Shelter from the Storm by Elizabeth Gill

his life, and it was the warmest feeling that he had ever had. He never felt like that about a woman — he just screwed them and despised them for letting him because they liked the look of him — but the way he felt about Tom was the nearest he had ever got to love. He loved Tom so much that just being in the same room in the pub was enough to create a warm glow of happiness. He listened for Tom’s voice constantly, was disappointed when Tom was not there, could sit for hours while Tom and his cronies talked. Tom’s voice was the nearest thing to heaven.
    Tom came in. Dryden knew it was him even without moving his eyes. Tom’s footsteps, his way of walking into the pub, were different from anybody else’s. He paused at the door, looking around to see if any of his friends were there, and then he strode across the room with a kind of swaggering confidence that Dryden would have done anything to be able to emulate, and then came up to the bar, sometimes very close. He didn’t ever speak and Dryden didn’t ever look up but he could feel the space between them, the air, as though it held something extra.
    ‘Wes been in?’
    ‘Nah,’ the landlord said. ‘Think he’s gone down with summat.’
    ‘What, like?’
    ‘Don’t know.’
    The landlord gave Tom his first drink without being asked, and while Tom downed it he poured another. Dryden watched. Tom took the second and then turned around with his back tothe bar and complained mildly as he looked around, ‘There’s nebody in, Fred, man.’
    ‘Aye, I’m sorry like,’ the landlord said with fine sarcasm.
    Tom grinned. Then he turned to Dryden.
    ‘What are you looking at?’ he said flatly.
    Dryden moved back into the corner, into the shadows.
    ‘I’m speaking to you!’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Don’t start on him, Tom,’ the landlord said tiredly.
    ‘Miserable snivelling little bastard!’ Tom jeered.
    The landlord looked at Dryden.
    ‘Drink your drink and get out,’ he said.
    Dryden had almost reached the door when somebody stuck a foot out and he went sprawling across the floor.
    ‘Get up,’ Tom said, and Dryden could feel the injustice of it hit his brain. He got carefully to his feet, and when Tom came over Dryden turned around and floored him. He made a good job of it too; it took three punches, Tom was so big, but he managed it, as if all the strength in him had gone into his hands. Tom lay there for a few moments as though he couldn’t believe it and then he got slowly to his feet, watching. Dryden couldn’t breathe. And then suddenly Tom began to laugh. Dryden couldn’t believe it. He would have gone but Tom put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.
    ‘Howay man,’ he said. ‘I’ll buy you a drink.’
    There is a theory that each man has a single perfect moment in his life and that when he dies that moment goes on for all eternity, and when Tom Cameron put his hand on his half-brother’s shoulder Dryden’s life was changed for ever. Nobody had ever touched him like that. The only time Mr Harmer had touched him was to punish him. The only women Dryden had known were those who wanted something from him. Beyond that there was nothing. This was the first time that anybody had touched him in affection. He was entranced. It got better. Tom put that arm around him and walked him back to the barand they stayed there, talking and drinking, and it was perfection.
    By three o’clock they had drunk so much that Dryden had lost count, and Tom was insisting on Dryden going home with him for dinner. This seemed like a good idea. They hadn’t far to go, just up the bank and across the road and through the passage, coming out into Tom’s yard at the end of it. A good smell was coming out of Tom’s house, the door was open, the fire was burning brightly, and the dinner, like a miracle, was upon the table.
    It seemed to Dryden that Vinia was a different person. She was a lot skinnier for one thing, which didn’t suit her. She had been a bonny lass and