Chapter 14 - Unsafe journeys

Gary opened his eyes and for the first time in what? weeks, months, years? he experienced a feeling of wholeness, of relief upon waking. What was going on? His brain, still quagmired in sleep, took a moment to connect. Levers clicked and slotted into place.

Jon was back home.

The mellow mood lasted all of a few seconds, until reality rushed back in, dragging along its usual boatload of problems.

He stuffed his pillow under his neck and stared at the window where another grey dawn struggled to shrug off the night.

Dawn had his fullest sympathy. This world wasn't big enough for all this sadness and strife.

Jon had returned, yes. But what about the consequences?

Unlikely, that Bill would take Jon's flight in his stride. The boy's rebellion would fuel Bill's dogged determination to get his well-manicured paws on his grandson.

Surely, the youth authorities wouldn't confiscate children, just because one parent was dead, and the other one struggling? Or because said child had lashed out at his tormentors. Or played truant at his father's invitation. Only for one day, mind you. But still . . .

A father's love for his only child must count more. And the fact he might not be affluent but not living in the streets either.

Surely.

Try as he might, Gary could not stop the sniper in his head from opening fire. The teachers from Jon's old school would gleefully give evidence of his failings to keep his son under control. In his fervour to save Jon's bacon, he had stepped on too many toes in pointy pumps. And those in the new place would no doubt sing a song of praise about Bill. He was paying the fees after all.

Gary sat up, grabbed the pillow from behind him and slammed it into the cheap pine wardrobe hunkering opposite the bed.

"What a load of bollocks!"

With a groan, he turned and faced the empty vastness that once had been Emma's side of the bed.

"Sorry, dear."

If Emma's spirit were around, she would understand some situations called for pillow-slamming. Her alarm clock was less forgiving and glowered its reproof in the form of green numbers.

Later than expected, time to get up.

With a bit of luck, Aline and Lorna would also be out and about. Given their customary efficiency, they might even have roused their lawyer friend and briefed him y over a cooked breakfast.

Gary's stomach growled in anticipation.

"Come on. You got fed last evening."

As if in response, a clutter, a clank and a young voice suppressing a curse sounded from the kitchen region downstairs.

Jon, presumably engaged in fulfilling his promise and making the toast. From the burned odour tickling his nose, it seemed to be more a case of burning the toast.

Gary rubbed his head and yawned. Turned his head back towards the brightening gap in the curtain and watched a moth, the colour of the leaves outside, bash its insect wings against the heavy fabric.

The boy was home for half-term. A full week of it. Impossible to just carry on as before, paying bills, organising the tours and feeling sorry for himself. Not when there was precious time to be spent with his son. The sooner he talked to the lawyer, the sooner he would know where his chances stood. After that, he would take Jon on a trip. Father and son together. Germany had worked out amazingly well if one ignored the corpse in the sauna. Once Jon had rid himself of the shock, he had coped well with might have been a scarring experience. Had in fact asked when they would return to the place.

At the window, the moth stilled resigned to captivity.

Germany in October would be just as dismal as the UK. He needed something sunnier.

Like Italy, for example.

Plus, the Italian tour was in a mess.

Now, there was a thought, a way to swat two moths in one swipe. Travel to Italy and take Jon along. No problem with school this time. The sabotage was worrying, yes. As much as it pained him to admit, Ike was right, they needed to act before whoever was behind the attacks struck again. Still, there should be no immediate danger. Not like last time.

Plus, the ladies needed his help.

The business could be run from anywhere. All Gary needed was somebody to open and scan the letters for him so he could pay the bills. The rest was destined for the bin. Including those pesky takeover bills.

Get cracking!

Decision taken, a current of energy surged through his body. He threw back the duvet, swung his legs over his side of the bed, his bare feet fumbling around for his Birkenstocks. Unsexy things those. He wouldn't have been seen dead in them, had Emma been around. She wasn't, the sandals were kind to his feet, so he wore them around the house.

On Birkenstocked feet, he lurched to the window to release the moth. It tumbled away into a thick fog, grey at the bottom, brighter at the top as if the sun was trying to break in. Gary turned his back on the chilly morning and shuffled out of the bedroom, across the narrow corridor and into a bathroom filled with condensation so thick he could have whacked it with a crutch had he been using one. A wet bath towel piled on the floor, the soap had morphed into a sweet-smelling sludge, the tube of toothpaste was open and smeared all over the sink.

A chuckle fizzed up from deep inside him, and Gary painted a grinning emoji into the fogged bathroom mirror.

Jon was home and the world a better place.

###

The orange marmalade was everything Jon had said it would be. Tangy, juicy, and sweet, with an aroma no product from a supermarket could compete with. The toast was every bit as burned as Gary had suspected it to be, but it was a small price to pay for Jon's sacrifice. The boy rarely stooped to making breakfasts.

"Nice, eh?" Jon said, around a mouthful of orangy charcoal. "Gran does it with Wombats."

"Kumquats, I dare say. And before you ask, they're little oranges the size of grapes."

"Her toast tastes better than mine."

That didn't stop him from heaping marmalade onto another slice.

"I presume, she doesn't nuke the stuff. Try a lower setting next time, and you'll be all right."

Jon's reproachful glare showed the next time had just plunged into future's backwater. Suddenly, the glare aborted, got stalked by dark thoughts reflecting in the pinched expression of concern spreading over Jon's freckled face.

"What's up?"

Jon lowered his head to nibble at his toast, the blond fringe falling into his forehead.

Gary checked the teapot for a fortifying fluid but found it to be filled with a bog-brown muck.  The boy had used enough teabags to hype the mad hatter's party.

Resignedly, Gary reached for the milk and produced a mixture the colour of caramel which he shifted over to his son. He did the same for himself and swallowed a valiant mouthful of milky bog water. Jon followed his example. He didn't spit out the bitter brew, but it took a visible effort.

"Oh gross."

"Quite. Shall I make us a fresh pot?"

"Please."

The pre-teen communication allergy flared up again, showing in a pucker of the boy's mouth. No point in pushing things.

Gary levered himself off the chair, ignored the crutches leaning against the table and shuffled towards the Welsh dresser that housed the kettle.

Surely, courts wouldn't take away children because their only surviving parent had undergone an orthopaedic operation?

Jon, when he finally spoke, revealed his thoughts were running much in the same line. "What's granddad up to? I mean this stuff I overheard on the phone. I googled a bit, see? Can he take me away from you?"

Perhaps, confiscating the child's laptop wasn't such a bad idea after all. Gary sought and found support on the smooth surface of the Welsh dresser. He rifled through answers in his head, dumped those that came too close to his real thoughts, and settled on a whitewashed response. "Your grandparents love you. They want the best for you, and they believe you will get it at their place. And no, I don't agree with them on that point. At all."

The mulish expression was back, only more pronounced than before. "That's up to me to decide, isn't it?"

"Not while I'm still running the show. But if you wanted to stay with them—"

"I don't!" Jon jumped up from his chair and paced the kitchen like an enraged baby bear. "They're fossils."

Fortunately, the kettle chose that moment to go on the boil, and Gary busied himself with the tea, pleased that he didn't yet rank among the relics and even more pleased about this show of affection. "Calm down," he said with hard-won patience. "Aline and Lorna know a lawyer who will help us. I don't think your grandfather will succeed with his little ploy, but I won't risk anything. In the meantime, I have a proposal to make."

"You want me to get better grades? And not beat anybody up?"

"That would make a pleasant change, but it wasn't what I meant. In fact, I wasn't talking about school at all. Fancy a trip to Rome?"

Surprise followed by pleasure then excitement flickered across Jon's features. "Rome? You mean, where Ike and Bri are?"

"Yes. I need to check up on something. Once that's done we can do a bit of sightseeing."

Suspicion sneaked into his son's face. "Not some boring old pictures or lectures on people running around in bedsheets?"

"They were called togas. We'll take it easy on the history, but it doesn't have to be boring, you know. There are some fascinating places I believe you will enjoy."

"'Kay. Can I visit the catacombs then?"

Slam! Straight back to his other problem.

Gary rechecked his watch. Just coming up to half past eight. Aline and Lorna would definitely be awake. Time for a call.

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.

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