"Alcohol," James grumbled. Michael grunted in agreement; nonetheless throwing back another, rather concentrated, glass of scotch. The pair watched the three young girls dancing in front of them intently, as only fathers would. Carys was even more intoxicated than her father and appeared to have lost all sense of reasoning, Michael wouldn't have minded but for the fact that the man she was dancing with, her uncle, was otherwise known (not so secretly) as 'Creepy Alex' and was in the middle of his third divorce. Between speaking in grunted tones with James and ensuring he didn't spill any of his own drinks, Michael barely had time to watch where the pervert's hands were wandering. Not that he would have been able to do much about it, Alex was six foot four and had been a county rugby player for six years, Michael weighed nearly half as much and was... well... imposing certainly wasn't the word. Without two bottles of wine inside her, Carys was both sensible and going places, but from past experiences, he knew around friends she could get... a little out of control. As if reading his mind, James grabbed Michael's shoulder. "Leave her be, Mike. I'll keep an eye on them." As if proving his subtly made point, he took another sip of his drink: a pint glass half­full of nothing more exciting than water. As they stared at the scene around them, the music thumping through the speakers died away and was replaced with a slower, more relaxing tune. Much to the chagrin of the youths, Michael observed, who all slumped away to the sides of the makeshift stage to recompose themselves. His eyes never left his until­recently brother­in­law, scrutinising every move he made. He almost laughed when he saw Alex's attention shift obviously from Michael's daughter to James'. Unlike Michael, James WAS imposing. Six foot and built like a boxer, any time he didn't spend at work he was either in the gym or mountain biking, and was a black­belt in aikido; he was very keen on letting people know he had just completely his fifth triathlon of the year. Michael smiled as he silently envisaged how a punch­up between the two men would go, re­running the scenario in his head three or four times, all with the same, pleasantly decisive outcome. "You want another drink?" James nudged him, Michael shook his head, feeling the fuzzy soup inside his brain follow a few seconds behind, he was already too drunk to speak properly and didn't want to go making a complete fool of himself before the evening was out. He had already refused to make a speech at either the funeral or the wake, he didn't want to firmly ruin his reputation with his wife's family forever. Time passed. How much he couldn't tell; it felt like five or six songs but he had been drifting in and out of sleep for some time. Waking up primarily when various faces announced their departure; he would politely nod and thank them as best he could, then close his eyes and return to his swirling thoughts. Eventually, there was no­one left but him, James and Catrin's stone­faced father. Carys had kissed him goodbye and with a hearty hug had joined her friends in clambering into the taxi, far more jovially than the occasion really demanded. "I'll see you around the back," James offered, pulling on a coat and nodding at the barkeeper, who thanked him and began gathering the glasses dotted around the bar. Michael was left facing Rhys, yet the third man of the evening who made him feel like a failure. Rhys was neither physically imposing nor academically gifted, but he was a sharp man who could get the measure of someone in mere seconds. He was also the richest man that Michael had ever met, but had refused to ever share a penny with even his own daughter. He stared at Michael with grey eyes from behind large framed spectacles. His eyes narrowed as Michael stumbled slightly from a temporary, whiskey­induced, loss of control. Neither of them spoke for several seconds, but eventually Rhys sighed. "We never quite saw eye to eye," the elder man admitted. "You hate me," Michael said darkly. Rhys seemed unfazed. "A drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts," he murmured. "I only wanted her to make her own way in the world, I never stopped her making her choices, I just didn't approve of them all." "You didn't approve of me." "No." "You wished I would earn more money." "I wish you would have more to show for yourself at nearly fifty." "I have a daughter, you have a granddaughter. I'm proud of her and everything she does." "I was proud of my daughter too." "You never showed it." "Perhaps you think the best way to support your daughter is to pay for her way through life, to not let her experience the real world until she is already moulded into the mind of a child." Michael clenched his fist. "Just once, you could have told her you were proud of what she had done." Rhys clenched his jaw, the muscles standing out clearly on his wrinkled face. "Do not tell me how to be a father, Michael; you would do well to learn from me." "I'll make my own way, thanks." "Be that as it may. You are right, I have a granddaughter to consider, or else I would happily erase you from my life entirely. The wake is paid for; go home, I'd rather you got some rest before the will is announced." With that, Rhys turned to leave. Michael's brain told him to remain silent but his body wouldn't obey. "You're happy to pay for her now she's dead!" he shouted after Rhys. The man stopped dead, he did not turn around but spoke with words dripping with poison. "I have lost both my wife and my daughter in three months. I have done things with my life that you can only dream of, met people that have astounded me, but I will now never see the two most important people in my life ever again. I love Carys and I will support her, because I doubt you will be able to anymore. And if you ever insinuate that I did not love my daughter with all my heart and that I won't miss her every day until I die, then..." It was the first time Michael had ever seen the man speechless. Before anything else could be said, Rhys had stalked off, pushing open the glass door and disappearing. "You know Michael," he muttered under his breath, "you're a real twat sometimes." He nodded towards the barman, who ignored him completely, justifiably, probably, then decided it was time to leave. Heading the opposite way to Rhys he stalked off towards where he hoped James was still waiting for him. "I'll never see her again," he lamented. Finally allowing the melancholy the alcohol left him with wash over him. James didn't say a word, merely kept his eyes on the road, squinting occasionally through the sheet rain that relentlessly pounded the earth below. Three spots in the distance heralded a behemoth; a mega­truck, and James cursed as he knew he'd have to mount the curb to avoid it. "I miss her so much," Michael whimpered, tears finally beginning their long­awaited journey down his face. "I... I..." James glanced over at his friend, his lifelong companion. He had only twice seen Michael cry in as long as he could remember. "Michael..." he began, it was a sign of their friendship that he used his full name, only people who either didn't know or didn't much like him called him Mike, "I won't pretend to know what you're going through, mate. I can't even imagine, but you've got to­" He stopped in mid sentence and checked himself. He sounded like a machine; it was a preset message, hard­coded into him from years of teen troubles and too many bad films. He sighed as the behemoth got too close for comfort and sounded its low frequency horn, making his bowels rumble. Calmly he pulled to the side of the road and perched his car onto the pavement as the huge machine rolled by. The driver didn't even glance in his direction. "Fucking drams," James whispered inaudibly. He sighed and began again, not even bothering to set off, simply leaving the car running and bridged between road and pavement. "Ok mate, I know this is shit. Like unbelievably shit; so fucking shit that you probably want to kill yourself. The truth is I don't have a fucking clue what to say to you. I can't tell you it'll be alright, that she's happy and that everything will be ok, because I don't know that. What I can say is that I'm here for you if you just need to fucking shout at something, you can come and stay at mine if you want, I'll clear a space for you in Priya's old room, you can stick around for as long as you­" "I don't need to stay over." Michael's voice was low and broke frequently. "No, I know. But I'm fucking worried about you mate; I don't know what people do when their­" he caught himself, "when this happens." "Neither do I," Michael spoke quietly, barely moving his lips as he did so. "It'll be an experience for us both." James exhaled slightly, but he didn't smile at the dry joke. "You want to go home?" he asked. Michael nodded. "You sure?" Another nod. He flicked the car into drive and slowly accelerated once more, it was two in the morning and there was no other traffic. "Look, you'll get through this, eventually. I hope. You're a tough shit and you know that." Michael nodded, tears still quietly dripping down his otherwise emotionless face. "I just miss her." James closed his eyes and sighed silently, then remembered he was driving and opened them quickly. "I'm not going to pretend it's gonna be easy," he said carefully. "But I'm here if you need me, I'm at work all this week and we've got some bitchy cases but its nothing I can't drop on Greg if it comes down to it. If you need me, call Dala and she'll give me a bell. You're my priority over the next few weeks, ok mate?" Michael nodded, his friend's speech having only the minimum impact he was hoping it to have. They pulled up outside his house, James sighed one last time. The rain had eased to a drizzle. "This may be a shit suggestion, or it may be a good one, I don't know, but try having a look through some photos or something. She's gone but if it were me I'd be happy to have those memories, it's... I don't know... it's like she's still alive, like part of her is... is stored in there." James was looking out at a distant set of traffic lights and so didn't see Michael's face rise slightly as he spoke, nor the subtle flash in his eyes. "I don't know, I'm rambling now," James threw up his hands. "No... no... thanks James," Michael said calmly, then pulled on the door handle and stepped out into the drizzle. "Ok, well, I'll see you soon. You sure you don't want to stay over? Or I can ring Dala, tell her I'll stay with you if you want, she'll understand, Michael." Michael softly shook his head with a sad smile. James nodded as if he understood and Michael made a grateful face at his friend as he slowly closed the car door and began trudging towards his front door. As he fumbled for the key, he turned and gave a half­wave to James, who nodded and, rather reluctantly, began to drive off down the road just as Michael succeeded in opening the door to his house. Quietly, he took off his shoes and without any divergence from his path; without even taking off his clothes, he walked into the bedroom, got into bed and went to sleep.