the other Son

Chapter 1

Wednesday morning came with a sea as smooth as a mirror and the taste of petrichor in the air.

Tristan didn't like days where even the seagulls were too quiet, their hoarse squawks missing. Still, he followed his daily ritual - awake at seven, sixteen grams of coarse coffee powder into the pre-warmed glass jug which he filled with ninety-six degree hot water and let it steep for four and a half minutes before he pressed the portafilter down and poured the coffee into his cup.

At ten past seven he sat at his kitchen table.

The day was young, as virgin as a catholic schoolgirl.

His downstairs neighbour was rummaging around, his steps announced by the creaky floorboards.

Tristan sipped his coffee.

His neighbour left the house at half past seven with a bag slung over his shoulder and the gray hair shoved underneath a faded baseball cap. Through the window, Tristan watched him trudge down the cobblestoned street and disappear around the corner.

It was silent again.

Tristan finished his coffee and rinsed the cup with some dish soap.

Eanverness took it's time waking up but with a population of roughly nine-hundred permanent residents no one had to rush anywhere. To his utter frustration it was common procedure to open their businesses ten, twenty or even thirty minutes late if they didn't get their sorry asses ready on time. During the warmer months they managed to uphold some sort of discipline - for the tourists and the reviews on Tripadvisor and Yelp - which would have been a nice change if there weren't any actual tourists. Tristan was fully aware of the conflict there.

Now, in late October, Eanverness was deserted and the curtains of the holiday homes across the street drawn shut.

Overlooking the niggling feeling at the back of his mind, Tristan busied himself by doing the laundry and reading the news while the washing machine groaned and grumbled like a hungry belly in the background. Despite it's less than impressive size the island had its own newspaper - published once a week on actual paper and, for two years now, an online version - and Becks once in a while took photos of any noteworthy events for them. Which wasn't often because there was nothing noteworthy happening but she still earned a penny or two that way he reckoned.

He skipped articles about the local pre-school's drawing competition - none of these drawings looked like butterflies for fucks sake - and whale sightings. There was a short notice about an illegal party held at the abandoned warehouses on the eastern shores of the island and the usual warning not to enter them.

Shortly after twelve o'clock Tristan left his home and walked the short distance to the café. Eanverness, especially the old parts of it, was built on a pile of jagged rocks and the crooked alleys mirrored this - there were plenty of sudden slopes, stairs connecting the different levels the houses were built on and an abundance of opportunities to stumble and crack one's head open on the cobblestones.

Tristan trudged past the pharmacy - run by a witch, very fittingly so - and one out of two convenience stores. The café was near the harbour so the tourists didn't have to walk far from the ferry - lazy bastards.

Brenda was arranging cakes behind the glass display when Tristan shoved open the door and nodded his head in greeting.

"Good afternoon, Tristan, how are you doing?"

He had tried to like her, he really had. But it was a struggle when she was all smiles and hugs and warmth and empathy. Merely seeing her happy face made him feel squeamish.

He shrugged his shoulders in a noncommittal way. "Alright. How about you?" Politeness sucked.

"I'm good, thank you!" She must've had five cups of coffee to be this happy.

"Glad to hear that," he mumbled and walked to the back to take off his jacket and get two more minutes to himself.

Murky light spilled in through the window and stained the desk in front of it like dirty water. Although the computer was switched off plenty of documents – invoices, advertisements, something that looked like a shopping list – were strewn across the surface and Tristan listened closely but could only hear the music and Brenda fussing around out front. Disgruntled, he gave in to the itch in his fingers and arranged the papers into two neat piles, discarding a candy wrapper in the process. He swore the café would be fucking bankrupt if he wasn't there to clean up all the messes.

Tristan didn't catch a glimpse of Griffin – the most likely origin of the scattered papers – for the remainder of the afternoon nevertheless he couldn't say he got bored. Between Brenda and the customers there wasn't really much time to twiddle one's thumbs.

"There's a storm coming," Dirk – bald, crinkled like a used tissue, heavy smoker – claimed as Tristan served him his coffee. His voice was the equivalent of running a spoon over a cheese grater and gave his predictions much more weight that way.

"Oi, that's just some clouds, nothing to be worried about," Elsa – Dirk's wife, petite with a set of boobs that made lads half her age drool uncontrollably - contradicted with a wave of her hand. "Dear, would  you pass me the sugar please?"

Tristan slid the old-fashioned sugar bowl across the counter.

"Thank you, dear." Elsa spooned an ample amount of sugar into her coffee and stirred.

Dirk huffed into his cup. "It's too damn calm out there." He vaguely pointed south at the harbour.

"We can't have storms and spring tides every day, ya old numpty," Elsa replied easily and sipped her revoltingly sweet coffee.

Her husband shot her a scalding look but refrained from continuing the argument he couldn't avoid loosing. He grumbled into his cup which Elsa happily ignored.

Tristan left them to their marital bickering and wiped down the coffee machine and the surrounding area. Pink Floyd's soundtrack to More – horrible film, great music – played and was only interrupted by the door being opened, two teenagers stepping inside with the awkwardness of a first date and the stench of too much cheap deodorant.

The act of choosing a table and sitting down looked like two ducks fighting for a piece of soggy bread. They'd be better off at the playground with mummy near to change their diaper.

Tristan ran the tips of his fingers over the collection of CDs and popped in Prince' album from nineteen-ninety-three – in his opinion, there wasn't any better music to fuck to than this – and watched both their faces turn a nuclear shade of red upon picking up on the lyrics.

Dirk snickered and Elsa slapped his arm.

Brenda sighed. "Griffin shouldn't have put you in charge of selecting the music."

Tristan glanced at her from underneath his lashes, pleased smugness ghosting across his pale features. "It was the best fucking decision he ever made."

 "Lemme show you baby I'm a talented boy," Prince crooned and Dirk guffawed.