Excerpt from Midwinter Break by Bernard MacLaverty, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

He chose a CD. His headphones were marked L and R but the letters had all but worn away. He slid them on. Although the music came loud and utterly clear he turned up the volume. He drank again, lowering the level, savouring. The whiskey was gold and the facets of the cut glass, silver. It would make him sleep – give him a good night's rest and he'd be ready for action in the morning. There was nothing worse than setting off on holiday feeling lousy. Of course he would need another couple of these to get him over.

Headphones cut him off from the real world and, some- times, even here on the sofa he felt vulnerable. Anybody could slip into the room behind him – even though the front door was locked and all the windows bolted. Was it another leftover from Belfast? Loyalist murder gang kill retired Catholic architect in Scotland. He could be garrotted from behind. So much for defensible space. He turned up the volume even higher. It was a wonderful noise – with the horns going full blast and the kettledrums thudding. He congratulated the composer and the musicians with frequent sips from his drink. Then there was a violent flashing. For a moment he thought it might have been lightning – or an explosion.

'Gerry.'

He looked up. Stella was in the doorway in her dressing gown, her hand on the light switch.

'Sorry,' Gerry shouted above the din of the music. 'My fault.' He jumped to his feet and snatched the headphones off. It had happened before but even he looked startled at the volume in the room.

'Holy fuck.' He bent over and switched off the main loudspeakers.

'I don't know which is worse – that expression or the racket,' said Stella. 'If you want to end up living on your own you're going the right way about it.'

'Sorry, I didn't realise.' The room went silent except for the tinny sounds coming from the headphones around his neck. 'I didn't know . . .'

'You'll damage your hearing. Next door'll be in to complain. It's half twelve,' Stella said. 'And we've an early start.'

'Everything packed?'

'What are you talking about? I was trying to sleep.'

'How long were you standing there?'

'A minute or so.'

'Why didn't you say?'

'You wouldn't have heard,' she said. 'Didn't want to give you a fright, maybe a heart attack. Then I'd have nobody to go on holiday with.'

'I'll not be long,' he said.


She went back to bed. He poured himself another whiskey. 'Just a smidgen.'

But he poured another smidgen on top of it. Two smidgens make a bigger smidgen. The world seemed to recognise only drunk or sober. What about the in-between – the spec- trum, the subtle gradations? The first drink brings a little distancing – a concentration on another world – an ironing around shirt buttons, a smoothing of wrinkles. Stella would laugh at him. 'You never ironed a thing in your life – you'd only burn yourself. To say nothing of the shirt.' But he had ironed enough to know. The sharp prow nosing around, the material flattening in the heat. More drink and he began to soar. To spread his wings, rising on the thermals of the first couple of glasses. Later he unleashed what was tied down. Freed what was trapped. He began to listen sharper. To see more. To love better. Tomorrow – they were off again. A midwinter break. How privileged! Despite having retired years ago, his life was punctuated with visits to places around the world which seemed like holidays. A talk here – a paper there. Architectural jurist, receiver of honours, a taker-up of freebies. And most of the time he insisted on having Stella with him.

* * *

He wakened. Almost pitch-black, but not quite. His mouth was dry and his nose cold. His eyes adjusted. There was a faint outline of the pulled curtains – outside a little less dark- ness. It would be somewhere between five and seven. Every time he woke it was the same stupid debate – would he or would he not get up for the bathroom? He knew he wouldn't get back to sleep if he didn't. He eased the bedclothes to one side, sat up and took a mouthful of water. The bedroom was like a fridge. The sound of Stella's steady breathing. He inserted his feet into his slippers and stood. Sudden chandeliers in the darkness. Only for a second. Jesus – he thought they'd gone away. Spiders of light, sparks, flashes. A prelude to a stroke. He backed out of his slippers and lay down again beneath the duvet. They could be something else. The result of too much drinking? How much was too much? He knew he was doing himself harm. After Hogmanay he'd made a resolution to give up. But not yet, O Lord, not yet. He'd told his optician about the sparklers the last time she'd tested him for replacement glasses. Left them at his backside somewhere and even though he'd stuck a label with his name and address inside the case, nobody'd had the generosity to send them back. What use would they be? All glasses were bespoke. If somebody else wears his glasses they won't see a bloody thing.

Excerpted from Midwinter Breakby Bernard MacLaverty. Copyright © 2017 Bernard MacLaverty. With permission of the publisher, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. All rights reserved.