‘I know it’s hard.’
Iona put her empty glass in the washer. One of the posh guys was at the bar getting the next round. Iona poured two Guinness, took the money while they settled. When she’d finished, Surtsey held her glass up by the stem, wiggled it.
‘Can I get another?’ she said. ‘I’ll pay this time.’
Iona sighed. She got the bottle and plonked it next to her sister. ‘Just drink it. It’s easier to lose a whole bottle of stock than a couple of glasses anyway.’
Surtsey poured it herself.
‘Here you are.’ The familiar accent made her turn.
Brendan stood with his fists shoved in his pockets, lines across his forehead.
‘Here I am,’ Surtsey said. The Shiraz had warmed her, the edges of the afternoon fuzzy. Her heart lifted at the sight of him, but her stomach tightened too.
‘I don’t know why I’m here,’ Brendan said.
Surtsey stayed quiet.
Brendan lifted a hand to his hair.
Surtsey puffed out her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Brendan shook his head. ‘How long?’
‘Can I get you anything?’ Iona said from behind the bar.
Brendan hesitated, looked at the lager and ale taps, confused. ‘No thanks.’
Surtsey felt heat rise to her face.
‘Well?’ Brendan said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes you do. How long?’
‘Why does it matter?’
‘The details matter.’
She didn’t want to discuss details because the details hurt the most, made it real.
‘Six months.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you’ve said.’
‘I am.’
Brendan ran his tongue around his teeth, chewed the inside of his cheek. ‘You want to know the worst thing?’
‘Brendan, don’t do this.’
His voice was hard. ‘Do you want to know the worst thing?’
Surtsey’s heart was sore, tight.
Brendan put a hand out to the bar, just his fingertips, as if checking the world was tangible.
‘The worst thing is that you’d still be fucking him behind my back if he hadn’t died.’
‘Brendan…’
‘You didn’t end it. He didn’t end it. He fucking died, that’s the only reason.’
Surtsey thought about saying sorry again but what was the point?
‘I don’t blame you for being angry,’ she said.
He nodded, animated. ‘Oh, you don’t blame me? That’s nice. That’s lovely, thanks. I have your permission to be angry, I am so fucking honoured.’
‘I didn’t mean…’
‘Shut the fuck up.’ His voice was louder, making Metal Sudoku look over. ‘Just shut the fuck up.’
Iona came over. ‘Everything OK?’
Brendan had his arms by his sides, hands balled into fists. The tendons on his forearms twitched as he clenched.
‘Did you know?’ he said to Iona.
She shook her head.
He turned to Surtsey. She was gasping to take a drink of her wine.
‘Did anyone know?’
‘No one.’
Brendan tilted his head. ‘That’s nice, just you and Tom, cosy little lovebirds. Do you realise what a cliché you are? A student fucking her professor?’
‘I think you should leave,’ Iona said. ‘Before you do something you regret.’
Brendan nodded at his fists then at Surtsey. ‘Hit her? Is that what you mean?’
Surtsey wanted him to hit her. She’d felt relief when Alice slapped her, relief when Brendan and Kezia found Tom’s body on the Inch. It was all following a path and she had no choice but to be swept along.
‘Go,’ Iona said.
Brendan stood silent for a moment then touched his forehead.
‘The cops came to see me,’ he said.
‘Me too.’
‘Asking about me and Kez finding Tom. What we were doing that whole day, and the day before.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry,’ Brendan said under his breath. ‘That’s useful.’
He shook his head and put his hands back in his pockets. Iona watched.
‘I thought I knew you, Sur,’ Brendan said. ‘I thought we had something.’
More silence. Nothing to say.
Brendan turned to leave. ‘I hope he was worth it.’
He walked out the pub door.
Surtsey watched the door close and picked up her glass, had to use two hands to keep it steady as she downed what was left, feeling the burn spread down her throat and through her body.
22
Louise lay in bed with an untouched food tray in front of her. Stew of some kind, brown slop with dry mash and wrinkly corn on the side. Surtsey didn’t blame her mum for not touching it and she felt heartburn from the red wine as she stared at the plate.
The television in the corner was on the news. A plane missing over the Indian Ocean, a politician having an affair, scaremongering about immigration. It was strange to see all the ordinary tragedies of life just trundling on as if nothing had changed. But Surtsey felt different, the steadiness of her life a couple of days ago had vanished, the ground under her feet was constantly shifting.
A reporter appeared walking across the sand of Portobello beach, speaking to camera. The sound was too low to make out what she was saying, but it would be the same stuff, police following lines of enquiry, appealing for witnesses.
Louise coughed into a tissue, folded it and placed it on the blanket, away from the food. ‘Are they any closer to finding out what happened to Tom?’
Surtsey was sitting by the bed on a red plastic chair that dug into her thighs and rubbed against her spine. ‘Mum, there’s something I have to tell you.’
She wondered if she needed to. Louise was dying, maybe Surtsey could get away with never mentioning it. But she couldn’t stay quiet, that’s not how she was with her mum. They told each other stuff. She needed help.
Louise turned from the television screen to look at her daughter, but didn’t speak.
‘It’s about Tom,’ Surtsey said.
No reply, just waiting. Surtsey sometimes wondered if her mum could’ve been a psychiatrist, using emptiness to make people say stuff they wouldn’t usually reveal.
Surtsey breathed in, felt her stomach grumble, the acid messing with her.
‘I was…’
The television news had moved on, the screen now showing footage of chickens in cages. Something about the possible return of bird flu. Surtsey’s own little drama was only a tiny snippet of the news agenda, filler for a couple of minutes. If only she could move on as easily as the broadcasters. What happened to all the stories in the world when
