Page 47 of Don't Point at the Moon

“Uncle Mitch—Mitchell—asked me the same thing. I’m nineteen, not nine. Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

Tommy looked down the hill and saw Shelly had already moved off, her phone clamped to her ear.

“No. Go and catch up with Shelly and the gang, before you lose them. You know you’ll only end up with a bad case of—what is it you called it the other day?”

“FOMO. Fear of missing out. Point taken. Cool.”

Before jumping in a cab, Tommy bought a bottle of mineral water from a convenience store. When he arrived at the ferryterminal, he walked to the taxi queue but found no sign of Mitchell. For a moment he wondered if he had already headed home, until he spotted the familiar figure bundled up and sitting alone on the stone steps leading down to the ferry terminal. When Tommy neared, he noticed Mitchell rocking gently backwards and forward.

“There you are,” said Tommy, trying not to sound worried.

“Here I am,” said Mitchell, his voice slow but not as slurred as earlier. “I’m a little drunk.”

“I thought you might be. The incoherent text messages were a giveaway,” said Tommy, pulling the water from his bag and unscrewing the top. “Here. Drink this.”

Mitchell reached a hand up unsteadily and took the bottle. Tommy noticed a damp patch on the front of Mitchell’s plaid shirt but said nothing. Mitchell took a few tentative mouthfuls before offering the bottle back.

“Keep it,” said Tommy. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“Zane—?”

“Is fine. I said you weren’t feeling well. He’s out making new friends. Let’s worry about you.”

Tommy went to help Mitchell, who waved him off and managed to stand upright unassisted.

“I threw up a bit.” On his feet now, Mitchell peered down at his shirt. “A lot, actually. I’m sorry.”

“Probably for the best. You want to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

When Mitchell stumbled to his left, Tommy strode over to support him. With an arm around Mitchell’s waist, Tommy led them to a red taxi. When the back door opened automatically, Tommy explained to the driver in Cantonese that his friend had a touch of heatstroke but was otherwise fine. The explanation appeared to placate the driver, and after Mitchell gave hisaddress in very passable and, thankfully, coherent Cantonese, they set off.

“You stink of whisky vomit,” Tommy murmured, fitting Mitchell’s seatbelt.

“Twenty-five-year-old Baxter malt whisky vomit, to be precise.”

“Didn’t take you for a whisky drinker.”

“I’m not. One glass of wine is usually my limit. And I’ve never had whisky in my life. But there it was. Even had my name on the bottle. So I decided what the hell.”

“And I’m predicting that by the morning you will vow never to touch another drop again.”

They sat in companionable silence as the driver negotiated the small roads rising to Mitchell’s block. Some streets zigzagged left and right, and Tommy peered anxiously at Mitchell several times. His face retained an unhealthy pallor, but he appeared to be composed.

“I’m sorry, Tommy,” said Mitchell.

“You said that already.”

“I owe you. Once again.”

Tommy turned to Mitchell.

“That list is mounting up in my favour. How about you swear off whisky on the wedding day?”

“That much I will gladly promise you.”

When the taxi stopped outside the small courtyard housing Mitchell’s apartment block, Tommy had a moment of recognition. But from many years before. Maybe he’d once gone home with a hook-up who lived there. The sex must have been good if he recognised the place by daylight. Most of his past shags began and ended during nightfall.

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