Free Glass by Alex Christofi Page B

drank the camomile, thinking about Blades and listening to my dad’s constant questions about the job, the money involved, whether there was more work coming, and what was for breakfast. When he drew breath I escaped to my room and discovered eleven new emails from Max, who seemed to have been compiling revenue-projection graphs and finding new equipment all night. One of them was a list of his top ten grappling hooks. When on earth would I ever need a grappling hook? The last email read, ‘Just say no. Between emails I’ve been cleaning the house and I’ve rubbed away all the skin on my hands. Coming down now. Typing hurts.’ I knew there had to be a reason why he was being helpful. I wondered briefly about staging one of those quaint American ‘interventions’, but on reflection I decided not to validate him. It was probably just a cry for attention.
    The rest of the morning passed slowly. When I had been unemployed, days had drifted past like clouds or mobility scooters, but now that I was in the habit of being useful, doing nothing was just annoying.
    I went downstairs to get my dad but I couldn’t find him anywhere. I retraced my steps, like Mum would have told me to. I’d put him down in the kitchen in front of some pancakes, but he wasn’t there now. What did I normally do with him?
    I found him curled up back in bed.
    â€˜Get up.’
    â€˜No!’ he moaned.
    â€˜You can’t waste a whole day in bed. What do you normally do?’
    â€˜Sleep and watch telly.’
    â€˜Well today we’re going outside. Come on, it’ll do you good.’
    â€˜Don’t want to.’
    â€˜If you get dressed I’ll buy you a pint.’
    â€˜Fine,’ he scowled, jumping up.
    â€˜I’ll be waiting downstairs.’
    When we got to the pub, we sat for a while in the manner of locals, silent with our thoughts, occasionally scraping the head off our top lips with our bottom lips, or saying, ‘Mm.’ Eventually, Dad rested his palms on his thighs, elbows out. His ‘man to man’ pose.
    â€˜Günter, we still need to talk about our home.’
    â€˜What’s there to talk about?’ I asked.
    â€˜I’m getting red letters. Unless we come up with eight grand in the next few weeks, we’re going to be spending our evenings fighting over Special Brew.’
    â€˜Come on, Dad, don’t be so melodramatic. It can’t be that bad.’
    â€˜It is that bad.’
    â€˜But Mum had savings. She wouldn’t just let us—’
    â€˜No, Günter. She had a few hundred pounds.’
    It shocked me that she had not left us provided for. The day I had lost my job to that cruel slump in dairy, she had stopped me at the bottom of the stairs, and stroked me pacifically on my upper arm.
    â€˜You will always have a home here,’ she had said. ‘No matter what happens.’
    But here we were. How could I blame her, if she had no way of knowing that she was lying?
    Dad slammed his fist down on the table.
    â€˜She didn’t deserve it.’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Your mother. She didn’t deserve to go like that.’
    â€˜I know.’
    â€˜She didn’t deserve to … we could have—’
    â€˜It was no one’s fault,’ I said soothingly.
    â€˜But what if—’
    â€˜No.’ I put down my pint. ‘Just try not to think about it.’
    He threw back his beer, staring into the bottom with desolate eyes.
    The remainder of my day of rest was spent buying us more beer and playing Scrabble until our stomachs were full and my father finally accepted that gumshoe wasn’t a word. I know he was depressed, but I wasn’t about to give him a triple-word score.
    Over breakfast the next day, I pondered the unique ability of Dutch waffles to get a heart racing so soon after sleep. They were so heavy and sugary that, in all likelihood, my heart was pumping harder just to get the