As Callan prised his eyes open, he didn’t know whether the hammering was coming from the inside of his head or the front door. The knocking grew louder and more insistent and he realised it was coming from the door, though the pounding in his head was giving it a good run for its money. He must have had a lot more to drink than he’d thought. Although he did remember bringing home a hotter-than-hell woman.

“Shit!”

Suddenly, he sat bolt upright, looking around the room for any hint that Ali was still there. It appeared empty, and a glance towards the open bathroom door revealed she must have left. An unexpected flash of disappointment hit him in the chest.

Callan heard a male voice calling his name, alternating between the banging, and brought himself back to the present. He hauled himself out of bed, wrapping the sheet around the lower half of his body as he headed for the door and opened it.

The man standing in the entrance swept his gaze up Callan’s half-naked, tattooed body as Callan rubbed his eyes.

“Rough night?” he asked, before pushing his way into the flat.

Callan slammed the door behind him and followed the man, who had made his way to the kitchen and busied himself in putting on the kettle.

“Dad? What the hell are you doing here? Who let you in?”

The look Drew Rivers gave his son was one of pity.

“I thought I was meant to be the old man losing his mind. If you’d checked your messages, then you’d know I said I’d be here at ten, so we can go to the crematorium together.”

Drew’s words hit hard. It wasn’t as if Callan could forget what day it was. Ali had provided such a sweet distraction that he had, for the first time in a while, been able to get a good night’s sleep. One that had been dreamless for once.

“You look like you need a shower,” said Drew. He spooned coffee into two clean mugs and opened the fridge door to find milk. “Why don’t you get cleaned up while I make the drinks?”

The image was so ridiculous that Callan almost laughed out loud. His dad, standing in his kitchen, dressed in a smart suit being all domesticated as if they did this every day.

Maybe he was dreaming after all.

With a shake of his head, he went back to the bathroom. As the hot water cascaded over his skin, Callan’s thoughts went back to the previous evening and his encounter with the beautiful Ali. He usually wasn’t the type of guy to take someone home within hours of meeting them, but life hadn’t exactly been normal for him lately. He had managed to deflect any of her questions about his personal life and in doing so had avoided delving into hers. He had a fleeting thought that he might want to see her again and instantly dismissed it; he wasn’t ready to start a relationship with anyone right now.

Ten minutes later he was perched on the edge of his own sofa, cradling a mug of coffee while his father lounged in the armchair. The collar on his shirt felt too tight, and he wanted to rip off the black tie he wore out of obligation. In fact, his whole outfit felt wrong. Xander wouldn’t have wanted that. He would have ridiculed his brother over his poor choice of clothing, like he would have done on any other normal day in the shop.

“How long before we have to leave?” Callan asked Drew.

Drew checked his watch. “Taxi’s due in about twenty minutes, which you would have known if you’d listened to my message.”

Callan looked around for his phone, trying to recall where he'd left it when he and Ali had arrived back at the flat. He spotted it on the side near the kettle and stood up.

“I’m going to get changed, this doesn’t feel right. I can’t let Xander go looking like this.” He swiped the device and went to his room.

He stripped off the stiff, uncomfortable suit, and white shirt, standing in boxers and socks in front of the open wardrobe. He reached for dark jeans, a black shirt, and a dark-grey suit jacket. As he slid them on, he began to feel more like himself. He stared at his reflection in the mirror: darkened shadows under his eyes with a slightly haunted look, and gaunter than he would like. Grief and stress—plus an almost entirely liquid diet—hadn’t exactly been kind to him over the past couple of weeks.

Callan sank down onto the unmade bed, where he got a brief, light aroma of Ali’s perfume, and picked up his phone. He felt he ought to listen to Drew’s message. He dialled his voicemail and put the phone on speaker as his dad’s tones filled the room.

“Cal, I’ll be over in the morning. We need to do this together. It’s just us now, and we need to be there for each other. I’m going to be around more for you, son. See you at ten.”

Callan pressed a clenched fist against his forehead, trying to ease the tension. He needed to get through the next few hours, no matter how hard and painful they were going to be.

* * *

By the time Callan and Drew arrived at the crematorium, the light drizzle that had begun when they left Oakridge had developed into heavy rain. It mirrored exactly how Callan felt. Aidy and Wren approached him the moment he entered the waiting room. Wren enveloped him in a massive hug, and Callan held on as tightly as he could, needing some of her strength.

“Whatever you need, Callan, let us know.” Wren released him and kissed his cheek, leaving a lipstick mark that she hastily rubbed off.

Callan nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to keep it together. He glanced around the room and saw the rest of The Unbound Soul staff huddled together, as well as several of Xander’s friends. There were around thirty or so people in attendance. He raised his chin in acknowledgement to those he recognised, as Wren reached for his hand. He heard a noise from outside and saw the funeral car approaching. Drew put a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s time, Cal,” he said.

Callan kept his eyes firmly on the ground as he followed the coffin into the chapel, his dad beside him. If he looked, it had to be true, and he still didn’t want to believe it was happening. The funeral director showed them to their seats at the front. Callan was thankful that everyone was behind him. If he saw anyone else break down, it would finish him off too. If he could keep everything in a bubble around him, he might be able to get through. The service had been kept deliberately short and non-religious, conducted by the funeral director. Despite repeated suggestions that he should, Callan had refused the opportunity to speak. He wouldn’t be able to do it. Wouldn’t be able to get through the speech without breaking down or sounding bitter. Listening to what the funeral director was saying was enough.

As the committal began, he bowed his head and couldn’t stop the tears from flowing.

The funeral director approached Callan and Drew, signalling for them to follow him out into the grounds of the crematorium. While they had been inside, the rain clouds had cleared, and the sun was weakly trying to break through the clouds.

Callan gulped in the fresh air and tried to get his breathing to return to normal.

“Callan?”

The female voice that came from behind him was one he instantly recognised. He didn’t need to turn around to find out who it belonged to. He did so anyway.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

The woman, dressed immaculately in a black skirt suit, blonde hair pulled into a low ponytail, face pale except for a slash of red lipstick, stared back at him. There were dark circles under her eyes and streaks of mascara from where she had been crying.

Isobel. Callan’s ex-girlfriend.

“I invited her. It wasn’t fair for her not to be here.” Drew stood between the pair in an attempt to play peacemaker.

“Fair? It’s her fucking fault that he’s not here anymore!”

“Callan, I’m sorry. What more do you want me to say?” Isobel tried to reach for him, and he pulled as far away as he could.

“I don’t ever want to see you again. I thought I told you that when I found out you’d been shagging my brother?”

Isobel grabbed his arm. “You kicked me out of our flat and made me leave my job at your shop. I was homeless and jobless. What was I meant to do?”

“Seems that wasn’t enough though, was it? You’re still hanging around.” Callan turned his back on her and went to walk away.

“Xander hated the fact you wouldn’t talk to him,” said Isobel.

Callan stopped in his tracks.

“Said it was hard to keep on working with you when you clearly despised him.”

“It wasn’t him I hated,” said Callan, his voice barely above a whisper.

The night he’d discovered his brother and girlfriend together was burned into his brain. He’d been due to work late, staying on way beyond closing time to finish off a piece for one of his regulars, something that would have taken hours. At the last minute, the client had cancelled, and Callan had closed up as usual and headed back to his flat. When he had first entered, he heard music—not that it was an unusual thing, he and Isobel played songs all the time—it was music more akin to the stuff his brother liked, harder-edged than Callan’s preferred genre. Next, he heard voices and laughter coming from the bedroom. Despite every fibre of his body telling him not to, he headed into the room. The sight of Xander and Isobel tangled naked together on his bed—their bed—clearly in the throes of passion, made him feel physically sick. It was Isobel who had seen him first, squealing and pulling a sheet around her, as if Callan hadn’t seen her nude about a million times before. There had been protestations from the pair of them that it was a one off, nothing had ever happened before, and it wouldn’t happen again. Callan didn’t miss the look in Xander’s eyes, the one that said he’d finally gotten one over on his big brother. Callan instinctively knew it had been going on for some time. So, he turned and left. He went back to The Unbound Soul and slept on the couch upstairs, not for the first time, and waited for the two of them to show up for work the next morning.

When they arrived, hand in hand, Callan knew he wouldn’t be able to handle working with them both. Xander was his brother and had some financial involvement in the business. Isobel had to be the casualty. He gave her a month’s pay in lieu of notice and told her to pack her stuff. She had to be gone by the time he got home that night.

Since then, his relationship with Xander had been fractured, and they barely said a civil word to each other. Three months after Callan found them together, Xander had gone out on his bike to see Isobel in her new place out of town. The weather was horrendous, wet and stormy with gale force winds. Xander had over-cooked it on one of the bends on the country lane and piled straight into a tree at over fifty miles an hour. He died on the side of the road.

“It’s not my fault,” said Isobel. Her voice was thick with emotion. “It was an accident.”

“If he hadn’t been going to see you, he wouldn’t have been out in that weather,” Callan choked back. “You should never have started seeing him behind my back.”

Isobel hung her head, having the decency to look at least a little guilty.

Drew stepped in. “Look, now isn’t the time for recriminations and blame. We should be celebrating Xander's life.”

Callan glared at his father. “Celebrating the fact he was a liar, and she was a cheat?” He stabbed a finger into Isobel’s chest as he spoke. “Not likely. I’m out of here.”

He sought out Aidy and Wren. “I need to go. Can I get a lift?”

“Sure, where to?”

The Unbound Soul was always Callan’s sanctuary, and he asked to be dropped off there. He made sure that the closed sign was still up and headed upstairs to the little office. Opening the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, he grabbed the bottle of whisky that he kept there for emergencies. He took a huge swig straight from the bottle and felt it burn a path down his chest, then took another right away; the pain felt good. A hollow laugh ripped from his lips as he raised the bottle to the sky.

“To you, little bro, wherever you are.”