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“I actually saw him get up today,” Random said nonchalantly, leaning in the entrance to her father’s ‘workshop’.
“That’s promising,” Arthur smiled, looking up from his new masterpiece: perfectly normal beast in between two yellowish slices of bread, garnished with a new sauce he’d been developing with his apprentice from the fruit of a trangellope bush. “Thank you for telling me, Random.”
These days, Arthur felt he should leave Random mostly to her own devices, out of fear of making her feel stifled. Occasionally she’d appear at the threshold, never coming in further, to say a sentence or two before disappearing again until twilight. While she may no longer be convinced the moon was out to get her, a distaste for the nighttime still lingered. And so they would spend an awkward, wordless evening in the firelit living area of his hut, going about their own little tasks before bed.
Hopefully, her days of hijacking spacecrafts and threatening strangers and friends alike with rocks and other deadly weapons were over. This is what Arthur affirmed to himself each night when he looked at her meditative face and dark, vacant eyes and worried that maybe she was beginning to get bored and restless with it all. Perhaps her polite behaviour was just a front, and she was plotting something new and devastating. It wasn’t a nice thing to distrust one’s daughter, however, and Arthur reprimanded himself for ruminating on it.
This wasn’t to say that life back on Lamuella had been uneventful. Just last week, the Lamuellans had been completely unbothered by another vast hulk of metal plunging through the clouds; it had become a very commonplace occurrence, and Old Thrashbarg knew that whatever may be in it, it concerned the Sandwich Maker. In the weak cream-coloured dawn, Ford Prefect had flopped out of the ship’s wonky landing hatch and laid, groaning deeply, in the luscious dew-laden grass until Arthur had discovered him on his morning walk.
“Bastards,” he'd grumbled as Arthur guided him to his hut. “Big load of bloody zarking bastards.”
Ford usually had some tinge of alcohol on his scent, but it was so intense now that Arthur struggled to breathe close to him. His daughter watched with a frown as he laid his friend down and gently pulled a blanket up to his chin.
“We might have a new housemate for a bit,” Arthur sighed, wary of the daggers Random was glaring.
“Like this stupid hut wasn't crowded enough,” she scoffed.
Around midday, Ford awoke green-faced and miserable as Arthur pottered about with a whistle.
“Could you shut up?” Ford said groggily. “You're so sharp you’re cutting right through my ears.”
“Good morning Ford,” Arthur replied cheerfully. He was taken aback by how glad he was that he could talk to Ford again. “Or good afternoon. I don't keep too much track of the time these days.”
“Now what the hell am I doing here?” Ford complained, eyes darting about the quaint little room.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Arthur, slightly deflated. “I thought maybe you might've wanted to see me. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
“I was drunk. I was extremely drunk.”
“Really? I hadn't noticed,” Arthur muttered sarcastically.
“No, like, ridiculously drunk.”
“And why were you any more drunk than you usually are?”
Squinting in thought, Ford leaned backwards in his blanket of checkered beige and umber. His face lit up momentarily before creasing into an expression of pure hatred.
“The Guide,” he snarled, “those bastards. Greedy, evil zarking—”
He squeezed his eyes shut in a grimace. Evidently, the rage-induced rush of blood was making his head throb.
“Rest for a bit,” Arthur advised. “There's no hurry. Especially given the fact you don't exactly have a job or—”
“Shh,” Ford hushed before going silent for the day.
Conversations of this variety occurred every day that week, even when the hangover had been nursed with plenty of water from the brook and specially made sandwiches. As relieved as he was to see his friend again, it hurt Arthur to see him in such a state of bitterness and defeat. Sure, the Guide hadn’t paid him for decades, but Ford had adored it. Despite the thick layer of cynicism that coated his outlook, his work on the Guide had held some hedonistic spark of idealism that invigorated him. InfiniDim had gone and stamped it out. What else was there for him now?
Random had been around the hut even less since Ford’s arrival. His very presence embarrassed her. Her father was infinitely forgiving of her past infractions, but she couldn't be sure that Ford would extend her the same clemency. She’d peep into the room and regard the peculiar, scruffy little man with uncertainty before going about her daily routine of unnerving and disturbing the villagers.
All of this was why Arthur felt so warm and glad with Random’s news bulletin, his whistling growing brighter with optimism. Wouldn't it be lovely if everyone could just get along?
Hands thrust into her pockets, Random meandered through the thick woodland. She wasn't exactly pleased to be back on Lamuella, but the chaos and despair of her near-death experience, and the guilt at leading her parents into certain doom had frightened her into accepting the comfort that life with Arthur Dent afforded her. It was just for now, she told herself. Just until she could get through the night without crying. Then she could make her escape.
“Young lady, are you interested in acts of terrorism against major corporations?” a salesman-like voice exclaimed from somewhere in the foliage. Random lurched backwards, but much to the owner of the voice’s relief, did not crouch down to grab a rock.
“You're mobile,” she said, unsettled, as the ragged figure emerged. “What are you doing?”
“Lurking. Scheming,” Ford shrugged, dusting a leaf off of his shoulder. “I'm no expert but it appears you’re up to something similar.”
Random didn't reply, and continued to regard him with suspicion and vague irritation.
“We got off on the wrong foot before,” Ford continued. “Why don't we start again? I'm Ford Prefect, and I'm a good friend of your parents!”
She made no move to shake his hand, but swiped her crimson-tinged hair out of her eye to get a better look. “Mother never mentioned you.”
“She didn't?” He looked stung. “Oh, but I'm sure Arthur did, didn't he? You know, we've travelled quite the distance together.”
After establishing some facts about one another, Random allowed herself to let her guard down as they tread slowly down to the river. There was a streak of wild danger about Ford Prefect, not dissimilar to the one she'd always recognised in Zaphod Beeblebrox. His twitchiness and the mad way he glanced about him failed to harmonise at all with the tranquility of a quiet Lamuellan afternoon.
“So what's wrong with you?” Random asked pointedly.
“You ever had a sense of purpose, kid?” Ford replied.
“Not really. Perhaps I had a purpose when I was born. But by the time I figured out what it was I’d already failed so spectacularly that I thought ‘Sod the whole thing!’”
“I'd drink to that,” Ford grinned, “if there were any alcohol on this bloody planet. Well, I did have a purpose and it was a damn great one. But just recently a bunch of money-grubbing killjoys burned the whole thing to the ground.”
“And you don't know what to do now,” Random interjected.
“Exactly,” Ford answered. “So I was thinking of committing to a life of violent revenge. It's not the sort of thing I've tried before but I knew I'd get round to it eventually. Like craft beer.”
“And you think I’ll help you with that. It certainly sounds interesting,” she said dubiously. He gave a fiendish smirk of encouragement. “But what about my dad?”
“Well, I was hoping,” he grew weirdly coy now, staring listlessly down at his feet, “that he could come too.”
“Then why not ask him yourself?” Random furrowed her thick black eyebrows.
“Oh, you know what your father is like,” he began, waving a hand haphazardly. “He's set in his ways. Needs a bit of persuasion.”
They'd reached the river now, its twinkling olive waters foaming at the rocks, shining like muddy diamonds. The air was humid and heavy with the soothing smell of damp moss.
“Persuasion?” she retorted indignantly. “Is that what this is about?”
“No, I didn't mean—”
“I can't believe you lot!” she cried, balling her hands up into fists. “You're all the zarking same! I'm just a means to an end for you.”
“Not necessarily,” Ford continued, embarrassedly scratching his forearm. She was pouting angrily in a way that was frighteningly familiar.
“Why did you try to find me then?” Random interrogated with a vicious glare. “It’s all because you don't want to do the work your damn self. Whatever is going on between you and my dad—”
“I never said there was anything—” Ford blushed panickedly.
“Oh give me a break! Dad can't talk about you without some strange yearning look taking up residence in his eyes. You’re going through some shit, drive your ship onto his lawn, he looks after you like a sick animal! It's skin-crawling and I don't want to know about it.”
Ford sighed defeatedly. She had a point, and she folded her arms tight in a sort of frustrated triumph.
“Dad and I have had one hell of a time, and he wanted to come back here so we could start again,” Random stated in a more conciliatory tone. “I'm doing better, I swear. But I can't cope with being some pawn on someone else's board anymore. It's exhausting.”
He nodded understandingly, when a distressed call rang through the trees
“Random? Ford? Oh Bob.”
Arthur darted madly back and forth, disappearing and reappearing from behind the thick grey trunks. Catching sight of them with a gasp of relief, he dashed towards them as fast as he could with his bad leg. They waited awkwardly by the riverside.
“I'd finished for the day and neither of you were home!” Arthur said exasperatedly, placing his weight onto his walking stick. “I thought something might have happened. Again.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Random said, straightening her back in an attempt to appear more respectable. “We got sidetracked.”
“I’m just glad you’re both safe,” he gasped.
“Ford has something he wants to tell you,” Random started. Ford had shrunk away slightly, staring at the water with his arms folded behind his back. “And there's no way in hell I'm doing it for him.”
Ford exhaled. “I know this is a stupid request, since you seem to love this place so bloody much and it's not at imminent risk of exploding,” he explained with a reluctance that made Arthur uneasy.
“And what might that request be?” Arthur raised an eyebrow expectantly.
“I mean, I used to be happy as an andromedan clam travelling the universe with nothing but my own company. But so much has happened, and I don't think I can do it anymore without someone with me. Without you, I suppose,” he cringed, but carried on. “Random could come, of course. Maybe it would be nice?”
Arthur laughed and smiled warmly in a way that brought the blood rushing to Ford’s cheeks. It was a rare thing to see him so content. Random wrinkled up her nose in disgust, but let her father say his piece.
“Maybe it would be.” His voice was calm, with a hint of satisfaction. “I can't keep Random here forever. And if she were to go out and travel the universe, it'd be good to do so with some family.”
“Of course,” Ford added excitedly.
“I’ll consider it,” Arthur nodded subtly, before turning back in the direction of the village. “But first we ought to eat. Come on, Random.”
Ford struggled to subdue his joy, which threatened to bound out of him through his extremities. In his despair, he'd almost thought everything worthwhile was behind him. But there was Arthur, who’d watched it all end several times over and was still willing to begin it all again, no matter how weary his face now appeared and how slowly he walked. He could do it too, and they could do it together. He still wanted to blow InfiniDim to smouldering pieces, of course. But that could wait.
While Random felt happy with the idea of moving on, Ford’s gratitude and newfound energy paired with the hazy-eyed way in which her father continued looking at him was getting under her skin a little, so she decided to spend the evening with some Lamuellan kids she could just about tolerate without wanting to maim.
Ford grinned, taking a sip of dark green translucent juice. “Now why doesn’t anyone here ever consider leaving this stuff out to ferment a bit?”
“Because it's nice enough fresh, Ford,” Arthur tutted. He rested his chin on his palm and stared at his friend. “At a risk of sounding sentimental, I've missed you.”
“Yes,” Ford coughed a reply, without returning the compliment. “You know, I might not be drunk enough for this.”
Arthur frowned disappointedly before raising his own cup to his lips. “I just thought if we were going to start anew. . .”
“I suppose so,” Ford began. He inhaled nervously, and stroked Arthur’s face with one hand, feeling the roughness of his stubble in his palm.
Cool trepidation trickled through him as memories of every awkward encounter, each moment of unintentionally close proximity, flashed through his mind. The past be damned, he thought. The time was now. Arthur’s lined face watched him tenderly as he pulled in, their mouths connecting in a deep kiss. Relishing the closeness, they let an interminable period go by as one felt the other, taking in every sensation.
Eventually they drew away with a small chuckle, but Ford leaned in again to rest his forehead against Arthur’s.
“Is this alright?” he asked with uncharacteristic caution.
“I think it’s a nice way to begin, yes.”