Loath as he was to owe an Arkady the slightest thing, Nic enjoyed their phenomenally fast Suzuki as he flew down the lane, woods a smudge through his visor. It sure beat driving a machine incapable of powering a forty-watt bulb. He might not have floored the accelerator so recklessly, if he knew what waited on rounding the bend near home. He squinted to help his mind make sense of what his eyes perceived in awful clarity.
An old man in a crimson bow-tie and vest beneath his charcoal suit rocked in the middle of the road, hands plastered to his mouth. A stately ancient Rolls Royce halted askew in a ditch by the broken fence. The bonnet had caved-in, its windshield a clotted spider’s web of fractures. A large shape rested adjacent to the front bumper. Hank bent low over the heap, Yap barking manically by his side.
“No,” Nic declared, breath mercifully fogging the transparency.
It could not be. He rode the last metres slowly, unwilling to confirm what his squeezed heart already knew. If he didn’t see, it would never be real. The engine’s whine blocked sounds he couldn’t bear to hear.
Hank ambled to greet him, thumbs hooked beneath his belt and grizzled face sombre. He surveyed the red-sopped wreckage of Nic’s front without comment, experienced enough with teen boys to let the story unfold to their schedule. Deepening creases in his brow were a more accurate reflection of concern.
Nic kicked the stand and removed the helmet, arranging himself with his back to the scene. Its meaning penetrated, but denial operated as a temporary shield. At some point, he knew the flimsy barricade would crumble to release the flood. There was no avoiding life’s unpleasant lessons.
“Don’t.”
“Nicky, he’s in pain. We have to put him down. Those injuries...” Hank swore under breath. “I’m sorry. They’re too extensive. The old boy’s not to blame. Balt charged right into him. There was no chance to manoeuvre in that tank.”
Nic pressed trembling lips together, gripping the bike-seat so hard it hurt. He knew who was to blame and stored fury, tempered by the agony of loss, for later.
“I’ll do it.” His voice was gruff when he finally spoke, choking back bile.
“I’ll load a revolver.”
Boots crunched gravel, fading down the path to the house. He felt a light touch on his arm.
“I’m so terribly sorry, Nicholas.” The accent was fruity, posh British. Another one of them. They multiplied like carrion flies. And of course, he knew who Nic was.
“Get your hand off me.”
He swivelled, and with harsh resolve strode to his friend since childhood, not wasting a glance at the little fellow with his old-fashioned pocket-watch stretching a trim girth, silver pencil moustache, waves of white hair, small round spectacles and mortified expression. Balt nickered feebly and attempted to raise his head when Nic knelt, ignoring fragments of windshield embedding his jeans.
“Guess we’re both a bit bloodied. Hey, Boy?”
Silent tears flowed as he picked glass from Balt’s mane and rubbed his velvety muzzle with knuckles. The fabric of Nic’s inner universe shredded, the anguish almost as intense as those final dreadful hours with his mother. Emaciated and barely cognisant from pain, she curled in on herself like a shrivelled flower, beautiful face contorted, long blonde curls stripped by the savage chemicals that failed to keep her from death. He’d never seen Jonathon cry before. To this day, Nic detested those fluffy hand-knitted beanies the oncology good-will ladies supplied.
His consciousness shied from gaping wounds apparent at the edge of vision, from bone piercing dappled grey. The gun intruded, Hank’s fingers digging his shoulder. Nic shrugged them away.
“It’s okay, Balt,” he choked for air. “It won’t hurt for too much longer.”
Nic accepted the weapon with a trembling hand, releasing the safety. Alexis Lawson’s pleas towards the end when all hope was lost swirled his brain, “It would surely be more humane for all of us, to shoot me, Nic.”
He admired that: his mother embraced action and didn’t mince words. She was tough and unyielding in the face of the ultimate trial. Doing what was best wasn’t about him: it was for Balt. Nic wished to make her proud, cocked the hammer, pressed the barrel to Balt’s forehead and pulled the trigger. The bang’s finality reverberated the hills forever.
“Goodbye, Balthazar,” he whispered, metal dropping to the bitumen with a bleak thud.
Hank and the stranger watched silently, as Nic hoisted upright, swiped his face and plodded along the path for his bedroom, emptiness a void to consume him. Within his pitiful sanctuary, he locked the door, kicked off blood-stained boots, ripped the shirt over his head and fell into bed in a shivering ball, praying beyond hope for the black forgetfulness of sleep.
***
Chapter Twenty-One