Helen Fields - Perfect Death

‘What do you want?’ the barmaid asked.

‘Um, sorry, what?’ Randall said, feeling his face burning and grateful for the lack of natural light.

‘I said, what do you want? Biff, turn that fuckin’ amp down would you, my friggin’ ear drums are already bleeding!’ she yelled.

‘Vodka,’ Randall said. ‘Double, neat.’ No one had ever asked him for ID in The Fret. As long as you could pay, you were assumed to be of age. The girl slammed a full but heavily finger-marked glass down in front of him. Randall pushed his money across the bar and tried a smile, but she had already turned away. It must be tough on her, he thought, doing such a physically demanding job. The club didn’t close until 3am and she would be on her feet all that time. One day, he decided, he would stay until the very end and offer to walk her home. She should have someone to look after her.

Carrying the glass back to his table, Randall checked that no one was watching as he withdrew a Coke from his rucksack and topped up the drink. Vodka made him gag if he drank it neat but this way he could tolerate it. There was no way he was going to order anything as pathetic as a vodka and Coke from the bar, though. That wasn’t what real men drank. His father had favoured port after dinner, single malt whilst watching television, and cider on sunny afternoons when they’d stopped at a bar during a walk. His family had done a lot of hiking, and whilst Randall could have done without the endless lectures from his mother about birds or geographical formations, his father had made it fun with tales of youthful exploits. Randall remembered their last hike as if it were yesterday. If they could eat only one dessert for the remainder of their lives, what would it be, their father had asked each of them. They had argued for an hour, maybe more. His father had settled on lemon meringue pie, three puddings in one, he had argued. Light crispy pastry, hot lemon curd, and melt in the mouth meringue. Randall had made the case for plum crumble, and his father had agreed it as a close second. A week later his father had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Two years later they’d held a funeral that had marked the start of the end of Randall’s life. He hadn’t been able to eat lemon meringue pie since.

Randall spotted Christian – he of the henna tattoo suggestion – a couple of tables away, deep in conversation. He downed a large mouthful of vodka and Coke, hoping Chris would notice him without him having to do anything dorky like wave. He filled in time tuning his guitar and trying hard not to check if Chris was still there. His patience was rewarded a few minutes later.

‘Hey, dude, you’re here again. Good to see you,’ Christian said, offering knuckles as a greeting. ‘And you got the henna tat done. That’s looking good, Rand.’ Randall grinned and forced himself not to slip the t-shirt off his shoulder to show the hennaed Celtic knot off more fully. ‘Absolutely the right way to go. I bet a lot of the guys in here wish henna had been around when they were getting their ink. Some of the designs they’re wearing went out with the ark, you know?’

‘Yeah.’ Randall laughed. ‘Hey, how was your week?’ he asked. ‘I mean, did you do anything cool or anything?’ He was sounding too keen and it sucked to have to work this hard to fit in, but Christian threw a companionable arm around his shoulders and slid back against the sticky faux-leather sofa.

‘It was kind of tough, actually. A girl I know lost her sister, hypothermia. Horrible seeing someone in pain like that. Made me appreciate how lucky I am to wake up each day and do the things I love, you know?’

‘Totally,’ Randall said, kicking himself for not being able to respond with something more insightful. The coolest guy he’d ever met had just shared with him, and he’d come back with a line from a spoof teen movie. He really was a dickweed, just like the other boys at school said. ‘I lost my dad,’ he splurted. ‘A couple of years ago. At first I didn’t know how to deal with it, but now I want to express myself, you know? I don’t want to hide how I’m feeling any more.’

‘Hey, that’s rough. I had no idea. Good for you for following your dream, yeah? You going to play tonight?’ Christian asked.

‘If there are any songs I know well enough,’ Randall said. ‘What are you doing while the university is on recess?’

‘Catching up on the reading. So many books, never enough time. I’ve got a bit of casual work to keep the rent paid over the winter. You’re in luck – I just got paid. Want a drink?’ Christian asked.

‘Hey, no, let me. I’ve got plenty of …’ Randall said.

‘No way, it’s my turn to buy you one,’ Christian said. ‘Vodka, right? Unless you want an excuse to talk to Nikki?’

Randall stared at the girl filling glasses, deciding it was easier to dream from a distance. She was so far out of his league it was painful.

‘No, you’re good,’ he told Christian. ‘Vodka would be great. Thanks, man.’

Christian sauntered towards the bar in a way Randall had tried and failed to replicate. It may be only one foot in front of the other but some men made it look like the world was there only to provide a backdrop for them. Randall picked up his guitar and strummed a few notes. Tonight’s starting band was just warming up, so it was a good time to make sure his strings were tuned. It was Christian who had first persuaded him to get up and jam. Randall had been sat at his usual out-of-the-way table, and Christian had wandered over asking if he could sit down. They’d begun talking and Randall had found he could speak to Christian without feeling like a fraud. That was two months ago. Since then Christian had been at The Fret every Thursday night, and Randall wasn’t too proud to admit that he looked forward to those precious minutes of chatting before the music got too loud for it. Christian had a way of putting things that made sense – wasn’t it more embarrassing to sit there with a guitar than to just get up and have a go, wanting a tattoo was natural but try henna first in case you wanted to change the design, keeping the details of your private life from your family wasn’t disloyal if it meant you maintained your sense of who you were – and Randall was finally experiencing that precious event: his first adult friendship. Christian, he thought, was exactly the kind of person he wanted to grow up to be.

Callanach and his mother exited the hotel bar by mutual silent agreement. Privacy was required, if Callanach could find the voice to talk at all. His mother had been raped. He was sure that’s what she had said, yet it had taken minutes to process those few words. He’d looked around the bar. The man next to him was laughing too loudly, mouth open wider than was decent. A woman who thought she was beyond the rules was vaping in the corner. Another man was creeping his hand sideways to touch a waitress’ behind. Then he’d seen the first tear fall from his mother’s eyes and his world had begun to turn at full speed again. He’d held out his hand to take her arm, and gently pulled her towards the lifts, to her room, where he could ask all the questions he did not want to ask and hear the answers that he already knew would haunt him forever.

In her room, Véronique went to stand by the window. Laughter drifted up from the Royal Mile and Christmas lights flashed dimly in the darkness, colouring his mother’s face as she stared out. Callanach sat on a chair in the corner and waited. He’d been here a hundred times, waiting for a victim to find the words they needed to begin their story. It didn’t help to rush them. He knew his mother was doing what every rape victim had to do before starting to talk. She was breaking down the brick wall she had built inside herself.