Page 26 of The Merman’s Betrothal (Outcast Hearts #2)

‘ N eed anything else, Dad?’

Rory watched for signs of life from his father’s armchair. The old sod had been more miserable than usual and not offered so much as a grumble while Rory tidied up the house.

Rory moved round to enter his father’s field of view, not quite blocking the television but certainly impeding it. ‘I said, do you need anything, Dad?’

‘A son with his ears open,’ Hamish grunted back. ‘I said no.’

Years of patience had taught Rory not to rise to it. Besides, for the first time in months, he had something he wanted to talk to the old man about.

‘Dad, I need to ask you something.’

‘Y’never stop asking things.’

‘This is important. It’s for… medical records.

Stuff I’ve got to tell the doctor.’ Rory chose his words carefully.

The word doctor was a surefire way to put his father on the defensive, so it had to be smoothed over quickly.

‘So that you don’t have to go in for an appointment. I’ll deal with it, right?’

His father scowled. ‘What do they want this time?’

Rory took a deep breath. Did he really want to do this? Asking the question felt as dangerous as acknowledging that an answer might exist.

‘I need to know if there’s any history of strange medical conditions in our family. Besides Uncle Sam’s heart attack and Mum’s…’ He caught himself just in time.

Still, the word cancer hung in the air like a foul smell.

Hamish glowered up at him, cheeks appearing more sallow under the blue light from the television screen. Rory held his breath, feeling the smack of the silent reprimand like the whip of a belt buckle across his memory. For a split-second he was eight years old and very small.

Then the moment passed and his father shuffled in his chair, just a withered old man. ‘What kind of strange?’

‘I don’t know. Anything odd. Maybe… deformities?’ Rory exhaled, avoiding the sight of his mother smiling down from the mantelpiece. Her photograph always inspired a tinge of shame, as though it was somehow Rory’s fault that she’d been taken away.

Hamish blinked slowly and rasped out a puzzled answer. ‘You mean like yer grandpa’s webbed feet, sort of thing?’

Webbed feet? This was news to Rory. ‘What do you mean, webbed?’

His dad shrugged. ‘S’not unusual around here, ’specially years ago. He had webbed toes and sort of webbed fingers, if ye looked too closely. An’ he told me his grandpa was born with a crooked spine.’

Rory ran this information through a list of reasonable ailments. ‘Scoliosis, maybe?’

‘Dunno. Had weird lumps in it. Or that’s what he said. Supposedly sprouted spikes when he took a bath, but that’ll be the drink talking.’ Hamish’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why’s the doctor need to know?’

‘Medical history,’ Rory said hurriedly. ‘In case it affects medication or—’

‘Don’t want no pills.’

‘I know. I’ll tell her.’

Rory dared to relax a little. No mention of blue skin or gill-like aberrations.

Webbed feet were pretty weird though. The crooked spine could be anything.

Both could be easily explained by genetic deformity and back-breaking labour, or the usual embellishments that often came with family legends.

He hadn’t noticed any webbed skin on Fionn, so that was slightly reassuring.

Still, it wasn’t evidence that Rory wasn’t secretly a merman.

He snuffed the thought out, a skill he was becoming adept at. If he followed a train of thought like that for too long, he was in danger of starting to believe it.

Hamish had sunk deeper into his armchair, mumbling to himself. ‘Fuckin’ woman doctors tryin’ to stuff pills down my throat. Keep telllin’ her I don’t need ’em. Not gonna get me that way. And she’s brown. Shouldn’t be lettin’ ’em in, I say…’

Rory slipped out in the middle of the diatribe. He’d heard enough of his dad’s bigoted rants to last him a lifetime. Luckily Graham rarely came up in conversation these days, otherwise a host of homophobic slurs would be on the agenda too.

It occurred to Rory with a pang that he would now be included in those slurs. Of course he would. Because what kind of man lets another man do things like that to him?

Shut up, he told the voice of Hamish. Graham isn’t any less of a man because he sleeps with men. He’s a better man than you’ll ever be. Why should I have to feel like less of a man just because you never grieved properly?

The resentment that Rory had successfully boxed up in the back of his mind for years now threatened to tumble loose. What kind of man was he, Rory Douglas?

He’d never given himself the chance to find out.

* * *

When Graham found him a couple of days later, Rory was staring out over Loch Broom from the harbour wall, facing into a blazing sunset over the Minch.

‘Oy, oy,’ Graham said coming to stand next to him. ‘What you up to, mate?’

‘Just thinking.’

‘Anything interesting rattling around in that noggin o’yours?’

‘Mmm.’

Rory felt Graham’s eyes slide sideways to scope him out. ‘Heard you’ve not taken the Star out lately.’

Rory let his silence speak for him.

‘Finally thinking of packin’ it in?’ Graham pressed on with a tone that was only half-joking. ‘Knew you’d come around eventually.’

Rory grunted in vague acknowledgement, but also to indicate he wasn’t in the mood for banter. By his hunched shoulders and surly disposition he hoped to ward off further inquisition. They were both blokes; Graham would know to leave well enough alone.

Graham surprised him.

‘Are you okay, mate?’ Graham turned side-on to face Rory properly, even if Rory refused to meet him. ‘It ain’t like you to skip work.’

‘Just taking a break,’ Rory muttered without conviction. Graham wasn’t going to buy it, anyway.

‘You avoiding the work, or something else? If Ol’ Doaty’s giving you shit then—’

‘I can handle Doaty,’ Rory snapped back. Too vehemently. He clammed up as he registered Graham’s shrewd frown.

‘You’re avoiding someone though. I’m right, aren’t I?’

Rory focused on the water again. His own blurred reflection rippled below. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’

Graham was right on the money. But how to explain that the person he was trying to avoid was himself?

Rory daren’t go out on the water alone. Where he’d be caught between the sea and sky with nothing but the thoughts in his head. He didn’t trust himself not to dive in.

Since Fionn had put the idea into his mind, Rory couldn’t shake it. That some intrinsic part of him might belong elsewhere. That a different future beckoned under the waves, where the chains of Ullapool couldn’t reach him.

His skin itched.

Rory rubbed his arms, trying to chase away the sensation. But it had been crawling all over him for days now. This deep, uncomfortable urge to step out of his skin.

Graham jolted him back into the present moment. ‘Come with me. We’re gunna have a drink.’

‘I’m not in the mood for the club—’

‘Nah, just you an’ me. No arguing. Move yer boots.’

He didn’t give Rory chance to argue, anyway. Graham grabbed hold of Rory’s shoulders and forcefully steered him down to the jetty. They boarded Graham’s skiff, the little boat he used to reach the catamaran when it was moored in the middle of the harbour.

Rory plopped onto a bench while Graham navigated them out into the loch.

It was pleasant to hear the hubbub of the town drain away, replaced by the gentle wash of waves against the hull.

When they’d reached a suitably peaceful spot Graham killed the engine and rummaged under his seat for a case of beer.

‘Go on then,’ Graham said, passing Rory a can. ‘What’s your trouble?’

For a split-second Rory considered coming right out with it. Graham was a straightforward man, not one to bother with metaphor or hypotheticals. And yet, the words got stuck in Rory’s throat.

‘Have you… Have you always known you were gay?’ he settled for instead.

‘Aye. More or less.’ Graham cracked open his beer. The can let out a satisfying hiss. ‘You work it out pretty quick after you’ve sucked a cock or two.’ He grinned, knowing this would make Rory cringe.

‘But you knew you wanted to do that in the first place,’ Rory mumbled back. ‘To suck a… You wanted to suck someone’s dick. Like did you just wake up one day wanting one in your mouth or…’ He trailed off, losing the weak thread of questioning he was attempting to follow.

‘What’s this about, Rory?’ The humour drained from Graham’s voice. ‘You ain’t never asked me about sucking dick before. You don’t even join in with banter about it.’

Rory shifted uncomfortably under Graham’s stare.

‘Just crass, innit. Anyway I always thought you took those jokes because it’s just…

how people are, round here. Dunno why you don’t throw hands over it, sometimes.

I wouldn’t like to be called a cocksucker, even for a joke,’ he added, staring down at his beer.

Graham was quiet for a minute. ‘Yer a good one, Rory. I’d wager that’s why.’ He tapped the side of his can, affecting nonchalance. ‘Is this about that fella you got off with?’

Rory went rigid. There was no fucking way Graham knew about Fionn. ‘What fella?’

‘Oh, untwist yer knickers. The one you snogged in the club the other week.’

‘I didn’t know he was a—’

‘Right, right.’ Graham waved the pointless protest away. ‘But it’s got you questioning yourself, has it? That’s what this is all about?’

Rory nodded mutely.

‘Rory, mate, I can safely say that one nice snog off a lad ain’t gonna turn you gay. Even if you liked it, there’s no reason to go worrying, right? You do have a habit of getting in your own head, like. The facts is: snogging is nice, end of.’

‘I let him finger me, too.’

Graham sprayed foam across the deck. ‘You what?’ he choked.

Rory figured he was all in, now. He hunched into his coat. ‘Haven’t touched his dick or anything. But we’ve kissed and done that.’

‘That’s a pretty big that. ’ Graham waggled his eyebrows theatrically. ‘I take it back, mate. Having a fella’s fingers up your arse is a bit more of a giveaway, right?’

He descended into laughter until Rory muttered, ‘Ain’t funny,’ and he quietened down.

‘Aye, sorry,’ Graham said, giving him a nudge. ‘Is a bit funny, though.’

Graham meant it with warmth, which somehow made the whole situation feel lighter on Rory’s shoulders. He allowed himself a chuckle. ‘Yeah, all right. But what’s not funny is I don’t know what to do about it. How far I want to take it, like.’

‘How far up yer arse, you mean?’ Graham rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t give me that look. You want my advice?’

Rory kicked the pack of beer. ‘Have I got a choice?’

‘Right. I say if you like him, have a go on him. Worry about all the labels after.’

‘You make it sound so fucking simple.’

‘Cuz it is. Either you like sucking his cock, or you don’t.’

‘And if it turns out I don’t?’

‘Easy. Ditch ’im.’ Graham took a deep swig of his beer. ‘Find a new one. Or don’t. Find a lass instead. Or don’t. Up to you.’

‘And what if, hypothetically, I couldn’t ditch him? Say he keeps turning up, no matter what I do?’

Graham slung him another sideways look. ‘You need me to punch this fella’s lights out, or something?’

‘No! That’s not what I meant.’ Rory hid his grimace behind his can.

‘Just we’re sort of drawn to each other.

Dunno if he’s got any say in it, exactly.

Dunno if I have, for that matter.’ He trailed off, feeling embarrassed trying to put it all into words.

The soul bond stuff was too out-there even for Rory to get his head around.

It was all a little too close to sounding like magic for his liking.

Graham seemed to have read different meaning into his words and phrased his next question carefully. ‘You really like him? Deeper than skin, I mean.’

‘I don’t know…’

‘There’s a lot of not-knowing going on for someone you just want a quick shag with, that’s all I’m saying. You wouldn’t usually put this much thought into it, would ye?’

True enough, Rory thought. But I wouldn’t usually be thinking about sleeping with an ocean monster who wants to romantically run away with me and who also apparently lays eggs.

Graham leaned forward, looking serious. ‘Rory, listen closely. You need to fuck off.’

‘All right, I know I’m being a twat but like—’

‘Nah, mate. Shut up.’ Graham banged his can on the seat to drown Rory out. ‘I mean you need to fuck off somewhere else. Out of Ullapool. Like you should’ve years ago. Bet that’d set your head straight.’

‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘But you want to.’

The accusation rang like a siren in Rory’s ears. ‘That’s in the past…’

Graham shook his head. ‘You should’ve fucked off to uni with the rest of the eggheads from school. I know you wanted to. What was it you wanted to study? Eco-wassname or something?’

‘Ecology and Wildlife Conservation,’ Rory said glumly.

‘Yeah, that. Well, why don’t you?’

Rory scoffed. ‘I can hardly keep the Star afloat, let alone pay for Dad to be looked after by someone else—’

‘Sell me the boat,’ Graham replied patiently. ‘The whole business, even. Don’t I keep offering to buy you out? I don’t care whether you work for me, or not. You’re welcome to. But I reckon you’d be better off fucking off somewhere else and actually enjoying your life, you fucking prat.’

He sat back, propping his feet on the beer crate.

‘Go off and give yourself the space to work out whether you like this fella of yours. Or go find a new fella, or a pretty lass, or whatever it is that makes your heart beat like it’s worth banging out a tune.

Cuz I’d wager it ain’t making any noise at all out here. ’

Having dropped this advice like a five hundred pound barbell, Graham continued drinking in silence.

He really did make it sound simple. And Rory was on the verge of going for it.

Was it possible to reinvent his life?

Was there space for a big blue merman in it?

For a quiet moment, while the waves were calm under a bright moon, anything felt possible.