Do You Know Indigo?

Chapter Eight

So what if he was the missing puzzle piece? What if Kieran was the answer to my forgotten past?

"Do you know Indigo?" I whispered.

* * * *

It was Saturday and I was getting ready to visit my father for the first time in a couple of weeks.

I hadn't yet confronted Kieran about what I knew, I wasn't thick. In our daily exchanges of conversation I feigned innocence while in reality I yearned for the truth. I yearned for Kieran's story and how it might change mine.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and pulled up my hood. Jackson was at football practice, Mum was working and Ross was taking overtime so as to pay the bills piling up on our kitchen table.

Walking to the bus stop, I passed a couple hidden underneath an umbrella. They looked so in love that the rain was hardly bothering them. She had spiralling black curls while he had ruffled shoulder length brown hair. I somehow envied them but I couldn't say I hadn't had my chances.

Maybe I would call Tom when I got home.

Mobile Phone Man wasn't at the bus stop. He had made me anxious, provoking me into thinking he was stalking me. Though it wasn't a school morning, I didn't imagine stalkers rested for the wicked.

Once the bus came to a steady halt I boarded, presented the driver my bus pass and took my seat. The bus was eerily quiet but that was the norm around my side of town. Picking up a stray newspaper, I caught up with the latest news and scandals.

There had been a suicide bombing in Iran. An overdose in East Kilbride. A cyber bullying suicide in Kent. Every one was horrific loss of life and drew me to the question of Kieran.

At the second stop a boy with a guitar lumbered on. He was dark haired and light skinned. He reminded me of Kieran but his eyes weren't indigo, they were almost pure black. The bus wasn't busy but the dark stranger approached me expectantly.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked. His dark eyes were calming.

"No, just go ahead." He placed himself and his guitar down next to me. I returned to my newspaper while he fiddled with his mobile. A homicide in Newcastle. Did that count?

"I'm Nate by the way," The boy offered his hand. I folded the newspaper and shook it, admiring the tattoo across his hand. Someone had etched the word 'music' across his fingers in ink. Our formal greeting became unnecessarily prolonged while I stared at the intricacy of the letters.

"And you are?" I blinked.

"Oh-eh-Chris."

"Short for Christine?" he presumed.

"Yeah, that's right," I said, my attention oddly fixated on Nate. I felt completely at ease in his company. It was peculiar.

"So you are going anywhere in particular?" Nate asked.

"Just to visit someone. And I'm guessing from the looks of your case you aren't going surfing."

It was out of the corner of my eye that I saw the Mercedes pull up next to the bus, becoming its faithful shadow.  Its windows were tinted.

"No, never been much of a surfer. I'm going for a job interview actually, not sure I'll get it though."

"What kind of job is it?" I pressed him, aware of the prowling Mercedes.

"I see it more like a hobby than a job but I'm going to audition at a coffee shop for a slot to play my music. Corny isn't it?" That explained the guitar case.

"I think it's pretty cool actually," I assured him, eyes glancing back to his inked fingers. He smiled. Nate did look like a coffee drinking, guitar playing kind of guy.