No Place Like Home by Jane Renshaw (the best electronic book reader .TXT) 📗

this housewarming party was meant to help us integrate into the community. They’re basically going to hate me forever.’

David chuckled. ‘Na. People round here respect a man who stands up for himself. Who stands up for his family. Didn’t know you had it in you, Bram.’ He nodded. ‘Nice one.’

Bram couldn’t help himself smiling back, weakly. Having David’s approbation was a new experience, and one that offset, just a little, the feeling of despair that was hanging over him. ‘I really just threw all our guests out?’

‘Yeah Dad,’ grimaced Max. ‘Way to go.’

Max was slouched over the table, his head resting on one arm, eyes closed.

‘Hey,’ said David, tapping the table in front of Max. ‘Your dad was quite right. Some yob or yobs think they can get away with messing with this family, shooting Bertie, shooting at Bram, breaking in and making threats, vandalising your wee sister’s drawing, and who knows what all else. You think we should just let them get away with that?’

‘Uh – no,’ Max got out.

‘You need to be ready to defend yourselves, because Fraser and I can’t always be here, you know? You and your dad need to man up, lad.’

‘No they don’t,’ said Kirsty. ‘That’s not the answer.’

‘We have to let the police–’ Linda began.

‘Oh aye, the police are about as much use as a chocolate teapot when it comes to this kind of low-level stuff, as they call it – right up until it escalates and the bugger’s coming at you with an axe. Oh aye, they’ll maybe charge the bugger then.’

‘I don’t think that’s a very likely scenario,’ said Bram as Max’s eyes suddenly came open and he lifted his head.

‘You should come along to the boxing club,’ David suggested to Max. David was a coach at a boxing club in the town, which took place in a grotty garage with punchbags strung from the rafters and an incongruously pristine boxing ring that they’d somehow wangled through lottery funding. ‘It made a man of Fraser.’

Bram glanced round at Fraser, who was up on the stepladder, arms exposed in a short-sleeved T-shirt, huge biceps bunching as he ripped down the bunting. He turned and gave Bram a slow, rather menacing smile.

‘I don’t think boxing is really your thing, is it, Max?’ said Bram.

Max shrugged. ‘I’m willing to give it a go.’

Ten minutes later, Bram found Max slumped comatose on one of the sofas in the Room with a View, surrounded by the debris from the party – stained napkins and pulverised crisps and dirty plates and glasses.

‘Max? Max?’

‘Urgh?’

‘Can’t hold his drink,’ said David at his elbow. ‘That’s what comes of having a father who’s virtually teetotal. When Fraser was his age, he had it in his head that he liked wine.’ David shook his head in amusement. ‘Social suicide, Bram. As far as young lads are concerned, wine’s a lassie’s drink. I had to take him in hand.’ He frowned at Max.

‘Do you think he’s okay?’

‘Ach, he’s fine.’

There was a string of drool from Max’s open mouth to the cushion his head was pillowed on.

‘Peer pressure,’ said Bram.

‘Aye, nothing like it to give a lad a kick up the backside. A good bit of healthy competition.’

Bram couldn’t help chuckling at that. But: ‘There’s nothing healthy about this, David,’ he said, taking a tissue from his pocket and wiping up the drool.

Max reluctantly opened his eyes. ‘Wha’?’

‘You need to drink some water, Max, to dilute the alcohol in your system.’

Bram sat with him and made sure he drank a whole bottle of water. He didn’t like to come the heavy parent, but maybe in the morning he might suggest that Max stop spending quite so much time with Finn and his friends. Especially after what had happened tonight. David was probably right and one of those boys was responsible for vandalising the mandala. Maybe it was nothing to do with the other stuff, although he couldn’t shake a nagging doubt. Stupid hippy shit was horribly reminiscent of Fucking wee hipster arsewipe in that troll’s comment. He couldn’t help thinking that both were directed at Bram specifically.

And the heart and Your next.

He stared at the bottle in Max’s hand, at the water sloshing about as he lifted it to his lips.

Owen, bound hand and foot, struggling in a swollen river.

He sat down next to Max and ruffled his hair. ‘You’re a good lad, Max. I’m guessing you probably miss your old friends, am I right?’

‘Yeah.’

Max’s friends in London were a gentle, high-brow lot, into café culture and poetry and going to classical music concerts, and heavily involved in volunteering. Litter-picking. Fundraising for museums. Their idea of a wild night out was going to someone’s house to watch four episodes of University Challenge back to back. A lot of them – like Max, until now – did not drink alcohol.

It was as if the four of them had landed in the midst of a primitive Pictish tribe and were being made to conform to their barbaric practices: first Kirsty and then Max getting off their faces, and Bram yelling at people to get out of his territory, basically, while preening in the glow of David’s approval.

It was a disaster.

This whole move had been a complete disaster.

Something had woken him.

Kirsty.

She was lying on her side, turned away from him, trying to muffle sobs.

He put his arms around her and she turned over against him, and he held her close, and murmured nonsense to her, and she let him do it but she didn’t hug him back, she just lay passive in his arms and he sensed, as he always did in these moments, a withdrawal, a holding back. There was still a part of her that he couldn’t reach, this part that cried in the night, that had always cried in the night, for as long as he had known her, and passively resisted his comfort.

After the fancy dress party, Bram and Kirsty started having breakfast and dinner together in the canteen at the halls of