But it isn’t fine. I get up off the ground, and even in my dream I can’t feel my frozen legs. I limp over to the line of rugby fans and I ask each one if I can score some smack. No one responds. They just scream at me, soundlessly. Men, women, young and old, their faces forever in silent torment. I beg, I plead for some, just a little bit, but nothing. No one hears me, no one cares. I might as well be invisible.

Charlie, though, he’s anything but invisible. He always was larger than life. He’s yelling at me to hurry up, to help him—he’s telling me I’m a terrible friend and hasn’t he done so much for me already?

Charlie is probably the only friend I’ve ever had, so of course I do what I can to keep him happy. I keep trying, even though the people’s expressions are changing, becoming more distorted, more demonic. The presence of pure evil is everywhere, that black oily shadow that clings to your back, influencing your thoughts and soul. Even after all these years, it’s still there, waiting for me to fuck up. It’s only when I reach the last person in the alley, and see that it’s myself at five years old, skinny and bruised and not so much different than the way I am in my dream, that I have a chance.

Five-year-old Lachlan hands me Lionel the lion. He nods at it, hinting at something more. I tear the lion open, splitting the seams along the gut, and the heroin pours out like white sand. It doesn’t stop filling the space around my feet, rising, rising, rising. Hands grab my ankles, pulling me down—my mouth, nose, and ears filling with the grains, my head exploding in fireworks.

Charlie stands above me, waving goodbye, blood running down from his nose and eyes.

“See you soon, mate,” he says with a bloody smile. “One-way ticket straight to hell.”

The drugs drown me and the world goes black.

No wonder I wake up with my heart racing erratically, my lungs feeling devoid of any air.

“Another dream?” Kayla asks softly, and in the low light I can see the gleam in her eyes. She’s propped up on both elbows, watching me closely, trying to downplay it all, but I can see how scared she is.

My mouth is parched. “Aye,” I say roughly, taking in a deep breath.

“Have you had them before?”

I nod, just once. “I need some water.”

I get out of bed, Lionel sleeping so soundly at the foot that he doesn’t even stir when I crawl over him.

Once in the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection. Dark circles tinge the inner corners of my eyes. How is it possible to feel so bloody happy and look so much like shite at the same time? I open the medicine cabinet and eye my prescriptions. I’d purposely left the Percocet at home when I went to the States. The pain had subsided and I didn’t need the temptation. The anti-depressants only fuck me up, and not in a good way. The Ativan works most of the time.

I fill the glass by the sink with water and down the Percocet and Ativan together. If that doesn’t help me get back to sleep, then at least it will carry me through to the morning. Maybe even into the evening, when I think I’ll need it most.

That’s when I’m bringing Kayla around to see my parents, Jessica and Donald, the real McGregors. I wish I could say I haven’t been worrying about it ever since the plans were made, but that would be an outright lie.

The thing is, I’m not even sure why I’m nervous. Is it because I’m afraid my past will be brought up? It seems pretty unlikely. My parents respect me enough to never talk about it. Is it because I’m afraid Kayla won’t measure up to their expectations? That’s unlikely too. They’re the least judgemental people you could meet, regardless of their status in society. Kayla would only charm them.

Or is it that bringing her to meet my parents—when I’ve never brought anyone to meet them—says far more about the way I feel about her, about us, than I ever could?

I have a feeling the last one is the right answer.

I close the cabinet and lean my forehead against the cool mirror, closing my eyes.

“Lachlan?” I hear Kayla’s soft voice from outside the bathroom door. “Are you okay?”

I grunt in response, clearing my throat. “Just a minute.”

I take a quick piss, and when I get back to bed, she’s under the covers, watching me.

“I’m fine,” I tell her, climbing in beside her. “Come here.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders and tug her up against me. I brush my fingers along her hairline, feeling the silk of her hair and skin sooth me into a drug-induced sleep.

***

Jessica and Donald live about an hour outside of Edinburgh, their house just a few shrub-lined blocks from the Firth of Moray and a fabulous fish and chip shop I used to spend much of my allowance on.

About twenty minutes away, I pull the Range Rover in beside Robbie’s Bar and put it in park.

“What are we here?” Kayla asks. “Do they live in a pub?”

“Nah,” I tell her. “But I used to frequent this place a lot growing up. When I was fifteen I hit my growth spurt and didn’t even need to use a fake I.D. It’s not as dodgy as it looks. Come on, let’s have a beer.”

She frowns at me, so I flash her a smile. “Don’t tell me it’s not fancy enough for you,” I add, knowing that will egg her on.

“Hey,” she says, raising her palm at me, “don’t talk to me about fancy. The most interesting people are found at dive bars.”

“Well, this is a dive pub, so it’s a step above. Just don’t order any of the food.”

“Don’t want to spoil my appetite.”

“You don’t want to get sick.” I get out of the car and grab her hand.

To be honest, I haven’t been in here since high school, but it smells just the same. Grease and salt from the fryer, fish batter, stale beer that owns the red and green carpet. The memories come flashing back, not all of them horrible.

It’s just after five o’clock, and the pub is fairly full of regular blokes off from work. We snag a high-top table by the door and I ask Kayla what she wants to drink.

“Surprise me,” she says, though there’s an air of caution in her voice, as if I’m going to get her a beer called the Haggis Surprise.

“Done.” I saunter over to the overworked bartender, who’s wearing a grey shirt with sweat stains down the sides. I’m pretty sure he’s the same guy who worked here fifteen years ago.

I lean against the bar and wait until he notices me, and when he does his eyes go wide. But there’s no way I look the same as I did back in the day, growth spurt or not.

“Well, I’ll be,” the man says, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. “Lachlan McGregor.” I squint at him, trying to figure it out when he continues, “You’re the best part of Edinburgh rugby. Tell me you’re fully healed now? The team has been playing the dog’s bollocks since you left us.”

That’s not exactly true. The end of last season wasn’t particularly good, but that might have happened whether I was on the team or not.

“I’m back,” I tell him.

“Brilliant. Practice going well? Ready for the big game?”

“Aye,” I tell him, not wanting to get into it. “Could I get a pint of ale and a pint of cider for the lady over there?” I gesture to Kayla. She’s sitting at the table, taking it all in.

“No worries. It’s on the house, mate,” he says, and promptly pulls out the pint glasses.

“Well, cheers then,” I say as he hands me the drinks. I take a moment to stare at the amber liquid, my thirst suddenly rampant. I could down it all in a second, just two gulps, and the relief would be immediate. Instead, I bring both drinks over to her, my hands shaking slightly.

“Here you go,” I tell her.

“Did the guy know you?”

I shrug. “Not really. More like he knew who I was.”

She beams at me, sliding the cider toward her. “That’s awesome. You’re famous.”

I grunt, holding the beer up to my lips. “It happens rarely.”

“Nooooo,” she says. “The other day when we were walking on, what was it, Princes Street, there were a lot of people looking at you.”