HIDING - every scar has a story

4. Got you.

{Cary}

After dinner, Cary got his book from his bag and went down the hall to his father's study. His stomach was turning in slow flips; he had only managed a few bites of the meal. At his father's closed door Cary breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, shutting the sick feeling away with everything else. He was stone. He knocked on the door.

"Come in."

Cary's father, Conall, was a professor at the university. His study was lined with shelves full of leather-bound books. There was a tall granite fireplace on one wall, its mantelpiece cluttered with academic awards and discarded pipe stems. Conall was in his leather desk chair, bent over his desk, marking. His broad shoulders were framed by two stacks of papers. He finished grading with a slash of his pen, turning the sheets onto the left-handed pile and said without looking up.

"Ciaran. Pour us some coffee."

A metal coffee urn stood on the sideboard, a few mugs stacked around it. Cary tucked his book under his arm to pour him a cup.

Behind him, Conall's desk chair creaked as he leaned back, stretching his long arms and fingers until his knuckles popped. Cary flinched, splashing the coffee over the rim of the cup. Shit. He drew his shoulders up to his ears and quickly wiped up the spill with the hem of his shirt.

"Pour one for yourself too, if you like."

Cary shot him a glance. His father was clearing the low table which stood between the two chairs in front of the fireplace. He seemed a little abstracted, but relaxed. Cary guessed he had a chance of keeping him that way, if he was careful. Maybe. He was always careful.

He set the cup of coffee on the corner of the table, holding it steady with both hands. Conall pulled up an arm chair, catching him with dark, intent eyes. "Sit."

Cary sat. Conall unlatched a small, flat case and opened it on the side table. Inside, the case was patterned with white and black triangles. Conall let the leather dice cup fall into his hand.

"Have you ever played backgammon, Ciaran?"

Cary shook his head. "No, sir."

"It's a man's game. Take these pieces." Conall poured the shiny disks onto the table in front of Cary. "Set them on the board like this."

Cary paid close attention to his father's instructions. As the evening wore on his father's mood showed no signs of breaking and Cary's fear ebbed away, leaving only his habitual caution. His inevitable mistakes were met with a brisk "Tactical error, Ciaran" as his father moved the pieces into their proper place.

When the game was done, his father the victor, Conall sat back in his chair with a grunt of satisfaction and fished in his pockets for his pipe and matches. Cary gathered the game pieces back into the box, aware of the movements of his father's hands on the edge of his vision. He couldn't think of the last time he'd spent more than an hour alone in a room with Conall like this. He was exhausted from being on high alert all evening, and he needed a cigarette. He wished his father would forget the book and let him go.

The match lit with a 'hiss' and Conall pulled the flame into the bowl of his pipe. The sweet-strong smell of tobacco stung the inside of Cary's nose. "You brought your novel?" His father asked.

Cary swallowed and brought it out from where he had stuck it under his leg. Conall gestured to the fireplace. "Stand up there. Read me the first chapter."

Cary got to his feet and his head seemed to get up faster than the rest of him. He planted his feet on the granite floor and braced his legs to keep them from shaking. His father sat back in the leather armchair, his long-fingered hands folded in front of his chest. He watched Cary through half-closed eyes, sucking on his pipe stem.