Page 40 of Lord of the Lock

“What are those there for?” he asked, pointing at the big bunch of rings I’d left laying around on top of the chest of drawers. I could lie, I knew — tell him I’d just found them or forgotten they were there. But lying to Nathan went against my core.

“I, uh…after the whole proposal thing, I looked through my Gran’s old rings. In case you wanted to carry on with the illusion. I dunno, maybe it was stupid.”

“Not stupid, thoughtful,” said Nathan, picking one plain gold band up and slipping it on to his finger. It fit perfectly. “Just don’t tell anyone we’ve been living in sin.”

And when he smiled again, like he hadn’t stopped smiling at me all night, I knew I was a goner for him.

20

Chapter Twenty - Nathan

Going home after a night with Finn was like one of his ice baths after a workout — unpleasant but a necessary evil. I’d been neglecting my business a bit and leaving my poor mum to deal with my father more than I should have, and now he needed me. Finn was like an oasis in the desert, but I couldn’t stay with him forever. I just got to go back and take cool sips of water when I really needed to, to keep me sane. The ring was a heavy reminder on my finger that I was living between these two worlds, the balance frail.

The house was quiet as I opened the door, but after a couple of seconds I could hear my father groaning and swearing from the kitchen. I rolled my eyes, closed the front door and went to see what the problem was with him.

I entered the kitchen quietly. Dad was wrestling with a jar of pickled eggs and still swearing under his breath.

“Need some help?” I asked.

Dad jumped — as much as a man in a wheelchair could — when he noticed me, and dropped the jar onto the tiled floor. It smashed, and glass and eggs went everywhere. “For fuck’s sake!” he shouted. “That’s your fault!”

“Sure it is, Dad.” I headed to the utility room to grab the sweeping brush, paper towels and the strongest kitchen cleaner I could find. Mum would goapeif she got home and the whole place smelled like a pickling factory.

“Come on Dad, shift back,” I said. He was still sat in the middle of the kitchen like he’d frozen. There was pickle juice splattered up his pyjama trousers, and the juice was pooling around his wheels. I helped him gently move back. The wheels of his chair crunched over some glass, and I winced thinking of the scratches on the expensive tiled floor.

I swept up the broken glass and eggs without speaking, dumped them in an empty bin bag and then got to my hands and knees to clean up the pickling juice all over the floor.

“You should be focusing on helping me, not the fucking floor,” Dad muttered. “I’m soaked.”

“Unlike you, the floor has no capacity to clean itself,” I replied. He stopped grumbling for a second so I sprayed as much of the nice-smelling spray on the floor and mopped up all the pickle juice. As I swiped the kitchen towel into the corner of the room I felt a sharp sting of pain. “Fuck!”

I pulled out the little shard of glass from my finger and threw it into the bin bag with the rest of the crap from the kitchen floor. “Ow, fuck!” I said again. The pain was only getting worse from the potent combination of pickle juice and cleaning product on the floor that must have mixed into the wound. I ran it under the cold water of the tap for a minute until it ran clear, then wrapped it up in a paper towel.

“Are you OK?” Dad asked hesitantly.

“Like you care,” I shot back.

“I…I do care,” he said. “Not always in the way you expect me to, but I do care for you.”

“You’ve wanted me gone from the second I came home, Dad. You’ve done nothing but demand more help from Mum and I than we can give and you’ve done everything you can to make me uncomfortable. I would do anything for you, and I know there was a time you’d have done anything for me too. But it seems cruel, the way you treat me and Mum now. God knows I don’t know how it feels to lose a leg but I know how depression feels, and you’re dragging everyone else into it with you. You’ve had the whole house adapted to suit you, but you would rather sit there and complain that you’re covered in shit than wipe it off yourself. You’ve disrespected my business, my relationship, and you have made me feel uncomfortable in this place that once felt like home.”

“I…” Dad started, but a gentle cough made both of us jump. Mum was stood in the doorway and looking between us like she’d been watching a tennis match.

“Oh, bless you Noel. How did you manage to do that to yourself? Let’s get you to the shower.” Mum was across the kitchen in seconds and wheeling him out into the downstairs wet room. I wondered how much of my rant she’d heard. And how much she agreed with. For fuck’s sake, he couldn’t even open a jar any more because he’d let muscles go to waste.

I mopped up the tracks of brine that the wheelchair had made through the kitchen then ran up to the upstairs shower to get the smell off me. It had been a long day, and I was sad that Finn’s hoodie was covered in the gross smell. I’d have to give it back to him after a wash and then take it back.

It was so easy to think of Finn as my boyfriend and for all intents and purposes, he was acting like one. I’d never fucked outside of a relationship, I’d never been one to hold hands in the street. I’d never been one to…I looked down at the beautiful ring on my finger. If Finn hadn’t opened his bloody mouth and made up the fake-fiancé lie, it would be a hell of a lot easier to move this relationship into something real.

I showered off the gross sulphury smell and threw all my clothes into the wash, changed into my pyjamas — TARDIS print — then headed downstairs. I was determined that I would talk with my father, even if Mum was too scared to rock the boat.

When I got downstairs I could hear the TV. The living room lights were dimmed, Dad was snoring on one sofa in his dressing gown, and Mum was sipping from a glass of red wine.

“Don’t wake him,” she whispered, then gestured out towards the kitchen. I headed out and she followed me a few seconds later, pulling the door closed behind her so that we wouldn’t be heard.

“Wine?” she asked, grabbing a bottle from the fridge. I shook my head so she grabbed the carton of orange juice and poured me a glass of that instead, and topped up her own wine.

We sat in silence for a couple of minutes, and she had almost finished her new glass of wine before she spoke. “You know he’s not a bad man, Nathan. I know that too.”

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