Page 67 of Fourth Base with the Alpha
Hunter scoffs another time as if he’s disputing his sister’s assessment of his father’s funeral as a sad event.
“You’re right,” I say, thinking of my sister’s funeral, how family and friends had come from far and wide to be there and it had seemed like a waste. Why hadn’t they come sooner? When she was still with us? “The Packhas a tour in Europe next year.”
“We’re not playing Sweden,” Hunter mumbles.
“But you’re playing in France and Germany and the UK. You should invite all your brothers and sisters to come.” I lean towards Klara. “His concerts are the best. They are even better live thanThe Clouds.”
“It’s been a long time since I heard you play.” Klara flicks on the signal and we turn onto a narrow country road.
“I doubt the others would come.”
“You won’t know unless you ask them,” I point out, turning in my seat to look at Hunter.
“Here we are,” says Klara as gravel crunches under our tyres.
I twist back around and am greeted by a chocolate-box house. A neatly mowed lawn of deep green stretches in front of the large house, the windows frames gleaming white, and the walls covered in red-wood paneling. Beyond the house, the sea sparkles a marine blue and above the sky is clear.
“It’s beautiful,” I gasp.
“That’s one word for it,” Hunter grunts, climbing out of the car and slamming the door behind him.
15
Hunter
Isabella chattersaway to my sister as if this house is the prettiest thing she’s ever seen, when all it holds for me is bad memories. Memories of my father and his bad moods, his bad tempers, his bad everything.
I can stand in front of this house now and see that it’s large and light and airy, and yet in my memory it was always a dark, cold place.
I hover outside as Klara takes Isabella by the elbow and leads her inside.
“Are you coming in, man?” Mick asks me.
I take a deep inhale. The air here is different. Crisper, fresher. Salt from the sea tingles on my tongue and a gull cries up above.
“Yeah, I’m coming.”
The steps leading up to the house squeak in exactly the same way they’ve always done and it makes me shudder. How many times did I climb these steps wondering what the mood in the house would be like that day? Would I get lucky and my father would be gone? Or would he be there raging like a tiger, waiting to pounce on the first child that strode through the door?
Isabella disappears inside and it’s only her pulling me through the door, preventing me from saying ‘screw this’ and walking away.
“Do you want to go up and see him straight away?” Klara asks me as she hangs her car keys on the hook by the door, “or should we have somefikafirst?”
I peer up the winding staircase. I might as well get this shit show over and done with.
“I’ll go up and see him now.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Isabella asks, stepping closer to me.
I should say no. She’s not my girlfriend. We’ve known each other for a short amount of time. But I’m an asshole after all and I can’t bring myself to do this alone. I know it will be easier with her there. I’m selfish just like my father.
My sister catches my arm. “He may not remember you. Don’t take it personally.”
When have I ever been able to do that? It’s always been personal with my father. His punches may never have been physical, but they were always perfectly aimed, constructed to deliver maximum injury and always acutely painful.
We climb the wooden staircase, Isabella admiring the carved banister, me noting that these stairs creak too. Nothing’s changed, from the swirling dust trapped in the sunbeams to the old furniture that my grandparents once owned.
Outside his bedroom door, I knock and a middle-aged woman dressed in a white nurse’s uniform opens the door.
