The Road Trip(49)

I sort of go through tiredness and out the other side. The alcohol probably helps with that. Dylan’s body clock is a mess anyway with all the travelling. So at eight a.m., after zero hours of sleep, sated and giddy and probably still drunk, I bring him downstairs to make bacon and egg sandwiches for breakfast.

My mum arrives a few minutes after we put the rashers under the grill. She pauses in the doorway to the kitchen in her favourite dressing gown. It was purple originally, but it’s a mushy sort of grey now.

‘Well,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what I’m more surprised to see. A young man in my kitchen or my daughter making a fried breakfast at eight o’clock in the morning.’

‘Dylan,’ Dylan says, wiping his hands on the apron he insisted on wearing and stretching one out for Mum to shake. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’

‘Oh! Dylan!’

Mum gives me one of those significant looks that only parents do. As if, as soon as you have a kid, you lose the power of subtlety.

‘Yes, Mum, this is Dylan,’ I say, turning back to buttering bread and trying not to smile.

‘And he’s back now, is he?’

‘Absolutely,’ Dylan says. ‘And not going anywhere. Ever again. Ever.’

My smile widens.

‘Well. I’m pleased to hear that, Dylan,’ Mum says, and I can hear that she’s smiling too. ‘Now, brace yourself. If your father smells bacon he’ll be out of bed like a—’

‘Who’s cooking bacon?’ Dad yells down the stairs. ‘Is it for me?’





NOW





Dylan

Charnock Richard Service Station, highlight of the M6, is resolutely grimy and grey beneath a deep blue sky. We all squeeze ourselves out of the Mini like a bad joke in reverse.

Marcus stretches expansively, fists clenched, and with his hair blowing into his eyes he looks like the scrappy little boy he once was, swamped in a Winchester College blazer, small enough that the older kids thought he’d be easy to pick on, smart enough that he owned them all by the end of autumn term. He had two teachers he didn’t like fired; he somehow got Peter Wu kicked off the cricket team so he could play in his place; he soon had a reputation as a young man who made things happen.

I remember the day when a sixth former had thrown Luke into a wall and called him a dick-sucker. Marcus was a head shorter than Daniel Withers and half as broad, but as he approached the older boy there was an energy to Marcus, a wildness, like he was vicious and held on a very thin leash. I won’t fight you, Marcus told Daniel, as I cradled Luke’s bruised head against my shoulder. But I’ll end you. Slowly, piece by piece, until you’re nothing but a punchline to people around here. You know I can.

‘So are we going to try one of these aberrations, then?’ Marcus says, pointing to the sign advertising Greggs vegan sausage rolls.

‘I thought they went against your philosophy,’ I say, falling into step beside him.

He grins at me. ‘You ought to know I never stick to one philosophy for long.’ His smile drops as we enter the service station doors. ‘Dyl . . .’

He glances behind him; the others are still crossing the car park, Addie’s glasses glinting in the sun. She’s unfastened the top of her dungarees to cool off, so the top part hangs down, flapping at her waist; underneath she’s wearing a tight white crop top that clings to her skin and the ruched fabric of her bra.

‘You know your dad offered me a job?’

I turn back to Marcus, faltering mid step. ‘My dad?’

I watch him resist the urge to say something facetious – I can see the words on the tip of his tongue, then the thought that swallows them back.

‘Doing what?’ I ask.

‘Copy-writing for the company’s new site. It’s just a six-month thing, but, ah . . .’

It’s a job my father has offered me countless times: the best I can do for an English graduate who’s got no work experience. I’m sure offering it to Marcus is intended as a jab for me – why else would my father care to offer one of my friends a lifeline?

‘I really need it, Dyl. I’ve got no money coming in from Dad still, and a criminal record,’ Marcus says, pulling a face. Even Marcus – the man who makes things happen – could not get the police to drop the charges when he drunkenly smashed up the front of an estate agent’s office.

‘Well, then take it.’

‘I didn’t realise you two weren’t speaking.’

‘Luke has cut him out too. When he and Javier told Mum and Dad about their engagement, Dad said he wouldn’t come to their wedding. So . . .’

Marcus winces. ‘Fuck. I . . . I didn’t know. Luke must be . . .’

‘Yeah. It’s been tough. But he deserves more than half-recognition from his father. For what it’s worth, I think cutting Dad off has been much healthier for Luke than seeing him and never being able to bring Javier home.’

‘I should call Luke. I’ve been – I need to call him.’

We walk on in silence. Luke forgave Marcus long before me, but then, it’s easier to forgive when it wasn’t your life that was ruined – and living thousands of miles away in the States can’t hurt, either.

‘If . . . if you don’t want me to take the job . . .’ Marcus’s eyes are pleading.