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I inhale and move my eyes across to Goldie and Ringo sitting with Zinnea and Quinton. There’s something there, I swear it. And Nolan and Ella? I’m expecting wedding bells soon. I smile. How the family has grown. Mason, the Vikings, and the boys from the boatyard are chatting, beers in hands. They all came to St. Lucia and haven’t gone back. Why the fuck would they? We’re restructuring, rebuilding, restarting.
Never leaving.
And as for the docs? They’ve settled in quite well too, although we don’t see as much of Fred these days. The old tart brought his lady friend along for the ride. He deserves a bit of respite. I’m happy for him. And eternally grateful for him.
Mum wanders over with a bottle, half-smiling, but half showing that old permanent look of worry. “What are you doing over here?” she asks, topping up my Scotch.
I pout, taking her hand and pulling her down. She frowns. “You and Otto are gonna be grandparents again.”
“What?” she gasps, hand over her mouth. “No.”
“Yep. And it’s twins.” I neck my drink and laugh at the look on Mum’s face. “I know, right? Fucking twins.” I dip and kiss her on the cheek. “Pray for me.”
She laughs as I rise to my feet with her, handing my empty over. “I’m going for a stroll with the boys,” I say, nodding to James and Brad across the pool. Both stand, discarding their drinks, reading the message.
They’re needed.
But they don’t go load their guns.
No.
They collect their daughters as I walk to Rose and take Maggie from her arms. She doesn’t ask where we’re going. Doesn’t need to. I stop off at the lounge and pick up the urn with Dad’s ashes in—let’s see some fucker try to dig these up—and head out to the path that leads to the beach. The boys and their girls are waiting for me. We walk down to the shore in silence, the girls making various noises, Maggie the loudest, holding my face, insistent on angel kisses. “One day I’ll teach you about spatial awareness, my girl,” I say, chuckling when her nose wrinkles and she latches onto the end of mine with her mouth. “Proper kisses now?”
The boys behind me laugh, and I inhale, settling my arse on the shore just out of the reach of the water. They join me as I sit Maggie on my lap, James has Georgie between his bent legs, and Brad has Ruby on his thighs. “Look at the fucking state of us,” I mumble, putting the urn down. “So fucking deadly.” But the truth is, we don’t need to be anymore. Never again. “Rose is pregnant,” I say, and James bursts out laughing, followed quickly by Brad. “And it’s twins.”
The howling notches up to irritating levels, and I roll my eyes, wishing I could sock them both to the face. Maybe when the girls aren’t around.
“Jesus Christ,” James breathes, getting his laughter under control as Georgie takes his finger and shoves it in her mouth. “Twins.”
“Man, we’re moving,” James chuckles.
“Fuck off.” No one is ever moving. “You saying you’re not having anymore?”
“Yep,” he chimes quickly.
“Two’s enough for me, thanks.” Brad chuckles, then frowns. “What the fuck is Maggie eating?”
I shoot my eyes down, seeing her little fist at her mouth covered in some dusty powder. Confused, I take her hand and open it. “Oh fuck.” I quickly check the urn. The lid’s off. “Oh fuck, no.” I jump up and sling Maggie under my arm, running into the shallow ocean, splashing water around her mouth. “She ate Pops!” I yell, as Maggie starts screaming to high heaven and James and Brad fall apart on the shore.
“Here.” Brad chucks me a bottle of water, and I quickly unscrew it and lay her back in my arms, pouring it over her lips, hoping she takes some of it in and clears away the dust. Naturally, she screams louder, and I feel like twenty tons of shite. “Oh baby.” I get her upright, seeing her spit and blow raspberries, trying to rid her mouth, more of the salt I expect. “Daddy’s sorry.” I stick my finger in her mouth, checking for remnants of the ashes of her dead grandfather. “Fucking hell.”
“Danny!” I hear Rose yell. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, dear,” I yell back. “Our daughter’s a fucking Hannibal, dear,” I add quietly.
I look at the boys.
Both with babies in their arms. “It’s a good job we’re not in the game anymore because we’d be laughing stocks.”
“Would you care?” James asks.
I look at Maggie, blinking, her face a screwed-up picture of perfection. “No, can’t say I would.”
“Could give a flying fuck,” Brad mumbles. “Don’t.”
I look at the urn wedged in the sand. Pops. Where it all began. I smile and walk over, Maggie sitting on my forearm, and pick it up, looking out at the ocean. I see me, a boy, whizzing across the waves on my jet ski.
Carlo Black in pursuit.
