Black Wood by SJI Holliday

scanned the tables again. Since I’d been in the queue, a couple of extra spaces had opened up. Window seat on a table of four, facing away from the counter. The inhabitants were an elderly couple on their last triangles of toast and a young lad in a hooded top who appeared to be attempting a new world record in speed bean-eating. The other available seat was next to a stressed-looking young dad with two little kids who were gleefully spreading tomato sauce all over the table while he sipped his tea and pretended he couldn’t see them.
    I chose Option 1.
    ‘Is this seat free?’
    ‘Aye, hen. We’re nearly done anyway.’
    The young lad ignored me.
    I put my tray down on the table and tried to press myself as far as possible against the window, leaving the maximum gap between me and the lad. Not that he was doing anything wrong, but the way he was shovelling the beans into his mouth, I was in danger of puking.
    I ate the sausage first. Then the bacon. I balled the mushrooms up inside a napkin and wiped their brown sludge off the egg. I was trying to decide whether to put the egg on top of the fried bread or to dip the toast in the yolk when I realised that the couple had been replaced by a much younger version and the young lad in the hoodie had gone.
    ‘Excuse me, is this seat free?’
    I turned in the direction of the voice, ready to say, ‘Of course, help yourself,’ but the words stuck in my throat and all I managed was a little squeak.
    He was two tables away. Must’ve come in after me.
    He put down his knife and fork and picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth. Took a sip of his tea.
    I stared.
    Felt the bacon fat sticking at the back of my throat.
    The man standing next to me must’ve sensed something was wrong, and he muttered something before turning and heading off to take a seat in the other corner of the room. As far away from me as possible.
    I stared over at Gareth Maloney, and after what seemed like an age, he lifted his head.
    He looked confused, then realisation washed over his face, and he smiled at me.
    I felt myself smile back.

18
    The summer that my parents died, after one of my infrequent trips home, I’d been packed off to Black Wood Cottage again. I remembered the short journey in the car, my dad driving. Me in the back, surrounded by plastic bags stuffed full of shorts and T-shirts. Sandals. Thin cotton nighties. Piles of books.
    He didn’t say a word the whole way.
    I stared out of the window at the fields, the church spire shrinking away as we drove further from the town. I hadn’t realised then that it was only a few miles away from home, because when I was there it was like being in another world.
    I was another me. After what had happened to Claire, I needed the comfort of being with someone who cared.
    Gran was waiting at the front door as we pulled up the bumpy pot-holed driveway. She gave me a little wave. My face was pressed up against the window, grinning.
    My dad pulled on the handbrake and left the engine running. He turned to face me. ‘You be good for your gran now, you hear? No funny business. I don’t want any bloody phone calls this time. OK?’
    ‘OK,’ I said.
    I’d already pushed open the back door and my legs were dangling out of the car. I was clutching as many bags as I could carry. Gran walked towards us, her plain grey dress flapping around her ankles, her heavy work boots crunching on the gravel. She leant beside me and picked up the rest of my bags, and as she pulled back out, she touched her cheek against mine. Her skin felt like brushed cotton sheets. I slid off the seat, dropping my bags onto the ground. She slammed the door shut and I heard my dad sigh through the partially rolled-down window.
    She folded her arms and took a step closer to the car, bending slightly to meet him at eye level. She craned her neck to peer deeper into the car. ‘Jim,’ she said, sounding disappointed. ‘Miranda not with you?’
    There was a gentle squeaking sound as he wound