Adam Whyte slipped a hand into his pyjama bottoms and scratched his undercarriage for quite an extended period of time. When his hand emerged, he lifted it to his nose and gave it a sniff. Though the smell was not pleasant, his face didn’t show any displeasure. On the contrary. He judged the smell to be just the right side of acceptable and decided to push back his probably much-needed shower until tomorrow. His mum had been watching all of this happen from behind a book, a look of disgust etched on her face.
Adam lifted a pint glass full of water from the ground and slurped from it, before grabbing the PlayStation controller and expertly navigating through the home page of Netflix. He tapped a few buttons and the theme song for Sherlock began.
‘Oh, haven’t you watched enough of this today?’ his mum asked.
‘You can never get enough of the Cumberbatch, can you?’ Adam replied.
She sighed and thought about her son. From an early age, he’d pretended to be a ‘sloof’, solving make-believe crimes with his friends. A few years ago, he had travelled sixty miles up the road to Belfast, to study psychology at Queens University. Predictably, he hadn’t lasted long. In true Adam Whyte fashion, he’d become the popular lad on campus, much to the detriment of his studies. And so, after less than a year, he’d returned home, to the north coast of Northern Ireland; to Stonebridge, and had been stuck in dead end jobs since. Until a few days ago, that was, when he’d been fired from the pub he was working in, due to being late one too many times. Gone were the dreams of joining the police; of becoming a detective. Now, here he was, unapologetically scratching his balls in the middle of the afternoon in front of his own mother.
She watched him cover his eyes as the detective on the screen surveyed a blood-soaked body. Adam had never been good with blood – another reason a career in the police was never going to happen.
‘Are you looking forward to the wedding tomorrow?’ she asked him.
‘It’ll be good to see friends, yeah,’ he said. ‘And it’s tradition for the groomsman to snog a bridesmaid, so there’s that.’
He raised his eyebrows suggestively before turning back to the TV.
I wouldn’t hold out much hope, she thought to herself, turning her attention back to her book.