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 mehisgrandpa 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 Rorywasn’tsecretly 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 getmethat 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 likethatto 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 theStarout 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.