Tribute Act

by Joanna Chambers

  I walked down to the pub just after seven. The place was bustling with it being folk night, full to the brim with a mix of Jago’s locals and the folk-music followers he tolerated for this one night each week. I greeted a few people I knew with smiles and waves but didn’t stop to talk, heading straight for the bar.

  I looked round for Mack while Jago poured my pint, eventually spotting him sitting at a table with a bunch of people—Don, of course, and two women, plus the ponytail guy—Andy?—we’d seen play here the night Mack arrived in Porthkennack. The five of them were surrounded by instruments—a few guitars, a banjo, a ukulele, a violin. I wondered if any of the others were playing tonight.

  They were all smiling and laughing—Mack too, for once. He seemed comfortable. Unguarded in a way I’d not seen much before. I watched him over the lip of my pint, trying to put my finger on what it was about him that made him appear so at ease. For the first time I could remember, he looked like he felt at home. It was good seeing him like that, but it made my chest tight too.

  I thought about going over there, to join him, but I worried that maybe I’d be intruding—it seemed unfair to barge in when he was so happy. I’d not seen him smiling this much in all the time I’d known him, and honestly, that made me sad. So, I turned back to the bar and gave my attention to my pint instead.

  I’d almost finished my beer when I felt a light touch at my elbow. I lifted my head, and there he was, standing beside me.

  His expression was . . . quizzical.

  “When did you come in?” he asked gesturing at my almost empty glass.

  I cleared my throat. “A while ago.”

  He frowned. “Didn’t you see me?”

  “I did, yeah.”

  His frown deepened. “Why didn’t you come over then?”

  I offered a half smile. “You seemed busy.”

  For the longest moment he didn’t say anything, then, so quietly I almost couldn’t make it out, he said. “I’m never too busy for you, Nathan.”

  An unfamiliar emotion speared me. It was a bit like happiness and a bit like longing without being either one of those things.

  “I’m never too busy for you . . .”

  What did he mean by that? Did he have deeper feelings for me than I thought? I wanted to believe he did, but I suspected he only meant that he liked me as a friend, or worse, that he was grateful to me. And yet, I couldn’t help but hope it meant more.

  “You’re not?” I said, meeting his steady, melting gaze, willing him to go on. But he didn’t elaborate on what he meant, just shook his head and grinned.

  “Course not. For God’s sake, I’ve been hoping you’d arrive since I texted you.”

  The quick stab of joy I felt at hearing he’d wanted me, had been waiting for me, made me smile helplessly. I knew that the irrepressible hitch of my mouth must betray me, and the part of me that was scared of my feelings, terrified at the prospect of Mack rejecting me, urged caution.

  I tried to pack that smile away, saying as casually as I could manage, “I can’t wait to see you play.”

  Yes, talk about music. That was a safe topic.

  But when Mack glanced at me, he undid all my carefulness with just one teasing smile. “Yeah? You like to see me play?”

  And that was it. My own betraying smile was back.

  “Yeah, I do,” I admitted, bumping his shoulder with mine.

  Scintillating stuff, I know, but though our words were brief, it felt like something big was being said. Me, admitting how much I’d wanted to come here, and him, admitting he’d wanted me here.

  As small as these confessions were, right then, they seemed huge. The tiny, hopeful part of me began to wonder if Mum was right, if Mack might be ready to hear how I felt. Maybe even admit that he had feelings for me too? It was a dizzying thought.

  We grinned at each other like idiots for a moment, then Mack said, “You want another beer?”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll have another pint of Chough’s Nest.”

  He made a face. “God, that stuff again?”

  I laughed. “It’s an acquired taste.”

  We stood companionably, side by side, as Jago pulled out our pints, our arms brushing. It was pretty low-key as PDAs went, but it felt good, being able to casually, innocently touch him. I’d grown used to his impenetrable walls and finally, tonight, they were crumbling, just a little.

  Jago set my reddish-brown pint down in front of me with a grunt before turning away to pour the generic lager Mack had selected.

  “I can’t believe you drink that,” Mack said, eyeing my pint.

  “At least my beer doesn’t taste like watered-down piss.”

  He laughed, easy, dark eyes sparkling with humour and affection, and my heart clenched.

  Christ, I was a goner.

  Once we had our drinks, Mack took me back to the table. We sat down, and he introduced me to the others: Don, Andy, Tash, and Amy.

  “Is this your other ’alf, then?” Tash asked Mack as I shook her heavily ringed hand.

  Before either of us could speak, Andy laughed. “Christ, no, Tash, they’re brothers!”

  Horrified, I said, “No—no, we’re not.”

  Andy frowned in puzzlement. To Mack he said, “I thought you were both Dex’s lads?”

  “I am.” Mack jerked his thumb at me. “But he’s not. His mum married my dad.”

  “Oh right. You’re stepbrothers,” Don said, looking way too pleased.

  I opened my mouth to explain just how recently we’d met, but Mack got in first, saying mildly, “Yeah, but we’re also fucking each other’s brains out.”

  It was such an uncharacteristically brash thing for him to say, I couldn’t stop the burst of laughter that exploded out of me. And then everyone else laughed too. I wasn’t sure whether they believed him, but there were no more questions because right then Jago arrived at the table.

  “Are none of you lazy bastards goin’ to play tonight? It’s bleddy eight o’clock!”

  “Keep your ’air on,” Tash said, rolling her eyes. But even as she said it, she was getting to her feet, as were Don and Amy. It turned out the three of them played together as the Shanteurs, and they were up before Mack. They decamped to the tiny stage area that had been cordoned off by the windows, prompting a few whoops at this sign that folk music night was about to get going. The crowd began to shift so that most everyone was facing the stage.

  The reason for the group’s name was obvious once they started playing—they had a sort of sea shanty vibe going on—and Mack watched them play with rapt attention, glancing at me occasionally to smile, sharing his pleasure in the music. They were accomplished musicians, and Amy had a sweet, pure voice that the crowd loved. I wondered if it made Mack more nervous about his own set, seeing them get such a good reception, but if it did, he didn’t show it.

  When it was his turn, he strolled up to the tiny stage area, sharing a few laughs with the others as they packed up their instruments and removed the extra stools. Then he settled his guitar strap over his neck, perched himself on the single high stool they’d left for him, and without a word, began to play.

  He started with my favourite, “Carrickfergus,” not so much launching as sliding into it, with a long instrumental opening that slowly quieted the chattering crowd till they were entirely silent. Till he held them in the palm of his hand.

  When he eventually began to sing, it seemed to me that he sounded different than all the other times I’d heard him. His voice was as deep and rich as ever, but tonight there was a regretful, melancholy note in it that brought a salty lump to my throat. Or maybe it was the words of the song, because—God, how had I never heard it before?—this song was about Mack. The song of a man who insisted he was happy with his life roving from town to town, but who longed for some vision of home he could never quite find.

  And all I could think was, I want to be his home.

  “Mack, wait!”

  We were on our way out the pub when Don called to Mack fr
om the bar and started squirming his way through the close-packed bodies towards us.

  “We were just heading off,” Mack told him when he finally reached us.

  Don grinned. “I wanted to catch you before you went. Listen, do you want to play again next Saturday? You could have the same slot if you like.”

  I felt Mack’s discomfort at the question and knew why he hesitated. His three-month scan was on Thursday—by next Saturday he might be on his way back to Manchester, or Scotland . . . or somewhere else entirely. I tried to look like I wasn’t really listening, but in truth, I was as interested in the answer to Don’s question as Don himself.

  Mack frowned. “Um . . . can I get back to you?”

  My heart sank and Don’s grin faded a bit too. “Okay, sure. But can you let me know in the next couple of days? It’s the first weekend in December next week, so nights out are starting to happen and it gets more difficult to book people.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll do that,” Mack promised.

  “Great. Text me to let me know. See you soon.” Don clapped Mack on the shoulder and strolled away.

  We emerged from the pub into a night that was cold and clear, the dark, velvet firmament above us dotted with pin-bright stars. I zipped the last couple of inches of my jacket up to my chin and burrowed my hands deeper into my pockets.

  “You were amazing tonight,” I said.

  Mack smiled at me, but his eyes were sad. “Thanks.”

  We fell silent as we began walking, but after a bit I said, trying to keep my voice light, “Why didn’t you say yes to that gig? Don’t you want to play at the Sea Bell again?” I didn’t look at Mack as I waited for his answer, staring straight ahead instead. The seafront was at the bottom of the hill, black waves glinting in the moonlight.

  He didn’t respond immediately, but at last he said, “Yeah. I want to. It was great.”

  “Why not just agree then?”

  He sighed heavily. “You know why, Nathan.”

  I stopped walking, coming to a halt right in the middle of the street. He took a couple of steps past me before he realised, then he stopped too, turning to glance back at me warily.

  “Tell me anyway,” I said.

  He met my gaze and his own was unwavering. “I’ve got my scan next week,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I’ll get discharged—I feel completely normal. And after that? Well, it’s about time I got going.”

  “Bullshit.” My voice was harsh. Angry.

  For a moment he appeared oddly pained, but then he got his expression under control and said quietly, “I never intended to stay, Nathan. You knew that.”

  I thought about Mum’s words that morning.

  Those moments at the bar—“I’m never too busy for you.”

  The sense I’d had as he sang that his determined insistence he wanted to move on wasn’t necessarily true.

  I stepped towards him, taking hold of his upper arms.

  “You don’t have to go. And I don’t want you to. I want you to stay, Mack.”

  He stared at me, his face suddenly stricken.

  “I’m asking you to stay. Please, Mack. Give us a chance.” My voice cracked on the words, betraying me, betraying how true those words were, and how hopeless they felt. How afraid I was.

  But Mack just . . . shook his head.

  He shook his fucking head.

  “Listen, Nathan, I don’t want—” He broke off and swallowed hard, throat bobbing.

  I dropped my hands from his arms and stepped back, angry pride coming to my rescue. “What?” I demanded. “Tell me.”

  I stood there, looking him in the eye, giving him every chance to tell me what was going through his head. But he only stared at me, his throat working, unable, apparently, to articulate his thoughts.

  At last, I realised he wasn’t going to say anything, and that hurt like a motherfucker.

  “Okay,” I said, as my heart shattered into a million pieces. “Okay.”

  I turned and began to walk away. And he didn’t even try to stop me.

  The next morning, I called Denise and asked if she’d cover my shift at the café. It was obvious things were going to be uncomfortable between me and Mack, and I wanted to make sure we spoke as early as possible. Re-established some kind of normality. I showered and dressed and sat myself down in the living room with my laptop to wait him out.

  It was close to lunchtime when he finally appeared, his expression wary. I greeted him as though nothing had happened, poured him a coffee from the pot I’d just made, and launched into a monologue of inane small talk. He looked a bit shell-shocked at first, but eventually he rallied, and it did the job of breaking the worst of the ice. More importantly, it made it clear that I had no intention of revisiting the embarrassing subject I’d raised the night before.

  Presumably he was grateful for that.

  After that, things went back to normal, more or less. Well, less. We were civil with each other, but we didn’t talk the way we had before. I went out in the evenings, round to Mum’s or up to the Bell for a pint. By the time I’d get back, Mack would be in bed. Sometimes I heard him playing his guitar in there, which he hadn’t done before.

  Our interactions were few and, for me, painful. I adopted a distantly friendly persona that felt awkward as hell, and Mack just went very quiet. Occasionally I’d catch him looking at me with a melancholy expression that made me more angry than anything else, though I pretended not to notice it.

  I thought a lot about those humiliating few moments, when I’d begged him to stay and he’d turned me down. He hadn’t said much but one thing was clear: he didn’t return my feelings. Well, fine. I was a big boy. I’d live. I had too much to do to sit around being heartbroken. I had a business to run, plans to make, and a ton of people relying on me to keep everything together.

  Work kept me going. Work, work, and more work.

  On the Wednesday night, Mack cornered me in the kitchen.

  “Can I have a word?”

  “Sure.” I’d just stacked the dishwasher, and I busied myself wiping down the counters so I didn’t have to meet his gaze. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got my scan tomorrow.”

  I glanced up at that. “Yeah, I know. I was going to ask if you want a lift up to the hospital.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll get the bus. It’s not till eleven so I’ve got ages to get there.”

  I hesitated. “You don’t, you know, want someone to go with you?”

  He looked away. “No, it’s fine.”

  Of course. Mack didn’t need anyone, least of all me.

  “The thing is,” he went on, “I said to Don I’d play that gig at the Sea Bell on Saturday, so I was wondering if it’d be okay if I stayed till then? I know it’s a couple of days more than you probably thought . . .” He trailed off and met my gaze, his own wary.

  He thought I wanted him gone as soon as possible. Maybe that was a reasonable assumption, but the truth was, I felt sick at the thought of him going. Despite everything, I still didn’t want him to leave, and how pathetic was that? Hot prickles at the back of my eyes warned me how close I was to humiliating myself again. I turned away to the sink, running hot water over a cloth and wringing it out. Busy work.

  “Yeah, no problem,” I said lightly. “I said at the start you could stay as long as you needed. Nothing’s changed.”

  I began methodically wiping down the sink, swallowing hard against the stubborn lump in my throat. For what felt like ages, Mack was silent. Eventually he said. “Thanks. I really appreciate it. I’ll be out of your hair by Monday.”

  Moments later, the kitchen door closed behind him.

  I stood there at the sink, looking out the window at the cobbled, rain-slick streets of my hometown. It was a cold December day in Porthkennack, gloomy and grey, and it kind of felt like that in my heart too.

  “I’ll be out of your hair by Monday.”

  Mack’s scan was fine. I was at Mum’s when he popped round to tell her. His liver was
growing back well, he explained, over the cup of tea Mum had pressed on him. The specialist was happy with his progress, and he’d been formally discharged.

  “So that’s it?” Mum said, frowning. “You won’t be seen again?”

  Mack shook his head. “Not here. They said I’ll need an annual checkup but I can do that through my own doctor.” He smiled at her. “The point is, I’m fine. Everything’s good.”

  Mum didn’t look happy, and honestly, I wasn’t either. Would Mack follow up with his own doctor? He’d be stupid not to—and he wasn’t a stupid guy—but right now he didn’t even know where he was going to be living. I could see him putting a checkup off if he wasn’t settled somewhere when he needed it.

  “What’s good?” That was Rosie. She stood in the kitchen doorway in her school uniform. She’d put on weight, lost the sallow cast to her skin and the shadows under her eyes. She’d have to keep taking the immunosuppressants, but other than that, she was not just better, she was cured. Mack’s liver had replaced her own diseased organ with a new healthy one that her body had accepted. And with her condition now under control with medication, there was no reason her new liver should suffer any future damage.

  He’d saved her life.

  “I’m good,” Mack said, smiling at her. “I had my scan today—everything’s fine. I’ve been discharged.”

  She grinned. “That’s great!”

  “I still think it’s a bit soon to be discharging you,” Mum said, worriedly.

  “Stop fussing, Mum.” Rosie rolled her eyes at Mack. He grinned back at her, and for a second, I saw a flash of resemblance between them. They didn’t look that much alike, but there were moments sometimes, when their facial expressions aligned, and I saw it.

  Rosie was going to miss him terribly. Had he even told her he was leaving?

  “So, can I come to your gig on Saturday?” she asked, plonking herself down at the kitchen table and grabbing a Hobnob. “I really want to see you play.”

  “I don’t think they let under-eighteens in after nine at the Bell,” Mack said.