Tristan

Tristan by Henry H. Hilliard

This work fully protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a), 302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent.

If reading this story is not legal in your jurisdiction, stop it right now.

If you enjoy this story, please consider making a donation to Nifty to keep this platform alive.

Chapter 11

The room was an odd combination of English and American. There were three pieces of Georgian, or perhaps Georgian reproduction, that were spindly and slightly pocked marked by time--`patina' it was called in the stores: A plain folding table with a gate leg, a sewing table with a rather ratty cloth bag dangling below it like an udder, and a piecrust tea table upon which Tristan's floral tea cup now sat amid ghostly ring marks left by glasses past. Tristan's subconscious immediately registered them as English, rather than their more robust American descendants that could be purchased in decorator's stores in the big cities. They lacked he broken pediments and brass eagles and other such confident expressions favoured by the early colonists. No, these belonged to persons of unaffected taste who had brought them from home to this distant place.

There were a quantity of books about, on shelves and stacked neatly on the floor. These too were English, for an American house would have culled the well-worn paperbacks in favour of those with impressive leather bindings, real or faked. There were no ceramic Chinese horses lit by moody spotlights nor any French influence, but the sprawling layout of the older suburban house, the barbecue on the deck that could be glimpsed through the window and the absence of proper doors and discreet rooms, all spoke of America and of central heating.

"So, how are you finding Texas, Tristan?" asked Iona Macpherson in the absence of her husband who had gone into another part of the house to look for a particular book. She was an Englishwoman of about forty, the wife Dr Macpherson, Tristan's history professor.

"I'm getting used to it. I think I've spent the last months in a state of shock. It's nice but... but...rather remote in some ways."

"I always said they were insular, but now I say `they march to the beat of a different drum'. That causes less hostility, of course, and is possibly more accurate."

"Did you have trouble when you first came here?"

"Some. I didn't have a position here, like Iain, and I was rather expected to be the professor's wife and socialise with all the other wives like it was the nineteen-fifties. It was quite unbelievable! I put a few noses out of joint, but I've carved my own niche since--writing."

"Here it is, Tristan," said Dr Macpherson before Tristan could ask his wife what it was that she was writing. "Prescott Webb was quite groundbreaking in the 1930s, but he fell out of fashion in more recent times. He saw technology as the driving force for culture clash on the frontier--the railways, barbed wire, et cetera. He was criticised for not giving weight to Native American achievements and Spanish culture and for looking at it only from the standpoint of white privilege. But I think he is still largely correct. Of course, he also criticised water rights and, at that time, the big irrigators were also key beneficiaries of this university. He was dropped off the lists. Can you imagine that sort of thing happening in Oxford or Cambridge, Tristan?

There was a pause. "Well, yes I can, actually, Iain."

"Yes, so can I!" They all laughed.

"Your father's company is a big benefactor of the University. They gave, I don't know how many millions this year--a lot."

"Well, my father only works for Globoco, so it's not really his company in that sense. Will our History Department benefit?"

"Good God, no! It will mostly go to building a new wrestling stadium."

Iona Macpherson went to pour Tristan some more tea, but Tristan moved quickly and poured it for himself and then for the other two, mindful that Mrs Macpherson did not want to be thought of as just a housewife.

"I've become quite interested in American History," began Tristan. "Perhaps I will take `Ideal of Freedom' in my second year."

Dr Macpherson made his opinion quite clear when he pulled a face. "Tristan, I think I know you well enough to suggest that it might not suit. Perhaps if you were running for sheriff, it might be a different matter. Might I suggest Brian Merrick's Economic History, if they let it run. He deals with the world cotton economy in first semester as a study and then with the economic transformation of the economy from the Civil War to the Great War--robber barons, Taylorism, the Homestead Strike and so on. Much more meaty and less meat-heady." He gave a laugh at his own joke. Tristan made a note.

Then there was a discussion about football, these immigrants having not been immune to its all-pervasive reach.

"I believe you're in that dreadful old dorm, Selecman, that houses the jocks," said Iona. How odd!"

"Yes, it is and it's a shocking dump, but I've become used to it. I suppose I have even developed an affection for it now, but it's a pity Globoco didn't give money for its demolition. I room with the quarterback."

"Colton Stone?" they both said in unison and went on to talk excitedly about that person whose dirty white socks were, at this very moment draped across Tristan's teapot and the same student who had only that morning, laughing maniacally, held Tristan's head under the duvet and farted.

Tristan returned to Charles C. Selecman House to find Colton, reeking of Axe and getting ready for a date. He had on blue shirt with a button down collar but as yet no trousers. "I need you to shave my balls, Tris. Can you do it?"

It had its attractions, so Tristan agreed and went to the closet to get his trimmer. When he returned, there was the quarterback--so recently lauded as a hero by the History Faculty--rolled back with his arms clasped beneath his knees. His dangly bits and `boy pussy' as Tristan teasingly referred to it, were on display like the Mandrills in the zoo.

"Well, there's a sight. Who's the lucky girl, or is a lucky fellah?" He set to work with the buzzer.

"Girl, dipshit. She's in my Calculus and she's..."

"Very calculating? Hold it out of the way."

"No, very hot--or very hot for Colty I should say." He went on to give some specifics.

"Fuck your nuts are huge. I really need all weekend to do a thorough job."

"No, that's fine. Now rub the lotion in." Tristan did, remarking that Americans call just about anything `lotion' and continued to do so until Colton released one leg and grabbed Tristan by the wrist. "Whoa there! You're getting me all riled up and I've got to save it for Amy."

He then hurriedly dressed in his best shorts and Vans and spent about ten minutes doing his teeth before racing out the door.

Tristan settled down to do his homework, only breaking to send a short email to his father. The essay on Arnold Bennett was presenting a few problems but Tristan discovered `an angle' in one of the more obscure reference books and shamelessly purloined the best bits, adapting them to his own writing style. He then went to bed.

In the middle of the night he reached over to the other bed. It was empty. Indeed he did not see Colton for most of the next day until their paths crossed at the cafeteria after Colton's team meeting.

"Roomy, can I ask a big, bit favour?"

"'course, Roomy."

"Well, can I use our room tonight. Amy's suitemate is back and she's gagging for some more Colty-luvvin."

"Was it good?"

"Yeah, very good. We went for pizza and stuff first, but she's right into me. Has all m'newspaper clippin's and ever'thang."

"Wow! Yeah, sure. Just leave some blankets and my bathroom bag in the common room. I'll doss there."

"You're the best, Tris."

So Tristan worked in the Library until 8:00 and then sat with the guys in the Common Room and watched something on Netflix until late. The others filtered away back to their own rooms while Tristan tried to arrange the blankets so as to get comfortable on the saggy couch.

He woke early and decided to go for a jog to get the kinks out. When he returned and had showered and shaved, he noticed their door was ajar. Colton was alone and bundling up the sheets.

"Thanks a million Tris. Amy and me is very grateful. She said to thank y'all special. I've left you a little present."

"You needn't..." began Tristan before he saw that the offering of thanks was a used condom sitting on the fridge. "Well,..." began Tristan, not knowing quite what to say. He looked at Colt to see if his leg was being pulled, but Colton's innocent face was all expectation. Then he looked at Colton's condom; its creamy-yellow load distending one end of what could easily pass for a Christmas stocking.

"Well, you said you like my cum and I thought..."

"Yes, Colt, I do like your cum, but when it is sort of...produced...for me. This is generous--generous I every sense--but it is sort of a bit creepy. It was produced for Amy and her taste will be on the rubber, I'm afraid, and... that...er...and it will be cold."

"Oh, sorry. I never thought of it like that." He picked it up, marvelling how the thing drooped low, tied it off and threw it into the waste paper basket. In there were three more condoms. Tristan's jaw dropped, but before he could say anything, Colt was out the door, already late for training.

The romance ran hot for a week-and-a-half. Tristan was not asked to vacate their room again, but he did get to meet Amy at their regular Sunday night pizza thing. She was introduced to the whole crowd and clung to Colton like a limpet. She was petite but, unsurprisingly, had very large breasts straining her pink angora cardigan and a very nice `booty' (as Deshawn termed it) in tight, white slacks Tristan thought her pretty and even sweet.

One night, however, Tristan saw that things had come undone when he noticed that Colton was getting undressed for bed, thus announcing that he was sleeping `at home'.

"You're not seeing Amy tonight?"

"Nah, its over," said Colton scratching his shaven balls meditatively.

"What happened, dude?"

"Well, she's really nice and we got on like a house on fire. The sex was great. Then she starts in on wanting to move in with me--get a place of our own an' stuff. I starts to freak. Shit man, I'm only eighteen. I don't want to get tied down ('less it's with velvet handcuff to the bedposts, that is) and, worse, I'm pretty sure she's wanting me to give her a baby."

"But you use protection."

"Yeah, sure, and she say's she's on the pill, but all the same, sometimes the rubber breaks."

"It does?"

"Yeah, sure it does. If it's stretched too tight or your lovin' is a bit too vig'rous or if the bitch puts a hole in it."

"You suspect her of doing that."

"Can't be sure, but she was acting suspiciously around my packet of Trojan XLs--I use 'em with a spermicide lube too--so I switched to the ONE legends--the ones with the ribs, not the chocolate flavoured ones--that I had in my backpack for emergencies."

"You are well prepared."

"A dude like me's gotta be, man. Chicks are real smart and when they keep talkin' 'bout their sisters' babies and soft furnishin's and shit on practically our first date, well the warnin' bell goes off."

"Did you think there was anything creepy about all the stuff she had about you--you know, like a stalker or something?"

"Could be, Tris. Colty's a pretty popular stud among the ladies of course, but do you think that candles is normal?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, she had this little candle sittin' front of a picture of me--the one from Sport's Illustrated when I was in high school--real nice gold frame too."

"Could be a hint. Did you part amicably enough?"

"If that means sweet, no sir. She starts in on hitting me and then declares she's goin' t'top herself."

"Shit, Colt, that's heavy stuff. What are you going to do?"

"Nothin'?"

"No, man, I think you need to report it to someone. A threat to self-harm can't just be ignored. Ring Lifeline. Or better still, Doctor Baddeley, she'll know what to do."

"It's late. I'll do it tomorrer."

"No, Colt. Please do it now. I know it's not your fault, but you'll feel guilty for the rest of your life if you don't do anything and she does it. Police too."

"Okay, Roomy. Y'all mostly right about stuff." He got out his phone and found the doctor's number. He rang. It was only a minute before it was answered.

"Colton Stone here, Ma'am. Sorry to disturb you so late....no, sorry, I didn't know how long it took y'husband to get into the mood....yes, I'm sure Patou is very expensive...yes, I could come over and do the job, but I won't. Look I have a problem..." Colton outlined the situation in a dispassionate manner. "Yes, he is here with me were in-- in the same room...No, Ma'am, I'm pretty sure she's not...No, Ma'am, I didn't get off at Mineola, rubber every time...Well she was pretty sore at me, just sayin' like... Yes'm...Yes'm, I'll tell him."

Colton was sweating when he hung up. "Doc Baddeley is goin' to inform the authorities, apparently it's mandatory. They'll send someone out I suppose. Will it be the cops?" Tristan didn't know and he felt a bit sorry for the girl. She obviously loved Colton as much as he did. He wondered, for an instant, if he too would be self destructive if Colton were to leave him--he had the tablets. If Colton felt that he was being trapped by Tristan, he might react the same way as he did with Amy--an unimaginably awful thought. He vowed to give Colton no cause, but he couldn't always trust himself when it came to Colton.

"She wants to see us both tomorrer so she can do the official paperwork. Says that I can't be trusted by m'self!"

The last weeks running up to Christmas passed swiftly and Tristan now felt like he couldn't remember a world before university and began to divide his life simply into the epoch before Colton and after.

It was comforting to know that Amy did not harm herself, although what action had been taken they never knew. Dr Baddeley was a trifle stern, even going as far as to say that Colton was `trifling' with girls. Tristan giggled at the term and was promptly told off. Dr Baddeley asked what Colton thought about a vasectomy and wide eyed with alarm clutched his privates and seemed so distressed that even the stern doctor burst out laughing.

"What about you, Mr Isley, are you trifling with any hearts?" she asked. Tristan went red and murmured something about not having to worry about him. She ordered them both blood tests anyway.

Colt did not seem inclined to get back into the dating game. He went to the film society with Tristan and Ben and Ivy and they saw Stagecoach and there followed a discussion on John Ford. Colt liked it so much, that he even agreed to go to an exhibition later in the week of drawings and models done by the Architecture students. He liked that too.

The GSA did not countenance anything to do with Christmas, although some of the lesbians made a play for a wiccan festival to be held in the forest preserve on the edge of the campus, but like everything, it came to nothing. While Colt dutifully attended, many of his team members had dropped out. They could hardly be blamed.

There were two more football matches. The first was a loss, which was disappointing after the blow-out of the previous match. No one was much to blame and Colt's trouble with Amy did not seem to have had any bearing. The final one, at home against Father Divine College, an all-black institution in Port Arthur, was a solid victory due, in no small extent, to the clever and unselfish play of the star quarterback. The team could look forward to their Christmas vacation with more wins than losses, a better position than they had been in for some years.

At Nonno's, Tristan created a surprise when he invited all at the table to his father's cabin for New Year's Eve and the week following. This would include the footballers like Matt, Hollis and Deshawn, Deshawn's girlfriend, Parker, Jimmy, Alexinia and her boyfriend Carlos, and Rachel and Leesha. The house could easily accommodate sixteen, if people didn't mind doubling up, Tristan explained. Rachel and Leesha immediately went crazy trying to organise things to their advantage, but Tristan gave them no help, merely saying they would work things out when they got there. A few didn't think they would be able to come for various reasons; others said they could come for some of the week, some asked if they could bring their girlfriends. Tristan told them not to worry and that arrangements were flexible, to say the least.

The table was abuzz and `grilling'--as the Americans called it-- and fireworks--of which they were fond-- were mentioned along with beer and skinny-dipping. Tristan looked on, smiling, and pleased that he had been able to do something for the group that had taken him in as a complete stranger not so many months before.

"I thought we could go up a few days before the others to get things ready, Colt. We could drive up from the farm."

"Sounds like a plan, man."

Tristan found himself driving on the highway to Dallas. He had dropped Colton at the bus depot and then turned the truck north for the three-hour drive under leaden skies. A cold wind buffeted the vehicle. Tristan felt the gloom in himself and wondered how he was going to survive Christmas. He missed Colt already and was tearful as he reached across for the discarded boxers--the ones with the short leg that were his favourite-- that his roommate had left for him. He breathed deeply into the fabric and automatically recalled their owner for just an instant. Tristan then wiped his eyes with the boxers before throwing them into the back seat and steeling himself like a true Briton.

Klyde Warren Park was a fairground of highly manicured Christmas lights that reflected off the water. A stylized electric cone that represented a living tree was the centrepiece and Tristan could see the silhouettes of revellers admiring it. He wondered why as he swung into the driveway. A doorman rushed out and greeted Tristan. Whether he had remembered him or not, Tristan couldn't tell. His truck was taken away and his bags would be taken up. That just left Tristan to make the journey to the lift across the vast expanse of pink-flecked marble.

He paused before the double doors to the `sub-penthouse', undecided whether to knock or use his key. He decided to knock and would pretend his house key was with the truck. He gave a double rap.

"Oh hello, Mrs Torres. Merry Christmas."

"Tristan! Merry Christmas to you too," replied the housekeeper. "Your father was just saying that he hoped you didn't have any classes today and would arrive early."

"Yes, none since Tuesday and I'm a free man."

"Well, we are very pleased to see you. You look very well--college life must be agreeing with you."

"It is. And I know I must look better than when you last saw me at the beginning of September." He grinned guiltily and then felt annoyed for betraying himself and appearing happy in a place he had vowed he'd never be. "Is Dad at home?"

"Said he'd be back around six," said Mrs Torres, hanging his anorak in a closet. Cylvah is though; she's just through there." She was interrupted by functionary with Tristan's two bags.

"I'll take them, Mrs Torres."

"No, I've got them and I'll put them in your room. You go and say hello to Cylvah, she's been waiting too."

Trsitan had no more excuses. He walked the distance across the outsize white tiles and down a step into a large white room through whose black windows could be seen the night panorama of downtown Dallas.

"Merry Christmas, Cylvah," he forced himself to say.

Cylvah was barefoot on a huge white couch, her body greatly contorted as she was trying to paint her toenails. She unbent like a paperclip. "Tristan! And a Merry Christmas to you too!" She gave that awful laugh.

There was an awkward silence. Tristan regarded her. She was wearing a tight white frock that was now hoisted above mid-thigh--a meaty thigh now that he looked. Tristan noted without enthusiasm that her knickers were also white. She was platinum blonde, although there was a dark shadow on her upper lip. Her hair was big and it cascaded down to her breasts, which were also big. She had been spray tanned and the texture of her skin, even in the jewels of halogen light in the apartment, betrayed that she was on the wrong side of forty.

To her credit, Cylvah spoke first. "I was just doing m'nails. I wanted somethin' Christmassy so I thought `Santa Claus Red'. She waved her hand at the bottle on the outsize glass coffee table while skill clutching the little brush between two fingers.

"Perhaps you could have red and green, you know, on alternating toes," suggested Tristan, deadpan.

Cylvah let out another terrible laugh and Tristan found that he was smiling too. "Here, let me help you, your boobs are too big to bend over properly and I'm a gay boy so I'm supposed to know about this stuff."

"Oh Tristan, I truly do like it when y'funny. I'm glad you could get away."

Tristan knelt down and took the little brush from her and picked up the bottle from the table. With his tongue licking his upper lip for concentration, Tristan held her sturdy foot in one hand and set to work painting with the other.

Cylvah kept laughing and Tristan was tying not to laugh. "Shut up!" he said playfully, or you'll make me get it on this damned white rug." The rug was apparently an expensive flokati that Cylvah had found and had dyed to match her scheme of decoration and she told snippets of this saga while Tristan tended to the other foot. Tristan amused her by telling stories of how disgusting were the floors at Charles C. Selecman House and of the some of the unsavoury and less than hygienic were the habits of the jocks who lived there. Soon Cylvah was squirming and exclaiming, "Ewwah!"

"And that gorgeous boy, Colton? I suppose the girls..."

"Yeah. Plenty of girls. He's gone home to the farm and his folks have asked me to go after Christmas.

"You on a farm!"

"Yeah, it's pretty nice and I can help prune their grapevines."

"I grew up on a farm..."

This piece of autobiography was interrupted by the arrival of Tristan's father. He was wearing a three-piece suit--London tailor--and Mrs Torres could be seen hanging up a camelhair overcoat. "Hello, Tris,' he said.

Tristan rose from the rug and screwed the bottle shut. "Merry Christmas, Dad."

"Merry Christmas, Tristan. Shall we have a drink before dinner?"

Mrs Torres brought in some glasses on a tray. His father made two gins-and-tonic and something else for Cylvah. He toasted Christmas. Then there was some gentle probing about Tristan's progress at University, which Tristan parried. There weren't many smiles. Tristan saw that Cylvah had tuned out. Tristan asked disinterestedly about his father's work and received rather bland replies.

"Your friend, Dacey Stone; they've offered him a job--a good one. Short of skilled labour out there--ones that can speak English. I'm sure Colton will tell you. How are you getting on with your roommate? He must be special if you are going up to the cabin."

"Well, there's a whole lot of us going, but yeah, we get along great. He's a terrific guy and everybody loves him."

"Everybody?"

"Yeah, everybody."

"Dad, before I forget, can I tell you about Grandma?"

"We'll be back in a moment," he said to Cylvah who was putting on a pair of gold sandals.

In his father's study, he gave a brief outline of the events. He showed him is mother's Christmas card on his phone, without comment. His father just grunted. He had never really discussed the breakdown of his marriage with Tristan and here was another opportunity missed.

"Well, if Nigel and I inherit, then I will be able to pay my own way at University. You have been very generous, Dad, and now you will be spared."

"Wait a minute, Tris. This money is yours; it had nothing to do with my paying for your tertiary education. I will continue to pay for as long as you are passing. I'm very pleased to see you doing so well, after..."

"After how I was when I had my breakdown?"

"Is that what you call your appalling behaviour?"

"That's what the doctor calls it."

"You've been seeing Dr Korporal?"

"No, a campus doctor, Dr Baddeley. She said I'd suffered an emotional breakdown and wanted me to see a shrink."

"And did you?"

"No, my friends--Colt--helped me a lot and I'm practically off the meds. They were making me worse. I don't feel like killing myself anymore. I'm good."

"You felt like killing yourself? You mean when you were living here and going to school?" His father seemed deeply shocked and threw his shoulders back as if he'd been struck.

"Yeah, sometimes, Dad, when I was really down. It seemed, at the time, it would be the best all round."

"I never knew...I...I just never knew. Your mother said that you were just...Tris, I insisted you come out here because you were making trouble for her and Rodger Treufesis and his children. Trying to break them up and falling in with a bad crowd too--bad example for his boys."

"That's outrageous!" screamed Tristan. Cylvah came to the door. It was Tristan who spoke first. "Sorry Cylvah. I just heard some bad news. It's all right." She withdrew and closed the door silently.

"Dad, I've got nothing against Rodger, ask him. We got on okay at the funeral. His kids are fine, although I hardly know them. Mum's delusional. As for bad friends, well you knew most of them: Colin, the two Steves, Saskia and that lot. A little bit of dope with vodka shots was about as rad as we ever got. I wasn't out clubbing with the Krays."

"Well!" was all he said. Then, recovering slightly, "I'm glad you're doing better, Tristan, and I am still supporting you as I said. I hope you will go on and do post-graduate work, maybe with your friend Dr Macpherson. And as for employment..."

"Please don't say it, Dad, I doubt I will want to work for Globocco or anyone in the corporate world."

"Or the law?"

"I don't think so. By he way, through Mr Ticehurst at Gran's, I now have a Ms Gonsalves at Redessky's here in Dallas to handle stuff. Is that all right?"

"Yes, they're good although I don't know her. You might like to make a will--not because you were...you were self-harming or anything, but just because you are now an adult with an estate. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, Dad, a bit fragile at times, but I'm a big boy now."

"Well, you've certainly grown, or have I just forgotten how adult you were."

"I've been doing a few weights--just light stuff, with Colt. Comes from a nerd like me living with a bunch of jocks."

"Yes, it's not quite Cambridge out here is it?"

"You're smiling , Dad!"

"Am I not allowed to smile?"

"Well, you don't smile very much."

"Perhaps I'm just smiling on the inside. Perhaps I'm too preoccupied with work. I do love you, Tristan, you know that don't you?"

"I guess I do, but I was confused I suppose when...you know...everything happened. I was only 16, Dad, and I needed some reassurance and I was going through my own stuff."

"You don't have to be 16 to be confused," said his father, sidestepping the issue. "I was pretty mixed up too. I can think clearer out here. I am deeply sorry, Tris, for you copping the brunt of it. That should never have happened and that you felt like ...you might even...well, I'll take that with me to my grave."

"Don't be like that, Dad, it wasn't such a big deal; I was never really going to do anything, it was just..." Tristan couldn't finish because he still didn't know what it was `just' like. His father never moved to hug him or anything. Tristan just had to accept that. He picked up a framed photo off the sleek black desk. It was Tristan in about 2010 when they were on holiday in France. He was grinning and holding a huge baguette. He remembered it. What would Freud have said?

"Tristan."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for being nice to Cylvah. She really likes you, you know. Two partners and no kinds of her own. Why not ask her about her painting when we're at dinner?"

Mr Isley used his phone to summon his car and driver. Tristan had showered and was in his second best outfit--a jumper and black pants. The car took them about three hundred yards to a restaurant on the ground floor of an office block. "We could have walked," complained Tristan.

"There are crazy people out there with guns. Don't walk anywhere around here."

Tristan could not see these menacing phantoms, but instead saw only the Christmas lights, which were way over the top and actually seemed antithetical to the Christmas message. They ate an expensive meal and the desultory conversation flagged. Tristan did his duty. "Dad says you've taken up painting, Cylvah."

She seemed excited at the attention and Tristan was glad he'd asked. She explained that it grew out of requests for `art works' (she used that expression) from her clients--she ran some sort of interior decoration business and she felt she could fill the gap herself. This business-oriented focus on even Art, Tristan felt was appallingly American.

They were frameless works done in textured acrylics. Tristan taught her the word `impasto' which she memorized for future outings. They were mostly abstracts as Tristan saw when they were back at the apartment. She had turned a bedroom into an office-cum-studio and painted with a roller on a table. Clearly the finished works were designed to blend in with soft furnishings and the like, the frequent use of gold giving a clue as to the nature of the rooms for which they were intended. Cylvah boasted how quickly she could knock them out.

"I like this one," Tristan found himself saying. It was an abstract made up of hardedge lines, but there were also minor geometric shapes like jewels made by small, square-ended artist's brush. There was a lot more in this one than the others. He took it to the window and turned it upright. "Why it's the skyline from this room. This is really good."

Cylvah blushed. "Thanks, Tristan. I spent more time on that than any of the others. I did it when your Dad was away in Costa Rica. Do you really like it?"

"Yes, I mean it."

"Please have it."

"Oh no, you have probably promised it to a client."

"No I ain't. I did this one for myself. I want you to have it Tris, for when you get a place."

"Well that's very nice of you, Cylvah. I'll treasure it. Yes, one day I might have a place to call home and it will go up on the wall above the fireplace. For the moment we'd better keep it here in my bedroom or else it's likely to get a football thrown through it. We've already got a big hole in the wall where Colton's fat head collided with it when he and another footballer were wrestling."

"You boys must have a fine time. You're very lucky, I never got past m'high school diploma."

She looked troubled and Tristan hoped she wasn't going to cry. He didn't know what to say, so he just gave her hand a squeeze.

The next day was Christmas Day. Mrs Torres made them a handsome breakfast. Tristan realised how much he missed marmalade. Gifts were exchanged: a leather desk diary for his father, a silk scarf for Cylvah. Mrs Torres received a signed team football--she was a great college football fan. Tristan was surprised when Cylvah rolled out something that looked like a fish tank on wheels. When the paper was torn off it proved to be a beer cooler. "Wow, thanks, guys," said Tristan looking at it. It was a retro-styled insulated metal box in cream enamel; the stylised lettering read `Lone Star Beer'. It could be mounted on a stand with wheels or simply placed in the back of a truck. It made a useful impromptu seat. "This is so cool!" exclaimed Tristan.

"Well, it's meant to be," replied his father with a straight face.

"Yeah, well it will be great at tailgates and cookouts. I'll be a real jock!"

His father snorted, which was as close to a smile as could be expected.

Soon it was time for the big dinner, which was to be held at two o'clock. The driver had the day off, so Mr Isley risked an Uber for the journey of three hundred yards in the other direction to the Ritz-Plaza hotel. There was a great deal of professionally groomed Yuletide decoration and the main ballroom had been turned into a not-very-cosy dining room for a couple of hundred people, all strangers to each other.

Tristan's suit was uncomfortably tight. "You have built up, Tristan," his father joked, "We'll have to get you a new one--but in London, not here." Cylvah made a big show about feeling his muscles. Tristan blushed.

The other guests were a Russian couple with a small boy and a childless French couple in their sixties. Tristan knew that they were somehow connected with Globocco, but this was never made clear. The Russian was predicably dour, although lightened up just a shade when he'd had a few glasses of wine. His wife was hampered by a lack of English and spent much of the time rebuking the little boy. The French couple looked like someone's grandparents. He talked only business, even when Tristan's father tried to redirect the topic to something more socially acceptable. His wife was different, and Tristan found if he worked hard enough, they could find things to talk about.

At one point, Cylvah whispered that she liked socialising with foreigners because they couldn't tell her accent was not `sophisticated'. Tristan felt immensely sorry for her.

The horrors eventually drew to an end and Tristan found himself in his old bedroom again. There was very little that was personal that remained here. All the usual reminders of childhood and past enthusiasms, all that was once familiar and comforting, had been lost in the move from England. What was left had been rather thoughtlessly expunged by Cylvah's interior decoration and his father had just allowed it. The bedroom too had reminders of the terrible five months--Tristan's black time. He searched for the mark he made on the plaster when he threw his father's mobile phone at the wall during one episode. New paint had literally glossed over it. He found, however, the little plastic bag of tablets that he had horded and had hidden in the hollow rod of the towel rail in the bathroom. He stood looking at these for many minutes and then flushed them. Finally, he pulled on Colton's boxers and went to sleep.

Back on the road for the five hours to Colton's farm, Tristan reflected on the progress he had made with his father--and with his father's girlfriend. He had unbent a bit over Christmas, he realised, and had made an effort to see things from their point of view. His father, well... he was like who he was and Tristan would never be able to understand him fully. Tristan consoled himself that he had not been a total prima donna, his father actually had behaved poorly--or at least thoughtlessly--towards him over the last few years, but Tristan realised that this could not be undone and that there was more profit from accepting some truths and trying to move on. It would soon be a new year and he was an adult more or less on his own now. His father would, no doubt, have his own demons. His mother was another story.

He felt tired so he stopped in Waco and, after driving around a bit, he found a funny coffee shop near a college campus that was open. There were few students about on this day. He pressed on, depending on the sat nav in his new truck and stopped at Llano to fill up. He listened to music on his Bluetooth until he got sick of it and turned it off, the inner dialogue inside his head immediately taking its place.

At last he recognised the landmarks around Colton's home territory and shot him a text to say that he was not very far away. His heart lightened and almost sang at the thought of being with him again.

Please look for the next chapter. Henry would love to receive feedback and will endeavour to reply. Please email h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and put Tristan in the subject line.