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Jonathan cuts right over her. “I don’t need you to name every person in the family.”
“I sometimes think I do. You don’t see us much, do you?”
“I’m very busy,” snarls Jonathan predictably, and Gollum mews in his defence.
“Since when have you got a cat?” asks another voice—this one’s different, the accent is one I’ve got well used to in Sheffield—and I take that as my cue to stop lurking in the door like some weirdo and come in properly.
“He’s mine,” I tell them.
Jonathan’s mid-argument with two people, both somewhere in their late fifties. There’s a woman in a bright yellow cardy over a red blouse and a man in a sheepskin jacket who looks like he’s about to sell you a dodgy watch.
“He’s got a guest.” The woman spins round and gives me the brightest smile I’ve seen in days. “Johnny”—she turns to the feller in the sheepskin—“he’s got a guest.” Then she turns back to Jonathan. “You didn’t tell us you had a guest.” Then, without waiting for a reply, she’s back on me. “He didn’t tell us he had a guest. He never has guests.”
Jonathan’s face is absolutely thunderous. It’s like he wants to fire everyone in the room but can’t because they’re his family and that’s not how it works. “He’s not a guest. He’s someone I…someone from the Sheffield branch. Sam, can you give us a moment. This is private.”
“It’s not private, Sam.” The woman pops over to give me a hug. Which isn’t something that’s happened to me in a while and feels sort of intense but not terrible. “Now I’m Wendy. I’m his mum. And this here is his Uncle Johnny.”
“Pleasure, lad.” Uncle Johnny shakes my hand with just enough force that I think it’s a test. I squeeze back slightly less hard than he does so he doesn’t take it as a challenge but I don’t look like a pushover.
“Mum, Johnny, stop introducing yourselves.” Jonathan is not taking this well. He’s taking it about the way you’d expect him to take it if he was sixteen. “Sam, go to your room.”
I stare at him. “You what? You’re not my fucking dad.”
I’m pretty sure Jonathan Forest is incapable of contrition, but he dances round the edge of it sometimes. “I just mean, can you give us some space?”
Wendy puts her hands on her hips. “That’s not it at all. He just don’t want his friend to know what a bad son he’s being.”
“I’m not a bad son.” Jonathan is this close to going full werewolf.
“It’s alright,” says Johnny. “Nana Pauline said I were a bad son too.”
Jonathan glares at his uncle. “Please don’t defend me, Johnny, we arenothingalike.”
“We’re a bit alike. You take after your dad a lot.”
You wouldn’t have to be, like, super special attuned to social situations to know that this is the time to leave. Politely. Jonathan’s practically giving off steam. He’s so on edge that even Gollum is picking up on it and keeping his distance. “Well, it was lovely to meet you both,” I tell them, “but this does sound like a family matter so I’ll head upstairs.”
Things are tense enough that I only get quiet goodbyes from Wendy and Johnny as I scoop up Gollum and slink up to my room. Occasionally I hear loud voices from the kitchen. And usually it’s Jonathan but sometimes it’s Wendy and it’s strange but it feels comforting somehow. Obviously people shouting in each other’s faces isn’t ideal like, but it’s been so quiet and spooky the last couple of days I’m glad of it.
Plus, it seems to have got me my cat back.
I reach down and scratch Gollum behind the ears. “You’re a fickle little bastard,” I say. “But I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
Hemurrsat me. I don’t think he has.
About twenty minutes later I get cheeryBye Sams yelled up the stairs, which tells me the family are leaving.
I give it another twenty minutes and then I head back down, Gollum running behind me. Jonathan has gone straight back to work in a way that looks very much like he’s trying to make a point. Probably to people who aren’t here anymore.
I hover in the doorway. “You alright?”
He doesn’t look up. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you’ve just had a row with your mam and your uncle?”
“Families fight, Sam.”
Gollum springs onto the desk and starts batting his head under Jonathan’s hand until—to my full-on amazement—he stops typing and starts stroking him instead. He’s got big hands, has Jonathan Forest, slightly too big for his bony wrists. And knotty knuckles like someone’s put an Ent in a business suit.
