He tells me not to worry, that he probably gave too much trying to prove himself, and that he’ll be fine. But I enjoy playing nurse anyway. I run a hot bath for him, dumping in some of my body wash for bubbles, and make him soak the aches away.
“Call me if you need anything,” I say to him from the bathroom doorway, enjoying the sight of his hulking, inked body among all the frothy water.
But the way he looks at me makes my blood still in my veins.
It pins me in place.
It’s a look that says he needs me and only me.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lachlan
I have the same dream three nights in a row.
For the first few nights Kayla’s been in Edinburgh, my dreams have been unmemorable. I’ve been sleeping deep, solid, and the night, unlike a lifetime of nights, have passed by in the snap of one’s fingers. I close my eyes, Kayla at my side, and then I’m opening my eyes, and she’s still here.
But by night number four, I’m swept into a wave of terror that resurfaces again and again, pounding me out of slumber and into reality.
Sometimes I wake up gasping for air, which in turn only makes Kayla worry. She questions me with her eyes, imploring me to talk to her, to explain. But I can’t, not yet. Not until I have to. Not until I know she won’t look the other way. The thought of losing face in front of her, the idea of losing her affection, that sweet, hopeful, hungry look in her eyes, is painful.
It’s a dream I’ve had before, and to share it would mean she’d see all the dark in me, the horrible, pathetic person that I once was.
It’s the day that Charlie died.
Of course, in a dream, it’s all skewed and a bit off. Just enough to fuck with you. But it’s the same alley, ironically not too far from the housing projects I grew up in. It’s the same Charlie. It’s the same Rascal, the stray that I would call my own dog until that very day that I never saw him again. It’s like Charlie’s death scared sense into the both of us.
In the dream though, it’s snowing. And unlike reality, we are never alone. There are people lined up along the alley walls in black and red rugby colors. Some of them wave flags that say McGregor number eleven on them. They are completely silent, and that’s the scariest part. They are rooting for me, for us, for our demise, with open, flapping mouths and judgemental eyes, and the only thing I can hear is the falling of snow and Charlie’s raspy breath.
It was only his second time doing heroin. I had been there for his first, but I hadn’t approved, not that first time. I didn’t have a logical, coherent part of my brain left, and yet somehow I knew that heroin was one step too far. As if it weren’t that much worse than meth.
But the second time, well, I got the drugs for him. The first time had gone so well, and he’d been a different man for a while. And isn’t that how it always bloody goes? One won’t hurt you. One makes it all better. Two will be fine.
But it isn’t fine. I get up off the ground, and even in my dream I can’t feel my frozen legs. I limp over to the line of rugby fans and I ask each one if I can score some smack. No one responds. They just scream at me, soundlessly. Men, women, young and old, their faces forever in silent torment. I beg, I plead for some, just a little bit, but nothing. No one hears me, no one cares. I might as well be invisible.
Charlie, though, he’s anything but invisible. He always was larger than life. He’s yelling at me to hurry up, to help him—he’s telling me I’m a terrible friend and hasn’t he done so much for me already?
Charlie is probably the only friend I’ve ever had, so of course I do what I can to keep him happy. I keep trying, even though the people’s expressions are changing, becoming more distorted, more demonic. The presence of pure evil is everywhere, that black oily shadow that clings to your back, influencing your thoughts and soul. Even after all these years, it’s still there, waiting for me to fuck up. It’s only when I reach the last person in the alley, and see that it’s myself at five years old, skinny and bruised and not so much different than the way I am in my dream, that I have a chance.
Five-year-old Lachlan hands me Lionel the lion. He nods at it, hinting at something more. I tear the lion open, splitting the seams along the gut, and the heroin pours out like white sand. It doesn’t stop filling the space around my feet, rising, rising, rising. Hands grab my ankles, pulling me down—my mouth, nose, and ears filling with the grains, my head exploding in fireworks.
Charlie stands above me, waving goodbye, blood running down from his nose and eyes.
“See you soon, mate,” he says with a bloody smile. “One-way ticket straight to hell.”
The drugs drown me and the world goes black.
No wonder I wake up with my heart racing erratically, my lungs feeling devoid of any air.
“Another dream?” Kayla asks softly, and in the low light I can see the gleam in her eyes. She’s propped up on both elbows, watching me closely, trying to downplay it all, but I can see how scared she is.
My mouth is parched. “Aye,” I say roughly, taking in a deep breath.
“Have you had them before?”
I nod, just once. “I need some water.”
I get out of bed, Lionel sleeping so soundly at the foot that he doesn’t even stir when I crawl over him.
Once in the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection. Dark circles tinge the inner corners of my eyes. How is it possible to feel so bloody happy and look so much like shite at the same time? I open the medicine cabinet and eye my prescriptions. I’d purposely left the Percocet at home when I went to the States. The pain had subsided and I didn’t need the temptation. The anti-depressants only fuck me up, and not in a good way. The Ativan works most of the time.
I fill the glass by the sink with water and down the Percocet and Ativan together. If that doesn’t help me get back to sleep, then at least it will carry me through to the morning. Maybe even into the evening, when I think I’ll need it most.
That’s when I’m bringing Kayla around to see my parents, Jessica and Donald, the real McGregors. I wish I could say I haven’t been worrying about it ever since the plans were made, but that would be an outright lie.
The thing is, I’m not even sure why I’m nervous. Is it because I’m afraid my past will be brought up? It seems pretty unlikely. My parents respect me enough to never talk about it. Is it because I’m afraid Kayla won’t measure up to their expectations? That’s unlikely too. They’re the least judgemental people you could meet, regardless of their status in society. Kayla would only charm them.
Or is it that bringing her to meet my parents—when I’ve never brought anyone to meet them—says far more about the way I feel about her, about us, than I ever could?
I have a feeling the last one is the right answer.
I close the cabinet and lean my forehead against the cool mirror, closing my eyes.
“Lachlan?” I hear Kayla’s soft voice from outside the bathroom door. “Are you okay?”
I grunt in response, clearing my throat. “Just a minute.”
I take a quick piss, and when I get back to bed, she’s under the covers, watching me.
“I’m fine,” I tell her, climbing in beside her. “Come here.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders and tug her up against me. I brush my fingers along her hairline, feeling the silk of her hair and skin sooth me into a drug-induced sleep.
***
Jessica and Donald live about an hour outside of Edinburgh, their house just a few shrub-lined blocks from the Firth of Moray and a fabulous fish and chip shop I used to spend much of my allowance on.
About twenty minutes away, I pull the Range Rover in beside Robbie’s Bar and put it in park.
“What are we here?” Kayla asks. “Do they live in a pub?”
“Nah,” I tell her. “But I used to frequent this place a lot growing up. When I was fifteen I hit my growth spurt and didn’t even need to use a fake I.D. It’s not as dodgy as it looks. Come on, let’s have a beer.”