The Play

by Karina Halle

  I carefully shut the cabinet door, holding my breath, afraid that he’s going to appear in the mirror behind me, like in a thriller movie. But he doesn’t. I’m alone in the bathroom, and Lionel is whining outside the door.

  It’s none of my business to ask why he might need anti-depressants, and lord knows that, given his history, or at least what little I know of it, he has more than enough reasons to warrant it. But even so, I’m terribly curious. I want to know and I want to know on his own terms. I want him to trust me enough to open up to me, to let me in and show me around. Show me his fears and the demons on his back. I want to lose myself in his beautiful darkness.

  I want my love to be the thing to bring him light.

  But in these passing days, in the situation we’re in, I’m not sure that’s possible. I’m not even sure if I’ll ever tell him how I truly feel, because who trusts those words from someone you barely know? It doesn’t matter how much I know it. It doesn’t matter that people fall hopelessly in love all the time, every day. I don’t know if he’ll ever see, really see, just how I feel. And the complicated part is, it’s only going to get worse as the days go on and I fall more and more under his spell.

  That evening, I make myself some tea and settle down on the couch, with the comfiest, over-sized cushions ever, Lionel and Emily lying beside me. I flip aimlessly through cable channels, trying to soak up as much local Scotland flavor as I can.

  When Lachlan comes home, I realize that I should have gotten off with my vibrator earlier when I had the chance. The poor man is absolutely wrecked, and even though he’s not limping, he’s walking with extra care, as if he’s been hit by a truck.

  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.”

  She frowns at me, so I flash her a smile. “Don’t tell me it’s not fancy enough for you,” I add, knowing that will egg her on.

  “Hey,” she says, raising her palm at me, “don’t talk to me about fancy. The most interesting people are found at dive bars.”

  “Well, this is a dive pub, so it’s a step above. Just don’t order any of the food.”

  “Don’t want to spoil my appetite.”

  “You don’t want to get sick.” I get out of the car and grab her hand.

  To be honest, I haven’t been in here since high school, but it smells just the same. Grease and salt from the fryer, fish batter, stale beer that owns the red and green carpet. The memories come flashing back, not all of them horrible.

  It’s just after five o’clock, and the pub is fairly full of regular blokes off from work. We snag a high-top table by the door and I ask Kayla what she wants to drink.

  “Surprise me,” she says, though there’s an air of caution in her voice, as if I’m going to get her a beer called the Haggis Surprise.

  “Done.” I saunter over to the overworked bartender, who’s wearing a grey shirt with sweat stains down the sides. I’m pretty sure he’s the same guy who worked here fifteen years ago.

  I lean against the bar and wait until he notices me, and when he does his eyes go wide. But there’s no way I look the same as I did back in the day, growth spurt or not.

  “Well, I’ll be,” the man says, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. “Lachlan McGregor.” I squint at him, trying to figure it out when he continues, “You’re the best part of Edinburgh rugby. Tell me you’re fully healed now? The team has been playing the dog’s bollocks since you left us.”

  That’s not exactly true. The end of last season wasn’t particularly good, but that might have happened whether I was on the team or not.

  “I’m back,” I tell him.

  “Brilliant. Practice going well? Ready for the big game?”

  “Aye,” I tell him, not wanting to get into it. “Could I get a pint of ale and a pint of cider for the lady over there?” I gesture to Kayla. She’s sitting at the table, taking it all in.

  “No worries. It’s on the house, mate,” he says, and promptly pulls out the pint glasses.

  “Well, cheers then,” I say as he hands me the drinks. I take a moment to stare at the amber liquid, my thirst suddenly rampant. I could down it all in a second, just two gulps, and the relief would be immediate. Instead, I bring both drinks over to her, my hands shaking slightly.

  “Here you go,” I tell her.

  “Did the guy know you?”

  I shrug. “Not really. More like he knew who I was.”

  She beams at me, sliding the cider toward her. “That’s awesome. You’re famous.”

  I grunt, holding the beer up to my lips. “It happens rarely.”

  “Nooooo,” she says. “The other day when we were walking on, what was it, Princes Street, there were a lot of people looking at you.”

  “They were looking at you,” I tell her warmly. “My beautiful girl.” I hold out my beer and knock it against her glass. “Here’s to…”

  “Meeting your folks,” she says.

  I nod. “Yes. That.” I drink my beer, half of it gone immediately.

  She takes forever to finish hers, so when my glass is empty, she nudges her cider toward me. “Here, I can’t finish this.”

  I hesitate. Just for a moment. Just enough to maybe rein myself in. The glass is about half full and I’m already feeling swimmy. If I finish it, I know it will lead me to that place where every guilty thought I’ve ever had will magically disappear.

  I want to be in that place, especially now, especially with this gorgeous, wonderful woman who I am so terribly unworthy of.

  But I won’t. With effort, I shake my head, declining the drink. I get us out to the car and on our way. The wind is picking up now, pushing grey clouds in from the coast and coating everything with a fine mist. Everything is blindingly green because of it.

  Jessica and Donald’s house is about three hundred years old and looks it. The stone fence outside is crumbling, a few of the larger rocks having toppled over no thanks to me and my predisposition for running along it when I was younger. The rest of the house has ivy growing up the sides, though Jessica’s garden is manicured as always, the sunflowers along the south side already waist high.

  “Oh my god,” Kayla says, her hand to her chest as we pause by the iron gate. “This is like something from a movie. Is this where you grew up?”

  “Aye,” I tell her. “Hasn’t changed much.”

  “It’s like a fairytale.”

  Something in my chest clenches. While the pub held mostly pleasantly memories, maybe because I was always in there with my mates, the house held a world of others. It was both my first real home since I had been given up for adoption, and it was also the place I felt most unworthy of. It also held the time where my life began to go tits up for no reason other than my own doing.

  Christ. I should have had that cider after all.

  Before I can dwell on it anymore, the front door, forever painted bright red, opens, and Jessica and Donald step out, giving us a wave.

  “Lachlan,” Jessica calls to me in that sing-songy voice of hers. She’s wearing all black, believing it to be slimming even though she’s always been quite thin. Her grey hair is straight and shiny, and she’s wearing just a few sparkly jewels and what looks like little makeup. Donald looks just as dashing in his usual vest, his hands shoved down into his pockets, wearing glasses that complement his sharp eyes. My adopted parents are some of the classiest, smartest people you’ll ever meet. I often wonder how they found it in their hearts to take me in at all.

  I make the introductions quickly, giving them both a hug hello before proudly showing them Kayla. “Jessica, Donald, this is Kayla,” I tell them. Even though I mentioned on the phone a few days ago that I was bringing a girl over, I don’t think they’ve quite gotten over the shock because they both look taken aback.

  Finally, Jessica shakes her head. “Oh, she’s darling,” she says, and brings Kayla into a light hug. When she pulls away, she holds her by the shoulders at arm’s length and peers at her. “Where ever did you find such a lovely girl? And one that would want to come all t
he way here with the likes of you?” she adds, taking the piss out of me like she often does.

  Kayla is blushing. I love how she’s so confident at times yet always takes compliments with a sense of disbelief, as if she’s never heard how beautiful she is, as if she’s hearing it for the first time. It makes me want to say it again and again and again, until she believes it. If only she didn’t look so bloody brilliant when flushed.

  “It’s really nice to meet you,” Kayla says. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I raise my brows. Actually, I’ve rarely talked about them, but it seems to be the right thing to say because Jessica looks pleased as punch.

  “Is that so?” she asks, sending me a questioning look. “Good things, I hope.”

  “Always,” I say just as Donald comes forward, offering his hand.

  “Glad to have you here,” he says to her. “How are you enjoying Scotland so far?”

  “I love everything about it,” she says. “It’s going to be hard to go home.”

  If I was numb, those words wouldn’t hurt the way they do. She seems to still a bit after saying it, the smile frozen on her lips, almost hyperaware. She’d told me a few days ago that we weren’t to mention that she was leaving, and we’d been sticking to it, living in a dream of sex and soul, pretending the days were endless and time was only for other people but not us.

  “Well, you just stay here for as long as you like,” Donald says smoothly, putting his arm around her shoulder and leading her into the house. “We have a nice cuppa ready for you.”

  As he leads her inside, Jessica grabs my arm and pulls me down toward her.

  “I just wanted to say,” she says quietly, her eyes bright, “that I didn’t know what to expect when you told us you were bringing over a girl. I don’t want to make this a bigger deal than it is. I know you very well, Lachlan.” I frown at her and she continues, “You’ve never been one for sentiment. But I just wanted to tell you that I’m so happy for you. She seems lovely, and she’s beautiful.”