One Perfect Summer

heart attack. My eyes dart up to his. For the first time in my life I consider doing a runner, but Joe reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wad of hard-earned cash that he asked me to retrieve earlier. He swallows, trying to keep his tears at bay.
    ‘Maybe my parents could help,’ I say.
    ‘No.’ He shakes his head.
    ‘But that’s for your car.’
    He doesn’t answer. The bill is even higher than it would have been because the vet had to open after hours. Even now, on Sunday morning, they would not normally have to deal with customers. But it’s all money for nothing. Dyson died anyway.
    ‘Would you like him cremated?’ the vet’s wife asks as she relieves Joe of a large chunk of his earnings.
    ‘How much does that cost?’ I interject before Joe has time to think about it.
    She tells us. We both fall silent for a moment. Joe speaks first. His voice is practically a whisper.
    ‘What will you do with him if I can’t pay?’
    ‘We’ll dispose of him,’ she replies sympathetically.
    I put my hand on Joe’s arm.
    ‘Would you like a moment?’ she asks.
    ‘Yes, please.’ I reply for both of us. As soon as she’s gone, I turn to Joe. ‘Maybe we could bury him? In one of the fields that he loved running around in.’
    ‘He’s too heavy. We wouldn’t be able to carry him. And, anyway, I’m sure it’s not allowed.’
    ‘What about . . .’ I imagine conducting a serious funeral ceremony at the edge of a cliff, before dramatically easing Dyson’s weighted body into the water far below, but, again, we wouldn’t be able to get him there.
    ‘I’ll have to leave him,’ Joe says dully.
    ‘No, you can’t . . .’
    He nods abruptly, and knocks on the counter. The woman returns. He informs her of his decision and then walks out of the door. I bolt after him.
    ‘Don’t you want to say goodbye?’ I call after him. ‘We could ask to see him!’
    He spins around, his face wracked with pain. ‘He’s gone!’ he cries. ‘Last night is the memory I’m left with. I don’t want to see him dead too.’
    I rush to him and hold him in my arms as sobs ricochet through his body.

 
    ‘What’s the time?’ Joe asks flatly when we’re in the car.
    ‘Ten forty-five,’ I reply.
    Silence.
    And then he sighs. ‘I need to go home.’
    ‘No way.’ I shake my head vehemently.
    ‘Alice . . .’ He reaches over and puts his hand on my knee. I concentrate on driving. ‘It’s not to stay. But I want to get my things. It’s a good time,’ he adds. ‘The pub doesn’t open until twelve thirty – my parents will still be in bed. They get absolutely wasted after closing time on Saturday nights and they’re usually out cold until close to noon.’
    ‘In that case I’m coming with you,’ I tell him.
    ‘You can stay in the car,’ he replies. ‘I’d appreciate the lift.’
    ‘No. I’m coming with you.’
    ‘Even if they do wake up I don’t suppose they’ll do anything to you after Ryan landed me in hospital,’ he muses. ‘They’ll know your parents will get them locked up . . . Okay,’ he decides.
    The pub is dark and quiet. His parents must still be asleep, but I’m acutely on edge as I follow him up the stairs to the poky bedroom overlooking the car park. The door to the bedroom on the other side of the corridor is open. I can see the view across the fields to the ocean. That must be his old room. The bed is empty, I note with a shudder. Which means Ryan is still missing. I turn back to Joe. He’s frenziedly stuffing his belongings into plastic bags.
    ‘Are you going to tell your parents you’re leaving?’ I ask quietly.
    ‘No,’ he mutters. ‘They didn’t give a shit about me while I was here, so they should be happy once I’m gone. Give them more time to devote to their precious favourite son,’ he spits.
    ‘They’ll miss you behind the bar . . .’
    He snorts. ‘Yes, they fucking will. No more slave labour.’
    He angrily dumps another bag on the carpet near my feet and reaches for a fourth to fill.
    ‘I’ll take these down to the car,’ I tell him. He nods and gets on with the job at hand.
    I return to the pub afterwards, still on edge in case his parents have woken up. I push through the doors and head to the stairs, before freezing in my tracks. Cigarette smoke. Almost in slow motion, I turn to look at the dark lounge area, curtains still closed against the sunlight. There, in a corner booth, is Ryan, lazily smoking a cigarette.
    ‘Hello, beautiful,’ he