The Pride of Prestwick
— Bryony Lorimer

He raises his right hand to the ceiling, palm facing up. His left hand stays down, the tips of his fingers brushing the turntable. Through headphones, one song fades, another begins, and nudging the record microscopically, he listens for the commonality of beat. With precision he merges them both. One beat.

Right hand still raised, he flicks his palm towards the window. The window that frames a vista of luscious green, of rolling hills that drip with recent rain. Sheep lowly graze among them, among the south Ayrshire hills which merge straight into cloud as if no sky is present between them. Unending green rolling hills and cloud.

Nodding in time, he closes his eyes and in his mind's eye stands in his pulpit, the stage of the club. With a sweep of his arm, he directs laser lights left to right across the heads of the crowd, revealing their faces, their elation. Stretching up to the ceiling, he sends the light heavenwards, the crowd lifting their arms responding.

Opening his eyes, he sees rain teeming down. Closing them, he perceives air traffic overhead, invisible but circling after takeoff from Prestwick. Lowering his arm, he sends them eastwards, Spain-wards, the place of his longing. And to those at higher altitudes, the passers through from Heathrow with routes already determined, he wishes them well as they enter North Atlantic Airspace.

He pictures himself two months ago. At the club in Ibiza with Sarah. Sleeping in the spare room of the apartment she shares with Peter, her brother. He misses them both, he loves them both secretly. In truth, he wants Peter more than Sarah.

Something touches his shoulder. He comes back from Peter and Sarah, back from directing local air traffic, back from the euphoria of the club, and transforms from aspiring DJ to local minister's son, the only child of John and Norma, the beloved boy who lives in the manse.

Pulling the headphones down to rest on his collarbones, he cuts the music but perceives it still in his soul.

"Dinner's ready, dear."

"Right, Mum, yeah, thanks." With reverence, he takes the discs off the turntables, slips them into their covers and files them in his holdall. Then tugging the headphones over his head, he places them on the bedside table.

In the living room, his father sits in front of the coffee table, back hunched, reading glasses down at the tip of his nose. His sermon notes are spread in front of him. Saturday evening: last-minute preparations.

Peering up. "All packed, Daniel?"

"Yeah, mostly."

"Good, good. I'll drive you to the station tomorrow."

"Thanks, Dad."

He walks through to the kitchen where his mother transfers potatoes from the pot on the cooker to three porcelain plates. As she slices a joint of beef, he taps his foot in time with the movement of her elbow, forward and back, forward and back. Then he carries the plates to the dining room for Saturday night's dinner, his farewell dinner. Standing behind his chair, he waits for them to join him: Mother with her apron, Father with his reading glasses.

The Reverend John Robertson—his father—bows his head, says grace. And hearing the sincerity, Daniel listens for the music behind it, the ancient music the writer must have felt but called the Holy Spirit. He knows this spirit too, the one that fuels his father's every considered action, his mother's kind humility. But it animates him as a love of music, a constant driving pulse. Eighteen years old now, he feels an urgent call to live it.

With a small gesture, his father directs his mother to sit first. All three seated, they start on the food before them.

"So, a few of the lads from school are in the same halls then?" asks his mother.

"Yes, Steve and Graham."

She nods, dreamy-eyed, teary-eyed. "And you won't work too hard? You'll remember to go out and make new friends? Maybe even a girlfriend?"

"Maybe."

His father looks up. "And you'll come back for the occasional weekend, Son? You won't forget you have a home here?"

He nods and smiles. "Of course I'll come back. I'll miss Mum's cooking." He avoids looking at his mother.

"Right, Son. Well, enjoy yourself anyway. University years are the best years, although you won't know it at the time." Taking his wife's hand, he squeezes it gently.

Staring at his plate, Daniel lets the internal rhythm surge up through his body to merge with the tension in his chest, the lump in his throat. The smartest boy in sixth year, his parents are proud, his affinity for animals legendary. But a degree in veterinary medicine is not the want of his heart.

After dinner, he walks the dog with his mother through low-hanging cloud. Their faces glisten, their hair glistens. He throws a stick. The dog runs, catches, returns it, wants more of the same. At their customary place on the lane, he stops for the horses, their heads beckoning over the fence towards him, anticipating his nightly stroke. A touch of magic. One at a time, he puts his hand on their faces and lets their essence pulse through him. Reciprocating, he shares his own. From the outside all is still and silent.

His mother looks on, another tear in her eye, her pride at his gift with animals. The dog brushes his legs, jealous for attention. His hand still on a horse, he says without speaking, "Show me what to do." He lowers his hand.

The horse turns away, canters off as if answering, "Freedom." The other horses follow.

Looking down at the dog, he touches its head, tunes into its essence. He lacks this gift with humans. If he touched Peter, what would happen?

"Goodnight, Dad," he says, passing his father at the coffee table with the sermon notes. "Goodnight, Mum," he calls, through the open doorway of the master bedroom where his mother reads her book club paperback.

"Goodnight, Son," they both say, one after the other.

Lying in bed, he lets himself relax, merges slowly with his surroundings as he has every night since childhood. Pulled right into himself, he expands back out into everything, timeless and free. At a certain point, sleep carries him off.

In his final year of school, he would wake in the small hours refreshed, and sitting at his desk, complete his homework in minutes as if the answers were downloaded through him. Then turning to music, he would mix with his headphones on.

But tonight he sleeps through as if being protected.

He wakes to the beeping of the alarm, the unfamiliar noise clashing with his inherent rhythm until he internalises it, subsumes it into his own person.

Blinking through the light, he remembers today is the day he goes to Glasgow to start university. His affinity for animals. But in his vinyl holdall is a plane ticket to Ibiza. A forty-five-minute train ride to Glasgow, a four-hour plane ride to Ibiza.

Getting out of bed, he pulls on his clothes and creeps downstairs. With the back door open, he bathes in the grey blue light of morning. The sun also illuminates the sheep on the hills, and even from a distance he feels a kinship with them. Coming alongside, the dog sits quietly at his feet. He places his hand on its head and expresses gratitude. In its own way, the dog expresses the sadness of absence.

He recognises the sentiment but has never felt separate from anyone to miss them. Telling an ex-girlfriend there was nothing she could ever add to him, she called him callous. He doubts even Peter, who enters his thoughts more than most, could add anything to what he already has.

Still, the thought of his physical presence warms him in a way no other person does.

Behind him the kitchen light flicks on and he turns to see his father dressed already in a shirt and trousers.

"Tea, Son? I didn't want to wake your mother, so we'll just have toast."

"Fine, Dad. I'll make it."

His father awkward in the kitchen, Daniel browns the toast and butters it, sets it lightly on the table. The two of them sit, bleary-eyed and quiet, sipping their tea.

"Well, we better get going then." His father checks his watch.

Outside, he stands beside the car and turns to see his mother at the front door in her dressing gown, her hair messy. He walks back up the path and hugs her, kisses her cheek. "I'll be back in a few weeks, Mum. Enjoy the peace while I'm gone."

She stands still as if she wants to say something, but can't, then smiles as he gets into the car. Starting the engine, his father reverses out the driveway and onto the country road for the short drive west to Prestwick town. The hills recede behind them.

Daniel's foot taps, his hand drums on his thighs.

Glancing over, his father sighs. "You think you were born with it, Son?"

Distracted, he stays silent.

"The music, your mixing?"

Looking across, he sees a sadness in his father's expression, and he wants to tell him about Ibiza. But instead he answers the question. "I think so … it's always been there ... I don't remember before it."

His father keeps facing ahead. "God gives us each our gifts. You're very gifted."

They don't speak for the rest of the drive.

At the station, with no other passengers around, they embrace awkwardly, Daniel with a rucksack on his back and his vinyl holdall across his shoulder. He turns to take the stairs to the platform for trains heading north, and his father pats him on the back.

"You're a good boy. I know you'll find your own path." He leaves.

Daniel walks up the steps two at a time, across the bridge, then back down the stairs to the platform. The screen says: Next train: Glasgow Central - 5 minutes. Sitting on a bench, he hears a train approach from the north. It stops on the other side of the tracks. Nobody boards, and it departs for the two-minute journey to Prestwick airport.

As the Glasgow train approaches from the south, his body becomes heavy, his senses dulled. It stops. He remains on the bench as it pulls away. The next one arrives in thirty minutes. The flight to Ibiza leaves in three hours.

An elderly woman, older than his gran even, shuffles along the platform towards him. Smiling, she sits on the bench, folds her hands in her lap. In the prevailing silence left by the train's departure—only minor vibrations stirring the rails—he feels her presence intensely. And in the same way he received the answers to his homework in the small hours, he receives the gift of her years of unassuming wisdom.

A full twenty minutes pass before the woman gets up.

"Thank you," he says, then watches her make her way down the platform towards the exit.

Standing, he lifts his rucksack onto his shoulders and walks back to the stairs, up to the bridge. Halfway across, he stops, looks down at the tracks, silver in the morning light. Taking out his phone, he dials Sarah's number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Sarah, it's me. Listen, I know I never asked before, but Peter… is he—"

She laughs. "Of course he is. I thought it was obvious."

He doesn't know if they're talking about the same thing, but he hopes so. "Right, and do you think it's ungrateful if I don't go to vet school?"

Sighing, she says, "For Peter instead?"

"No, no … for the music." He hears the ting of the rails, the echo of an unseen train approaching. "And I suppose Peter too in a way. In the sense he's part of everything." Facing north, he sees the front of the train, its headlights on despite the daylight.

She laughs again. "For God's sake, Daniel, if you like him, just tell him."

The rhythmic clatter of steel on steel. He checks his watch. Phone still to his ear, he continues walking along the bridge, starts down the stairs to the southbound platform.

"Does the offer still stand? Can I come and stay for a bit?"

"What's that? I can't hear you."

On the platform now, he waits until the train stops, then pushes the button to slide the doors open. Inside, a sleepy family with suitcases sprawl across seats, casualties of an early start. The warning tone trills and the doors slide shut.

"Can you hear me now?"

"Yes," she says.

He looks out the window as the train pulls south and the station glides past. "Can I still come and stay?"

"Of course."

After collecting his rucksack, he exits through the glass doors of international arrivals and spots Sarah and Peter immediately, both of them smiling. He knows without doubt his preference is for Peter. Still, he assures himself that music is his true calling.

They hug him one after the other.

"Good flight?" asks Sarah.

"Yes, amazing," he says, and the three of them walk through the heat to the car park.

Driving, Peter turns towards him. "Want to do a set tonight?"

His heart pounds. "Yes, definitely."

At the apartment, Peter shows him to the spare room, the one he slept in for two weeks in July. Unpacking his things, he feels enveloped by a familiar warmth. Half serious, he thinks tonight, afterwards, he could invite him in. And if either of them touched, it would only be an affirmation of what they already shared.

But before he showers, gets ready for the club, there is something he needs to do. He dials the landline number. His dad answers.

"You didn't need to call tonight, Son. Go and have fun with your friends." In the background, his mother's teatime soap plays.

"Thanks, Dad… Dad, I didn't go to Glasgow. I'm in Ibiza." He looks out the window, follows the gentle up and down of the leaves of a palm tree, finds its rhythm with his eyes.

Silence. Then. "For the music?"

Lowering his gaze from the tree, he focuses on the dark blue line separating sea and sky. "Yes, Dad. It's my calling."

The sound of a throat clearing. "Well, I can't say it's a surprise. No, and I suppose I know more than most the importance of following a calling."

"So, it's okay? You don't mind?"

A cracking voice. "It's okay, just do it with your whole heart."

He looks at his rucksack crumpled on the floor, the vinyl holdall on the bed. "I will, Dad."

"Here, you better speak to your mother. I'll put her on."

The background noise diminishes, the TV volume lowered.

"Daniel? Are you alright? I wasn't expecting you to call so soon."

He sits on the bed, hears Peter and Sarah laughing in the kitchen. "Yeah, I'm fine, Mum. Have you been out with the dog yet? Did you pet the horses for me?"

She laughs. "Not yet, I'm still making dinner. Afterwards maybe."

A knock at his door. "Are you almost ready, Daniel? We should leave soon."

"I won't keep you. It sounds like your friends want you."

He stands and places his palm flat on the bedroom door, leans his forehead against it, imagines he senses the reverberations from Peter's recent touch on the other side. "It's just … I need to tell you something." Squeezing his eyes shut, he keeps his forehead on the wood.

"Oh?" Rustling, the sound of cutlery clinking.

"I don't think I'll ever bring a girlfriend home."

A sigh, then a slow laugh. "Is that all?"

At the club, he takes the stage, waves to the crowd dancing before him. Sweating through his t-shirt, he stands beside the DJ just finishing and puts his hand on the deck, mixes his first song to the beat of the DJ's last. They bump fists and the set is his.

Song in full flight, the next one lined up, he raises an arm and the laser lights follow. Up the back wall, across the ceiling and disappearing behind him. Below, the crowd lift their faces, and he sees Peter at the front. Closing his eyes, he soars in the shared elation, tries to pinpoint his own self among it, the self that loves Peter. But the trying is futile; there is only one unified beat.