enthused. "Lloyd did an absolutely inspirational Bible study on the Letter to the Ephesians. It's awesome how much he draws out from the text."
"I'm glad you had a good time," Alex said absently. Weird's entrances were as repetitive as they were dramatic ever since he'd started hanging out with the Christians. Alex had long since stopped paying attention.
"Where's Zig? He working?"
"He's out. Don't know where. If you're putting the kettle on, I'll have another coffee."
The kettle had barely boiled when they heard the front door open. To their surprise, it was Mondo who walked in, not Ziggy. "Hello, stranger," Alex said. "She throw you out?"
"She's got an essay crisis," Mondo said, reaching for a mug and tipping coffee into it. "If I hang around, she'll only keep me awake moaning about it. So I thought I'd grace you guys with my presence. Where's Ziggy?"
"I don't know. Am I my brother's keeper?"
"Genesis chapter four, verse nine," Weird said smugly.
"For fuck's sake, Weird," Mondo said. "Are you not over it yet?"
"You don't get over Jesus, Mondo. I don't expect someone as shallow as you to understand that. False gods, that's what you're worshiping."
Mondo grinned. "Maybe. But she gives great head."
Alex groaned. "I can't take anymore. I'm going to bed." He left them to their sparring, luxuriating in the peace of a room of his own again. Nobody had been sent to replace Cavendish and Greenhalgh, so he'd moved into what had been Cavendish's bedroom. He paused on the threshold, glancing into the music room. He couldn't remember the last time they'd sat down and played together. Until this term, hardly a day had gone by when they hadn't sat down and jammed for half an hour or more. But that had disappeared too, along with the closeness.
Maybe that was what happened anyway when you grew up. But Alex suspected it had more to do with what Rosie Duff's death had taught them about themselves and each other. It hadn't been a very edifying journey so far. Mondo had retreated into selfishness and sex; Weird had disappeared to a distant planet where even the language was incomprehensible. Only Ziggy had stayed his intimate. And even he seemed to have taken to disappearing without a trace. And underneath it all, a dissonant counterpoint to everyday life, suspicion and uncertainty gnawed away. Mondo had been the one to utter the poisonous words, but Alex had already been providing an ample feast for the worm in the bud.
Part of Alex hoped that things would settle down and return to normal. But the other part of him knew that some things, once broken, can never be restored. Thinking of restoration summoned Lynn to his mind, making him smile. He was going home on the weekend. They were going to Edinburgh to see a film. Heaven Can Wait, with Julie Christie and Warren Beatty. Romantic comedy seemed like a good place to start. It was an unspoken understanding between them that they wouldn't go out in Kirkcaldy. Too many wagging tongues quick to judgment.
He thought he'd tell Ziggy, though. He'd been going to tell him tonight. But, like heaven, that could wait. It wasn't as if either of them was going anywhere.
Ziggy would have given all he possessed to be anywhere else. It seemed like hours since he'd been dumped in the dungeon. He was chilled to the bone. The damp patch where he'd pissed himself felt icy, his prick and balls shriveled to infant size. And still he hadn't managed to untie his hands. Cramp had shot through his arms and legs in spasms, making him cry out with the excruciating pain of it. But at last, he thought he could feel the knot starting to give.
He gripped his aching jaw over the nylon rope once more and jiggled his head this way and that. Yes, there was definitely more movement. Either that or he was so desperate he was hallucinating progress. A tug to the left, then a jerk backward. He repeated the motion several times. When the rope end finally curled free and whipped against his face, Ziggy burst into tears.
Once that first turn was undone, the rest came away easily. All at once, his hands were free. Numb, but free. His fingers felt as swollen and cold as supermarket sausages. He thrust them inside his jacket, into his armpits. Axillae, he thought, remembering that cold was an enemy of thought, slowing the brain down. "Think anatomy," he said out loud, recalling the giggles he'd