He followed the draught to the door leading from the kitchen into the back garden, and, with a lurching stomach, spotted a shadow on the patio, up against the wall of the house.
Gramps was slumped on the ground, leaning back against the bricks, panting. When Beckett tried to remove the bread knife from his grandfather’s clenched hand, the fingers were too stiff to open.
‘What happened?’ Beckett asked, slipping his thumb to Gramps’ icy wrist to take his pulse. He’d managed to put on his dressing gown, but his feet were bare.
‘I blummin’ well slipped over in the frost. What does it look like?’
‘Let’s see if we can get you back in the warm.’ Automatically switching to doctor mode, Beckett sounded calm, but a tornado of guilt and panic was tearing through his insides.
It took a gruelling effort, but, with lots of guidance and questions to ensure it was safe, he managed to hoist Gramps up and provide enough support to get him to the living-room sofa.
He made two mugs of sweet tea, decided against adding a splash of whisky, and made sure the combination of the fire, thick socks and a blanket were doing their job.
‘Why were you outside?’ he asked after an agonising wait while Gramps sipped his tea and slowly regained his normal complexion.
‘I want to go to bed now.’
‘Of course, I’ll help you up in a minute. But why were you in the garden with a bread knife?’
Gramps stared at the fire, his careworn face scrunched in annoyance.
‘I was making a sandwich. You always cut the bread too thin.’
There’d been no bread visible in the kitchen, or any other evidence of a sandwich being made.
‘Okay.’ Beckett kept his voice soft and steady, as if coaxing a mouse out of its hole. ‘Why did you go into the garden?’
‘Does it matter?’ Gramps snapped. ‘Am I the owner of this house, or its prisoner? I don’t have to explain my every move to you.’
‘No, you don’t.’ Beckett was too sad to feel irritated, or frustrated. He mostly felt defeated, alongside the lingering trickle of worry that Gramps had hypothermia or was hiding an injury. ‘But I hope you can understand why I’m concerned about you going outside in the middle of the night in December with no shoes or coat on.’
If Beckett had learned anything in the past six years, it was patience. Eventually, Gramps slumped a little lower in his chair, handed Beckett the empty mug and closed his eyes.
‘I didn’t know where you were.’
Beckett’s heart crumpled in on itself.
‘I’d gone out in the taxi for a couple of hours,’ he said gently, crouching beside Gramps and taking hold of his hand, which was still cool, but no longer stiff. ‘I left a note in case you woke up.’
‘Didn’t see it.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Beckett’s throat ached as he fought back the tears. He was sorry for more things than he could say. ‘I’m so sorry you were frightened. I won’t go out at night again.’
They sat for a while, staring at the fire until Gramps’ hand was warm, his cheeks pink.
‘Come on, let’s get to bed. Maybe think about a lie-in in the morning, eh?’
As he helped his grandfather to his doddery feet, Beckett caught him mumbling something, but dismissed it as he must have heard him wrong. However, as Gramps allowed his grandson to tuck the duvet up around his chin, he said it again, and this time it was unmistakable.
‘Put me in a home.’
‘What?’ Beckett froze. ‘No. Gramps! I promised I’d never do that. This is your home, and you’re staying right here. I’ll figure it out, I promise.’
Gramps slept in for all of an extra fifteen minutes. It didn’t matter, Beckett hadn’t snatched more than a few restless minutes of sleep, anyway. He helped Gramps with his morning routine, checking for injuries as he dressed and mercifully only finding light bruising, although he was even more unsteady than usual.
‘Be honest now,’ he asked once they were both bolstered with coffee and plates of egg on toast. ‘How are you feeling? Any aches or pains we need to worry about?’
Gramps chuckled grimly. ‘Where do you want me to start?’
