark seemed to take the hint and they
continued stripping the bed in silence, folded it back in and tidied the sofa.
By the time the sheets were folded and being slid underneath to be used again
that night Shane was coming out with three coffees juggled in his hands, though
the one held in his injured arm was trembling slightly.
Kian thanked him, surprised, even moreso when Shane ducked out and came back
with a plate of scones, warmed in the microwave, and a jar of jam.
“Thought I'd do breakfast,” Shane said stiffly, then sat down, ending the
conversation by putting his mug to his lips. “Eat them before they get cold.”


*


The social worker came just before midday. They were just finishing tidying
when Shane went to the window and said a car was pulling up. A few seconds
later Kian heard the familiar sound of crunching gravel and a door clicking
open.
“Detective's with her,” Shane announced. Kian glanced out. He was right. There
she was, neat and professional in a pantsuit, dark hair tied back in a
ponytail, and behind her the detective. Nicky. Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt,
sunglasses propped up on his hair. “He's sort of a babe. Wonder if he's
single.”
“Want me to ask?” Kian teased. Mark snorted and stood up as well, going to
stand beside them. It probably looked strange, three heads squashed curiously
in the window, and as they got closer he saw Nicky's eyes fix on them and a
confused smile dart across his face until all three of them ducked out of
sight, like boys caught spying through a neighbour's fence.
“Why are we hiding?” Mark whispered. Shane giggled.
Kian answered the door. Got them in while Shane went to put the kettle on and
opened a packet of biscuits.
“Lads.” She shook both he and Mark's hands. Friendly lass, Jodi. Young, but
well put together and seemed to have her head screwed on right. British, though
Kian didn't know why anybody would leave England to come here, some quiet
coastal town in the middle of nowhere. “The detective asked if he could come
along, if that's alright.”
“It's fine!” Shane called from the kitchen. “Milk?”
“Er... yeah, and sugar.” Nicky chuckled. “Cheers, Shane. How's the arm?”
“Better!” He came back out with a tray of mugs. “Ta for asking.” He put it down
on the coffee table. “Mark's been helping out with the cooking and house-work
and stuff while I get meself back to normal.” Mark was nodding, and Kian hoped
it didn't sound like they were exploiting him, the evil stepsisters to his
Cinderella. Shane had a version of that too, though it had more maiming in it.
“It's been my pleasure.” Mark patted him on the shoulder. “Do we know who I am
yet?”
“Working on a couple of leads. I wanted to ask you a few questions if that's
alright?” They all nodded. “Alone.”
“Oh. Sorry, we'll...”
“Have your tea first. It can wait,” Nicky chuckled. “Ta for the biscuits.” He
picked up his mug and dunked one quickly. “Seems like everything's running
pretty smoothly around here.”
It was. Shane's sudden liveliness aside, the conversation with Jodi was short
and simple. She seemed happy enough with the living arrangements, especially
when Kian mentioned converting the spare room into somewhere more permanent for
Mark to sleep. She took a walk around, but the place was tidy and there didn't
seem to be any reason for concern.
“You're happy here still?”
“Yeah. Really happy.” Blue eyes darted shyly to Kian. “Kian's been good to me.
Shane as well.” He smiled and Kian smiled helplessly back, heart a skip in his
chest.
After the inspection Kian took Shane upstairs to watch television, leaving the
others downstairs. He could hear them, sort of, voices drifting up, and shut
the door to give them more privacy, though he got a scowl from Shane who
wandered over and pressed his ear to the door while Kian sat down on the bed.
“Leave it,” Kian laughed. “It's none of your business.” Shane pouted.
“You don't want to hear?”
“If Mark wants us to know, he'll tell us himself,” Kian reasoned, though he
couldn't deny he was interested as well. Probably just protocol, to tell the
person involved on their own, but he did wonder what was so secretive. Maybe
checking to make sure Mark's story held up once he was out of everyone's view,
that Kian wasn't making him lie.
“I heard my name.”
“Brilliant. Get away from there.” Shane sulked back over, then flopped down on
the mattress with a thump and a creak. “Don't be a sook.”
“I'm not.” He folded his arms behind his head. “Are you fucking him?'
“What? No! Jesus...” Shane's eyes were hard, though, and he didn't smile. “Of
course not. Why do you think that?”
“You like him, though.”
“I think he's a very nice lad and I'm helping him out,” Kian explained. Shane
didn't look convinced. “It's nothing to do with sex.”
“Do you want to?”
“He's cute, but it's not...” Shane was wrinkling his nose dismissively, but
there was something else in his eyes, something offended, almost hurt. “It
wouldn't be right. He doesn't know who he is. I'd be taking advantage.”
“He's a grownup.”
“And what if he's got a family somewhere? Or he's married and has five kids and
one day he remembers? Then what the fuck have I done?” It was something that
had been worrying him, though he hadn't spared it any direct thought. His
increasing feelings aside, this wasn't forever. Couldn't be. Because whoever
Mark was now wasn't him, was instead some intricate painting that had been
covered over with a sheet that couldn't stay, no matter how pretty the pattern
on it was.
Mark would leave. Maybe soon.
It wasn't worth it, to be alone again.
“If you want to fuck him I can sleep downstairs again.” There was a challenge
in Shane's voice. Kian wasn't sure what the correct response was.
“I'm fine. Cheers.” He took Shane's hand. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” Shane rolled his eyes. “Forget it.” He climbed off and went to the
window. “He's weird. You know that, right?”
“The whole situation is...”
“No, he's weird.” Kian shrugged, not sure what Shane was striking at. “Come on,
Kian. The seals in the yard yesterday? What the fuck was that? He gets washed
up on the beach, fucking naked of all things, and then he's sneaking down there
at night? Do you know how long he spends in the bath? It was two hours the
other day.”
“I...” Kian shook his head. He hadn't been home as often as he wanted. If there
were strange patterns he couldn't speak to them. “He's lost.”
“Then why hasn't anyone claimed him? Weeks on the telly and not one single
person notices him missing? Nobody recognises his picture? There's fucking
nothing on him to say who he was or where he came from? That's not right.” He
leaned on the windowsill, back to Kian. “I caught him going through the kitchen
cupboards the first day you were gone, and when I asked what he was looking for
he said nothing. On Wednesday he was going through drawers in the spare room.
What's he looking for?”
“I don't know, Shane, you'd have to ask him,” Kian snapped. He knew where this
was going and didn't like it, cursed himself for saying something so offhand
the night before. If he knew Shane his friend had already forgotten the
conversation, had mixed it up with whatever weird dreams he'd had and woken up
with odd ideas in his head. “Say what you mean.”
“He's a selkie,” Shane said triumphantly, and turned around. “He's lost his
skin and he's searching the house because he thinks you've got it.” His arms
crossed. “It makes sense.”
“Like when you were thirteen and thought it made sense that they were poisoning
us?”
“I was sick for a week.”
“Because you ate too much chocolate.”
“It stopped when I stopped eating the food.”
“No, you were fucking hospitalised after you fainted at school, because you'd
been hiding meals in a shoebox under your bed for six weeks. Do you know how
long the fucking smell of rotten food hung around?” Kian remembered finding it,
guiltily calling up the foster dad to show him and rubbing tears from his eyes
when he'd been taken into the hospital to see Shane, skinny arms hooked to
tubes and his friend's face pale and still.
“That was different.”
“It's always different,” Kian shot back. “It's always the next time and it's
always different, Shane. There's no fairy-tale here, there's just a guy who
needs help. It's not a grand conspiracy. It's not about you.” Shane's lips
pursed, fists clenching in the cross of his arms. Kian realised his heart was
beating too fast and forced himself to breathe, tried to hold down the
terrified anger building in his chest. “Can you stop being fucking crazy for
five seconds?”
“Screw you.” Shane's voice broke, as the guilt flushed into Kian's stomach. He
swallowed, reached out, though Shane flinched away.
“I'm sorry. You're not...”
“Fuck off.”
“I...” He stepped closer, put a hand on his friend's arm. It yanked away again.
“I'm sorry. I'm stressed and it wasn't...” Fair. None of this was fair. “Shay.”
He wanted to hug him, but Shane was backing away, stiff and defensive. “I don't
think you're crazy.”
“Just... leave it. It's fine.” Shane wasn't looking at him. “Guess I was being
stupid again. Crazy fucking Shane. Why should anyone believe me about
anything?” He turned away again. “Don't talk to me.”
“Shay.”
“Don't.” Shane turned back to the window. Kian sank onto the bed in silence,
eyes fixed on a tense back and dark hair.
It was twenty minutes later that Mark came up and said Nicky and Jodi were off
if they wanted to say goodbye. Shane went down, politely wished them a safe
drive, then stepped into the back garden. When Kian looked out the window he
wasn't there, though a few seconds later he saw a small figure making it's way
up the spit to town, moving quickly on foot.
When Mark asked, Kian said Shane had gone for a walk.
Then he went into the bathroom and cried for a bit.
 
***** Chapter 12 *****
“Why, as for that,” answered Oz, “I think you are wrong to want a heart. It
makes most people unhappy. If you only knew it, you are in luck not to have a
heart.”
- The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum


It had been safe, under the blankets. Kian and Shane had spent a lot of time
there over the next few years. It had felt like spinning a world, just for
themselves. Something close and comfortable that muffled the outside, where
people had to ask permission to come in. Shane would make passwords. Elaborate
songs or poems that would change whenever his mood did, and they'd giggle
together on the inside while the two girls who slept up the hall cast sulking
shadows on the white sheets and asked why they couldn't just come in and play.
Because it's ours, had been the answer. They built them fairly often, usually
on the weekends. Would start early when they weren't being taken on an outing,
and prop up chairs and cushions and all the sheets they could find and stay
there in their little tent, laid on their stomachs playing boardgames and
creating stories with their action figures.
“Shh...” Shane hissed, at the sound of footsteps in the hall, and they both
froze, silently smirking. Kian suspected they were a little too old for this,
at twelve, but he didn't mind. In here it didn't matter.
“Can I come in?”
“What's the password?” Shane called back, and he heard a laugh and blinked as
the edge of the sheet lifted and two bowls of apple pie slid underneath. “Thank
you!”
“Thanks!” Kian agreed. It was fresh, too, with vanilla ice-cream.
“You're welcome. Are you staying in there all day?”
“Nobody ever leaves Castle Greyskull,” Shane announced. Kian rolled his eyes.
“Well, if you'd like to go to the cinema we're taking Leah and Sinead this
afternoon.”
“Can we see Hook?”
“If you like.” Two forks slid underneath as well. They each grabbed one. “I'll
come get you when it's time to get ready.”
“Thanks,” Kian managed around a mouthful of pie. Her footsteps retreated. “I
want to see Mighty Ducks.”
“Hook looks better,” Shane argued idly. “Who cares about dumb old hockey?
Hook's got magic and pirates and stuff. They get to fight with swords and no
stupid grown-ups to tell you what to do.” He pulled a face. “I wouldn't mind
being a lost boy.”
“We are lost,” Kian pointed out. “I don't know if I'd be good at sword
fighting.”
“You could fly as well. Pixie dust and happy thoughts and away you'd go.”
“What's your happy thought?”
“Dunno.” Shane lifted a forkful of pie thoughtfully to his mouth, then wiped
off the dribble of ice-cream on his chin while he chewed. “You,” he said shyly.
“You're my happy thought.”
“Oh.” Kian felt himself blush. “What did I do?”
“You're my best friend.” He leaned in, and Kian was surprised when lips pressed
to his, a clumsy, chaste kiss that didn't feel like it looked in the movies,
just a mouth pursing against his before it pulled away and Shane looked back
into his bowl, cheeks red.
He wasn't prepared for the rush of... something. He didn't know what it was.
Felt like being warm and tingly and embarrassed and happy and furious all at
once, a confusion of emotion that started in his stomach and burst outward,
like a tree full of songbirds disturbed by a hawk.
His swallow stuck in his throat. He wriggled on his stomach, not sure whether
he wanted to shake off the feeling or drown in it.
“You're my happy thought too,” he murmured.


*


Kian didn't want to admit that he was waiting for Shane to come back. Mark
asked where he'd gone, and when Kian had said out for a bit he'd hoped that
would be the case. Still, by the time dark fell and it became clear that Shane
wasn't returning he relented and made dinner for two, leaving Mark sat on the
sofa and looking confused as to why Kian was so quiet.
He seemed to read the situation, though. They watched television in near
silence, and when Kian finally went up to bed Mark asked if he'd mind them
sleeping in the same bed, if Shane wasn't going to be using the empty space.
Kian appreciated it. Hadn't realised, over the last few months, just how used
he'd gotten to having someone beside him. The rhythm of someone else's breath
and the shift of them in the night. Mark slid in and when Kian closed his eyes
he felt a hand settle comfortingly on his forearm before pulling away with a
last squeeze.
“Night, Kian,” Mark whispered.
“Goodnight.” The breeze through the window made him shiver and he pulled the
blankets higher. “Was everything okay today? Were they able to help?”
“Not really, but it was fine.” Mark's voice was soft and warm, dragging him
down. “Don't worry about that now. You need to sleep.” Kian yawned, heard a low
chuckle that made him smile.
The next thing he knew Mark was sliding back into bed. Kian opened his eyes.
Wondered if the toilet flushing had woken him or if Mark had just gone for a
glass of water. But when he looked he could see Mark's hair was damp, even in
the scant light, and he was shivering slightly.
He reached out. Felt a flinch when he touched the back of Mark's head, felt
hair cold and stringy slipping through his fingers.
“I just...”
“You don't have to explain,” Kian promised. He felt Mark nod. “Do you want to
tell me?”
“No,” Mark breathed. “I don't know how.” He let out a careful sob, and when
Kian shifted closer to wrap around him he felt him shake, felt wet hair press
to his cheek and a hand clench in his.
Mark didn't cry. They lay there a long time, and when Kian woke again the sun
was coming up and Mark was buried in his chest, arms around his waist and head
tucked under Kian's chin. He stroked a long back. Heard a snore and felt the
stiffness of salt-dried hair on his neck.
The rest of the house was empty. He felt it as surely as he could feel the funk
of humidity that suggested incoming rain. Shane hadn't been home. Probably for
the best. They hadn't done anything wrong, but he knew Shane well enough to
assume he wouldn't have been ecstatic finding Mark and Kian in bed together,
especially not after yesterday's conversation.
“Don't go,” Mark muttered, when Kian went to extricate himself.
“I've got to get ready for work,” he whispered back. Mark grumbled but let go,
leaving Kian to stumble off the side of the bed and toward the shower. When he
came back Mark was asleep again, and stayed that way while Kian gathered his
clothes and got dressed in the bathroom then headed out the door with a last
glance at the man tangled in the duvet, his foot a dangling weight off the side
of the bed.
Bryan arrived ten minutes after he did, two coffees held in a cardboard tray.
Kian took his gratefully. He was tired. Didn't feel like being here at all, but
he couldn't start to neglect his other responsibilities. He shut himself in the
office until opening and resisted the urge to fall asleep on the desk. When he
came out Bryan asked if he was well enough to be working and a quick glance in
the mirror proved he he looked terrible. Hollow eyes and pale skin.
“I can man the floor,” Bryan suggested. Mondays were always quiet anyway, and
school was back so they were unlikely to have as much business during the day.
“Karen's on at eleven. Do you want to do inventory or something out back?”
“I can't...” He felt his voice break, and decided protestations were useless.
“Thanks, Bryan.” Relenting felt worse. He went to sit in the office again, and
it was two hours later, spreadsheets blurring in front of his eyes that Bryan
stuck his head in and asked if Kian wanted to join him on a smoke break.
It was still humid. A heavy, muggy feeling that stuck his clothes to his skin
and made the air feel like soup. They sat on the stoop in the loading bay,
Bryan with a cigarette in one hand and Kian with another coffee, an instant one
he'd made in the tiny office lunch-room.
“Want to talk about it?”
“It's fine,” he managed. Bryan nodded. “Just... hectic weekend. Went from good
to shite in about five seconds.”
“Know the feeling.” Bryan lifted the cigarette with nicotine-stained fingers.
“How's everything going with your B&B?” Kian shrugged, though his face
apparently betrayed him. “Things not going well with Mark?”
“It's not him.” Kian sighed. “He's lovely, actually. Really nice lad, always
helps out. Just Shane...” He didn't want to be an arsehole, couldn't even start
with saying something disparaging about his oldest friend. “He's a bit
unpredictable, mood-wise. I feel like I'm always running interference.”
“What, he's mean to him or something?”
“No. I don't know.” Kian bit his lip. “With Shane you're sort of running
interference between him and himself, if you know what I mean.” Bryan nodded.
“Sometimes he's wonderful, and then something sets him off or he gets an idea
in his head and there's no talking to him.”
“You're saying that to a man with daughters,” Bryan chuckled. “Molly went
stomping off and slammed her door yesterday because her sister drank the last
chocolate milk, so I don't have a clue.” A hand patted Kian on the shoulder.
“Gets exhausting when it's all the time.”
“It does.” He looked at Bryan, who was down to the last of his cigarette. “I
feel like an arsehole. If I'm here I'm guilty because they're at home, but I've
got work too and sometimes, honestly, it feels better to be here. Because then
I'm not dealing with it.”
“Spoken like a parent.” He got a conspiratorial wink. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Well, you're worried about them, and you're worried about work. When did you
last worry about yourself?”
“I...” Kian hesitated. “I dunno,” he admitted. “There's not time.”
“There's always time. Fuck, when did you last date?”
“What's a date?”
“Ha.” An elbow nudged him. Bryan stubbed his cigarette on the step between
them, then flicked the butt into the ashtray. “Leave the kids one night and
come to the pub. We'll get trashed.” He stood up. “Not everything's your
responsibility, mate. You burn out if you try to carry too much at once.”
“Yeah.” It sounded fair, in theory. “Thanks for the chat.”
“No bother. Take it easy today, yeah? You work harder than any of us. Nobody'll
mind.” Bryan stood. “I barely put effort in on the best days.”
“Do we have to have a conversation in my office?”
“Just did.” Bryan pushed open the loading bay door. “Take your time. I'll send
Karen to lunch.” The door swung closed again under it's own weight, and Kian
waited until he was definitely alone before he buried his face in his hands,
just needing somewhere to rest a head that felt like it was pounding.
He wondered if Mark was okay.


*


The house smelled wonderful when he pushed open the front door that night. He
paused in the doorway, breathing it in. Not sure what it was but he could smell
spices and bread, hear the soft clatter of movement down the hall.
He found Mark in the kitchen, a wooden spoon in one hand while he peered into a
bubbling pot.
“What's all this?”
“Dinner.” Mark licked whatever was on the spoon, nodded, then reached for the
salt. He looked over his shoulder, saw Kian, and smiled. “Go have a shower if
you want. It'll be fifteen minutes.”
“I...” Overwhelmed was an understatement. “Okay. Thanks.” Every step was an
effort as he climbed the stairs, but soon he was stood under hot running water,
the pressure easing his tense muscles.
When he came back down the table was set with a clean white tablecloth, a
couple of candles glowing in the middle. He was still staring in surprise when
Mark came out of the kitchen with a covered dish in his hands, set it on the
table, and buzzed back into the kitchen.
“No peeking!”
Kian pulled his hand back. Sat down at the table and waited until Mark
reappeared with a plate of warm garlic bread and a large bowl of brown rice.
“You didn't have to...”
“I had all day, figured I'd make use of the slow cooker.” Mark sat down too,
and despite his casual tone he was blushing slightly, looked a little shy.
“Anyway, it seemed like you needed a break, so I thought I'd...” He gestured at
the candles. “You know.”
“It's perfect.” He wanted to cry. Mark was still watching him and Kian wanted
more than anything to express how much he appreciated it, but couldn't find the
words. “Um.” Mark uncovered the pot. Some sort of casserole. It smelled
amazing. He sat, dumbfounded, while Mark ladelled it into his bowl and added
some rice, then set it in front of him.
“So.” Mark began to serve himself while Kian reached for a piece of bread. “How
was your day?”
“Long.” Mark nodded but didn't press him. “How was it today? Were you alright
on your own?”
“I was fine.” The bread was amazing. He dipped the corner into the sauce and
had to stop his eyes rolling back in his head when it touched his tongue. “It's
okay?” Kian nodded furiously around a full mouth. “I didn't have much to work
with, but I used that steak Shane bought before he went and the last of the
mushrooms, plus some sauce and beans I found in the pantry. I didn't think he'd
mind. It would have gone off before he got back.”
“He won't mind,” Kian assured him, after he'd finished savouring his mouthful.
“You're quite the cook, you know that?”
“I like doing it.” Blue eyes dropped shyly. “I dunno if it's something I was
good at before but... I dunno. There's something right about it. Like my hands
know what they're supposed to be doing.” Kian nodded.
“That's a good sign, then?”
“I'm not sure. Maybe I've never done it before. New talent.” He shrugged and
picked up his fork. “Maybe it's comforting, in a way. Like the recipe's there
and I just do what it says, so I don't have to try to figure out things from
scratch. Plus it takes up time, you know? Like, instead of just sitting around
all day.”
“You can go out if you want. You don't have to wait for me.”
“It's not the same.” He pushed a mouthful in, then chewed thoughtfully.
Swallowed. “I'd feel better with you there. In case things get...” Kian watched
him stir absent patterns in his sauce. “I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet.”
“Understood.” Kian reached over to squeeze his hand, felt it hook into his for
a moment. “Tell you what, why don't I take you to the supermarket tomorrow
evening? I finish around five, I can swing by and pick you up. You use my
laptop during the day, print out any recipes you want to try, and we can get
all the ingredients.”
“If it's not too much...”
“It's not,” he said firmly, and let go, because this food was delicious and he
couldn't wait to eat more.
“I'd like that,” Mark murmured. He picked his fork back up as well, face soft
and happy in the light of the candles.


*


The dream was different.
Eyes open and the salt blistering them, driven by the wind. Lungs working and
air filling them instead of water. Pulling towards the shore, the webbing of
his hands dragging him forward, legs working from behind but bound together,
longer, feet tilling the surf and infinite power in the slow, thrusting roll of
motion, playing harmony to the rush of the waves.
Sand scraped at his belly as he hauled himself up, felt fur and muscle slough
away, and blinked with fresh eyes that peered into the darkness, to the lights
of the little house at the edge of the spit. His skin he draped about his
shoulders with a cloak secured with a brass seashell, and when he moved he
could see the play of hair and muscle, separated by pale skin that caught the
moonlight.
The door was open. She looked up. Warm inside and the smell of food.
He's asleep, she said, and when he stepped closer he couldn't tell if it was
fright in her eyes or desire.
He climbed the stairs, a little ungainly on legs he barely used. The room was
small. A crib in one corner, the ceiling studded with small stars that glowed
artificial and slightly green, picking out a pile of soft toys, a shelf with
picture books, and a closet door with pictures taped to it, drawings of cartoon
creatures with white-gloved hands and eyes too big for their heads.
He leaned over the crib. Chubby arms and chubby legs, a thumb lodged firmly in
his mouth. Spill of blonde hair that hadn't been cut and curled a little at the
ends.
Kian, he murmured, and when eyes stirred sleepily open he saw the surface of a
lagoon on a summer's day.


*


Kian jolted awake.
Sat up, racing heart. Tears spilling down his cheeks, senseless, while he tried
to breathe through the ones that had lodged in his lungs, prickles of ice under
his skin.
And through it all, something warm. Bright. Lost that couldn't be found again.
Early morning. He could hear the croak of gulls. The bedroom was painted in a
half-lit glow, almost green from the rising sun. Tried to remember the dream
but could only find the feeling of it, something that radiated with sadness and
love, that made his heart ache though he couldn't remember why.
The bed was empty beside him. He pushed slowly out, wondering if Mark was
downstairs, or had popped into the bathroom, but the house felt silent and he
couldn't remember waking to the boy's night-time routine. Pushed the curtains
open to let the sun in, and froze when he saw a slumped figure on the sand, a
tangle of arms and legs above the low tideline.
He ran.
Down the stairs. Out the door. Wind catching his pyjama bottoms and grass
prickling his feet until he vaulted the fence and landed clumsily in the sand.
It sank as he moved, slowing him down, and by the time he made it to Mark he
was breathing heavily around the panic in his throat, thighs burning and brow
sweaty with the morning heat.
“Mark.” He fell to his knees. Pyjamas twisted, sodden with drying sand. Eyes
closed. Cheek reddened from the sun. A small crab fell from his hair and
scuttled away and Kian sobbed, shaking him.
Blue eyes cracked open.
“What time is it?” Mark croaked.
“Fuck.” He fell over the boy, hugging him. It was returned, a hesitation later.
“I thought...” He felt Mark cough, a heaving shudder, and let go slightly.
Pulled back to see a confused gaze and sandy hair.
He got Mark into the house. It was a slow walk. The lad was half asleep. Kian
suspected he knew already what had happened, that Mark had gone out for one of
his midnight sessions at the beach and fallen asleep. It didn't make it any
easier. He got Mark into the bathroom, made him strip off and throw his clothes
out the door before he got into the shower, and by the time he came out again
Kian was stood over the kitchen sink, rinsing the sand away.
He wasn't sure why he was so angry, but standing there, wringing viciously at
the wet clothes, he couldn't tell if he wanted to shout or cry. For his own
panic, maybe, or for Mark, whose footsteps were light and worried on the
staircase, and whose touch on his shoulder felt like an apology.
“Kian?”
“It's fine,” he managed gruffly. The hand squeezed. “You okay?”
“Kian.” He was tugged until he turned, and when he saw eyes too close to his
and the sunburn on Mark's cheek he couldn't help it. Fell into the offered
embrace as the sobs took him over, wet hands clasping on the back of Mark's
neck.
They stayed there like that. Mark didn't speak. Stroked his spine with one hand
and kept the other on the small of his back, a soft anchor that held him in,
Kian's tears soaking into a fresh t-shirt and every choked breath filled with
shampoo and salt.
“I'm sorry I worried you,” Mark murmured finally. Kian nodded. Wanted to say it
wasn't just that. That it was everything and nothing at once. “Sit down. It's
okay. I can finish this.”
“I have to...” He turned away, began to run the tap again over the sandy
clothes. “I have to,” he muttered again, and felt arms wrap around him, a shape
behind him, and closed his eyes when he felt a kiss dot at his shoulder.
“Okay,” Mark agreed. Hand over his racing heart, one on his fluttering stomach.
He sagged. Felt Mark catch him, if only for a moment before he righted himself.
He opened his eyes and set to work again, trying to match his breaths to
Mark's.
 
***** Chapter 13 *****
At last he came to the room where Talia was lying, as if enchanted; and when
the King saw her, he called to her, thinking that she was asleep.
- Sun, Moon & Talia, Giambattista Basile


Kian took Mark shopping, as promised, and it was an entertaining enough trip.
It was just the supermarket, of course, but there was something comforting
about it, walking around and looking at everything, that sense of normalcy that
had been severely lacking in his life lately. Or maybe it was just doing
something that wasn't work or worrying about other people.
When he got home to pick Mark up he was sat in a black hoodie, beanie, and
sunglasses, looking like he was about to start graffitiing something. Kian
assured him that he didn't need to go incognito, that a baseball cap would
probably be fine, and Mark went back upstairs to change into something slightly
less conspicuous.
Nobody noticed them. It had been a couple of months, August about to start and
the summer beginning to while into cooler mornings and reddening leaves. Kian
doubted anybody remembered the face of the mystery man anymore, the one who'd
been so interesting for two weeks or so, back before the next story had come
along.
Work dragged for the rest of the week, made harder by the fact that every
evening when he got home he could smell cooking food, see the glow of candles.
It was novel, eating at the table where before he'd been content to just sit on
the sofa in front of the television, but it wasn't unwelcome. They'd talk.
Every night. About Kian's day, about the food, laugh over silly things Mark had
seen on television or read on the internet. He was using Kian's laptop more
than Kian was, as though it was a lifeline to the world. Something that
connected all the disparate parts of what he could see and touch and smell
right here and breathing greater context into them, all while Mark sat in the
house, looking out at the sea.
They stayed up late on the Saturday, enjoying a couple of beers in the garden,
Mark grilling dinner on a barbecue Kian had dragged out of the shed for the
purpose then had to clean cobwebs out of when he realised it had been two years
since it had seen daylight. He hosed it down, scrubbed it out, and within a few
hours he had his feet propped up and was spilled back in a fold-out chair,
waiting for home-made burger patties that couldn't possibly taste as good as
they smelled.
“Tuck in.” Kian took the plate. Grilled potato wedges and a burger piled with
salad. Kian took a tentative bite. “Verdict?”
“I think if you weren't a professional chef before, you were wasting your
life.” He took another, bigger bite, and moaned while Mark laughed.
“I'm glad you like it.” He put together his own plate and sat down too. “It's
been a week since Shane left.” Kian swallowed, and put the burger down.
“It has,” he said carefully. Mark was looking unsure. “I wouldn't worry about
him. He's like a cat. He sort of comes and goes when he feels like it, and he
generally lands on his feet. He'll come sniffing around again when he wants
something.”
“You're not worried?”
“I don't have the energy to worry about Shane,” Kian admitted. “It's never
helped anything before.” Mark was tilting his head. “Shane doesn't want help.
He wants someone to listen to his stories and tell him he's loved, but the last
thing he wants is for someone to notice something's wrong, because then it
means he might have to admit it himself. Worry's the opposite of helpful.”
“What if something happens to him?”
“It would have happened if he was here or not.” It was something Kian had made
peace with, over long sleepless nights and too many tears. “At least if it
happens somewhere else I don't have to feel responsible.”
“It doesn't sound like you like him.”
“I love him. That's the problem.” He picked up his burger again. “Do you like
Shane?”
“Yeah. He's funny.”
“Would you call him if you needed help?” Mark's eyes darted away. “Liking him
works on the condition that you never actually want him for anything or expect
him to be anywhere. That's not to say he isn't kind, or that I don't love him,
or that I don't enjoy his company. But I can't worry about him when he's not
here, or I'll never do anything else.” He took a bite of his burger, put it
down, and began to pick at the wedges.
“What was he like when you were kids?”
“The same.” He smiled. “We were the lost boys.”
“Lost boys?”
“From Peter Pan.” Mark shook his head. “I'll show you the movie. Orphan boys
that live in the forest and never grow up, and they fight pirates and have
adventures with mermaids and giant crocodiles and all sorts.”
“You grew up, though.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” he chuckled. Mark smirked shyly. “But it's a nice night
and I've got a beer and this amazing food that someone cooked for me and good
company so there's worse places to be.”
“There are.” Mark held his bottle out. Kian clinked it, and in a moment he saw
something soft behind blue eyes that felt like it was cradling his heart.


*


Shane looked eerie in the light of the torch. Kian settled under the sheet, a
pendulous shadow above his head. The torch was on it's end, a green plastic
ball sat on the top and turning the light into a green spill that muted and
spread into the corners of their little shelter, Kian's sheet draped between
the two beds in a makeshift tent.
It wasn't as big as their usual fort, but then it was past midnight and they
were both supposed to be in bed, though Kian's bedtime had changed to ten
o'clock now that he was thirteen so long as he could still get up for school.
Instead they were sat whispering, trying not to alert the rest of the house to
the fact that Kian was sat with his knees to his chest, listening to another of
Shane's stories.
“Once upon a time there was a princess named Talia,” Shane whispered. “And when
she was born, there was a prophecy that she would be killed by a splinter. So
her whole life they kept her safe, making sure the prophecy could never come
true.
“One day, when nobody was watching her, she came upon a woman using a spinning
wheel and asked if she could try it. The woman said yes, because nobody refuses
a princess, but when she began to spin a splinter pricked her finger and she
fell down dead.”
“She really died?” Kian asked. Shane nodded.
“That's what everyone thought. So her father, who couldn't bear the thought of
burying her, put her in one of his castles and sat her in the throne room, then
closed up the whole castle and left it abandoned, and vines grew all over it
and it sat there for years, until one day a King came along and was curious
about the empty castle, the one all shut up and falling apart.
“I know this one! He kisses her and wakes her up.”
“No.” Shane rolled his eyes. “He went into the castle, and there in the throne
room was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. Because no matter how long
she'd been there, she hadn't started to rot, and she was warm when he touched
her. He tried to wake her, but she wouldn't stir, and so he raped Talia, right
there in the throne room.”
Kian's eyes widened. It was a word he'd heard, but not one he knew how to
describe, except it unsettled him and felt like it should be said in hushed
tones.
“What's that mean?”
“He fucked her.” There was venom in the way Shane said it, a cavalier hate that
felt like an afterthought. “She couldn't stop him, so he fucked her, and then
when he was done he left and locked up the castle again and went back to his
kingdom.” Kian pursed his lips, feeling sick. “But what he didn't know was that
she got pregnant, and nine months later she had two babies, a boy and a girl,
and when the girl sucked on her finger the splinter came out and she woke up.
“So she called the twins Sun and Moon, and lived with them in the house. She
cleaned up the blood and tore down the vines and took care of them, though she
couldn't remember how she'd gotten pregnant.
“A few years later the King was riding through the forest again when he saw the
castle, and he went inside to see if the girl in the throne room was still
there. Instead of a sleeping girl he was surprised to find Sun, Moon, and Talia
in the castle, and he realised what had happened and told her what he had done.
He promised her he would take her to his kingdom and she would never want for
anything again, that he loved her, and so she agreed.
“He left her there and went back to his own castle to make arrangements, but
what the King hadn't told Talia was that he had gotten married since his first
visit. And as the days went on and he began to miss her he began to call their
names out in his sleep, and the Queen began to wonder who he was talking about
and paid a servant to follow her husband next time he went travelling.
“A few weeks later the king went on a hunting trip alone and the servant
followed. After a day's ride he saw the King go into an abandoned castle, and
when he peeked through the door he saw him embracing a beautiful woman and her
two children, and galloped back to the castle to tell the Queen what he'd
seen.”
“He's in trouble now,” laughed Kian. Shane snorted.
“The King went home, this time with Talia and the children on his horse, and
put her in a mansion in town, close enough that he could visit her, and said
she would want for nothing. He gave her servants and cooks and a nanny to watch
the children, and when he got home the Queen greeted him as though nothing had
happened, even though she was plotting her revenge.”
“Maybe she and Talia can have the castle,” Kian suggested. “The Queen can be in
charge and Talia can help.”
“The Queen called her cook,” Shane continued, “and she sent her to steal
Talia's children and cook them into a pie. She said it had to be the best pie
she'd ever made, so the king would eat every single bite. So the cook went out
and that night she served the king the most beautiful pie, so delicious that he
sat there until every bit was gone while his wife sat there watching him enjoy
it and laughing when he said how good it was.” He caught Kian's horrified face
and grinned ghoulishly. “Then after the King had gone to bed the Queen had her
guards drag Talia to the castle.
“The queen had built an enormous fire. She told Talia what had happened to her
children, which she'd been looking for all day, and as Talia cried the Queen
ordered her guards to tear off her clothes, throw her into the fire and burn
her to death.
“But the king heard her crying and was woken up, and he ran downstairs just in
time to see Talia naked and being held over the flames. He ordered them to stop
and when they let her go he ordered them to arrest the queen, who laughed and
told him what she'd done. He was so angry he had the cook and the servant who
had spied on him dragged in as well and ordered them all to be thrown into the
fire as punishment.
“But the cook screamed out. She hadn't been able to do it, she said, to kill
two innocent children, so instead she'd hidden Sun and Moon and made the pie of
lamb instead. Then Sun and Moon crawled out from under the cook's skirts and
ran to their mother, and so the king pardoned the cook and had the Queen and
her servant thrown into the fire, where they burned to death and their bones
were fed to the dogs.
“Talia was so grateful that she married the King, and she gave him more
children and lived happily in the castle for the rest of her life.”
He grinned. Kian stared. At shadowy features caught in haunted green light.
“That's the end?” Shane nodded. “But that's not right,” Kian protested. “The
King was the bad guy.”
“The Queen tried to cook children.”
“Yeah, but...” The whole thing was wrong, and he didn't know how to express
why. “But it wasn't fair. Why would Talia want to marry him? He raped her.”
“If he hadn't, she would have stayed asleep for ever.”
“That doesn't make it okay!” Kian ran his hands through his hair. Shane was
giving him a blank, patient look, and Kian didn't understand. Why it was okay.
Maybe Shane's stories weren't always happy, but they usually ended with
something that felt like fairness, even if it was brutal. “She didn't ask for
it. Couldn't someone have just taken the splinter out?” Shane shrugged. “It's
not...”
“Boys! Are you in bed?”
“Yes!” they chorused back through the wall. “Sorry!” Shane clicked off the
torch and tugged the sheet down, then tossed it back onto Kian's bed while he
climbed back into his own. Kian clambered up slowly, unsettled by the wrongness
of that story, the blank, unconcerned look on Shane's face. He pulled the
sheets over himself and when he lay down he could see dark eyes peering at him
from across the gap.
He closed his own and curled into a ball, disoriented outrage throbbing in his
stomach.


*


Kian woke to Mark creeping out of bed. He cracked his eyes open, feigning
sleep, but all he could see was Mark's back, disappearing through the bedroom
door.
He waited. Heard the descent of footsteps, getting fainter, then the click of
the front door opening, the soft thunk of it being carefully shut. When he
rolled over to look out the window all he could see was the sky, the stars
hidden by creaking charcoal clouds swollen with rain.
He crept out. It was still, but he could see lightning in the distance, a
network of silver sparking off the sea. It jagged, pulsed, and in the darkness
he could see Mark, sat in the water at the edge of the surf.
The sand was cold on his feet. He moved carefully, not wanting to frighten
Mark, and by the time he reached the compact wet sand near the edge he knew
Mark had sensed him, if only by the lack of surprise when Kian stepped
alongside him.
He flinched as the water eddied up around his ankles. Cold. His feet were numb
in an instant. Mark didn't react. Just sat, letting it claim him up to his
hips, the soak rising up his pyjama bottoms until it crept over his knees,
blossoms of darkening fabric.
Kian sat too. Saw Mark glance at him and yelped in surprise when a rush of
water lurched up and caught him round the waist, turning his balls to raisins
before he could register the cold. When it went out again, leaving his boxers
clinging to his goosebumps, he heard Mark laugh.
“This is funny for you, is it?”
“Sort of funny.” Mark glanced at him. “You didn't have to come out.”
“Do you want me to go back inside?”
“No.” A hand took his, steadying him through the next jostle of water. “I
thought you were scared of water.”
“It's not my favourite thing,” Kian admitted. Especially not now, the water so
black he couldn't see what was in it. “As long as we don't go deeper.” He
looked at Mark. “Why do you like it?”
“I don't know if I do. I just...” He reached out to trail his hand through the
incoming foam, fingers making furrows. “There's something about it that feels
right. Like maybe whatever's missing from me is out there somewhere, and I just
have to wait for it to float in. I'm not scared of it. It's got a part of me.”
He smiled sadly. “When I can't sleep and all I can think is about all the
thoughts I don't have, it helps. To sit here and feel them around me, even if I
can't see them.”
Kian nodded, and shifted closer to put an arm around him. Understood more than
he could express, sitting in the little house and feeling memories he couldn't
quite touch, but which nevertheless felt like home. That every creak in the
walls and every nail in the floor was a history in a language he didn't speak.
“Shane said you were a selkie,” he joked carefully. Mark looked up in
confusion. “Like a mermaid, sort of, but it's a seal that comes on land and
takes off it's skin and walks around like a human.” Mark snorted.
“Makes as much sense as anything else.” Kian got a lopsided smile that made his
heart skitter. “Where's my skin?”
“Someone stole it and hid it, and now you can't turn back.”
“Obviously.” Mark rolled his eyes. “He told me the one about the brothers that
get turned into swans.”
“Is that the one where the sister isn't allowed to speak for seven years and
her babies get murdered?”
“That's the one,” Mark chuckled. “And then she speaks a second too soon and one
of the brothers has a swan's wing instead of an arm for the rest of his life.”
“Probably a good talking point at parties,” Kian reasoned. Mark snorted. “If
this was one of his fairytales, I would have probably snogged you or married
you or something the minute I found you.”
“What's wrong with me? Bit rude.”
“Sorry, I thought an ambulance made more sense.” They both laughed, voices
echoing through the empty night until they were broken by a distant roll of
thunder. “How long do we stay here?”
“Until I feel better.” Kian nodded and looked out at the flickering horizon,
willing to give him some space. “I feel better,” Mark added. “And it looks like
it's about to rain. How about I make some hot chocolate and we can watch the
storm.” They helped each other up, Kian slipping a little in the wet sand. He
shivered when the breeze caught his bare legs. “Thanks, Kian.”
“For what?”
“For...” Mark hesitated. Then he was leaning in.
It felt like electricity, though that may have just been the lightning in the
air. Still, it didn't stop Kian shivering when they connected, a hot fizz of
blood that spread from his cold lips and down, Mark's taste a darting warmth
that caressed his tongue. He moaned, tilted, body a trembling magnet when he
felt Mark's hands brand warm and gentle on his arms and the wind blow his hair
back from his face, Mark's into their eyes, catching the smell of him.
It broke. Kian realised he was giggling. Mark did too, after a halting,
embarrassed moment.
“Um.” Kian touched his lips. “I should come down here more often.”
“Sorry.” Mark bit his lip, but he didn't look sorry, was watching Kian with
eyes that were as dark and heavy as the clouds boiling above them. “So, hot
chocolate?”
He began to walk, leaving Kian to catch up through the dry sand that stuck to
his wet feet.


 
***** Chapter 14 *****
“If I had sense enough," replied the Beast, "I would make a fine compliment to
thank you, but I am so dull that I can only say I am greatly obliged to you.”
- Beauty & the Beast, Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve

“Marshmallows?”
“I think we both know the answer to that,” Kian chuckled, watching while Mark
dropped two pink ones into his mug, then sprinkled some cinnamon powder on top.
It was obscene. Usually Kian just tipped two teaspoons of instant mix in and a
dash of Baileys if he was feeling fancy, but Mark was doing it properly, had
spent ten minutes over the stove melting the chocolate and adding the milk and
vanilla.
The mug slid in front of him, across the kitchen island. He took a sip, nearly
moaned, then straightened his features into a pout.
“What, no whipped cream?”
“I can get some if you...” Mark reached for the fridge, then appeared to
realise Kian was joking. “Ha.”
“Ha,” Kian agreed. “It's perfect. Thanks.” He took another sip. It was even the
right temperature, warmed him from the inside the same way the shower had
warmed him from the outside. Mark had gone first to rinse off the sand, then
started on the hot chocolate while Kian had been taking his time, glad for hot
water and a fresh towel. “It wouldn't be right,” he blurted out. Mark raised an
eyebrow. “Us. It wouldn't be...” He breathed out slowly, trying to slow his
apprehensive heart. “I'd be taking advantage.”
“Would you?” A smirk was twisting at the corner of Mark's mouth. “Why?”
“Because you don't know who you are, and I'm taking care of you, and I just...”
He realised Mark was trying not to laugh. “It's not funny. Why is this funny?”
“Ikissed you.”
“Yeah, but...” Kian scowled at him, though part of him badly wanted to laugh as
well. “What if you remember, suddenly, and it turns out you've got someone
already? Or... it doesn't look right. Jodi finds out that I've got you here and
we're a thing and what is she going to think? That I coerced you? Because...”
“You didn't coerce me.”
“You're confused. You don't know...”
“Kian.” Mark stood up, and Kian's mouth stuttered on his carefully thought out
arguments, the ones he'd spent far too much time dwelling on over the last
months, rational explanations that had been scattered to the wind about the
time he'd tasted a tongue on his. A hand landed on his shoulder and Kian
realised Mark had rounded the kitchen island. Was looking at him while Kian
looked back with a thousand excuses.
They were silenced by Mark's lips.
He whined a protest that turned into a whimper. Fingers cradling the back of
his head, other hand dropping to tilt up his chin and he was drowning, meeting
it hungrily back while the thunder played a distant drumline over the sea.
Gulped. Separated. Mark's eyes right there and he was lost, groping for the
surface.
“Finish your drink.” Sweet, chocolatey breath tickled his mouth. Kian reached
for him. Felt him pull away. “Then we can go get some sleep.”

*

The stairs felt too long as Kian climbed them. Mark was behind him. Footsteps
and breath and heavy presence. He shivered. Pushed open the bedroom door. Rain
was striking the window, droplets shattering the lightning into sheets of
glasslight, and when a hand settled on his hip he could still see it on the
lids of his closed eyes, head tipping back against a shoulder. Wanted to say
no, but Mark was guiding him into another kiss and he couldn't, not when he
could feel arousal through pyjama bottoms, the heat of someone against him for
the first time in too long.
“Say no,” Mark whispered. “Tell me we shouldn't.”
“Mark.” Wanted to come right there, especially when he felt a hand drag up his
thigh, catching the satin of his boxer shorts and pulling them tight against
his swollen cock. “Tell me you want this. That I didn't...”
“I want it.” Mark breathed into his neck. Hot. Kian moaned. Felt the breath
turn into a sucking kiss that slid up to his ear. “Want you. Fuck.” He arched
forward, a little uncontrolled, and Kian felt him press. “Kian.”
The springs squeaked as Kian climbed in, Mark on the other side. Sheets up and
the two of them facing each other, Mark's lips cherry red. Put a hand on a
stubbly cheek and leaned in, careful.
Their tongues met before their lips did, a first taste, and then the distance
closed. Gentle. A slow savour that was the opposite to the straining in his
boxers. Let his hand settle on a hip and felt a ticklish flinch and a huff of
laughter before Mark's hand was doing the same, slipping under Kian's t-shirt
and up his ribs, fingers courting every line on the way up.
Back down. Into the small of his back and down to cup over his arse. A cheeky
squeeze that made Kian laugh and pull away a little while Mark kissed up his
nose and over his eyebrow, delicate butterflies that made him shiver.
“What do you want?” Mark whispered. “Show me what you like.”
“Oh god,” Kian's hands clenched where they'd been exploring Mark's back. Wanted
not to be almost coming at Mark's voice, intimate in his ear. “Keep kissing
me,” he pleaded. “Don't stop kissing me.”
Mark obliged with a growl. Kian caught it. Hungry and Mark pushing forward and
hands everywhere, suddenly, tearing at Mark's shirt, over his head and back
together before he could take another breath. His own shirt a second later and
Mark's hands on his boxers, both of them kicking Mark out of his pyjama bottoms
with clumsy feet, laughing into the kiss until they were naked and Mark was
pushing on top, slow and rolling, like lava covering Kian until he was buried,
arching up, breath gone and Mark scorching kisses onto his mouth while his
thighs wrapped around soft hips and he felt pressure shift until it was right
there and Mark was moaning and jerking a rhythm and...
The kiss broke. Buried in his shoulder instead while Kian's eyes rolled back
with every thrust, a strobe of lightning and darkness.
“...Mark,” he gasped. “Slow it down.” Mark did, with a whine that suggested he
didn't want to. Kian kissed it away. Ran his hands up a chest spattered with
hair and felt nipples scrape his palms, the hitched breath in response. Did it
again, thumbs teasing. Smirked into the soft moan and rolled them, a little
clumsy until he was knelt over Mark and looking down.
Blue eyes softened as they looked back. Flushed cheeks, one a little more red
from the sunburn. He cupped the other. Looked down at a soft belly, hard cock.
Thighs that tensed under his and a cheeky smile on swollen lips.
“Okay?” Mark murmured self-consciously.
“Perfect.” Kian ran a hand down his sternum. “Okay?”
“Amazing.” Kian jerked reflexively into the grip that settled on his cock, then
laughed. Mark grinned back. “I feel like I know this.”
“Do you? Slut.” He bent to kiss the sting out of his words. “You're doing
fine,” he coaxed. “Go at your own speed.” Mark nodded. “You're so beautiful.”
Started a slow rhythm with his hips. Felt Mark arch back. “Feel so good.”
“Kian.” Dark head tipping back, lips parting. His arm hooked back to grab the
pillow and Kian kissed him again, felt Mark's free hand run a clumsy stroke up
his cock. “Mnn.” His eyes squeezed shut while Kian's stayed open, watching him.
“Ohfuck,” Mark gasped against his mouth. Twitched beneath him. “Kian...”
Their foreheads pressed together, noses squashed while Mark quivered out a soft
cry, then a louder one. Sucked a kiss that felt like desperation and Kian
reached back to touch him, to guide the rocking between them, and felt Mark
pulse. Felt throbbing weight slip between his cheeks and held him there,
squeezing down while Mark panted into his mouth and clung at the pillow, hand
dropping from Kian's cock to claw at his thigh.
“Kian,” he croaked. Blunt fingernails scraped like ragged fire. “Please.”
Kian kissed him hard while Mark let out an unearthly groan and filled his hand.
He held Mark through it. Through the jerking release, the rasping growl that
panted into a breathless cackle that Kian had to meet while Mark twitched in
his arms, gave one final shiver, and settled onto the sheets, glistening with
sweat.
“Unh,” he managed. Kian laughed.
“Perfect.” He pecked a kiss to Mark's nose. Knew he was still hard, but didn't
mind. Could feel cum trickling down the back of his balls and didn't mind that
much either.
“I love you,” Mark said, suddenly, and Kian froze. Frightened eyes staring back
and him and he swallowed, not sure what to say. “Er.” He was still frozen when
a hand caressed his hip nervously, and he sat up slowly, feeling suffocated.
“Erm.”
“Love... isn't something I'm good at,” Kian admitted. Mark nodded.
“You don't have to feel the same way.”
“...I do. That's the problem.” Mark tilted his head. “I don't do it easily. I
love Shane, and that's...” His eyes drifted to the window, where the sun was
coming up, muted by the ongoing storm. “I mean, that's basically fucked.” He
laughed helplessly, and scooted back when Mark sat up. There was still cum
trickling stickily out of his arsecrack. “I don't want that for you too.” He
closed his eyes, swayed into the kiss that pressed tenderly to his cheek.
“There are other people out there, you know? People that are less...”
“You're not broken,” Mark interrupted. Kian shook his head. “I don't want other
people.” Their hands linked, and Kian looked up into an accepting smile.
“You're really bad at being happy, aren't you?”
“Happy's relative.” The hug Mark gave him was so sudden and friendly he had to
laugh out loud. “Alright, I'm happy. Jesus.” Teeth nipped at his neck. “I do
love you.”
“Good.” A hand groped at his flagging cock, teasing it back to life. Kian
moaned. Rested his head on a strong shoulder and let Mark touch him. Clung.
Tasted sweat and scraped fingernails down the back of Mark's neck and felt a
hand cradle his arse, sliding through tacky cum. Felt a finger flick at him
while he buried himself in Mark's embrace, caught on trembling thighs, a core
of burning fuses.
Teeth nipped at his jaw when he was close. He cried out, a low prayer.
He came to the panting of Mark's breath, urgent against his ear.

*

“Somebody got their end away last night,” Bryan teased. Kian paused in the
doorway, keys in the lock and other hand clutching his coffee. “Oh come on. You
look like you haven't slept, but you're still smiling like a fucking rainbow.”
Kian smirked and pushed the door open, heard a knowing laugh behind him.
“Who was it?”
“Just some lad.” It was the opposite, but Bryan didn't need to know that. Not
how they'd showered together afterwards then held each other until the sun was
properly up, Mark pecking kisses at his throat and asking if he absolutely had
to go to work.
He did, had been the answer. It had been almost impossible to leave, made worse
by the shitty weather. The storm was still going and the forecast predicted
heavy rain and lightning for the rest of the week, possible hail to come. He'd
spent the drive peering through the wipers and wishing he was home in bed.
Instead he was flicking on the store lights and turning off the alarm system.
It was a slow day. The weather didn't help. They kept the radio on in case of
warnings, and it at least gave them something to do between occasional
customers, singing along to music and laughing with the DJs. The packed it in
around two-thirty when the report mentioned roads were flooded in some of the
low-lying areas and Bryan said he might go pick up his kids, if that was
alright.
Of course it was fine. Kian drove him to the school and gave them a ride to
Bryan's house, the girls laughing and shoving in the back and peering out the
windows with wide, excited eyes. It was smashing down and they passed a car
accident, some poor lad stood in the driving rain while a tow-truck driver
hitched his car to a crank.
“You be alright to get home?”
“Should be.” He had to raise his voice through the clamour of rainfall. “The
spit's only flooded once, and that was back in the sixties during the
hurricane.” Bryan nodded, wished him a safe drive, and hustled his kids out of
the car and up to the house, Lilly and Molly squealing as they were soaked.
The spit wasn't flooded, but the water was high, covering the flat shrubland
surrounding the road. It was slippery and he moved carefully, headlights
picking the way through darkness that felt like early evening instead of three
in the afternoon
Mark met him at the door with a towel.
“I'll run you a bath.”
“Thanks.” He was soaked through, shivering while he kicked off his icy clothes
and tried to dry his hair. Mark was up the stairs already. When Kian caught up
the bathroom was full of hot steam and he exhaled with relief, got a smile that
warmed the rest of him.
“Get in.”
“Thanks.” The bath was still filling, but when he sat it rose up over his hips.
“It's pelting out there. You okay?”
“Yeah. I shut all the windows.” Kian nodded. “We lost power for a couple of
minutes earlier but it came on alright. I couldn't figure out how to reset the
clock on the microwave.”
“I'll sort it,” Kian promised. He slid back as the hot water caressed his
stomach, then chest. “Bubble bath?”
“You got it,” Mark chuckled, and tipped some in. Soon it was foaming up around
Kian's neck and Mark turned the water off. “How was your day?”
“Started well, ended well.” Mark leaned forward for a kiss. Then he reached
down to pull the plug. Kian went to ask, surprised by the apparent brevity of
the bath, but Mark winked at him and replaced it when the water had dropped,
then began to strip out of his clothes.
“You mind?”
“Very much no.” He shifted happily when Mark climbed in and atop him, the water
sloshing up to the edge. “You've got plans for tonight?”
“Was thinking we do this. Then I could make some dinner and we could watch some
TV.” His mouth caught Kian's. “Been thinking about this,” he muttered while
Kian arched. “All day.”
“Mm...” Kian pulled him into another kiss. “Same.” A hand slid through the
water, grasping around sensitive flesh that was already getting hard with
anticipation. He felt Mark moan against his mouth. “I want you.”
“Oh Jesus,” Mark croaked. “Yes.” He nuzzled into Kian's throat, gasping. “I'm
not going to last.”
“Don't worry,” Kian assured him. Felt himself throb at the thought of it, at
Mark's reaction. “We've got all night.” Moaned as he was let go then realised
Mark was grasping himself instead, a squeeze to slow himself down. Kian pushed
him back. Up onto his knees. Pressed forward and took him in, ignoring the
taste of soap, water lapping at his chin while he went down on Mark.
Fingers knotted in his hair. He heard a gulping prayer and went deeper, pulled
him in, felt Mark's thighs tense under his hands. Bliss when he looked up and
saw a parted mouth, sleepy eyes. The plane of stomach and chest and wet nipples
that stood in the cool air.
Afterwards Mark pulled him out of the bath. Kian came laid on the bathmat, his
shoulders on hard tiles and Mark's mouth a wet sheath that took him in, growls
vibrating him to the edge.
“You're quite the cocksucker,” Mark commented while he was chopping vegetables
for a pasta. Kian looked up in surprise. “Just saying.”
“You too.” This was a new side of Mark. Brazen in a way that edged at shy.
Filthy words and blushing cheeks. The storm was still belting outside and the
clock on the microwave said it was just after seven at night. Kian had reset it
while Mark had rummaged in the fridge.
“I think I like it,” Mark mused. “Or I did.” The silence was broken by his
knife starting on a fresh batch of cauliflower. “Still do. You know what I
mean.” Kian nodded, but didn't interrupt him. “I had a weird dream.”
“A memory dream?”
“Maybe. Or maybe not.” Mark tossed the cauliflower into the pot. “There was a
buoy on the water and I was sat on it, but I couldn't see the shore.” He was
licking his lips nervously when he looked over his shoulder. “Do you think it
means something?”
“I couldn't tell you. Have you only had it once?”
“No. Couple of times. But there are seagulls there and they keep swooping at
me.” He grabbed a handful of mushrooms. “Maybe that's why I'm scared of birds?”
“Maybe.”
“There are seals as well. I know their names.”
“What are their names?”
“I don't remember.” Mark put down the knife. “That'll simmer for a bit. Do you
want some bread while you wait?” Kian shook his head.
“I'm fine.” He reached out a hand. Mark caught it. “I used to get this dream
where all my teeth fell out.”
“What does that mean?”
“Dunno. Apparently it's pretty common. Something to do with losing control.
Suppose it makes sense. I was all over the place at the time.”
“Really? How so?”
“Just... I was in the system but I was too old to be fostered. It was sort of
that point where I knew I was about to be alone. Almost eighteen and I had no
idea what I was going to do next except my school marks weren't great and I was
stuck in a group home, just waiting for something to happen.”
“That must have sucked.”
“It did. Shane was AWOL again, and there was nothing I could do except hope
he'd come back with a solution. But he didn't. A few of us were aging out and
we decided to rent a share flat together, and after a bit I got a job and the
dreams stopped.”
“What do you dream now?”
“I dream about the sea,” Kian admitted. “Which I suppose makes sense
considering I can hear it every night while I'm sleeping.”
“Suppose so.” Mark smiled. “Maybe that's where mine's coming from too.” He
turrned away, but his eyes were unsure before they fixed back on the pot. “Do
you want a cream sauce or a tomato sauce?”
“Whatever you think.” Kian pushed himself up. Wrapped himself around Mark from
behind and kissed a strong shoulder. “Can I help?”
“No, just gotta wait for the pasta...”
“I mean with your dreams,” Kian corrected. Mark shook his head.
“I don't think anyone can help.” His hand settled over Kian's, heart beating
against his palm. “But it's nice that you want to.” He stirred the pot with a
wooden spoon, other hand still clasped over Kian's.
Kian kissed his shoulder again and let go.
 
***** Chapter 15 *****
“We must go on, because we can't turn back.”
- Treasure Island,Robert Louis Stevenson


Mark didn't go out to the water that night. Kian heard him shifting, though,
restless, his routine upset by the bad weather. After a while Kian pulled him
into a hug and suggested something else, and so they went outside to sit on the
bench on the porch, the rain running sheets over the gutters and Mark's feet
stuck over the railing.
“It's pretty,” Mark said. Kian nodded and kissed his cheek.
“It is.” Startlingly black, the waves lit every few seconds by streaks of
lightning that looked like they were stabbing all the way to the bottom. The
wind was a shriek, shaking the thunder from the sky, but still it felt
beautiful. It didn't hate, it didn't rage, it just was. Nature tearing itself
apart.
They both looked up as the porchlight sputtered out.
“Shit.” Kian peered around. Could see the mainland half a mile away, the odd,
staggered blink of squares of light disappearing, like they'd been stamped out
of the world. The marina at one end, all the way to the industrial area at the
other. “Grid's out.” He stood up, peered through the darkness, but it was
impossible to tell if any lines were down when he couldn't see a foot in front
of his face.
“Guess you're going to have to reset the microwave clock again.”
“Guess I am.” A hand groped at his and he clung to it. “You know where the
candles are?” Mark squeezed his hand in reply. “You get that sorted, I'll find
a torch.” He pulled the door open, felt the wind catch it and yank it from his
grip. The second try worked better. Then they were inside, laughing when the
door slammed shut behind them.
His phone was beside the bed. Kian tripped into things twice trying to reach
it, but not long after he had the torch on, was coming downstairs to find
candles lit on the kitchen table and Mark digging out more, the smell of used
matches a sting on the air.
There was a radio in the bottom drawer. He pulled it out, changed the
batteries, and set it on the counter tuned to the local station, though it was
patchy at best, more white noise than anything.
Severe storm warning. Stay in your homes and bring pets indoors. Check on
elderly neighbours. Have candles prepared in case of blackouts. Do not attempt
to drive, especially on flooded roads.
Kian turned it off. Mark's eyes blinked, big and shadowy in the candlelight.
Kra-KOOM.
They both jumped, then began to laugh. The thunder faded, laughing along.
Then the patter of hailstones.
Kian was just glad he'd put his car undercover. Hoped everyone was safe, out
there, in the storm.
He hoped Shane was somewhere warm.


*


The day dawned as the previous one had ended. They hadn't slept well, either of
them, but whether that was due to the noise or Mark's touch was debatable. It
had felt like being in a dream. Snogging slowly, drifting to sleep, waking
again to Mark spooning around him and Kian pressing back, drowsy kisses on his
nape and both of them moving slowly, an endless grope that didn't need release.
Kian finally came just before dawn. Mark's hand on him and twisting suddenly,
and he breathed it out into the pillow. Breathed in hours of mingled sweat
while Mark soothed kisses down his shoulder, ribs, hip, thigh. Back up to twist
Kian into a breathless snog.
“Love you,” Mark murmured. Kian gulped it back. Rolled over. Knew it was past
dawn, from the greying tint to the storm, but that there was no way that he was
going in today. Not when the lights were still off and he could hear thunder
rippling overhead.
When they were done he texted the staff to let them know they were closed and
to keep safe, tossed his phone back on the side table, and flopped back into
the pillows.
“Knackered,” he mumbled. Mark hummed agreement and snuggled into his side.
They both slept, the rage of the sea a lullaby.


*


The power was still off when they woke around eleven. Kian found Mark sat on
the porch again, and the storm had eased somewhat. Still raining, but not the
relentless pelt it had been all night. The clouds were still black. Kian sat
down beside him and switched the radio on.
It wasn't great news. Widespread damage from hailstones, fallen trees, flooding
on the mainland where the river had burst and spread into homes and businesses.
Kian doubted the store would be affected badly, they were far enough inland
after all, but regardless there was no point going to check. He could see from
here that the road into town was going to be impassable for at least the next
few days until the water receded, though there was probably enough safe passage
to walk the trip if he felt like getting soaked for no good reason.
There was debris all down the beach. Leaves and sticks and half a rosebush Kian
knew was from his own back garden. He'd glanced out before and it was carnage,
everything flattened or ripped out, shingles missing from the roof of the shed.
Nothing damaged in the main house, thank god, though the report said there had
been a roof or two ripped away and windows broken all through town, that clean-
up efforts were stalled while they waited for the storm to pass, and to collect
sandbags and bottled water as needed from community buildings through town.
They couldn't cook. Kian poured them a couple of bowls of cereal before the
milk could go off in the fridge and they ate them in the dim kitchen, the
curtains drawn back for a bit of light.
It was a friendly sort of day. There was a calm about having Mark around.
Something in his presence that was strong and safe but didn't insist upon
itself. It wasn't like being by himself, but not like being with Shane either,
where it always felt like something was happening. Mark just was. There for
touch and conversation, seemed to complement Kian's own rhythm of needing to
be, sometimes, to just find breath in the lulls between thought.
They were settled on the bed, Kian with a book and Mark dozing against his
chest when Kian felt a drop of water land on his check.
He wiped it away, confused, and looked up. Swore when he saw the telltale
darkening of the ceiling, a second drop fall. It landed on Mark's hair.
“Whassat?” Mark muttered. Kian groaned and put down the book, pushed him off.
“Get a bucket,” Kian sighed. “I'll check the attic.”
“There's an attic?” Mark looked surprised. “Where?”
Above the upstairs hallway was the answer. Kian got out the stepladder and
pushed the trapdoor open, once the bed was pushed aside and a bucket put under
the drip. Then he clambered up into the ceiling, coughing when the dust
flurried into his lungs.
“Can I look?”
“If you don't mind getting dirty.” He crawled along the floor until there was
enough room to stand, stooping to avoid his hair touching the exposed beams. He
could see the problem already, an uneven square of sunlight at the end where a
few shingles had been ripped free above the patchjob he'd worked together when
Shane had fallen off the roof. He heard scuffling behind him and glanced around
when he saw Mark pull himself clumsily over the lip of the ceiling.
“Oh, cool.” He looked around absently. “What's in those boxes?”
“Old clothes and tax receipts, mostly.” Kian crept a little closer to the
puddle that had pooled under the hole, going careful in case the boards were
rotten. “Shit I might need but don't mind forgetting about.” Mark nodded
sagely. “I'll board this over until I can get someone in to repair it.” It
wasn't too bad. Just needed another plank above the first to hold out the
elements. “Watch your step. The floor's old.”
“I found a spider.”
“Just one? You're not looking hard enough.” He turned to find Mark inspecting a
large web. “Cool. Let's get out of here and I'll grab some tools from the
shed.” Mark shrugged and turned away, then stopped, peering into the darkness.
“What's that?”
“What... oh.” Kian could just make it out, the chest hidden in the corner of
the eaves. “It's just full of old clothes.” Mark was creeping closer, looking
curious. “Explore if you want, I'm getting out of here.”
“I know this,” Mark said softly, though it felt loud in the empty space. His
fingers lifted the brass clasp, the one shaped like a seashell. “I...” He sat
down cross-legged on the filthy floor. “What is it?”
“I don't know. It was here when I got here.” Kian felt his heart begin to
stutter faster. Mark was leaning closer, inspecting the clasp with an odd
reverence. “You recognise it?” Mark nodded. When Kian sank down alongside him
he looked troubled, though he let go of the clasp and opened the chest
carefully, peering inside.
“What's this?” He picked the wooden boat up. It was well made, what looked like
a fishing boat about the length of Kian's forearm. Small cabin, painted white,
the rest a faded blue. A mast sat in the middle, tiny rungs of a ladder carved
along it, and a crossbeam that stood from the rear of the boat on two spindly
pillars.
“You can have it if you want.”
“I...” Mark was turning it over and over, looked almost entranced. “The net
goes here.” He tapped two notches on the crossbeam. “It's a trawler.” Kian
shrugged. Mark's thumb settled on the prow, where there was a seashell painted,
the same as the one on the chest. “Why do I...” He looked back into the chest.
Began to pull clothes from it, almost possessed. Kian took the boat to keep it
out of the way. “There's something.”
“What?”
“I don't...” And then the chest was empty, clothes strewn around him. A hard
wooden bottom that stared back at them. “Fuck, what is it?” He picked up a
dress that had caught on his knee. “No.”
“Mark.” Kian put a hand on his shoulder. “You're confused. We'll figure it out.
Just...”
“I know this!” Mark snapped back. Kian pulled his hand away. “It has to be...”
He threw the dress down. “Fuck.” Trembling legs were pulled up to a heaving
chest, and Kian realised there were tears in his eyes. “I don't know.” He was
shaking when Kian wrapped slowly around him, the boat still held in one hand.
“It's okay,” Kian murmured. “We'll figure it out.”


*


The rest of the day was spent in a sombre silence. Mark barely put down the
boat, spent the afternoon turning it over in his hands, looking at it from
every possible angle. Kian didn't interrupt him, went back up instead to patch
the hole and mop up the puddle. If it really had sparked a memory it was easier
just to let him be and hope Mark was able to tease out the rest of it.
The lights came back on just after nine that night. Kian blew out the candles,
reset the microwave clock, then spent some time going through the fridge to
figure out what could be saved. It had held the cold well, and most of it was
salvagable, though he did have to throw away the milk and half an avocado that
was going brown.
The television said the weather would pass tomorrow, that the usual idiots
who'd tried to drive through floodwaters or go fishing in the storm had been
rescued, and that clean-up was underway. There was a shot of the main road. It
wasn't very heartening, leaves all over the place and broken windows, a tree
downed into someone's roof, but nobody seemed to be seriously hurt except for a
man who'd been stupid enough to try to move fallen power lines off his front
lawn and was intensive care.
Kian let everyone know that work wasn't compulsory the next day, but that he'd
be going in early to see what the damage was if anyone wanted to join him.
Bryan said he'd check it out, and Mark asked if he could tag along too. Kian
didn't see why not. They wouldn't be open regardless.
The boat was set carefully on the chest beside the bed when they climbed in.
Kian spooned around him. Knew even with his eyes shut that Mark was looking at
the boat. When he woke again the rain had stopped and Mark was gone, the boat
with him.
They came back a couple of hours later. Kian pulled him in. Stroked damp, salty
hair and kissed his forehead. Felt Mark shiver. The stars were starting to come
out, pinpricks in the darkness, and when the moon caught Mark's face there was
something there that hadn't been, the shadows shifting and making him look not
like Mark after all, like someone else wearing Mark's skin.
Kian closed his eyes and focused on the familiar heartbeat against his.


*


The drive into town was done carefully. Wet roads, branches scattered
everywhere. The spit wasn't too bad with the waters having receded during the
night, but town hadn't fared as well. Sandbags at every door and the constant
smell of wet rubbish and mud, cramming drains and creating slick mess across
the tarmac.
The store seemed mostly intact. A bit of water on the floor and they spent
twenty minutes making sure all the power cables were out of the wet before they
turned on the lights. By the time Bryan arrived they were pulling stock off the
lower racks, tossing anything damaged into a cardboard box to be written out of
the inventory, and putting everything onto tables to keep it out of the damp.
Kian suspected the carpet would have to be pulled up, judging from the smell,
and sent a text to the owner to let him know what was going on.
He got a message back commending him for his great work. Obviously the guy
wasn't going to drag himself out here himself, but Kian didn't mind. It was
easier to work without having someone over his shoulder.
“You have much damage?”
“Nah.” Bryan shook his head. They'd been mostly quiet, had just gotten stuck
in, but Kian hadn't missed the curious glances Bryan had been casting Mark's
way. “Couple windows in the back got broken. Got the glazier coming in Friday.
Otherwise it was just the power and it gave the girls a bit of a fright.”
“They were okay?”
“Yeah. We made an evening out of it. Had a picnic in the living room. Put on
little plays and told ghost stories, that sort of thing.” Mark snorted a laugh
where he was leaned over the mop. “You?”
“Couple of shingles out of the roof, but not too bad. The garden's a warzone.”
“Surprised you didn't get more, out on the water like that.”
“Me too, honestly.”
“Your roof's got a four-sided slant instead of being gabled,” Mark said
quietly. Kian looked up in surprise. “And you've got venting built-into the
stone to equalise air pressure, There's a buried sea-wall just off the shore
too, which staggers the breaks so they don't hit as hard.”
“How do you know that?”
“You can see the spot where the current runs parallel,” Mark explained. “I'd
say there's probably reef build-up there too. That's why the seals like it.
It's protected, there's fish and not much shark activity in the area except for
basking sharks, and they're not aggressive and too big to come in that close.
Plus most of the tuna fishing gets done out in the deeper areas so there's less
chance of getting tangled in nets, and the dolphins stay up the point so
there's less competition.” He looked away, blushing. “Um.” Bryan was staring at
him. Kian didn't know what to say. “Should I throw this out?”
“Yeah, you can just...” Kian gestured at the box. Mark tossed the packet of
noseplugs in. “I've got sharks, do I?”
“In your area? Definitely baskers.” Mark didn't look like he knew where the
words were coming from either. “Threshers probably. I mean, you're not too far
from deep trench waters, so there's probably lots of starfish and sea-
cucumbers. Turtles. There'll be humpbacks and minkes a bit further south, but
good luck spotting them close to shore.”
The colour drained from his face. He blinked, and then sat suddenly, like his
legs had utterly given out. Kian rushed to his side.
“Mark?” He tipped. Eyes rolled back for a second. “Mark.” Soft moan. Bryan was
already reaching for his phone.
“What's wrong with him?”
“He's fainted I think. Mark.” Blue eyes fluttered open. “Talk to me, yeah?”
“Kian?” It sounded dazed. “I'm on the floor.” Bryan had paused, finger hovered
over the keypad.
“You fainted.” It came out slightly hysterical. But Mark was already sitting
up. “Hey, okay, don't go too fast.”
“Do I call someone?”
“Get him a glass of water,” Kian instructed. Bryan charged off into the
staffroom. “You alright? You need some air?” Mark shook his head. He looked
pale still.
“I'm alright. I just got light-headed.” He accepted the glass Bryan handed him
and took a careful sip. “Maybe it's the smell. Or the milk was off. I'm really
tired.” It was too many excuses at once. “Sorry to scare you.”
“It's okay.” Kian hugged him gently. “I'll get you a chair and you can sit down
while we finish up. Shouldn't be much longer.”
He pulled a chair out of the staffroom. Mark got in it on his own, looked fine
again, and Kian tried to quell his worry. They didn't need a production over
this. He'd just fainted. Kian had done it once or twice himself when he'd been
exhausted and or dehydrated, still had a scar on his cheek from when he'd been
running a school cross-country in the sweltering heat and gone sprawling on
rocky ground.
They packed up an hour later. There wasn't much more they could do. Kian
suspected they'd be closed for the next day at least, until everything dried
out and it was safe to go back in. Bryan caught him at the door while Mark
climbed into the car.
“He's weird.”
“He's fine.” Both felt true. “It's been a hectic couple of days.” The nod he
got in return didn't appear convinced. “I'll call you when I know what's going
on, yeah? Say hi to the girls.” He set the alarm and closed the door. Mark was
waiting behind the passenger seat.
“I like your shop.”
“Thank you,” Kian chuckled. “It's better when it's dry.” He put a hand on
Mark's knee. “You're sure you're feeling better? We can swing by the hospital.”
“I'm okay. Honestly. It just... it felt like a headache, almost, but really
sudden. Like my brain was filling up all at once. It's gone now.” He pressed
his hand gingerly to his forehead. “I said something, didn't I? I remember you
talking about the storm.”
“You said something about sharks and then pitched it,” Kian confirmed. “It was
all a bit...” Detailed. Thoroughly confident and detailed for someone who'd had
to be told what Peter Pan was. “It didn't make much sense.”
“Oh.” Mark turned to look out the window. “Cool.” Kian leaned over to kiss his
shoulder. “I'm hungry.”
“We'll make something when we get back home,” Kian chuckled. Mark grinned.
It was slow going. There were two workmen chainsawing a fallen tree on Kian's
normal route and he had to take a detour. Traffic was gridlocked. It was almost
an hour later that he turned out onto the spit and headed for the house, eyes
casting at ripped-up shrubs and sand darkened with moisture and driftwood. The
ridge where they'd found Mark had collapsed completely, save for a few stones
lining the border.
“Jesus,” Mark murmured. Kian nodded and turned up the hill to the drive.
There was a police car there, parked in his spot.
Kian pulled the handbrake and climbed out.
 
***** Chapter 16 *****
So he pretended to fall asleep and called out in his sleep: "I have killed a
dozen at a blow; I have slain two giants; I have caught a wild boar by his
bristles, and captured a unicorn alive. Show me the man that I need fear."
- A Dozen At One Blow, Joseph Jacobs


The door was unlocked. Kian was fumbling with the keys before he realised.
Lights on, the curtains drawn back, and Mark put his hand on the knob and
pushed. Then it was open and Kian was blinking into his own front hallway as
though he'd never seen it before, a tunnel that led to somewhere he wasn't sure
if he recognised.
Nicky was sat in the armchair. Kian felt a swell of vomit and covered his
mouth.
“Is Shane...”
“He's in the shower,” Nicky said. Kian almost fainted himself. Mark's hand
looped around his waist to steady him, and if Nicky noticed he didn't comment.
“You want to take a seat?” Kian did. Collapsed onto the sofa. Mark squeezed his
shoulder and asked if he should put on tea.
He disappeared into the kitchen. Nicky was in uniform, and Kian could hear it.
The patter of water on tiles somewhere above his head.
“What happened?”
“He was sleeping in the newspaper office parking garage,” Nicky said.
“Apparently he'd been in there before the storm, was harassing the reception
girl about speaking to someone about mermaids or something.” Kian closed his
eyes, buried his face in his hands. Wanted to be angry, but was more
embarrassed than anything. “They walked him off the premises but he kept trying
to come back, and then this morning they found him in the editor's parking
spot.”
“Jesus,” Kian groaned. Nicky was studying him when he looked up. “I'm really
sorry. He's usually okay. We had an argument and he stropped out. I didn't
think...” He looked towards the bathroom. “I'll talk to him.”
“What's he on?” Kian felt his cheeks flood with guilty heat. “Kian.”
“I don't know.” His voice sounded frightened. “Painkillers, I think. Mostly. He
used to be on stuff when we were younger, for depression and mood swings, but I
don't know if he still...” Mark came out of the kitchen holding two mugs of
tea. “Thanks.” He bit his lip. “I need to talk to the detective.” Mark nodded
and headed upstairs. Kian stood up. “Come outside?”
They took the mugs out to the porch seat. Kian wasn't sure if anyone could hear
them out here, but it was easier in the breeze.
“This isn't good.”
“It's not, no.” Kian put his mug down on the planks at his feet. Nicky was
still nursing his. “He thinks...” He hesitated. “Shane likes fairytales.”
“Okay. Like Snow White and stuff?”
“No. I mean, yes. He...” Kian tried to figure out how to explain. “He has
trouble with what's real and what's in his head, and he knows all these old
fairytales, and sometimes... I think it's easier for him to pretend they're
real than to face what's actually going on.”
“What's going on?”
“He's an addict.” It was the first time the word had come out of Kian's mouth.
Tears sprang to his eyes. “He's been hurt and he numbs it and runs away from
things. He doesn't want help.”
“Did you know that when you took Mark on?”
“He seemed okay at the time, I didn't think...” The stare was accusing. “I
can't save him,” he breathed. “I can't save Shane.” A hand settled on his
shoulder. When he looked up the gaze had softened. “I just wanted...”
“If Shane's a danger to Mark...”
“He's not,” Kian said quickly. “He wouldn't hurt anyone. He just gets
confused.”
“Would he talk to someone? A doctor?” Kian shrugged. “Does he ever hurt
himself?” Hanging his head was enough of a reply. “Kian, if he's hurting
himself I can speak to a doctor, maybe try to get him sectioned if it's getting
that bad.” Kian sniffed back angry tears. “This isn't just about him. It's
about your safety too.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're not. You look exhausted.” Kian shook his head. “I have to tell Jodi
about this. She's Mark's case worker. If she decides...”
“He wants to stay.”
“He's not of sound mind. I know he's doing well, but by definition I have to
treat him as impaired. You're his guardian. Part of that is providing a safe
and stable environment. You spent time in the system, you should know that.”
Kian's mouth opened in surprise. “We ran a background check when you made the
offer. You came up clean. If anything we were impressed. Not many kids have an
upbringing like yours and do as well as you've done. Jodi thought you might be
able to help him. Someone who understands what it's like.”
“Did you do one on Shane?”
“One misdemeanour, no convictions. His juvenile records were sealed, but we
didn't see cause for concern, especially as you said he was just visiting. I'm
concerned.”
“You want me to have Shane put away?”
“I want you to stop trying to make excuses and think about what's best for
him.” Kian nodded. “When I picked him up he tried to make me arrest the editor
for not believing him, then the whole way home he was babbling some nonsense
about the time he'd saved a baby from a runaway ferris wheel.” Kian snorted.
“He found a ragdoll at the carnival when we were twelve and gave it to lost and
found,” Kian sighed. Nicky looked like he was trying not to laugh, despite his
stern face. “I'll put him on the downstairs fold out, put Mark in with me so I
can keep an eye on him.”
“I thought you were clearing out the spare?”
“It's been a weird couple of weeks.” Nicky didn't look convinced. “Send Jodi
around. She can talk to Shane. Bring a doctor if you want. Whatever you think's
right, I'll do it. Even if it means...” He breathed out slowly. “He hasn't hurt
anyone. He's just in his own head.”
“Okay.” Nicky put down his mug. “How's Mark doing?”
“Doing well.” Kian tried not to blush. With everything else going on he was
definitely not mentioning their changing relationship. “He's discovered a
talent for cooking. I took him to the supermarket and he's been using my laptop
to find recipes.”
“That's good.”
“I think some of his memories are coming back too. Not like... big stuff, but
he's said some things seem familiar. And he knows things about fish.”
“Fish?”
“Yeah. Started talking about currents and sharks and all sorts of stuff. I
don't think he even knew what he was saying.” They heard a clatter inside.
“Shane's out of the shower. He's trying to make toast.”
“How do you know?”
Kian stood up. “He'll have tried to carry everything at once and dropped the
peanut butter.” He sighed and bent to pick up his mug “Come in if you want
burnt toast.”


*


Kian didn't know what he expected when he pushed back into the house. That
Shane would be different, somehow. Broken. Upset. Instead it was just Shane,
dressed in clean shorts and one of Kian's band shirts, spreading peanut butter
over toast.
He turned around. Smiled. Kian reached out and caught him when Shane walked
into a hug, as solid as ever.
“Hey. Sorry if I worried you.”
“It's alright,” Kian murmured. Shane kissed his cheek. “Making toast?”
“Want some?” Kian nodded. “How about the weather the last few nights, huh? That
was wild. Good thing Nicky found me, I must've gotten lost in the storm.” He
shook his head self-deprecatingly, with a good humour that was almost unreal.
“Thanks, detective.”
“You're welcome, Shane.” Nicky sat warily down at the kitchen table. “You were
out in the elements for a bit. You sure you wouldn't like to get checked out by
a doctor?”
“Right as rain. So to speak.” He chuckled. “I remember once Kian and I went
camping and the rain was so bad the tent collapsed. We got soaked. Kian got flu
but I was fine. Made of tough stuff.” He rapped on his chest to prove it. Nicky
was looking at Kian to clarify the story.
“I remember. I was in hospital with pneumonia.” Shane had sat by his bedside
the whole time, refusing to leave even when visiting hours were over.
“He almost died,” Shane said triumphantly. “Hey, did you know Mark can talk to
seals?” He glanced towards the stairs, where Mark was coming down carefully,
not sure if he was allowed yet. “That's right, isn't it? You can talk to
seals?”
“Er... I dunno. They like me alright,” Mark hedged.
“There were some in the garden a few weeks ago,” Kian explained to a confused
Nicky. “They let Mark pat them.”
“Really?” Nicky didn't look like he quite believed it, like Shane's lies were
spreading.
“Five of them,” Shane added. “I didn't think they liked people, but there they
were just hanging out in the yard. It was like magic.” The toasted popped.
Shane turned back and grabbed the jar of peanut butter again. “He can cook
too.”
“Kian was saying.” Mark was blushing. “Well, how about I bring Jodi over
tomorrow night and we can see this amazing cooking in action. If that's alright
with you, Mark?”
“I... yeah. There's a lamb and asparagus thing I've been wanting to try. If
that's...” Something excited was in his eyes, and Kian realised he was proud.
It was gorgeous. “I can do dessert too.”
“I'm hungry already. Thanks.” A plate with two pieces of burnt toast landed in
front of him, peanut butter scraped haphazardly on most of it. “Cheers Shane.”
Shane did a cheeky salute. Nicky returned it, laughing, then took a tentative
bite of his toast. “I'm hearing you might have remembered something, Mark. Kian
was saying you know about fish.” Mark hitched a shoulder. “You want to talk
about it?”
“I um... there's a boat.” Blue eyes darted nervously towards Kian. “It was in a
box. It's probably nothing, but...”
“Can I see?” Mark nodded and went upstairs to retrieve it.
“What boat?”
“Found it in the attic,” Kian said. “While I was fixing the new hole in the
roof.”
“Oh.” Shane didn't ask about the hole. It didn't matter anyway, because a
moment later Mark was coming back down, the boat clutched between careful
hands. He set it on the table in front of Nicky, who pulled it closer, peering
at it.
“The net goes there.” Mark pointed to the two notches. Nicky nodded and turned
it over. “I know the seashell. I don't know how I do, but...” He took it
carefully back when Nicky put it back down, clutching it to his chest.
“Do you mind if I take it back to the station? I can see if anyone recognises
it.”
“I'd rather keep it.” Something possessive darted through Mark's eyes. Worried.
“Can you just take a picture?” Nicky nodded and pulled a small camera off his
belt, snapped a few photos, then put it away. “Do you think it means anything?”
“I'll look into it.” Nicky stood. “Thanks for the toast, Shane, couldn't eat
another bite.” He'd only taken two, but Shane beamed anyway. “I'd better get
back to it, but I'll see you around six tomorrow evening.” Kian walked him out,
stepped outside when Nicky motioned him and shut the door behind them. “Watch
him,” he said in a low voice. Kian nodded gratefully. “We'll see how he is
tomorrow night and take it from there. I'm trusting you.”
“I appreciate it.” He put out a hand. Nicky hesitated, then shook it. “If
something happens I'll call you. Straight away.”
“You will.” Nicky gave him a warning look.
They said goodbye, and Kian stepped back into the house, bracing himself.


*


The evening went surprisingly well. Shane went upstairs to take a nap and Mark
made them all dinner while Kian went to check on the patchjob. Everything
seemed to be holding so he rang a roofing place but they were booked up because
of the widespread storm damage and couldn't come for a few weeks.
He made the appointment, woke Shane up for dinner, and they sat rather civilly
around the kitchen table, talking as though Shane hadn't been missing.
It felt like a jarring reset. Kian had a word to Mark and suggested they keep
what was happening a secret while things settled. Mark had seemed to
understand, though he'd looked put out.
Kian hated to think it, but maybe it was better that Shane go. For his own good
as much as anyone else's.
“I'm going to bed,” Shane announced. It was early, for him, but Kian supposed
he'd had a rough couple of days. He began to trot towards the stairs, and Mark
looked at Kian, panicked.
“Er...” Kian started. Shane looked back expectantly. “I was going to suggest
you sleep down here.” A disbelieving eyebrow rose. “Just... Mark's been
sleeping up there for the last couple of weeks and it wouldn't be fair to...”
“Mark doesn't sleep anyway. He spends half the night at the beach,” Shane
protested. “Then I have to wake up because he's sneaking past?”
“The ceiling's leaking,” Kian said helplessly.
“So?”
“I'll... sleep down here,” Mark interrupted quietly. Kian felt his heart sink.
“It's okay. I don't mind.” He smiled at Shane. “I've had a good run, and you'd
probably like a night in a proper bed.”
“You don't have to do me any favours.”
“Shane, fucking sleep wherever you want,” Kian snapped. Shane baulked.
“What's up your arse?”
“You. Disappearing for two weeks and then thinking you have any right to...” He
exhaled slowly while Shane stood there, pouting. “Where do you want to sleep?”
“I'll sleep down here if it's such a big drama.”
“Good. Decision made.” Kian stood up. “Mark and I are going to bed. Do you want
help pulling out the bed or can you do it on your own?”
“I got it.” There were tears in Shane's eyes. “I wasn't trying to be selfish. I
just don't see why...” Kian gestured Mark up the stairs. “You're always angry
with me lately. I don't understand.” He sniffed. “I thought if I gave you space
maybe...” He turned away. “Sorry.”
“Come here,” Kian sighed. Shane slouched over. The hug was sullen, but it fit
the way it always had, the two of them in perfect complement to the shape of
the other.
“Love you,” Shane murmured. “I'll make it up to you. Whatever I did wrong.”
“It's okay,” Kian whispered back. “We can look at it in the morning.”


*


The sand scraped his belly as he hauled himself up the beach, leaving his
second skin behind. Ungainly legs, a rocky path, and then grass and light and
the smell of people. Dust and food and soap and things hidden in cracks beneath
floorboards.
He's asleep, she said.
He looked at her. Memories of her. Dark hair to her shoulders and an apron
knotted around her waist over shorts that were both comfortable and rebellious.
The constant sense of mess, paint wiped off skin and tears off cheeks and
tidying away toys that had been left strewn when they'd stopped being important
to the story her son was playing out on the floor.
He hadn't been the first. Four before him. They were gone now. Back to the sea
they'd come from and he heard her crying in the night sometimes. Wished he
could help but nature wasn't like that. It gave and took without reason, dark
as the deepest trench and light as the foam pushing the shore.
He knew all that while he stood there. His children. Something incompatible
between what he was and what she knew.
He climbed the stairs. Lagoon-blue eyes that blinked in the dark. He lifted the
boy, heavy and perfect in his arms.
You can't take him too, she said. He shook his head and kissed a pink cheek
with a mouth that felt clumsy, lips that were thick and wore whiskers shorter
and darker.
I will take him, he croaked back. You can't be trusted. Not when you kill all
the others.
Give me a week, she pleaded. A week and then I'll bring him to you.
He nodded. Didn't ask about the time, what preparations she'd make, whether the
days would be spent cursing his name or crooning her son's.
She lifted the boy from his arms. He stared. Wide, watchful eyes that seemed to
see only her.
The seal-skin cloak fluttered around his knees as he descended the stairs.


 
***** Chapter 17 *****
I am sorry for him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his
ill whims? Himself always.
- A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens


Kian couldn't say what was wrong, exactly, when Mark asked. Early morning and a
hand on him while coaxing kisses nipped up his throat. The perfect way to wake
up. A nose nuzzled gently into his ear while he lay there, staring drowsily at
the ceiling.
“Not in the mood?”
“Sorry,” Kian sighed. Mark shrugged and pulled away. The hand released his cock
and settled on his chest instead, fingers splaying out. Could feel a gaze on
his cheek, where Mark was studying him in the early morning light.
“Is it Shane?” Kian looked at him in surprise. “You've been weird since he got
back.”
“It's not...” He couldn't finish the sentence, not when Mark was giving him
that look. “I don't know. It's been a stressful couple of days.” A soft hum of
agreement pursed out of full lips. “I keep feeling like he can hear us.”
“So?”
“I don't want to tell him yet.” Mark raised an eyebrow. “Maybe we shouldn't...”
He sighed. “Nicky said something yesterday, about how I'm technically your
guardian. I guess I just...”
“I'm not a child, Kian.”
“All the same.” Mark was sitting up. “I don't mean...”
“I get it. Shane's back and you don't need to fill up your time any more.
Thanks for the pity fuck.” He swung his legs of the side of the bed. “I hope it
was good for you.”
“Mark, I don't mean...” He couldn't fucking please anybody at the moment,
apparently. “Of course you aren't. I never...” He grabbed Mark's shoulder
before he could stand. “Please, just...”
“Why are you whispering?” Mark said accusingly. Kian bit his lip. “You're an
adult. What's going to happen? Your friend finds out you've got a...” He
swallowed, the unsaid word stuttering between them.
“Boyfriend,” Kian finished. Mark glared at him suspiciously. “It's delicate,
okay? I'm doing my best.” He let go of Mark's shoulder. “I just want to make
sure he's stable before I go upending things. Let him settle in first.” He
could hear Shane downstairs, shuffling around, and wondered what he was doing
up so early. “It's new. You know Shane likes to talk. What if he tells Jodi
we're together?”
“What if he does?” Mark turned around, bringing his legs up on the bed. “They
can't force me to leave.”
“They can, love.” Kian touched his cheek. Not of sound mind. That was what
Nicky had said. “You've been released here under my care. They can get a court
order if they feel like the situation's not healthy.” Mark nuzzled his fingers
sulkily. “I don't want you taken away from me, put in some facility. I don't
want that.” A breath huffed into his palm. “Please give me time.”
There was a long silence while Mark looked at him. Kian stared back. Tried to
hold his gaze, needing Mark to see how serious he was. Eventually blue eyes
darted away.
“Okay,” Mark mumbled. Kian leaned in to hug him gratefully.
“I love you,” he whispered. Mark shrugged in his grip. “I'll send Shane out to
the market later. Then we can...” He reached down. Felt a flinch and heard a
moan.
“I'm going to need a shower now.”
“Good,” Kian purred, and kissed him. Mark shoved him away playfully. “You go.
I'll get the kettle on.”


*


Kian stopped halfway down the stairs, staring.
It took him a moment, first, to register what he was seeing. Looked like
someone in the middle of an elaborate paint-job, sheets draped over everything
and the living room floor completely disappeared. The sofa was pushed forward,
he realised, anchoring the tent, and everywhere there were chairs and end
tables dragged from all corners of the bottom floor, sheets pitched and
stretched to fill the entire living room.
He was still staring when Shane crawled out from under what looked like the
side-table from the front hall, judging from the shape on top that matched the
bowl where Kian normally left his keys.
“Welcome to Castle Greyskull!”
“Er...” Kian descended another two steps. “Wow.” Shane looked utterly proud of
himself. Kian hoped he hadn't scratched the floorboards dragging things around.
“What's all this?”
“Thought it'd be fun.” Shane beamed. “Come on in. I'll show you around.”
It was definitely less comfortable than when he'd been ten. Kian dropped to his
knees, crawled forward, and felt everything creak and twinge. Ducked his head
low, back still stiff from sleep, and then was in, peering through the shadowy
depths of his entire linen cupboard.
He found Shane in the middle, between an ottoman and a hatstand Kian hadn't
seen in at least three years since he'd shoved it in the spare room. There was
a torch on the floor, balanced on it's handle, and on top a piece of red
cellophane, giving the space an artificial campfire glow.
“It's like when we were kids!”
“Yeah,” Kian laughed carefully. He sat cross-legged on the other side of the
torch.
“Just us two. Password is Bangarang.” Kian snorted. “Like from Hook. We used to
watch that all the time, remember?”
“I do.” He glanced around them. “It's a bit smaller than when we were kids.”
“You were my happy thought.” Kian nodded. Wanted to say it back, but it wasn't
as simple as that. Not any more. Happy thoughts were for children, for people
who thought happiness was a magic cure, that it was pure and permanent, not
just a brief respite in the boredom of everyday life. One end of a seesaw
weighted at the other end by misery, balanced on a fulcrum of mediocrity.
It wasn't fairy dust. It was Mark smiling at him, and for a moment pretending
that everything else didn't matter, until the truth came rushing back in.
It was not feeling lonely. Not feeling responsible. Not feeling, for a moment,
like he was half a life built on memories he could never quite grasp.
“I love you,” Shane said. Kian took the hand that was held out, felt in squeeze
into his.
“I love you too.” Shane shifted closer. He heard footsteps on the stairs.
Lips pressed to his.
He froze. Heard the footsteps stall, a soft gasp, and realised the light from
the torch was casting shadows. Couldn't reflect the tongue pushing into his
mouth or the taste of Shane, but could reflect the hand that had settled on his
cheek, painting it bright and red across the white sheet sheltering them.
Feet were an ascending drumbeat. Kian pushed away, stunned, and saw Shane
looking at him, doe-eyed.
“Kian.” He bent in again. Kian pulled back. “What's wrong?”
“What are you doing?”
“What? Don't be weird.” Shane looked confused. A hand ran down his arm. “You
said you loved me.” The hand dropped further. “You can have me. Whatever you
want.” Kian batted it away when it reached for his groin. “Kian.”
“Shane, you can't just...” He scooted backwards. Shane was beginning to look
hurt and he couldn't deal with that right now. “If I gave you any
indication...”
“I had some time to think, you know? About how things had been weird between
us.” Shane crawled after him. “We've known each other for so long and then we
were sleeping together and you didn't want to start anything with Mark here. I
get that. But I don't want to wait any more.” Kian pushed away, began to yank
down the sheets and clamber out. “It can just be you and me again. Like it used
to be.” He gestured at the sheets. “I thought it'd be romantic.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” He almost tripped on the linen, then was
free. Began to head for the stairs. “This isn't a game, Shane. We're not kids.”
He stepped over a pillow on the way to the stairs. “I have to talk to Mark.”
“Who cares about him?”
“Ido.” Shane was hot on his heels, almost in his way. Kian pushed the bedroom
door open.
Mark looked up, the boat clutched in both hands. There were tears on his
cheeks.
“Mark, I'm...”
“This is why you didn't want to say anything,” Mark croaked. “Because you and
he were...” He wiped his face angrily. “I'm so fucking stupid.”
“No...” Kian glared over his shoulder at Shane. “It wasn't...”
“Just tell him, Kian,” Shane sneered. “What's the point in hiding it. He's not
even really a person.” Kian saw Mark flinch, and before he could blink Shane
had stormed over, yanked the boat from unresisting hands, and thrown it hard at
the floor where it smashed to pieces with a splintering crack.
He didn't mean to shove Shane. Didn't mean to do it that hard. But Shane was
sprawling into the dresser, knocking down a lamp on the way. Breaking glass,
the sputter of light, and Kian couldn't tell if it was the lamp or his own
rage, burning hot behind his eyes.
“Get out,” he snarled. Shane's eyes widened. He hadn't started to push himself
up, looked too surprised. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
“Kian...” A hand landed on his shoulder, pulling him back. When he turned
Mark's eyes were pleading.
“Go back to the sea, seal-boy. He doesn't want you. He wants...”
“I do want him,” Kian said quietly. Shane stammered to a stop, face red. “I
grew up, Shane. I don't want to play stupid games and listen to stupid stories
any more. I want to live my actual life.”
“What, and be boring all the time?” Shane was pulling himself to his feet. “You
used to be fun.”
“Fun?” Kian let out a broken laugh. “What's fun, Shane? Is it sitting up all
hours hoping you're not dead or hurt somewhere? Listening to you cry in the
middle of the night because you won't talk to me, and then having you dismiss
every fucking thing I feel like it's inconvenient? I'm not your mother, Shane.”
“Don't bring my mam into this!”
“Why not, what did she ever do for you?” Kian spat back. Shane's eyes narrowed.
“He's lying to you. If you could just...”
“No, you are.” Kian's fists clenched. “You're full of shit, Shane. I used to
feel sorry for you, but you know what? I'm done. I am fucking done with you
making my whole life about your bullshit. Sort yourself out. It's not my
responsibility.”
“But...” Shane wiped his eyes. “We're the lost boys.”
“Peter Pan was a selfish prick who stole other people's lives so he didn't have
to face his own. He's the villain of the story.” Kian crossed his arms. “I'm
shutting the window, Shane. Go back to Neverland.”
Shane's mouth stuttered on silent words. Kian felt a hand settle gently on his
shoulder.
Shane ran.
Kian fell into a hug as the front door slammed.


*


“Are you okay?” Mark murmured. Kian shook his head. The sun was out, casting
bright shadows across the bedroom, but inside he felt like a thunderstorm,
needing somewhere to ground his anger. Mark had gotten him a glass of water,
stepping over the broken boat, and was now crouched on the floor gathering up
the pieces.
“I'm so sorry,” Kian managed thickly. “We never...”
“I know.” Mark reached up to squeeze his hand. “I know you didn't.” Kian
sniffed. “That was quite a speech.”
“Guess I'd been thinking it for a while,” Kian admitted. There was a crunch as
Mark accidentally stepped on a piece of wood. “Is it awful that I just want him
to come back? I could say sorry and try to fix it.”
“It's not awful.” A clatter as two larger pieces dropped into the small bin
Mark had grabbed from the bathroom. “It's what I love about you. You want to
see the best in people. It doesn't mean you can fix everything.” He gave Kian a
sympathetic smile. “Why don't I call Nicky and we can postpone tonight?”
“No. If I cancel he'll think something's up.” Kian bit his lip. “Sorry about
your boat.”
“It's technically your boat.” It hadn't been, though. It had been Mark's boat,
his only connection to his memories. It was the thing Kian was most angry
about. Not for himself, but for Mark, who hadn't deserved this. “It's okay. It
was just wood and paint.” He picked up a piece that had been the mast and
inspected it. “Maybe Nicky will be able to tell us something.”
“Maybe.” Mark was still looking at the mast, turning it over. “What is it?”
“There's something inside.” He held it up to his eye, then brough it to his
lips.
Blew.
Something went skittering across the floor, metal on wood.
“What's that?” Kian sat up as Mark crawled over to reach under the dresser,
fumbling for where it had disappeared. Came out with a handful of cobwebs,
though when he opened his fist Kian could see something in his palm.
“It's a key.” Mark blew the dust away.
“A...” Kian slid off the bed to have a closer look. Small key, a narrow column
of rusted metal with a small seashell engraved into the end, the other studded
with two tiny teeth. “What's it for?”
“I don't...” Mark peered at it, then his eyes widened. “I know where this
goes.”
“Where?” Mark was standing up. “Mark?”
“Get the ladder,” Mark ordered.


*


Kian wrinkled his nose as he peered into the attic. As dirty as ever, but the
smell of damp was thick, humidity caught in the rafters where the leak and the
storm had turned it into a muggy swamp of dust and dank. He coughed, heard Mark
sneeze in front of him.
“Definitely need to get that roof fixed,” Kian croaked. Mark hummed in
agreement, then crawled past to where the chest still was, settled into the
dark. Grabbed it, began to drag it towards the trapdoor.
He passed it out. Kian took it, settled it on the floor while Mark descended
the ladder. It looked strange in the light. He'd never seen it out of the
attic, he realised. Had seen no answers in it and left it there in the dark.
Mark landed beside him, then bent, picked it up, and headed for the stairs.
It ended up placed carefully on the kitchen table after the two of them waded
through the mess of collapsed sheets on the living room floor. Kian sat,
wondering where Mark was going with this. The box wasn't locked. The contents
went in a pile on an empty chair, a rising mound of fabric, and then Mark was
peering in, lips pursed.
He reached in, rapped on the bottom of the box. Knuckles on wood, faintly
hollow.
“What is it?”
“Um.” Mark closed the box, turned it, then upside down on it's flat lid to
expose the bottom. Ran his fingers over it. His eyes brightened and he fished
the key out of his pocket.
Kian stood. A tiny brass keyhole. He wouldn't have seen it. Not in the dark,
the chest in the corner. Had never thought to look at the bottom. Why would he?
Everything he needed to know was inside.
The key turned. Clicked.
Mark lifted the bottom away.
“Holy...” Kian reached out. Two bundles of letters, knotted with string. “How
did you...”
“I don't know.” Mark pressed a hand to his forehead, winced. “I just...” Kian
was unknotting the string. The labels on the front were faded and almost
unreadable, and the envelopes had all been ripped open, were ragged along the
flaps. When he pulled a sheet of paper out and unfolded it, though, the writing
was clear and cursive, kept preserved in the bottom of the box.
My dearest Patricia...
Kian felt tears fill his eyes.
“What is it?” A hand settled on his shoulder.
“My mam,” Kian croaked. “They're my mam's.” He looked at the bundles. At least
a hundred letters. “My dearest Patricia, I am sorry I can't be with you but
know you are always...” He cleared he throat, felt a tear track down his cheek.
“Always in my heart. I think of you and our son...” He put the letter down, not
able to look at it. “Oh fuck.”
“Why don't you take these upstairs,” Mark suggested gently. “I'll start tidying
up.”


 
***** Chapter 18 *****
“The queen took fright and offered the little man all the wealth of the kingdom
if he would let her keep the child, but the little man said, "No. Something
living is dearer to me than all the treasures of the world.”
-Rumpelstiltskin, Jacob & Wilhelm Grimm


Once upon a time, there was a girl who lived in a big house in a small town by
the sea.
She grew up well, the daughter of a pastor. It was a life that grew in circles.
The house and the family and her father, then the ring of congregation. Of
people who looked at them as the family to look up to. Good grades and politely
turned out and mam and da always holding hands and inviting folks for dinner.
Preaching love and respect and devotion and inviting people into their home,
the outside circle bleeding into the smaller one, as interrupted dinners, late
night phone calls, hushed conversation after the kids had gone to bed, and
people who would come up in public, hug her father and thank him for his
counsel and tell him their troubles while he nodded and promised to help.
The next circle was school, and the part-time job she got at the burger place
to gather some pocket money, the girls who talked to her and curled their hair
and wore too much makeup. To be treated with reticence and a small amount of
pity while she tried to balance the middle ground between being the perfect
daughter and the perfect student, the girl left behind when her friends piled
into a boyfriend's car in their swimsuits and roared off to the beach, bottles
clinking in the seatwells.
Then there was the boy.
The girls called him Buddy Holly. Slicked back hair and black-rimmed glasses
and tight jeans. But he was kind, and when she was sat on the beach in her
modest suit he'd sit beside her and ask what she was reading while the rest
barrelled in, bare stomachs and long legs and loose hair in the sunlight.
He was kind, and interesting, and they talked about their dreams. He'd go to
work for his uncle's fishing business after school finished and she'd go to
university, get an education that would be squandered the moment she married
and bore the next generation of perfect children.
A respectful boy. Who would kiss her on the cheek and come to dinner with her
parents. They were waiting, of course. Too young and perhaps they'd marry
later. Perhaps not.
They went slow in the back of his car on graduation night. He asked if she was
sure.
She was sure. Felt desperate and rebellious and above all like he loved her. A
sting of pain, a rush of blood, then she'd shivered a cry. Afterwards he kissed
her until she stopped trembling.
There was no nausea, no sign, and regardless she'd always been irregular.
Still, when her hips thickened her mother suggested it was time to stop eating
so many sweets. She knew then. Sat in the doctor's waiting room with his hand
clenched tightly in hers and promises in her ear that he'd love her no matter
what.
He proposed that afternoon, both of them laid on his bed while she cried. It
was sweet. Didn't feel like a favour, just like they were pushing the timeline
forward. All she was able to think was that her carefully laid plans were
shattered. No university. No moving away. Just sat at home waiting for her
children to grow up and leave her, to carry on their own lives while she
quietly devoted herself to her family.
Her father slapped her when she told them. Her mother cried. The next morning
she was put in a car and sent to her aunt's house up north, the western coast
unrolling beside her while she begged to just speak to him, please, to let him
know she hadn't left without saying goodbye.
It was a small, ugly house on the spit, battered by wind and wave. Her aunt was
kind enough, well-meaning enough, but it didn't change the look of
disappointment when her father climbed back in the car, or the hug he withheld
when she reached for him.
Then it was just she, and her aunt, in the little house by the sea.
The nights were long there, the days longer. The first semester of university
began and instead she cooked and cleaned and sewed and passed the time
listening to the radio and doing jigsaw puzzles and watching television. She
wasn't allowed into town unaccompanied, but she would walk up and down the
spit, feet sifting through the water and watching the seals play, the dolphins
leap. Watch the wheel of the stars from her bedroom at night and write a long
letter she wasn't allowed to send, one where she would explain everything to
her love, the things she'd never gotten a chance to say and how she would find
a way back to him.
But she loved her baby, as it swelled in her. Made small dreams about how it
would have his eyes and her nose and his smile. Resented it as much, as two
months passed and then three and the girls came home from the university
talking about lectures and boys and her aunt would hurry her along in the
supermarket and mentioned she'd soon be showing.
When she was she had to stay at home to avoid the indignity of her situation
being made public. Sat in the house until she couldn't any more and went
walking up the beach, swollen feet in the water. Was on the mainland before she
knew it, at the edge where the spit became the road, and stood there, unsure.
Feeling like a caged animal that couldn't brave the outside after years of
captivity.
There was a post-box there. She stared at it, the sun hot on the back of her
neck.
Then she began the long walk back.
That night, when her aunt was asleep, she added to the letter. That she was
here, that she was waiting. That if he could come driving in his beat-up car
she'd climb in and they could escape, take the baby they'd made in the backseat
and start somewhere else.
She went to bed hopeful. Woke the next morning wet.
Knew before she saw the blood that something was wrong. From the cramp that
made her grit her teeth and the ugly stillness inside her. Screamed until her
aunt came running and when the doctor came he examined her and asked how long
it had been since she'd felt the baby move.
She went to the hospital. And for the first time in months she couldn't hear
the eternal sussuration of the sea, was in a clean white room in a bed she
hadn't made herself and a floor she hadn't swept.
The baby was small, when she finally birthed it. She saw it for a moment before
it was bundled and swept away, and in her heart she named him. Gave a soul to
unformed hands and unopened eyes. Her aunt picked her up that afternoon, and
through the pious rationality, in her heart she thought maybe there was feeling
there, something that was sorry for her loss.
She was weak, the next few days. Stayed in her bed after her aunt set food by
her and went to work, and after she slept she added to the letter. Didn't know
what to say except she was sorry. That it was her fault. For not fighting hard
enough. For not being braver. For climbing into his car that evening, and into
her father's car that morning. And when she read it back all she could see was
a list of things she'd never done, since her mother had told her it was
unseemly for a girl her age to be climbing trees in shorts.
She heard her aunt calling her father, asking if she should be sent back home.
Didn't hear the response but knew the answer, that the shepherd could forgive
his flock, but a useless dog should be put down lest it give the sheep ideas.
Her aunt said she could stay as long as she liked, and when she was well they
went into town. Bought her dresses and books and while she was there she saw a
notice in the cafe for waitresses and applied. Took it on part-time while her
aunt helped her to enrol in the local community college. And slowly her little
circle began to spread again. Girls in class who giggled and gossiped about who
they were shagging while she smiled wryly and kept her mouth shut. Parties she
went to and boys she didn't kiss.
And still her letter grew, a diary of what had happened, and how with every
page she felt further from that life, the one that was beginning to feel like
fiction.
Her aunt took ill. Fell while gardening and was taken by the paramedics. Two
days later there were funeral arrangements and will readings and the house was
empty and quiet, except for her sobs and the murmur of the sea.
She'd been left everything. The little house, what fair amount was in savings.
She rallied best she could, kept attending classes and going to work, but
inside she was lonely. Missed conversation and the comfort of someone else to
come home to in the evening.
She added to the letter. Took the long walk to the post-box and stood there, a
thick envelope in her hand. Didn't know if it would find him, after all this
time, but she was able to post-mark it to his parents and hoped they would send
it on.
It was swallowed by the slot. She cried on the walk back, her tears dried by
the wind.
Two months later there was the shuffle of letters through the slot. She scooped
them up, sorting through bills and catalogues, and then paused, her heart a
disbelieving freeze in her throat.
She put the others aside. Made herself a cup of tea and sat on the bed, turning
it over and over in her hands, excited and frightened by the uncertainty of the
paper within.
The flap she tore open almost reverently. Unfolded it and saw familiar
handwriting that made her heart leap.
Her father had gone to him. Told him the child wasn't his, that his daughter
was a liar. That she'd run with her boyfriend and gone abroad to have the baby.
She read, horrified, of how she'd been spoken about in whispers, how he'd been
taken for a fool, and how, heart broken, he'd gone to work at his uncle's
fishing company down south as he'd always intended.
How he'd met a girl, those two years ago. That they were married and expecting
a daughter.
She screamed. Opened the window and shrieked at the sea.
Then she sat down and carefully wrote a letter saying she understood, and that
she hoped he was happy and safe, that she wished the best for his wife and
daughter and signed it with love.
She finished college, got her certificate, and got a new job. A good job, doing
administration for a small family law firm in town. Friendly people and good
pay and she started saving, adding to what remained of her aunt's inheritance
once the bills had been paid and she'd done a little upkeep on the house. There
was a paralegal there, a nice man who would joke with her in the lunch room, so
she went out with him on a date, then another. He was sweet to her, but she was
carefully aloof, and when they went to bed she didn't tell him about what had
happened last time, and all the time in between.
The knock came late on a Saturday morning, while she was watching television.
He nervously said hello, pushed his Buddy Holly glasses back up his nose, and
began to shrug off his seal-skin coat.
She asked him in.
They talked. For hours. It felt like writing her letter all over again, hearing
his in reply. But this time he could see her tears, and her smiles, share the
laughter and the loss, and when they were done talking and the bottle of wine
was empty she took him upstairs.
He left early the next morning. Had come for the tuna season. That night he
returned and she cooked him dinner and they went for a walk down the spit,
making new memories. He told her about his daughter, just born, and his wife.
Showed her a picture. A pretty woman holding an infant swaddled in pink, sat on
a swing in a garden bursting with flowers while on the spit another girl
breathed in the salt and waited for the grey clouds to part.
She drove him to the marina the next morning, watched from the car as he
boarded a blue and white fishing boat with a yellow seashell painted on the
prow. He waved. She waved back.
Then he was gone.
Three months later, cramps vicious and blood on the sheets she cried again.
Wondered if this was punishment. A union that couldn't bear fruit no matter how
much she wanted it. When she replied to his next letter she told him she had
been well, and she was continuing to date the young paralegal, though she knew
her aloofness was becoming tiresome when there were other girls about. He
replied that he seemed a good prospect, but reminded her to follow her own
happiness, that he cared for her too much to let her settle.
She broke up with the paralegal the next day. Sent another letter. And back and
forth they went like that, a staggered conversation that began with love, then
added a kiss, and my darling and I miss you until it felt like they spoke of
nothing else.
He came back the next season. She met him at the marina, waited in the car her
aunt had left while he climbed off a blue and white boat with a faded seashell,
and when he told her about his year and his daughter and all the things that
had gone on she felt herself grow more in love with him.
Three weeks after he left she lost the baby she hadn't even known she was
carrying yet. She didn't tell him of that one either. Or the next, a year later
and no less painful. Couldn't bear to break his heart the way hers had, for a
child he didn't want. But she wanted. A small voice and love that couldn't
leave the way he did. A boy with his eyes and smile. A girl she could give the
opportunities she'd never had.
After he left the next year she held her breath. And held it. And held it.
While she kindled and thickened and swelled and waited for that morning. The
pain. The cramp. The blood that would tell her it was over. While she grew and
made doctor's appointments and waited to be told the cord had strangled him or
her fluid had leaked. That it was her fault. Always her fault. For wanting it
so badly.
The labour was long. She bore it by herself, the midwife and the doctors urging
her through it, and finally, when they handed her the baby, she thought to ask
how long until they took it away, because surely it was dead.
Instead it cried. Worked it's lungs and clenched tiny fists and fretted it's
chubby little legs until she turned it to her breast. They let it sleep beside
her that night. She didn't sleep. Exhausted and watching every breath. Healthy
and strong and pink. They showed her how to clean him and change him and feed
him, and she took him home, her gift from the sea.
Three months later she met him at the door with her boy in his arms. Kian. He
asked why she hadn't told him and she said she'd not expected it to last, that
she couldn't bear the heartbreak of failing him again. He stayed two weeks of
nights, cooing to his son and helping her around the house with things she
hadn't been able to do herself. It felt like having him. A husband who held her
at night and fixed the hole in the roof.
A year of correspondence. A year of sending photos as the baby grew into a
sweet, golden haired boy who looked a little like his father when he smiled.
She told him about his dada, who came in from the sea once a year.
She went back to work. Saved her money. Raised her boy. One day, when her back
was turned, he ran into the sea and was swept under. Just for a moment, but
when she pulled him out he was blue and still and when he breathed and spat out
water she held him close while she waited for the ambulance, sobbing and
telling him never to go in again. That it would take him like it had all the
others.
She grew resentful of it. Had thought Kian would change things, perhaps, but
her loneliness swelled and hardened. At night she thought she heard it
whispering to her. That it had filled her womb with saltwater. That her son
would be taken as well. It brought and took away her heart with the tide,
everything she'd ever had. A purgatory she'd been cursed to inhabit for the sin
of loving a boy. For forsaking her father. For not cherishing her aunt, who'd
tried her best to help. For wanting to keep the man who had grown and changed
without her, seeded by sand and watered by foam.
He brought her a chest the next time he came. A beautiful carved chest with a
seashell clasp. When she opened it there was a wooden boat inside, a replica of
his own to give to her son. She thanked him and inside she hated it. For giving
her son the same means of escape he boarded every year.
There was a secret panel underneath. He showed her. The small key that fit it.
When he left she put all his letters inside and stored it in the attic, the
boat inside. A heart that beat above her head, locked in the dank and the dark,
her son's laughter almost drowning it out.
The sixth child was lost. She wiped away the blood, the tears she shed alone in
the bathroom while her son knocked on the door and shout-asked if he could have
a sweet please mam. She cleared her throat and said yes, and told him to make
up a game to play for when she came back out.
She'd lose him too. Knew it. He'd come out of her, the same as all the others,
grown strong and beautiful and blonde and sweet. The others had lived too. This
one smaller than a bean, but the others larger, almost real as she'd swelled
and hoped and made plans that had skittered away in bloody sheets and
sympathetic doctors that had said they were sorry and then explained the
science like chemical equations and charts could rationalise the pain away.
Six months later she was sent another letter. From a sweet, pretty woman with a
daughter who had found her letters. Had sent them back to her tied with string,
in a box dropped at her door by the postman. A woman who said she was sorry,
but not to contact her husband again. That she and her baby needed to leave
them alone, and that she wouldn't be visited again.
She shrieked. Sobbed at the sea until her boy wrapped chubby arms around her
neck and said mama, why are you crying, and she told him not to worry, that she
would protect him first and most and forever.
She kept her promise. Stayed home, day after day. He was safe in here, where
she could see him. They played games and she told him stories and when he asked
if he could play in the sea she said never. Never never never. Called work and
told them she wouldn't be going back in, that she was glad for the
opportunities they had given her over the years.
She began to write another letter. Another long confession that felt like
fiction when she read it back. About how she'd tried, how she'd wanted. How she
loved and needed and couldn't live like this, trapped on the edge of the world
and waiting for the tide to come back in. Told him of the blood and the pain.
The doctors. How she loved their boy.
He was three when there was a knock on the door. He was holding her letter.
Looked at her. At what she'd become, a host sucked dry. Shrugged off his seal-
skin coat and went upstairs to look at their sleeping boy and asked her why
she'd lied to him about all the others. She heard the accusation in his voice.
That this was her fault. She raged at him. That he had no right. And when she
looked at him she realised she didn't know him. This man who'd once been
patient and kind and asked what she'd been reading, who'd touched and held her
in the back of a car, then afterwards when he'd made such earnest promises.
I'll take him, he said. Give you a break. Her son had giggled and groped at the
moustache her love had grown sometime in the last year.
I spoke to my wife. We can give him a good life.
You're not well. I'm worried about our son.
She looked at herself. At the paint on her apron, her bare feet and cracked
toenails. A narrow shell of what she'd been ten years before, that girl sat in
a modest swimsuit, a towel between her and the warm sand. At her son in her
arms, deserving more that this barren spit and this tiny house.
A week, she pleaded. Give me a week. Blue eyes watched her. Kian was walking,
now, stringing together sentences that were lisping and babbled. I love you,
mama. She wondered if he'd remember her, or if he'd forget her too. Like her
father, like her mother, like the sweet paralegal. Like Buddy Holly, who was
staring at her as though seeing a stranger for the first time.
Saturday morning, he promised. She nodded. Held her son while he left the house
and went back to the sea.
She wrote another letter that week. A last one, for her son. Explaining why
she'd done it. That she couldn't live without him, with herself. In a broken,
salt-washed shack of false dreams and ever-endings. That she hoped he'd be
happy and that when he grew the house was his, if he wanted it. A place to
start. To do what she'd never been able and find happiness, and safety, and
someone who loved him. To make it his own instead of rotting away in a cage,
like she had done.
That Saturday morning she made him breakfast, packed his bag with his favourite
toys, and put all the letters in the bottom of the chest, the key in the mast
of the toy boat she'd never been able to let him play with.
Then she told him his dada would be along in a moment, shut the door, and
walked the two hours to the point at the far end of the cove, the little house
a dot in the distance, held steady on a spit of sand and scrub grass.
Then she filled her pockets with rocks and jumped into the raging sea.


 
***** Chapter 19 *****
A breakwater built by the waves broke the initial force of the sea and weakened
the onrush of the tide. Though it was amazing that she could do so, she leapt
onto it: she flew, and, beating the soft air on new-found wings, a sorrowing
bird, she skimmed the surface of the waves.
- Metamorphosis: Alcyone & Ceyx, Ovid


Kian sat on the bed, tears running down his cheeks. It had taken him a while to
realise there were two sets, each from his mother and his father. Had gone
through them carefully to match dates and times, and now the whole story sat in
a neat pile in front of him. Pages of hope and anguish and love and sadness and
joy. Pages where he'd laughed at their little jokes and studied the polaroid
photos that had fallen out of the envelopes.
His second mug of tea had long gone cold beside him. He wiped his eyes, heard a
creak, and when he looked up Mark was peering round the door.
“Want a fresh one?” Kian nodded, clearing his throat.
“Yes please.” Mark sidled in to pick it up. “Can I have a hug?”
“Course.” Mark sat down, careful to avoid jostling the papers, and pulled him
in. Kian went. Let out a sob that started in his stomach and felt a kiss press
to his forehead.
“He never came,” Kian breathed. “Why didn't he ever come?” Fingers stroked
gently through his hair and Mark, blessedly, didn't ask for details. “How did
you know? About the key?”
“I don't know.” It was apologetic.
“You have to,” Kian argued. Heard his own frustration boil into anger. “You
haveto know. How can you know and not...” He sobbed, pushed at Mark's chest,
though strong arms didn't let him escape, didn't let him fight. “It's not
fair.”
“No,” Mark murmured. “It's not.” Kian collapsed into his embrace. “It's not
fair.” His hand settled on the bundle of letters Kian had carefully stacked.
“Did you find any answers?”
There wasn't a way to explain, so instead Kian stayed, held in Mark's arms as
the sun began to set.


*


Kian felt a little better after a hot shower. He came downstairs to find Mark
peering into the oven, the smell of roasting lamb thick through the house. Felt
his mouth water and realised he hadn't eaten all day, that he was starved, and
when Mark looked up and smiled at him he found he was smiling back.
Nicky and Jodi arrived just before six and commented on how good everything
smelled. Kian took their coats. Jodi looked pretty in a casual dress, Nicky
handsome in an open-necked shirt, and for a moment Kian wondered if Shane would
be checking him out.
He squashed the thought. Let them in to Mark pulling the trays out of the oven,
cute in bumblebee oven mitts.
“Where's Shane?”
“Shane's not joining us,” Kian said, and reached for a bottle of wine he'd been
saving for a special occasion. Mark handed him the corkscrew. “Cheers. He's
erm...” Nicky was raising an eyebrow. “We agreed it was maybe time he'd
outstayed his welcome.”
“Oh.” Jodi sounded confused. Mark was blessedly silent. “Where is he now,
then?”
“I'm not sure,” Kian admitted. It was as though he'd never been. Mark had done
a perfect job of restoring the house to it's normal order while Kian had been
reading, and he was grateful for it. Everything back in its place. “Wine?”
“Just one,” Nicky chuckled. Kian began to pour. “I've looked into your boat,
Mark.” Both he and Kian looked up, interested. “It's similar to a fishing
company down south. We're checking into it now to see if there's some
connection. Halcyon Fisheries.”
“Halcyon,” Mark echoed. “No. I don't know it.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”
“I might,” Kian admitted nervously. His heart was pounding. Stomach sick.
“My... my dad might have worked there.” Mark's eyes widened in surprise. “I
found letters. From my mam. I think...” He looked at them all helplessly. “Do
you know anything else about it?”
“I can get a report sent.” Kian felt pale. Realised he was still gripping the
bottle and put down Nicky's glass, began to pour another one for Jodi, though
it sloshed slightly onto his fingers and down his hand. “Is everything
alright?”
“Yeah. Fine.” He didn't want to relive it. Not right now. This was about Mark
and he was exhausted already, head too confused by the whole thing to have a
rational conversation. “Sorry. Long day.” He poured a drink for himself and
Mark then sat down. A plate landed in front of him. “This looks brilliant.
Thank you.”
It tasted brilliant as well. Nicky had seconds, though Jodi declined when she
heard there was dessert. Mark came back with four toffee tarts and whipped
cream.
“It's obviously been a joy to have him round the house,” Kian joked, got a
gentle glare from Mark.
“And everything's been working out?” Jodi asked.
“I think we've been getting by all right,” Mark interrupted. “Kian's been
really good to me. I just wish I could give back a bit, you know? Get a job or
pay my way or whatever.” He sat down again once the tart were served.
“You know I don't mind.”
“I do,” Mark argued gently. “I'd like to be able to do more,” he told Jodi. “I
know I'm supposed to be like... impaired or whatever, but I'd like to be able
to feel like a person again, basically. Or for the first time. You know what I
mean.” He took a deep breath. “I don't want Kian to be my guardian.”
Kian felt his heart stop. Saw Jodi and Nicky look confused.
“Did I do something wrong?” Kian managed. “If you want to leave...”
“I don't want to leave.” Mark was smiling and Kian was utterly confused. “I
want someone to tell me I'm of sound mind, even if not all the pieces are
there. Because I'm sick of feeling...” He bit his lip. “I don't want to be
crazy any more. It's not helping anything.”
“You're not crazy,” Jodi said. “Of course you're not.” Mark didn't look
convinced. “We can talk to a psychologist if you like. Get your case updated.”
She exchanged a look with Nicky. “Why don't we see how we go on the lead
Nicky's found and work from there?” Mark nodded.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” He glanced at Kian, who was still dumbfounded.
“Sorry, everyone tuck in. The cream'll melt.” He picked up his fork. “Kian,
you're catching flies.”
“Sorry.” He closed his mouth. Got a sly smile in reply. “You are staying,
though.”
“Course I'm staying.” Mark reached for his wine. “Where else was I gonna go?”


*


Dinner was a rousing success. Nicky and Jodi praising the food and the company
as Mark walked them down to the car, an approving smile passing between them,
something that made Kian think things were going to look up, break them out of
this strange purgatory they'd been sat in for the past few months.
Mark walked him back up the drive, and when they were out of sight leaned in to
kiss him.
“Cheeky shit,” Kian whispered. Mark smirked.
“I'm feeling much better now,” Mark teased. “Don't need a guardian any more.” A
hand groped gently at his arse and Kian laughed. Kissed him again, a hard peck
that turned into a slow snog until they parted, breathless. “Your dad?”
“It's a long story.” He still didn't know how to feel about it. How to steady
it in his mind. Whether he was supposed to hate one of them or just feel sorry
for both his parents. For the clumsy game they'd played with each other,
pretending it was real. “I'll tell you the whole thing in the morning. I
just...” He wrapped his arms around Mark's shoulders.
“Take your time.” Kian nodded and leaned his head in Mark's neck. “How about
another glass of wine and we'll go to bed?”
“I'd like that. Just going to put on my pyjamas first.”
“I'll grab the bottle,” Mark offered. “Meet you down near the water?” Kian
nodded.
“Romantic.”
“Mm...” He was swept into another slow kiss. “Go on. Love you.”
“Love you too.” Then he was being nudged towards the house.
“I like watching you walk away,” Mark teased.
Kian laughed, and headed inside.


*


Kian felt better out of his clothes. Wriggled into a pair of comfortable boxers
and a t-shirt, pushing his hair back. Studied himself in the mirror. The
letters were still on the bed, and he reached for a photo he knew was in in the
pile, one of his dad. Held it up beside his reflection and tried to find the
similarities.
All he could see was her. Her eyes, her nose.
Then he smiled and he saw it, felt his eyes well with tears and the smile fade.
He was slotting the picture into it's rightful place when there was a knock on
the door. Heard footsteps and knew Mark was getting it. Wondered if it was
their guests back again, having forgotten a jacket or a purse.
The door closed again.
“Mark?” he called out. “Who is it?”
In the silence of the house he heard a car, driving away. Went downstairs,
curious, and headed for the front door. Saw a bottle of wine, sat on the side-
table, a folded blanket placed on the floor. When he opened the door ther was
no sign of Mark. No figure at the edge of the water.
His phone beeped in the living room.
Shane.
Come to the point. I'll show you.
Panic set in.
Kian grabbed his keys and raced to the car, already dialling Jodi's number.


*


It was pitch black when he made it to the carpark at the base of the point.
Pulled the car in hurriedly, not caring about kicked up gravel or that he was
double parked. His lungs burned as he raced up the hill, thighs ached. The
stairs were wet and slippery, almost vertical, and when he crested them and
sprinted clumsily through the picnic area near the lookout he could feel the
height of it, ten metres above the water and the rocks below, the drop that
felt like a mile.
He paused, panting. Saw a shape in the moonlight. Two huddled figures together,
one slumped on his knees and the other bent.
“Shane...” Kian approached slowly. Saw dazed hazel eyes look up and realised
they weren't seeing, not really. “What are you doing?” There was blood on
Mark's forehead, and when Kian stepped a little closer he realised his hands
and feet were bound behind his back, that there was a knife at his throat.
“Kian's here,” Shane said absently. “Mark, look, Kian's here.” Mark didn't
move. Eyes open, locked on the ground. There was a backpack in front of him,
zipped closed. “Stop there.”
Kian did. Not close enough.
“You didn't believe me,” Shane mumbled. “You always believed me.” Kian put his
hands up carefully, resisting the urge to rush at them. Too dangerous. He'd
pitch one or all of them over the edge and into the sea. “I saw you tonight. I
saw you both.” His free hand tangled in Mark's hair, the other still at his
throat. “It's an enchantment. I know it is. I'm trying to help you.” He
swallowed. “I've known you forever and he could bewitch you in three months.
You know that's not right.”
“Shane,” Kian crouched slightly, trying to keep his voice low. “You need to
stop, love. It's not a story.” Mark's eyes were bright and frightened. Kian
tried not to look at them. To keep watching Shane. “Come here and we can talk
about it.”
“No. You'll try to convince me...” He looked at Mark. “Stop moving.”
“He's not,” Kian coaxed. Mark hadn't. Was as still as ever. “Tell me what
you're thinking, yeah. I'll try to help.” He saw it. A moment of hesitation.
“Remember that time we snuck out and got drunk in the park? We could do that
again. Have a chat.”
“Which time?” Shane teased numbly. Kian saw him sway. “Nobody ever believes
me.”
“I do.”
“You don't. You just want me to shut up.” A tear tracked down his cheek. “I
told them, you know? Mam was out all the time and my sister took care of me,
and I told both of them. What he was doing.” A sob lurched out of his chest.
“They didn't believe me.” He wiped his eye clumsily on his shoulder. “He'd read
me a bedtime story. They all though he was nice. My sister's nice boyfriend,
helping out while my dad was wherever the fuck he was.”
“I'm sorry,” Kian said. And he was. He'd suspected, of course, but he'd never
expected Shane to say it. Not when there were fairytales and nursery rhymes to
share instead. “I'm really sorry that happened to you, Shane.”
“I liked the stories,” Shane whispered. “He said he'd tell me how they ended
if...” A sob leapt from his lips and he closed his eyes. “He didn't hurt me to
start, so I let him. I thought...”
“You were a little boy, Shane. It wasn't your fault.” Light in the sky. Shane
flinched as it passed across him, a bright spotlight. A television chopper; a
rescue chopper. Maybe both. Saw blue and red lights pull into the parking lot,
one after the other.
“They don't believe me. They believed me when it was nice, but when it wasn't
it was stupid Shane, making things up. Stupid Shane, looking for attention.
Crazy fucking Shane who was lying to my mam because I wanted to hurt her for my
dad leaving, because I wanted to rip my family apart! And now you won't
even...” He sobbed. “They wanted to know when he was a boring stupid boy washed
up on the beach, but when I told them what I saw they laughed at me. You
laughed at me.”
“I never laughed at you,” Kian coaxed. Shane was swaying slightly, the hand on
the knife trembling. “I was confused. I believe you. I promise I do.” Shane
pursed his lips suspiciously. “You were right.”
“You were,” Mark added. There was blood matting down his hair, a trickle past
his ear. Shane glanced down at him. “You were right, Shane. Now just let me go
and we'll talk about it.” The police were coming up the stairs, Kian could hear
the drumbeat of their feet on cement. Shane stared between both of him.
Then he bent and cut Mark's wrists free.
Kian breathed a sigh of relief. Took a step closer. Shane gave him a warning
look which stopped him in his tracks.
“Open the bag.” The knife was back at Mark's throat. Clumsy hands obediently
unzipped the top, Mark's adam's apple bobbing near the blade. “Take it out.”
Mark did, and Kian saw something grey and loose unfold from the pack.
A seal skin.
“Where did you get that?” Kian asked carefully
“Bought it off a fisherman,” Shane spat. “Figure one's the same as the others.”
He edged backwards slightly, taking Mark with him in a dragging shuffle. It was
cut and cleaned, not fresh from the seal but tanned. Kian wondered how illegal
that was, then decided it wasn't the most important thing to consider right
now. “Put it on.”
“Shane...”
“Put it on.” Kian felt presence behind him. Looked over to see Nicky and five
other policemen, their guns drawn. All trained on Shane. “There's all these
people here,” Shane said dimly. “Now they get to see it too.” He yanked Mark
backwards, until he was tilting over the edge. “Everyone will believe me.” The
roar of a speedboat somewhere below. Too far away.
“Shane...”
“Everyone will believe me,” Shane whispered.
Then he kicked Mark backwards, over the drop.


*


The seconds broke, as Kian stood there. Small, shattered moments, spreading
across time like the stars splattered across the sky. He saw the spotlight,
heard the click of pistols being cocked. Saw Mark's mouth open as he tipped
backwards, hands fluttering up for purchase and legs bound together.
Felt his own foot hit the dirt and skid. Then the next. Saw Shane twist. Heard
the roar of the speedboat below. Nicky's soft shout. Mark's, as he disappeared
past the edge.
Then Kian was falling. Past the rocks. Mark below him and hitting the water.
The slow ripple of the surface breaking then spreading. Gone to the depths
while Kian fell and the waves crashed and the rocks gnashed foam like the teeth
of an angry crocodile frozen to the time of a swallowed clock.
Cold. Hard. The water a unforgiving net that caught him then compressed him.
Ears popping and out the bottom, the murk an upside down universe where the sky
was green and the ground lay far below. And in the darkness a shape, flippers
tilling and tail flipping while Kian groped for the surface.
Wriggling seal, almost unconscious, but when it bent to its tail Kian saw the
ripple of thread pull free and the shape of the creature shift to reveal a man,
legs kicking clumsily and fighting toward the world above.
He sank. Clawed for air that wouldn't come.
The sea swallowed him up.


 
***** Chapter 20 *****
In time they could not even fly after their hats. Want of practice, they called
it; but what it really meant was that they no longer believed.
- Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie


It was warm, on the beach. Kian sat on the edge, chubby feet waving in the
tickly foam that rushed up around him. He'd wanted a sweet, but his mama had
said it would get all sandy and to wait until he came inside.
He wasn't good at waiting. Not yet. But as she came down the front path from
the little house on the spit he felt his arms stretch, legs grow strong. Hair
that shortened then lengthened then shortened again while acne scattered and
cleared on his cheeks. When she sat beside him he was as tall as her and she
smiled, the sun turning her hair mahogany.
You grew up, she said.
Yes. He looked down at his feet, long toes catching the water. You missed it.
She was sorry. He knew before she said it. Before she quietly said she loved
him and that it had never been his fault. That he'd been wanted. A hundred
times over. When his dad sat down on his other side he smelled fish and
comfort, and looked up into square glasses that magnified apologetic eyes.
My little Kian, he said. You need to wake up.
He looked up, at the sunny sky and the crystal water, and the seals sunning
themselves in the rocks off shore.
Her hand covered his.
Kian, she murmured. Wake up.


*


The water came up in a fretful vomit as he opened his eyes, felt his chest
wrench with pain. The water twisted, red and blue, and for a moment he wondered
if he was still under, the darkness sucking him down and the lack of oxygen
short-circuiting his system.
“Kian.” He coughed out another mouthful of water. “Can you hear me?”
“Ow,” he croaked. The man performing CPR pulled back. There was definitely a
rib broken. “Oh fuck.” He threw up again, this time his dinner coming up with
the seawater, and had time to absently regret losing a meal Mark had spent so
much time on before he was rolled on his side, yelping with pain.
“You're gonna be okay,” someone promised. That sounded unlikely.
“Mark.”
“He's in the ambulance.” Kian could hear the sirens. “You're going into the
next one.” Nicky's voice, loud over the angry blur of helicopters. “That was
quite a leap.”
“I can't swim,” Kian mumbled. Nicky chuckled.
“I could tell.” Kian giggled, almost hysterical, and was lifted onto the
stretcher.
The road rumbled beneath him. Passing in and out of consciousness. Soft
memories that clung at his dreams. White sheets and covered torches and ice-
cream. The first boy he'd ever kissed. Mark, sitting in the water while they'd
looked out at the sea.
He woke again in a white room, the morning sun streaming through his window.
“Hello.” It was soft in his ear. He turned to nuzzle into the shape beside him
and blinked in surprise when he saw blue eyes, a white hospital gown. Forehead
broken by a bandage and a worried smile that broadened when he returned it with
a weak one of his own.
“Hi.” He coughed. Felt the sharp wrench of his broken rib complaining and the
burn of a throat scorched by saltwater. “You're alive.”
“So are you.” Fingers touched his cheek. “Do you remember what happened?”
“The seal,” Kian said. Then shook his head when the rest came in. “You. I
jumped.” Mark nodded. “Hurts.”
“You drowned.”
“You?”
“I can swim,” Mark chuckled. Kian rolled his eyes. “A few bruises, but I'm
okay.” Kian nodded. “They let me come in and sit with you, but I've got to go
back to my own room in a bit. You need to rest.”
“Oh.” His hand was squeezed. Shock of the water. It felt distant, like time in
reverse. “Shane...”
“Is in custody.” Kian nodded. He was half surprised he hadn't taken a bullet.
Didn't know if that was good or not but couldn't find the energy for anger, not
when he was floating on whatever they'd given him for the pain.
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“Shane...”
“You did the best you could,” Mark promised, and if Kian had been able to, he
would have started to cry. “It's probably worked out for the best, to be
honest. I think the shock knocked a few memories loose.” Kian's eyes widened.
“We can talk about it when you're up.”
“You know?”
“Not all. Some.” His hair was pushed gently back from his forehead. They looked
up as a nurse opened the door, smiled when she saw him awake. “I'd better go.
You need to sleep.” Kian nodded.
“Kiss?”
“Of course.” Mark bent in. Soft lips that breathed life back into a mouth that
could only remember the taste of seawater. It was slow. Clung while Mark went
to pull away and Kian coaxed him back in, needing to find the breath of him, if
only for a moment.
When it finally broke he realised Nicky and Jodi were stood in the doorway,
Nicky with a bunch of flowers held in one hand.
“Er...” Mark giggled. “Better go then.” Kian snorted. Winced. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” Mark edged past them and disappeared.
“So.” Jodi glanced at Nicky, who was trying not to laugh. “How are you
feeling?”
Kian snorted. Nicky handed him the flowers. A floundering, unsure moment later
Jodi took them away and began to arrange them beside the bed.
“I've already taken Mark's statement,” Nicky said. Kian nodded. They knew then.
Not all of it, but enough that it was clear that Kian's care was no place for
anyone. “You should have told me things were that bad.”
“I didn't know,” Kian admitted. Nicky nodded. “I tried...” His voice gave out
and he put a hand on his chest to stop himself coughing.
“I know.” He glanced at Jodi. “Rest first. We're just here to check on you. You
did a very stupid, very brave thing.” A hand patted his gently. “Mark's
promised to make us all dinner again when you get out of here, so there's that
to look forward to.” Kian wheezed a pained laugh. “I heard something about pork
cutlets.”
A nurse came not long after to check on him, ushering them out of the room.
Kian heard Nicky say he was hungry as he left, and smirked to himself. She
asked what was so funny.
He just shook his head and let her get on with her job.


*


The little house on the sea looked grey and small as he sat in the passenger
seat. The sky was a blue that was paling into the darkness, the first stars
picked around the heavy full moon. Kian winced as they turned the corner and
the seatbelt tugged his healing ribs.
He'd been desperate to leave the hospital. Wanted his own bed, his own house.
Food that didn't come in a pre-packed tray and his own hot shower.
Nicky parked. Opened his door for him while he fumbled with the seatbelt and
realised his car was back, in the carport beside the house where it always
stood.
“I got one of the lads to drive it over for you,” Nicky explained. Kian nodded
gratefully. It was a harder walk than usual, up the path to the front door, and
by the time he made it he was a little out of breath, his rib aching. Nicky
handed him his keys, apparently retrieved from the ignition of the car.
“Cheers.” He guided it into the lock, felt the familiar click of the tumblers
turning. The house was dark. He clicked on the hall light, dropped the keys in
the bowl. Shifted uncomfortably in his loose sweater as he ambled down the
hall, desperate for his own sofa. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Couldn't have you getting a cab,” Nicky chuckled. “And anyway, everyone else
was busy.”
“Everyone...”
“All your friends.” Nicky winked. When Kian turned the corner he realised he
could hear voices, and when he heard a low, carrying laugh he felt his heart
leap.
Soft blue eyes met his.
“Hey.” Mark stood up. Bryan waved merrily from the sofa, beer in his hand and a
bowl of crisps on his lap. Jodi gave him a wink from the kitchen door. “Welcome
home.”
“Guys, you didn't...” A careful hug wrapped around him, mindful of his ribs.
“Mark.”
“That's me,” Mark murmured. Kian sobbed once. Managed to control himself when
he felt a kiss brush his cheek. “They wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Thanks.” He pulled back. Hesitated. Then leant in, felt a soft mouth press to
his. Bryan catcalled them from the sofa and Nicky laughed and punched him in
the shoulder.
“Dinner almost ready?”
“Bacon-wrapped turkey breast in rum gravy.” There was a patter of feet while
Nicky darted for the kitchen, whooping. “He's been asking about it all day.”
Mark drew back. “Don't touch it, Nicky!” There was a thunk as the oven door
shut again. Kian saw Bryan climb casually up too and began to lope towards the
kitchen. “We've got a lot to talk about it.”
“We do.” Kian kissed him again. “But let's start with dinner.”


*


Once, in a town not too far from here, there lived a young man who liked to
cook.
He had a normal sort of childhood. Parents who loved him and brothers he could
call his friends. He'd sit on the kitchen counter and watch his mam cook dinner
and when he got older she'd let him help. Taught him to beat an egg and to hold
a knife and to use the stove. Then, later, he was sent to London to study
cooking at the culinary school there, like he had always wanted.
He didn't make friends easily. Was a quiet boy with a small circle. He didn't
like to stay in one place, so when he was finished studying he went travelling.
Took his savings and a backpack and took comfort in feet on unmarked trails and
wheels on hidden roads. Walked through markets and town centres and stayed in
hostels. Small jobs in small places that smelled of spices and could use a cook
that would accept cash and didn't intend to stay for long.
But, though he travelled the world, he began to miss home and contact that
didn't just require rare phone calls or emails whenever he was somewhere with a
connection, postcards from a hundred cities. Brief visits every Christmas to
catch up and share stories and then off again, the world at his back and fresh
tastes on his tongue and meeting people whose names and faces he wouldn't
remember in a week, just as they wouldn't remember his.
He wanted someone who remembered. Who would call him family and invite him in.
And so he returned home.
It was the long way round. Always was, with him. Off the plane at Cherbourg, a
ferry to Dublin. And along the way he met a young man who was friendly and sexy
and spoke little English, and in his cabin that night they got drunk and fucked
awkwardly in a bed that tilted with the currents.
They climbed off together. Took a coach to the west coast where they were to
separate and stayed there a month, shagging in a motel room by the water, where
the fishing boats would come in and out.
It was a quaint little town. They didn't go outside much, but when they did it
was to watch trawlers pass the bay, dragging nets of tuna. Handsome blue and
white boats with sea-shells painted on the prow and sun-leathered men shouting
merrily at each other. Mark got to talking with a few of them. Learned a little
about the area and the opportunities further north where the men lamented the
halting of licensed bluefin fishing, though there were boats that went for
whale and dolphin watching and some of the men would go in the off-season, to
make a little coin pointing out breaches and dorsal fins to excited tourists.
He was walking through a small shop, looking at plastic fish-magnets and
worthless bead necklaces, when he saw the chest. Bent to look at it, thinking
it was a sweet little souvenir for his mother, and was told it was by a local
craftsman. She showed him the small lock underneath. He promised to come back
for one, passing a rack of wooden toy boats on the way out.
The next morning his companion left. Mark kissed him goodbye, sent him to
whatever tourist traps he was destined for next, and that afternoon packed up
his belongings and called his mother. Didn't tell her of his surprise visit,
but that he was in Calcutta and how were things at home.
She chuckled and told him they were actually headed off on a cruise tomorrow,
the four of them. That if he could gallivant around the world they might spend
some time away as well. Three weeks on the sea, travelling through France and
Spain, and he almost laughed at how ridiculous it was, that they'd missed each
other again.
And so he had time to kill. Went north a little more and stayed in a larger
city by the water where he climbed aboard a party boat leaving port. They
stayed out all night, cruising along the coast. As midnight passed he climbed
above deck, drunk and sorely fucked out by a stranger in the toilets.
He'd gone to have a cheeky cigarette. Climbed a railing at the back of the boat
where there were fewer people around and sat there rummaging through the pack
with all his belongings looking for tobacco, lamenting that he'd forgotten to
buy his mother the little chest. He let go of the railing to light it, the wind
shifting in his hair and enjoying the rock of the waves parallel to the sway of
the vodka.
Nobody noticed him fall backwards. Nor the splash. Too busy hooting at the
appalling breakdance battle happening on the foredeck or getting drunk at the
upstairs bar. By the time he surfaced, coughing out water, the lights were
drifting into the distance, the backwash rocking him while he clawed and kicked
in the rippling darkness, bag sinking like a coffin, the shore a distant
brushstroke.
And so he floated. Mildly panicked and disoriented. Threw up vodka and crisps
in the water around him and went under, then came up, spluttering. Legs tired.
Freezing cold. Until he bumped into something and found himself clambering onto
a buoy that swayed as he hauled his clumsy limbs onto it's tipping, bobbing
frame.
When the sun rose he was alone and shivering. Spent the morning watching for
boats, and as the sun slowly burned his skin he slipped carefully back into the
water again to protect it, heavy in his clothes and watchful for dark shapes in
the water.
It was late in the morning, the sun setting and his tongue dry with thirst,
when the seals came.
He thought them a shark at first and climbed higher onto the buoy. Then saw
shiny black eyes softened with lashes, grey pelts, and slid down to inspect
them, hands blistered from gripping to the metal all day.
They stayed for a while, inspecting him and diving for fish, and when they
departed they each had fat squid or shiny tail streaming from their whiskered
jaws.
It was late that night that he saw a boat in the distance. Felt his heart leap
and waved to it, hoarse voice carving out screams that were swallowed by the
water. When it turned away he cursed it, lost to the darkness.
The next day he tried to swim. Made it as far as another buoy, arm and legs
trembling with exhaustion and skin raw from salt and sun. The seals swam
alongside him, curious and playing, but when he reached for them they dived
below and darted away.
He climbed to the top of the buoy. Closer to the shore, here. A spit of land in
the distance, a small house at the tip, and in the crashing surf in front a
collection of rocks that the seals pulled themselves onto to lay in the sun,
glorying in the elements while he slowly waited to die and gulls swooped at
him, knocking him from the buoy and surrounding him, sharp beaks diving like
daggers to snatch food, their wings kicking the water into a flurry while he
surfaced and clung, flinching from their hunger.
There were no more boats. Too close to the rocks. He knew already from his
brief conversations with the fishermen at the quaint town further south. He
could see the water foaming as it hit them, strong current that dragged rather
than guided. There were fish, though, taking shelter in the cove That evening,
starving and thirsty, he was able to snatch a piece from the water where a seal
had torn it in half. Ate it raw and gratefully while the grey shapes played
around him, and ducked from the gulls trying to snatch his prize. When the
hateful birds were gone he gave the seals names and trailed his fingers in the
water while they nosed at him curiously.
That night, delirious and frozen, the sea whispered to him. That it would carry
him. That he couldn't hold on any longer. That it loved him and would hold him
as surely as it held the bag that it had swallowed down, and he knew that he
belonged to the sea. Didn't remember the fall, but remembered the water.
Suddenly warm and embracing while he stripped his clothes off and began to
swim. Felt the seals alongside him and tried to move with them, though they
left him far behind in the dark water while he aimed for the light on the spit,
his lifeline to the world.
He felt the current pull him. The rocks suck him in. Caught a bank of driftwood
and rubbish that had been gathered by the current and felt it trap him, drag
him under. When his head hit the rocks he barely noticed, just floated there,
dazed, until it dumped him out on sand that grazed his wrinkled, bloated skin.
The darkness took him, then, as he heard friendly voices come towards him,
carried by the wind.


*


The sunlight was pale, a rose-spill that ran like wine across the bed. Kian lay
awake, Mark a courteous distance away to avoid jostling his broken rib.
He closed his eyes. Drifted in the moment of it. The spreading heat of the man
next to him. The way the sheets pulled when trapped by another person. The tilt
of the mattress under heavy limbs. Soft huffs of breath, the occasional snore.
Reached out his hand and felt unresponsive fingers that curled gently in sleep.
Inhaled everything Mark was and had been and tried to find a place where they
could be together, now that his lost boy had remembered the way back from
Neverland.
His eyes were still closed when the fingers shifted, though when they opened he
saw sleepy ones looking back, hair a mess on the pillow, and found himself
smiling.
“Will you leave me now?” Kian whispered. Mark blinked in the early light.
“Can I have breakfast first?”
Kian giggled and accepted a careful morning kiss.


 
***** Chapter 21 *****
But he sat quite still, benumbed and cold. Then little Gerda shed burning
tears; and they fell on his bosom, they penetrated to his heart, they thawed
the lumps of ice.
- The Snow Queen, Hans Christian Andersen


The news was thick with the story for all of a week. The dramatic standoff on
the point between a local, the resident mystery man, and the nutter who'd held
a knife to his throat. By the following week some twat had held up an off
license and had the tar beat out of him by the elderly shop owner, and people's
attentions were diverted. Mark and Kian laughed along with the new story before
it, too, was usurped by something equally disposable.
And while Kian healed, Mark cared for him.
Mark called his parents. Let them know he was safe, although they were
apparently surprised to find out that he'd been technically missing while
they'd been on a cruise ship with little internet or television and not seen
the news. Kian said he was well enough on his own and to go see them, and one
day Mark made the trip an hour up the coast, spent the day there catching up
and telling them the story of how he'd been a castaway.
Kian had half expected him not to return, but that night just before dinner
Mark had come back in, a smile on his face, and said his mam was looking
forward to meeting Kian when he was feeling healed enough for the trip.
And so he was, a few weeks later. They were nice people, welcomed him in.
Parents and brothers and cousins and everyone shouting over the top of each
other, laughing at jokes that didn't make sense and passing children from knee
to knee. It was overwhelming, but as the day wore on and everyone became full
and friendly he felt Mark's hand slip into his and wondered if this was what
family felt like.
Mark's old bedroom was a small museum. Full of souvenirs and oddities,
postcards from strange places. Kian looked at them all, a scattered timeline of
travels, and wondered what he could ever offer that would be as interesting, as
fulfilling as this life Mark had ambled so effortlessly through. A hundred
languages, a thousand sights. All while Kian had sat in a small house on a
barren spit, holding onto empty memories he couldn't touch.
It was a thought that chipped at him over the coming weeks. The coming months.
While he went back to work through day after day of demanding customers and
stocking shelves. He felt like he was standing still while the world turned
around him. While people talked at him and he remade an old routine of sleep
and breakfast and work and dinner and bed. While Bryan brought him the same
coffee and he ate the same sandwich for lunch.
Mark was restless. He could see it. And quietly, hopelessly, he waited for Mark
to leave. Waited to come home to an empty house and a note that said Mark was
sorry, but he needed to be free again, and he hoped Kian would understand.
And every night he'd come home and find Mark stood in the kitchen, the house
filled with the smell of food, and Kian would let himself breathe again.
It was early on a Saturday morning when Kian asked if Mark was happy.
“Are you?” Mark murmured back, and Kian paused, wrapped in the sheets and the
arms of the person he loved.
“I don't know,” he admitted. A kiss sucked at his nape. “I don't think I know
how happiness works.” Mark didn't reply. He did that sometimes, when he was
giving Kian time to think. A hand stroked encouragingly at his stomach. “I'm
okay.”
“What's okay?”
“I don't know,” Kian sighed. “I think...” He paused to let Mark snuggle them
closer together. “I tried my hardest. To be okay. To have a job and make a life
that worked. I was grateful for the house. Because even if I didn't have my
parents at least I had a place to start.”
“Start what?”
“Remembering. Figuring out...” He chewed his lip, trying to think. “Maybe I
thought it would be different once I knew, but instead it's just more of the
same. So what's the point? I thought it would tell me who I am. It hasn't
changed anything.”
“Somebody told me once that you have to decide for yourself who you are.” The
voice in his ear was low and teasing. Kian snorted.
“Cheeky fucker.” Mark sniggered sleepily. “I'm not happy.”
“Then you need to change that,” Mark said. “What would make you happy?”
“Home,” Kian murmured. He felt it, in the pit of his stomach. The thing he'd
been searching for all along. Felt it shift and expand while a soft hand
stroked his chest and kisses gentled the back of his neck. Listened to the lap
of water that spread to the edge of his little world and beyond, unbound by
walls and memories. “My mam never left. She just waited for...” He shook his
head. “You won't be happy here. I know you won't. You're more than this and all
I do is wait for you to leave.” He clutched the hand, stilled it. Brought it to
his heart. “You're home. When you leave, take me with you.”
Mark snorted.
“Don't wait for me,” he chuckled. “Just tell me when you're packed.”


*


It was a blistering morning, two weeks before Christmas, when Kian closed up
the little house, loaded his bags into the car, and turned on the heating.
“Bit chilly,” he chuckled. “Couldn't have stayed in bed until later?”
Mark kissed his icy nose.
“We've got to get on the road early. There'll be traffic.” Kian pouted. Pulled
him in for a proper kiss. Mark's lips were warm, his tongue warmer. He giggled
when fingers groped beneath his scarf and slipped beneath his jacket.
“We could have stayed in bed until later,” Kian teased. Mark laughed.
“Thought you'd still be sore after last night.”
“Bit uncomfortable,” Kian admitted. He got a sympathetic hum that wasn't quite
sincere. It had taken a while to get back to it, but after his ribs had healed
he'd remembered why he was so addicted to Mark's touch. His tongue. His body.
His cock. Jesus, Mark's cock.
He was jolted out of his reverie by the car beginning to reverse. Realised he'd
been grinning vaguely out the window, the night before replaying in his head.
Mark smirked and backed them out of the driveway.
It was a strange feeling. He'd put in his holiday notice, organised his
passport. Had spent hours and days packing and repacking his suitcases, making
lists, sure he'd missed something. Getting the holes in the roof patched so it
wouldn't leak over the two months they'd be gone and unplugging every appliance
while Mark had chuckled and stuffed necessities into a large backpack and told
him he worried too much, that they'd figure it out as they went along.
Maybe this was an adventure, but Kian didn't think he was ready for that little
organisation. Not yet.
The traffic wasn't too bad after all. They made good time, heading south. Mark
turned on the radio. He had a good voice. They both sang along, and Kian was so
engaged he didn't notice Mark taking the exit off the motorway at first, not
until they began to pass through a wooded area and then down a side road, up to
a building surrounded by a tall fence.
“Where are we going?”
“Shortcut,” Mark said, though he pulled up to the window, showed his ID, and
passed through. Kian looked around them, confused, then saw a sign as they
approached, an arrow pointing to the parking lot.
“No,” he said. “I don't want to be here.”
“We're going away, Kian. You haven't even talked about him. Not for months.”
Kian shook his head. He hadn't wanted to. To think about the betrayal, the
steady anger that rose inside him whenever he even tilted at a memory that had
his oldest friend in it.
“He tried to kill you.”
“He is you.” The car stopped. Kian shook his head, heard the click when Mark
undid his seatbelt and leaned over. “Maybe it wasn't what you wanted, but a
part of you will always be his. You love him.” Kian turned away, not wanting
Mark to see his angry tears. “Go and talk to him. Just for a minute. I called
in advance. They're expecting a visit.”
“You went behind my back.”
“I did.” A gentle finger picked a tear from his cheek. “You couldn't help him,
but maybe they can. Do you want to hate him forever?” He didn't. Not for Shane,
but for himself. For the nightmares he kept having, of childhood stories and
games split in half by screaming and the glint of a knife in the moonlight.
“I'll wait in the car. Take your time.”
Kian's feet crunched in the gravel as he climbed the path from the car to the
door. It seemed a clean place. Tidy lawns and a neat front hall. Not the
sterile facility he'd expected at all, but something closer to a large group
home. He could hear chatter down the hall, and when he heard a sudden carrying
laugh while he was checking in at the front desk he felt himself smile
nervously.
The common area was large and friendly. Soft chairs and boardgames, a
television. Large windows that looked out on the gardens. And in the middle, a
small group of on-lookers clustered around, was Shane. Stood on a footstool
among his audience, crafting a story.
“And then he found the little key and turned it inside the lock, and when he's
finished unlocking it we will found out what wonderful thing is in the chest.”
He looked up. Hazel eyes that were clear for the first time in memory. Kian
held his breath. “Sorry lads.” Shane hopped down off the stool. “Back later.”
“But what was in the chest?” a skinny girl in an oversized jumper asked. “You
didn't finish the story.” There was a murmur of agreement from the assembled
group. “Is it gold?”
“It's a magic sword,” an older man said confidently.
“No, it's a warm coat so he can make it home safely,” a middle-aged woman
retorted. They were still arguing amonhst themselves when Shane stopped in
front of Kian.
“Hello,” Kian said. Shane nodded.
“Hi.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Want to come out in the garden?”
It was cold outside, though the frost had started to thaw. They walked in
silence for a while, broken by the crunch of icy grass under their shoes. Shane
sat down carefully on a bench.
“I didn't think you'd come to see me.”
“I didn't either,” Kian admitted, and sat as well. “I erm...” He swallowed.
“I'm so angry at you.” Shane nodded, and didn't argue. “You look like you're
doing better.”
“I feel clearer,” Shane agreed. “The first couple of months...” His hands
clasped fretfully together and Kian saw healing scars on his wrists, pink
lines. “Sobriety sucks, I know that much.” A snort huffed out in a faint white
mist. “They've got me on other stuff. I kept trying not to think, but now I
have to. Think and... and face some things I didn't really want to. I used you
to make myself feel better, and that wasn't fair.”
“I wanted to help.”
“I know. You were a good friend.” Fingers traced over the pink lines. “But it
was never your fault. I made it your problem so it wouldn't have to be mine.”
He breathed out slowly, fogging the air. “I never...” He swallowed. “I've never
been with anyone. It felt safe to be in love with you because I knew you'd
never want me back. I just didn't want anyone else to have you either so I made
up stories that weren't true, and when things got bad I started to believe
them. It's something I'm working on. I don't think I'll be leaving here for a
while. It's probably the best place for me right now.”
“It probably is,” Kian agreed. Shane nodded.
“I'm supposed to say sorry to the people I hurt.”
“I don't want your apologies,” Kian said. “You can't make it better.”
“No. I can't. How's Mark? Is he...”
“He's fine. We're going away for a little while. He found his family, so we're
going to spend Christmas with them, then we're going to Europe. Driving
holiday.”
“You? On holiday?” Shane chuckled. “You're not going to relax as well?”
“New experiences,” Kian laughed. “I... I found a lead on my dad.” Shane's eyes
widened. “We're going to go south for a little bit before we visit Mark's
folks. See if we can track him down. I don't know what's going to happen,
but...”
“I'm happy for you.” Shane's hands unfolded and he reached out. Kian took it.
Felt a cold grip squeeze his. “You deserve a family.”
“Thanks.” Shane's cheeks were pink, his eyes bright. “This reminds me of one of
your stories, actually. The little boy who gets splinters of ice in him and is
taken by the snow queen.”
“He gets brought back, though,” Shane finished. “After a few adventures, of
course.”
“Of course.” Kian found himself smiling. “I'm glad you're doing better. Maybe
when we're home I could drop in and see how you are. Send you a postcard?”
“I'd like that.” Shane stood. “But don't worry about me. That relaxing's going
to make you anxious enough as it is.” He laughed and leapt out of the way of
Kian's playful shove. “I'm glad you came.”
“Me too.” Kian stood as well. They began to make their way back across the
lawn, across damp grass that stood green even in the cold. “What was in the
chest, anyway, seeing as I won't be around to hear the end of the story?”
“That is the end of the story,” Shane chuckled. “There are no answers, there is
no ending. I always though it was stupid, but now it's one of my favourites.”
He pushed open the door. “They'll argue over what's inside, but it doesn't
matter. Not really. If you knew it wouldn't be interesting.” Hopeful eyes
turned towards them as Shane stepped back into the common room and Kian
resisted the urge to laugh. “Say hi to Mark. Tell him I'm sorry.”
“I will.” Kian hesitated.
Then he pulled Shane into a hug.


*


From the outside the quaint village looked desolate. Chimneys puffing white
plumes that seemed to greet the dove-grey clouds. Square houses of every colour
that flattened a face towards the water, clustered together as though
gossiping. The water was pale, a blank face pockmarked by stationary boats
moored across it's surface.
They pulled up near the pier, at a large boatshed with a yellow seashell above
it's gaping maw, a plank that descended to drink just over the water's edge. He
could hear laughter inside. Mark took his hand.
It was a friendly boy of about twenty that met them at the desk. Tall and dark
hair slicked back.
“Hello lads. Doing the bass fishing experience? We don't leave for an hour
yet.”
“Er... no.” Kian peered over his shoulder to where there were a few lads
clustered beside a blue and white fishing boat, having a chat. “I was wondering
if there was a Kevin Egan here, if he's free.” He saw the lad go to shake his
head. “I could leave him a message? Or...”
“I'm sorry,” the lad said. “Kevin Egan passed last year.” Kian felt his eyes
fill with tears. “Did you know him well?”
“Er... no. No. Sorry. Just... met him once. Thought I'd...” Mark's hand settled
comfortingly on his back. “It's alright. Thanks for you help, erm...”
“Colm.” A hand stuck out. “I'm his son.”
“Oh.” He saw it. The hair, the eyes. Something innate that wasn't their
parents, was theirs alone, though Colm didn't know it. A shared language.
“Well... good to meet you.” They shook hands. “How's your mam?”
“She's alright. If you want to see her I can give her a ring? Sure she'd like
to talk to you if you knew him. I'm going to dinner with her and my sister
tonight.” Kian hesitated. “Tell ya what, I'm taking the boat out in a minute.
You're free to come if you like. You can tell me about meeting my dad.”
“I... I'm not good around water,” Kian admitted. The smile on Colm's face
faltered, the one that matched his. “It's safe?”
“As houses. Give you a life-vest and all.” Kian glanced out. At still water,
reflecting the sunlight that was beginning to peer through parting clouds. The
hand on his back lifted away and for a moment he stood there, swaying and
unsupported, the sea sloshing beneath the slats under his feet. “You sure we
haven't met before? Feel like I know you from somewhere.”
“Feel like I know you too.” Kian smiled. “Okay.” He cast a wary look at the
sea. “Get me a life-vest though.”
“Coming up,” Colm chuckled. “Come on through.”
Kian went. The boat was bigger than the one he remembered. Real. He ran a hand
along it's side and climbed the ladder, nodded nervously while Colm helped him
adjust his vest and pointed out the safety features when Kian asked.
They passed Mark on the way out. Leaned against the railing of the pier, the
sunlight in his hair. Kian lifted a wave.
Mark waved back.
Kian turned to the welcoming sea, the current catching them as the wind blew
through his hair.


 
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