Cameron leaned forward in his economy-class seat, a jockey on a horse, willing the plane to go faster. He rested his forehead against the seat in front, the shuffling of its occupant banging the edge of the tray table gently into his skull.
‘You okay, love?’
‘Fine.’
‘You don’t look okay,’ the elderly woman next to him insisted. Someone’s grandma, all talcum powder and muted florals, her wedding rings buried in the spotted flesh of her fingers. ‘Are you a nervous flyer?’
He was on edge all right, but it was nothing to do with the plane. He shook his head, mentally willing her to shut up.
‘I find a small whisky helps myself,’ she confided. ‘I could ask the stewardess, if you like.’
Cameron gritted his teeth against her concern. ‘Bugger off,’ he whispered.
‘Has something happened? Do you want to talk about it?’
He didn’t. He went back to letting his forehead judder against the moulded plastic. Come on, come on. He’d been too late last time. Not his fault. But he had to be there now. The PA came on, the captain warning about turbulence, and Cameron undid his seatbelt. Better to distract himself with the bumps of the plane than think about what might be waiting for him on the ground. I’ll be a better brother, Cameron promised. A proper brother. Stick around. Take you with me. Whatever you want. Just fucking hold on, Lincoln. Just hold the fuck on.
‘Do you want a mint? I’ve got some — Oh goodness. Here, have a tissue. There you go. No shame in crying, that’s what I always told my boys. Let it all out, love, you’ll feel better after, I promise. That’s it. Good on you.’