Page 21 of Indie

“I am now.”

“He needs to go home.”

“I know. I’ll sort him out. But I need a pint of water for him first.”

I recognised the voice, light and gentle, sending the same energised tingles through me, diluting the alcohol in my veins with the purest of sounds. Emmie. Turning, I searched for her inthe shadows, peering out from the liquor clouding my eyes, until I could make out her delicate face.

The pint glass slid towards me, filled with clear fluid. I wasn’t fucking drinking that. I pushed it back again, but suddenly her hand was on top of mine, gently controlling.

“No, Indie. I need you to drink this. All of this.”

“It’s fucking water, Spuggy. Won’t do me no good.”

“You won’t be saying that in the morning. Drink up. I need to get you home.”

“You don’t know where I live.”

“You can show me.”

I grinned, stupidly. And she shook her head.

“He not got someone who can pick him up?” The bartender asked from across the bar.

I grinned at him, too. What the fuck was I doing?

“It’s ok,” Emmie’s gentle voice came again, the only thing I could really focus on. “I got this. Just give me a hand out to my car?”

The walk from the pub seemed to take an age. My legs were heavy, like they were filled with concrete, or lead, or some other heavy shit, each step almost dragging across the paving slabs. Arms gripped me gently from one side and forcibly from the other. And then at Emmie’s car I was pushed and pulled, bundled into the seat beside her.

“You going to be ok getting him out at the other end?” The bartender’s voice was grating on me now. Too low, gravelly, and I didn’t like the way he spoke to my girl. Like there was an intent. Yes. Intent. He wanted her. But she was mine. Definitely mine.

Darkness swam in front of my eyes. I think Emmie answered, but I couldn’t remember. My brain was swimming now, unable to keep up with the conversation on the street outside. I should be angry. I knew I should be angry, but I couldn’t remember why. And then the engine started. A low, irritating purr. And now my head was whirring, and I closed my eyes, because with each streak of light I felt more and more sick.

*****

“That strange man has my unicorn!”

The voice was shrill. Infantile. And it ricocheted around my brain like some sort of torture device.

“Nanna! Nanna! He’s got Mr Morris. I want Mr Morris back.”

That whine was enough to pierce my ears. In fact, if I wiped at them now, they’d be bleeding. I was sure of it.

“Is he alive?”

A boy’s voice now, cautious. Almost scared, but curiosity had got the better of him. And yet I still couldn’t peel my eyelids from my eyeballs. Either my brain wasn’t functioning, or my lids were just plain stuck. My mouth was dry too. Painfully and nauseatingly dry.

“Emmie? Why is there a strange man on your couch?”

Her voice was older. There was a hint of familiarity, but it was different enough that I didn’t recognise it.

“He’s cuddling Mr Morris!”

Who the fuck was Mr Morris?

“It’s fine, Lily,” and now I heard her voice, calming the anxiety that was building in my gut. “I’ll get Mr Morris for you.”

“More to the point, Emmie, who is he?”