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‘I am.’
‘Not Bethan, then?’
‘No, afraid not.’
‘But you’d like to find someone?’
‘Yes. I think I probably would.’
‘Let’s drink to that.’ Suddenly not feeling like sleeping, George leapt from the sofa and went to his dad’s drinks cupboard, saying, ‘Put the gas fire on. It’s freezing in here.’
Owen climbed from his fold-up bed and knelt in front of the fire, pressing and turning the igniter button until the fire whooshed into life, setting a flicker of flames around the fake coal and filling the room with a glow and a promise of warmth to follow.
George stared into his dad’s precious drinks cabinet. A full bottle of whisky glowed golden in the corner next to the gin, some ancient sherry and an assortment of liqueurs. He extracted the whisky bottle, snapped the seal, and poured two generous measures.
‘Here you go.’ He handed a glass to Owen.
‘Is it okay to take something of your dad’s–I mean, drink his booze?’
‘Yeah, course it is.’ George went back to the sofa as Owen settled again on the put-you-up with his drink in hand.
Wrapping himself in the duvet again, George added, thoughtfully, ‘There was a time when he’d have had you or me knee-capped for less, but not now.’
‘Is he mellowing with age?’
‘Mellowing?’ George laughed at that thought. ‘Listen, he won’t be out of clink for years, by which time he’ll have forgotten what was in his frigging drinks cabinet. I think this time he might even die in gaol.’
‘Grist.’ Owen slung back the whisky in one go and choked on its roughness.
George did the same as he muttered, ‘And if anyone deserved to die in prison, he does.’ He held up the glass in salutation. ‘May his dark soul rot in hell.’
The fragrant,foody aroma of breakfast cooking filtered into George’s nostrils and his stomach sent messages to his brain that would not be ignored.
‘Come on, Owen. Get up.’ He climbed out of his duvet and nudged Owen into wakefulness, and the two of them staggered across the hall and into the kitchen, still pulling on their clothes.
Smiling at them both, George’s mum turned from the cooker.
‘Morning boys,’ she said, ‘It’s bacon sarnies for breakfast. I hope you’re hungry.’
‘Ravenous,’ George said.
Sally said, ‘I didn’t mean you, Georgie.’
George noticed her eyes lingering on Owen’s torso before his friend’s dark head popped from the neck of the t-shirt and the blue fabric was pulled down. She smiled a secret smile and held out the plate piled high with sandwiches. George pushed the thought that even his mum might fancy Owen out of his head. Surely, she was past all that sort of thing? He grabbed a sandwich and told himself he was imagining things.
After the energeticactivities of the previous night, Owen was so hungry he was only a moment behind George in taking a sandwich.
‘Thanks,’ he said and smiled shyly at Sally.
She was already made-up, with foundation hiding the bruise. He remembered its reappearance last night. Him towering over her. Their bodies were so hot there was no need for room heating. Her red curls cascading over the pink satin pillow, her skin glowing rosy from face to belly button, a sheen of perspiration washing away her make-up, revealing the dark secret of previous violence.
Unsure if she would mind, he had touched her face, fingertips tentatively grazing the blue and mauve stain below her eye. ‘Did Chas do this to you?’ he’d asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Last night?’
‘That’s right.’
