Chapter Four

Tristan had drunk enough alcohol to anaesthetise an elephant, but to his amazement, he remained conscious. He’d hoped to whizz through the I’m-very-clever stage where every word he uttered was a gem if only he could remember what he’d said, but unfortunately, he’d got stuck there. Yet again. With no one else appreciating his urbane wit, Tristan left the pub before he was asked to leave— see, I do have some sense— and headed for the flat.

Oh, it’s snowing. So pretty. Is every flake really different? Out of the trillions that fall, surely a couple must be alike. Except alike didn’t mean identical. His brain hurt too much to think about that.

He really loved snow. It wasn’t going to settle though. At least he didn’t think it would. I could twirl in it as I’m walking. But then he might fall over. That would be bad. Still… A couple of twirls wouldn’t hurt.

He almost fell over.

No more twirling.

Drinking in the morning, on into the afternoon, was never a good idea, but then when did he ever have good ideas? Recently, anyway. And he was only thinking of his personal life. He was full of good ideas for his business. Without his good ideas, there wouldn’t be a business. He was relieved he’d given everyone time off until the New Year. Happy employees worked harder. Happy, happy, happy. Oh I feel sick. Definitely no more twirling.

Walking in a straight line wouldn’t have been a problem if he hadn’t been distracted by the cracked paving slabs. Tread on one of those and he’d get eaten by a bear. Fucking clever dick of an older brother telling him that, then leaping out at him and growling like a—bear when Tristan messed up and stood on a crack. He’d almost wet himself in fear. He was only five, in his defence, not fifteen as Fabian delighted in telling people.

But here was the right door.

Sure about that?

Yes.

Almost.

He had a slight panic when he couldn’t find his keys but eventually, he managed to let himself in and closed the door behind him. Only to take a step and trip over one of the bikes in the entrance hall. When he tried to prop it up, he knocked over the whole line of them like a row of space-age dominoes. Shit. Tristan froze, waiting for a herd of tenants to stampede out to see what the noise was, but no one appeared. He didn’t have the energy to sort out the tangle.

Tristan tiptoed up the stairs, stepping carefully past Mrs Daniels’ possessed cat, Angel, because he’d had his ankles clawed twice since he’d moved in. Was ever a creature so badly named? The cat was a little shit. Unfortunately, Tristan had to crawl up the last flight of stairs because the treads started to wobble like a suspension bridge. Then there was another key to find. There it is!

One foot inside the flat and he stepped out again. Wrong fucking flat. How drunk am I? The answer was very. He needed to stop drinking if he was hallucinating. Tristan made for the next flight of stairs only to find they didn’t exist. He turned back in confusion. It was the right flat. ‘Course it was. Why would his key open someone else’s place? Back inside, he closed the door and looked around. Where had all his stuff gone? He’d been adding to the pile of pizza boxes his brother had left and almost amassed enough to construct a ziggurat coffee table to match the magnificent beer can footstool—all his own work. Tristan started to move forward and froze. Alternate universe? I stepped through a portal? Wow!

Stop being an idiot, and think!

Having completed a tricky mental deduction, his brain sighed with relief. Fabian had a cleaner. Tristan sniggered. So his perfect older brother wasn’t perfect after all and it sort of explained the horrible state of the flat when he’d arrived. Fair enough, Tristan had made it worse, but there didn’t seem any point in being tidy when the place was already a mess. He staggered around, feeling both relief and guilt. He shouldn’t have added to the issues, he should have cleaned up, but cleaning required a purposefulness he couldn’t handle.

Only now the bed looked too clean to wank in, the couch too tidy to slouch on and the kitchen—yeah, well, he didn’t really use the kitchen except as a place to store beer and to throw up. He’d puked into the dishwasher, thinking it was easier than cleaning the floor, only it turned out dishwashers didn’t like regurgitated booze and chilli con carne. It had taken a few hot cycles to sort that mess out. No one would ever know. It had put him off chilli though.

Talking of which… He needed something to eat. Something to soak up the alcohol.

Damn. Empty fridge. The cleaner had thrown out most of what was in there. Why? The bread had only got a bit of mould. He’d been going to cut off the crusts and toast it. Hmm. Maybe that wasn’t a good idea. He could imagine his obituary.

Tristan Kennedy, aged only thirty-three, and undoubtedly one of the finest inventors of his generation, died tragically after contracting food poisoning from a loaf of bread not yet past its sell-by date. The supermarket has apologised to his family who said there was no amount of compensation that could make up for the loss of their beloved Tristan, but they would be suing anyway. Tristan will be missed by thousands of his admirers. There will be a private funeral but a memorial service will be held in St Paul’s Cathedral where his friends can pay their last respects.

No bread, no early death. No thousands of admirers. He managed to make himself a black coffee and sat down to drink it. One coffee wasn’t going to fix his head but it was a start. The cleaner had done a really good job. He ought to pay her for sorting out his mess. Pity she couldn’t hoover out his head. When he next spoke to Fabian, which wouldn’t be for a while because Tristan wasn’t supposed to be here, he’d ask him how he could get in touch and thank her.

How sexist am I to assume it’s a woman! Well, he’d ask his brother and thank whoever it was. Possibly apologise for the state he’d let the place get into. The bed in particular. He winced. I’m embarrassed. He might have felt too depressed to sort out his brother’s mess, but he hadn’t needed to add to it with his own. He wasn’t a slob, but he could see how it would look. Just as well only one person had seen it. Sorry, cleaner!

The coffee fixed nothing, but he had to go out to buy food and beer . He might not need a drink right now, but he’d need one later, otherwise he wouldn’t get to sleep, and he really needed to sleep. Unconsciousness constantly eluded him like some pesky fly, almost but never quite within his grasp. When had he last had a good night’s sleep? He remembered when and made himself forget again. Not going to think about that.

He made his way back outside, and as he walked along, he tipped his head up to the falling snow. Once the temperature dropped, it might settle. Would there be a white Christ…mas? The word stuck in his throat. That particular celebration wasn’t happening this year for him. He wasn’t in the mood. At all. He was glad Fabian was out of the country. Glad their parents were away too. Though yesterday, he’d had a message from them saying they’d be back on the first of January. They couldn’t have heard about Grant, or they’d have said something.

Tristan wasn’t going to tell them. Not yet.

He zigzagged along the pavement toward the shops, only realising when he reached the corner that they lay in the other direction. Oh fuck it. He paused near a café. Two good-looking guys sat the other side of the glass. Either of them could help him forget. Or both. Would they say yes and not no? Am I into threesomes now?

Not really. Nor was he in a fit state to be thinking about picking anyone up.

He went inside and had a brain meltdown at the menu choices. Finally, he went for a café noir and luckily it was going to be brought over for him because carrying it to a table might well have proved tricky. He sat at a table next to the two guys. His coffee arrived and the little biscuit on the saucer was chomped down in one go. I ought to eat something more substantial than an Italian biscuit. But the thought fluttered away, more like a death’s head moth than a butterfly. He took off his coat, slung it over the back of the chair and almost dislodged a Christmas decoration from the windowsill.

Somewhere in his head, a voice was telling him that the more coffee he drank, the better he’d feel. The two guys got up and left the café. Tristan tried not to take it personally. A hand in front of his mouth as he exhaled reminded him that he liked beer better than coffee. Except when the world spun around him and the pavement looked too much like a rolling sea, coffee had to be a better choice than beer. The sensible choice.

He took a sip and spat it back into the cup. Shit—hot. He glanced around to make sure no one had noticed and sighed. Maybe it was another good sign that he cared what people thought. Maybe it meant he wasn’t the delusional idiot he appeared to be.

Except he was. For once in his life, he was top of the class in stupidity.

Everyone in the café had bags full of stuff. Not hard to imagine they were Christmas presents. Grant had already planned their Christmas in minute detail. Drinks with so and so, party with such and such, Christmas dinner with Grant’s parents, a Boxing Day walk with their dogs. Tristan had looked forward to it all. He swallowed hard.

If he was over Grant, he’d stop drinking. The only reason he was drinking was that thinking about Grant hurt.

So get over him!

If it was that easy… Tristan had never been this depressed, this miserable. Ever! This wasn’t him, so it was about time he dragged himself out of the ditch he’d let himself fall into. He needed to cheer the fuck up!