Afire: Entire Blinded Series (24 page)

I mentally shrug—who the fuck cares which film it was?—and offer him an apologetic smile as he reaches the bench and sits beside me. He doesn't say a word, just looks ahead, rheumy blue eyes maybe staring at the sea, or perhaps images playing inside his head. I don't feel awkward, you know. Don't feel like I ought to get up and leave him in peace. It's weird, but it's almost as though I was meant to come here and have him sitting beside me.

I stare ahead, content with no conversation or explanation as to why I'm here.

After a time he asks, “You got some troubles, eh, lad?” He links his fingers together on his lap.

I turn to look at him, find him gazing at me with a curious look in his eyes—one that makes me feel he's seen a shitload of grief in his time and recognises a lost soul when he sees one.
Am
I a lost soul? Am I really?
Can
I be when I have Ryan?

I nod.

"Well,” he says, sniffing. “We all have times like that, lad. T'ain't nothin’ to be ashamed of, to not know where to turn, you know. Everyone has the wind knocked out of their sails at times—pardon the play on words.” He chuckles, and his eyes water, a single tear streaking down his cheek. “Once upon a time I was just like you. Burnin’ up inside, scared shitless. Aye, we all get those times, so we do, but life has a way of workin’ so you can iron out the kinks. Move on. Sort things out. I spent most of my life ponderin’ the whys and wherefores, seekin’ resolutions to things, forcin’ them to come. And then, as I got older, when I was either too tired to make things happen faster or I just plain didn't have the energy, I saw that life works your crap out for you, if only you'd give it time.” He runs his finger beneath his nose then holds it up midair. “Ah. I've forgotten what else it was I wanted to say."

I laugh quietly, sensing I don't have to say anything, that he doesn't expect me to explain why I'm here or what's on my mind.

"Oh yes,” he says. “I remember now.” He reaches out a hand and grips my forearm. “Everyone is special, son. Everyone. Doesn't matter what no one says to the contrary. Even the bad people have a bit of goodness in them. Those of us who go through more shit than a body has a right to go through, well, it may not seem fair that we're put through the wringer, but it bloody builds character and makes life entertainin'. How many people can boast, when the end comes and them pearly gates open to let us in, that they lived a life chock full of ups and downs, barely a moment to catch their breath in between? Better than being bored, son, I'll tell you that much. And if you have someone to share the crap with, all the better. When you have no one, time drags its arse like a worm-riddled dog."

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A pregnant pause lingers, one where I wait for him to either go on or sit quietly. He takes his hand off my arm and laces his fingers again, nodding as he looks out to sea, as though he's satisfied with what he's said and I've understood what he meant. I do, in a way, but I'm not quite sure that he's got across exactly what he wanted. Is he saying that having a life full of crap is better than one where everything goes to plan and runs smoothly? I could do with a bit of smooth; reckon a quiet patch is long overdue. Maybe I've got him all wrong.

"I know what you're thinkin'.” He nods again, moving his lips like he has dentures that are giving him gyp. “You're thinkin': What does he know? Some old bastard tellin’ me I should be grateful when the shit hits the fan. Well, that's
exactly
what I'm tellin’ you, lad, because when the shit's been cleaned up, and the good times roll in, you'd better believe you appreciate them more than you would if you hadn't had the troubles on your doorstep. Think about it. If everythin’ went smooth as silk, you'd never learn nothin', would you? Never appreciate jack shit."

I know what he's saying, know he means well, but he hasn't got a clue what I've endured. What Ryan's endured.

"I've had some damn rough times,” he says, sucking in his bottom lip then releasing it. “Lived a full life. Been in wars. Seen people die in front of me, and there weren't nothin’ I could do to stop the madness. And when I came home, got settled back into civvy life, got myself a wife and we had our bairn, I got to see that I hadn't had darkness in my life at all up until then.” He blinks several times. “Oh, it
was
darkness, in the war, just wasn't
the
darkest time. Not by a long shot. No."

I frown, trying to imagine what could be more horrific than fighting in a war and seeing death all around you. I know I've been shot, seen what I've seen, lived what I've lived, but being out there in the trenches just doesn't compare to my life.

"We lived for a time, all of us together. My wife, my son, me. They were happy times, lad. The ones I appreciated after the shit. But I didn't appreciate them enough. If I knew then what was coming, I'd have taken more notice of everything my wife and son did. Listened more. Loved them more. But we don't, do we, eh? No, we don't. We still gripe and moan, even when things are good, and forget how bad it was before."

He sniffs again, cuffs his nose. A tear rolls down his face, and I'm unsure whether it's due to emotion or the cold wind making them leak.

"We lived in the city, we did. City in Scotland. Highland folk, we were. I still am, deep in this old heart.” He absently pats his chest. “I was out workin’ one day. Havin’ a bad day as I recall. Gripin’ and moanin’ about this and that. Fellas not doin’ their jobs properly, makin’ my life more difficult because they were just bein’ damn lazy. I was a foreman, see. Foreman of a brewery. Oversaw the workers, made sure everythin’ ran like clockwork. And I'm complainin', really grumblin’ to myself, and my boss, he comes over to me and says: Percy, you've got a couple of visitors in my office. You need to come. Now."

The tone of his voice has me waiting on pins and needles as to what he's going to say next. It's like the air has changed, turned thick and cloying, and I'm tempted to get up and walk away. I don't want to hear it, what he has to say, but something sticks me to the bench so I can't get up. The need to let him talk it out? I don't know, but I stay where I am and brace myself. It's going to be bad, I just know it.

"I went on up to that office and saw two men there, suited and booted, their faces tellin’ me I needed to sit the hell down and listen to what they had to say. And I sat, heard what they said, my mind screamin’ that things weren't meant to go this way, that I'd done my stint in life where I'd seen more horrors than anyone had any business seein'. But life threw some more at me that day, and as they left that office, me walkin’ behind them in a daze, I wondered whether I'd get through the next hour or two let alone the rest of my life.” He pauses for a beat. “Some soldier I knew in the war, he came back, mind crazed with what he'd seen. As I'd left for work that day, my wife wavin’ at me from the doorstep, my boy perched on her hip, he'd watched us. Waited until I was out of sight before knockin’ on my front door. He thought my wife was his, see. Thought my son was his too, crazy as he was, and that I'd visited them, was going to take them away from him. Neighbours reported that they'd heard my Beryl screamin’ that she wasn't married to him, that he should get out before she called the police, but they never went round to check on her. Never picked up the phone themselves. And he hung them. Hung them with the rope I kept under the kitchen sink. From the banisters. Then he shot himself."

Fuck me. I'm speechless. Don't have a fucking clue what to say to that. What
is
there to say? No words can take it back, make it so it never happened. Nothing I can mutter will change a damn thing. Jesus. I feel sick, lost, not knowing what to do.

"So you see, son, if you're thinking life can't get any worse, think again. When whatever troubles you is over, enjoy the calm in between. You might have had your worst already, might never have to go through anything more now, but just in case, you hold on to whoever it is who warms your bed and heart, and be grateful you're still around to tell the tale. I'm here, but I wish I damn well wasn't. Been many a time I've tried to take my own life. Never did take another woman either. Spent these years alone up here, wonderin’ when my time is, when I can be released from this thing we call a life. But I have my memories, they keep me goin', and when I do finally kick the bucket, I'll get to see my family again.” He chuckles, hiding a sob. “I've just got to wait, is all. But you? You'll get through. You got someone, have you?"

I nod, thinking of Ryan and trying to imagine being told someone hung him and that I'd never see him again. A lump fills my throat, and I can't look at this old man any longer. The pain etched on his face is too much. The tears in his eyes are too much. “I...” That's all I can manage before my own tears fall.

"Don't need to say nothin', lad.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I don't need to know your business. But you take it from me. Get back to that person you love and enjoy every moment.” He stands and, as though sent to make me see, to make me be grateful for what I
do
have, he walks away, back to the little building and a life behind closed drapes.

"Thank you,” I croak, watching him go.

He reaches the front door and pushes it open, raising a hand before disappearing inside.

Shit.
The lump in my throat gets bigger, and I face the sea again, trying to digest the surrealism of this moment. What are the odds of this happening, eh? Damn, there might be something to it when people say there are angels here on earth, sent to cross your path when you need them most.

Suddenly panicked, I jump up and start running back toward the hotel. I need to see Ryan, make sure he's still there and not hanging from the damn banisters outside our hotel room. I know he won't be, know my mind's working in a crazy way, but I continue to run all the same. The hotel seems too far away, a fragment in the distance that I wish was right in front of me, right now. But it isn't, so I plough on, my lungs bursting and my eyes itching. I want to cry,
really
cry, great gut-wrenching sobs that hurt my throat and get every damn bit of upset out of me. A purging that cleanses my soul and cleans out my mind.

Closer, closer now, I stumble on a bit of uneven ground and fall forward, hands outstretched to break my fall. I land hard, pain springing up in my wrists, lightning bursts exploding in my knees. And I can't get up. Even though I want to rise and run again, my body's refusing to play ball. It's like my mind is so full of fright that my brain can't send the message to my legs that they need to move, to make me stand. Angry, I grip the grass in my fists and pull it out of the ground, rising up and throwing the clumps as hard as I can. A livid snarl leaves me, one that doesn't sound like it could ever belong to me, and I let the tears fall. Teeth gritted, fists bunched, I close my eyes and cry it all out. The anger, the frustration, the unfairness of life.

What that old bloke told me swirls inside my head, giving me the energy to get up and walk forward, back to the one I hold dear. Without Ryan I'm nothing—don't think I could go on like that man back there if something happened to him. I don't
want
to go on without him.

The hotel draws nearer, my steps steadier now, the sobs lessening the further I walk. I reach the hotel grounds and stand at the end of the path leading to the front doors. Glancing up at our window, I see Ryan standing there, his chest bare, his eyes narrowed as he looks down at me. He frowns, clearly worried, and I wonder what I must look like. Snotty nosed and red-eyed, I imagine. He'll know something's up. I won't be able to hide it now, and I'm not sure I want to. He deserves to know what's going on in my head.

He opens the window, pushing it up and leaning his head and torso out. “You all right?” he calls, concern written all over his face.

"I am now I'm back,” I say, eager to get inside and into that bedroom.

"Where have you been? I woke and you weren't here. Saw your note. I was worried, man.” He smiles to take the interrogational edge from his words.

"I went to that lighthouse,” I say, jerking my thumb over my shoulder and wondering why the fuck I'm still standing here. “I'm coming up."

Jogging up the path, I shove through the doors and head for the stairs, the need to take them two at a time a force inside me. The blonde receptionist looks up from the desk, a book in her hand this time, and eyes me curiously. Maybe news has spread about yesterday. Maybe she knows all about it and thinks we're riff-raff who need removing from the hotel. I don't give a fuck what she thinks, but I give her a smile anyway before climbing the stairs.

At the top, I take a second to catch my breath and palm my face. My skin's tight from tears, and my throat throbs from the emotion still lodged there, but I need to get inside our room. Need Ryan's arms around me like I need the goddamn air to breathe.

Sliding the key into the lock, I open the door and step inside. Ryan's on the bed, sitting up with his back against the headboard, grey jogging bottoms the only clothing he wears. Seeing him there...man, it gets me, really fucking gets me, you know? I close the door and look at him, just taking in the sight of him for a minute, glad he's there, glad he's lifting his arms and beckoning me toward him.

"What the fuck's happened?” he asks, brow all furrowed, his mouth turning down. “You been crying?"

I nod, wanting to cry all over again now I'm back where I belong. “I...uh, I—"

"C'mere. Come on.” He lifts his chin, arms still raised.

I get onto the bed, settled beside him, my head to his chest. I hug him close, closer, wanting to climb inside him so we're always together, never to be parted again. I don't say a word, just let him stroke my back with one hand and fondle my hair with the other. He knows to give me time, and fuck, I'm damn grateful he knows me so well. That he can read me like this.

Tears fall, silent and hot, and when they stop I look up at him, wishing he didn't have to see me so broken. It's hurting him, I can see that by the way his eyes are watery and his mouth is downturned like he's trying not to cry himself.