2

Grateful for Angela’s sensitivity I dropped her off then made my way to my childhood home. I let myself in and stood in the small hallway for a long moment as if letting myself settle back into the space.

Although Mum had been hospitalised weeks earlier, the air felt fresh. I wondered if the next-door neighbour had been coming in now and again to open the windows. From where I stood I could see into the kitchen, the sitting room to my left, my bedroom at the back, downstairs. As I expected, the place was spotless. Looking at the bare cream-coloured walls and the hoover track marks on the carpet it felt as if Mum had just popped out for some shopping.

The last time I’d seen my mother before she had her stroke was on the anniversary of my father’s death, a few months earlier. Mum wasn’t bothered either way about Christmas and refused to acknowledge her birthday, but was adamant that each year on the date my father died I should make the trek down to my childhood home and spend an hour or two with her.

For some reason, on this particular visit I was more reflective than normal.

‘I never got the sense that you and Dad really loved each other,’ I said, thinking out loud.

Mum recoiled. ‘What a horrible thing to say,’ she said, her expression tight. ‘Your father was the love of my life.’ She crossed her arms and stared defiantly at me.

I held her gaze while I debated arguing the point. My comment was thoughtless, but to argue about her revision of her marriage would have been a waste of energy. If she coped with her grief by reframing her marriage more positively, who was I to challenge her?

Shaking my head as if that might rid me of the way my thoughts were going, I made for the kitchen and the cupboard where my dad used to stash his whisky. Bingo. Behind Mum’s almost-empty bottle of port I found a single malt that only had a couple of measures taken from it. I poured myself two fingers, threw that back. Savoured the melt across my shoulder muscles and poured myself another. This one I nursed in my left hand as I walked through the house.

Minutes later I was walking towards my old bedroom. I stopped at the threshold and allowed the memories to flood in. I’d spent hours lying on that bed, on that very red, grey and black bedspread – a colour scheme I once thought was so grown up – hands under my head, earphones in, listening to all sorts of music.

I never played the music too loud. I needed to hear what was happening in other parts of the house. And as if memory had layered echoes in my mind, I could hear Chris charging upstairs, Mum shouting after him, Dad telling us dinner was ready, Mum calling to say that my mate Paul was at the door. Chris running in and jumping on top of me, making sure the bony saucer of each knee hit me in a tender spot.

There were also times when it was deathly quiet, when Dad’s silences lay heavy in the house. When he was working a murder case we knew to tiptoe around him, that he would be quick to fury, to lash out, but just as quick to apologise.

I found him once, asleep at the kitchen table, an almost-empty bottle of whisky at his right hand. I couldn’t see a glass and guessed he’d drunk straight from the bottle. Breathless with anxiety, certain he was dead, I studied him in the gloom, ears primed for the sound of his breath. Then he’d woken himself with a snore, lifted his head off the table and with one eye still shut he’d shouted at me to get back to bed.

He’d followed me to my room and stood on the very spot I did now, watching me as I got into bed. I pulled the quilt up around my neck as if I was protecting myself and pretended to sleep, wondering what on earth he was doing as he lingered there.

A deep grumble issued from his throat. It sounded like, ‘Sorry, son. Not your fault.’

That was the pattern of our relationship. Shouts, long silences, and apologies.

I gave myself a shake. And another sip of whisky. I had a job to do. But where to begin? I climbed the stairs and looked up at the access door to the loft. That had been Dad’s space. No one was allowed up there but him. I suspected it would be covered in a thick layer of dust – I couldn’t think of anyone who might have gone up there since he died.

There was hardly any room for my feet because of the amount of junk in the spacious attic. Boxes, trunks and piles of old clothes almost reached the sloping roof. Paintings and books lay in front of me along with an open box, which, from where I stood, looked as if it was filled with black cloth. The cardboard was clean and firm as I pushed back the flaps to discover what lay within. The rough, heavy wool gave it away instantly. It was my father’s police uniform. I fingered the black serge and tugged at the epaulettes my father had proudly worn throughout his career. Emotions vied for attention in my mind; guilt argued with logic, rejection played with fear, love yielded to loss.

Who was the man who wore this material? His strong face appeared in my mind, wearing a hint of a smile. My throat tightened as I replaced the tunic and closed the dust-free box.

Far into the corner, deep in the shadow I came across a couple of small boxes, hidden under a stack of books. Each box had been carefully wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. Untying the first box I found a small camera and two rolls of film. Under that was a pile of photographs of varying shapes and sizes, some in colour and some in black and white. They were all portraits of children. There were several of both Chris and I, naked in the bath. In one, I sat sombrely on one side while Chris displayed all of his teeth to the camera. What age would I have been? Five? Six?

Then there were some photographs of me in my early teens. In one I was holding a toddler in my lap, sitting in front of a dark-green car. I recognised the background, the pattern of rocks and the small ruined castle off to the right. That could only be down by Portencross. Chris was nowhere to be seen, which was unusual. In most family pictures we came as a package. And why was I holding a baby? And whose car was that? I couldn’t remember Dad having one that colour.

Dismissing this, I placed the photographs to the side and picked up the other box. It was lighter than the first and with a strange sense of excitement, I opened it up. It held a single item – a stained sandshoe; rubber sole, white canvas upper. A boy’s shoe? I picked it up by the laces and holding it closer to the light, I squinted to identify the stains. The green was unquestionably grass, but could the splash of rusty, almost brown colour be blood?