Idiopathy

my surf board,’ he said.
    ‘When did you ever have a surf board?’ said Nathan.
    ‘Oh, for a long time. One always thinks,’ he sniffed, ‘maybe one day I’ll get out there, you know, hit the surf. Then she comes along and puts a stop to all that.’
    Nathan pictured his father surfing in his yachting jacket.
    ‘Right,’ he said.
    ‘Anyway,’ said Nathan’s father. ‘There was something of a compromise. Because OK, maybe the time for surfing has passed. I can see that. But a man needs a retreat, a cave, so to speak.’
    He flicked a switch and three strip lights lit the space. It was concrete-floored, chilly and faintly industrial. In the corner was a makeshift bar. On the wall at the far end was a dartboard.
    ‘Let’s play darts.’
    ‘OK.’
    ‘But first I need to piss.’
    He pottered over to the edge of the garage and tugged at a flimsy-looking plastic door.
    ‘You had a toilet put in?’ said Nathan.
    ‘Chemical toilet,’ said his father, ‘but the absolute best obviously. Very high waste-decomposition factor.’
    His father shut himself in the little white cabin. As Nathan wandered about, casting his eye over the small drinks collection and the quiver of Union Jack darts on the edge of the old slab of worktop that served as the surface of the bar, he could hear his father sighing loudly.
    ‘Let’s hope that’s the last of it,’ said his father, still zipping his fly as he emerged. ‘Don’t seem to be able to tell these days.’
    ‘Right,’ said Nathan.
    ‘OK, let’s play. Here’s your darts.’
    He passed Nathan what must have been a spare set, the flights frayed, the tips dulled by countless landings on the concrete floor. ‘Round the clock, OK? One to twenty then bull.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘I’ll go first.’
    His father took a moment to position himself awkwardly with his toe on a strip of gaffer tape, tugging at his cuffs and waistline in order to throw unimpeded. ‘Here we go. Bugger. Bugger again. Bugger. No score. So anyway, your mother says we have to talk about your feelings. Do you want to talk about your feelings?’
    ‘Not really,’ said Nathan, placing his toe on the line. ‘One. No. Two. Two for me.’
    ‘Thank God for that,’ said his father, muscling up to the makeshift oche. ‘Frankly I was dreading it. Bugger. Bugger again. So close. No score.’
    ‘To be honest,’ said Nathan, ‘I’m pretty sick of talking about my feelings. Three. Four. No. Four for me.’
    ‘Well, I suppose that’s understandable. Shit. Bugger. FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. No score. Cocktail?’
    ‘Not for me, thanks.’
    ‘Mind if I have one?’
    ‘No.’
    While Nathan hit three in a row and took another go, his father moved to the bar and began sloshing a variety of fluids into a cocktail shaker, which he then vigorously agitated before decanting the frothy pink concoction into a highball glass and wedging a busted plum tomato onto the rim as a garnish.
    ‘What’s in that?’ said Nathan. ‘I’m on nine, by the way.’
    ‘Pink lemonade, gin, curaçao and a dash of Disaronno,’ said his father, toeing the oche. ‘I call it The Quiet Revolt because I’m not really allowed lemonade. One! Whahay! And he’s off the mark. Bugger. Whoops, almost. Score one for me. So, what are your plans?’
    ‘Plans?’
    ‘Yeah, your plans. You know, for your life.’
    ‘I have no idea.’
    ‘Fair enough. Early days and all that.’
    ‘Can I have a lemonade?’
    Nathan’s father narrowed his eyes, a slightly hunted look crossing his face.
    ‘Water will do,’ said Nathan.
    ‘Great. Ice and lemon?’
    ‘Yes, please.’
    ‘Or maybe just ice?’
    ‘OK.’
    They kept playing until Nathan won, at which point he watched for a further half-hour while his father finished off.
    ‘Anyway,’ said his father as they left, brushing invisible lint from the front of his jacket. ‘Glad we had this chat.’

    B efore going to bed, Nathan showered – his first fully hot and undisturbed shower in months – and felt the scalding water ripple through his beard and down over the scars and fragmented tattoos that webbed his arms and chest, feeling cleansed and hollow and tired enough to sleep for days. Had he really slept at The Sanctuary? He’d thought at the time that he had, but looking back now and comparing it with the quiet, warm, well-made bed currently awaiting him, he was forced to wonder.
    Stepping out of the bathroom, his lower half wrapped in a towel, he almost collided with his mother.