4

My mother’s good eye sparkled when she saw me when I went for a visit the next morning, and her mouth moved to the side in her new version of a smile.

‘Okay, son?’ she managed to ask.

I nodded, and regretted the movement, which fired off a pulse of pain in my head. Faking a smile, I debated for a moment if I should ask her about what I had found in the attic. Then I spent the next thirty minutes breaking up long spells of silence with chat about what Paul and I had been up to the night before, detailing the various people I’d seen in the pub.

‘You know I’m going to have to sell the house,’ I said before I’d thought through how I was going to address this issue.

She didn’t respond. At first. She just stared at me with her one functioning eye. Her scrutiny was unbearable. It felt like I had failed her.

‘Sss’okay, son,’ she said. Then she closed her eye and her small frame shook with emotion.

‘There’s no way round it, Mum. You deserve the best of care and I’m…’

She reached for my hand and squeezed. A movement that had all the power of a leaf landing on my skin.

‘Don’t worry … be fine.’ She swallowed. ‘Always loved … that house.’

‘So sorry, Mum. There’s no other option. I can’t see any other way.’

I felt a little more pressure bear down on my hand from hers. ‘Always dreamed of … of living by sea,’ she said, her face tight with concentration as if she was struggling to find the right words. ‘Away from the city. Away from…’ She looked at me and for a moment it felt like she was about to tell me something momentous. Then she turned away and focused her gaze out of the window, towards the North Ayrshire seascape. It was a grey early-winter’s day and in the weak light cloud blended into the mountains of Arran, which in turn seeped into the sea. Solid lines made hazy as nature coalesced and blurred.

Leaving the nursing home, I felt drained. There was barely enough strength in my thighs to negotiate the stairs. It felt horrible telling Mum that I’d have to sell the house.

I phoned Angela, told her how Mum had been, and with the promise of a nice dinner ringing in my ear we arranged a day to meet.

Seated in my car I considered what I should do next. I toyed briefly with the idea of going back to Mum’s to carry on clearing out the loft. But that required an energy I didn’t possess. Finally, I decided I needed some distance from all of this and aimed my wheels at the road that would take me back to Glasgow. School was back tomorrow and I had some marking to do.

Home was a two-bedroom Georgian flat in an area of the city inhabited predominately by students. The rooms were enormous – high-ceilinged and draughty, and they proved near impossible to heat in winter. When I moved in the walls were dotted with Blu Tack, the only remnant of legions of homesick students who had surely toiled over their books while they struggled to keep warm under a mass of blankets.

Parking my car, I was not too happy to see that someone had stolen my usual spot – right in front of the entrance to my flat. Nice car though, I thought, appreciating the sleek lines of the black BMW.

There was someone sitting in the driver’s seat. As I walked by the car, I slowed my step and attempted to peer in through the tinted window. I was rewarded with a flash of white teeth. Then the door opened and the driver jumped out and bellowed, ‘How’s it hanging, big brother?’

It took me a moment to register who was standing in front of me. ‘Chris. What the hell are you doing here?’

‘What kind of welcome is that for the prodigal?’ Chris demanded with a grin.

Before I could answer, he was round my side of the car and had enveloped me in a hug. Still resenting him for leaving me to deal with Mum on my own, I self-consciously pulled away from him, but not before I got a good nose full of whatever wacky substance he’d been smoking.

‘Well, you’d better come in,’ I smiled, trying to hide my confusion.

I fumbled with the key and opened the security door, then led the way upstairs to my flat on the first floor. When we got into the living room, he bounded across the room and dumped himself onto one of the armchairs.

‘Cool place you’ve got here, man. But what’s with the Marvel poster?’

‘It’s in a frame,’ I said defensively. ‘That makes it more grown-up.’

He snorted an ‘Aye, right’ and was then on his knees in front of my TV, examining the pile of PS4 games that lay there. ‘Still into all this shit?’ he asked.

‘It’s a great way to unwind after dealing with kids all day, and it helps keep an old man relevant.’

Chris nodded slowly as if he saw the sense in what I said. ‘Cool.’

I ignored the transatlantic sheen he rolled over his vowels and gave him the once-over.

‘You’re looking well,’ I said. He was broad-shouldered, slim-waisted and perhaps taller than I remembered. And he was expensively dressed, tanned and his long, sun-bleached hair reached almost to his shoulders.

‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘You look like shit.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ I laughed. ‘The usual routine is half an hour of pleasantries, then the insults begin.’

‘Why waste time…’ he grinned. ‘Sorry I didn’t reply to your email. Reception was patchy where we were.’ He paused ‘How is she?’ He asked the question as if out of a sense of duty rather than a need to know.

‘Oh, you know,’ I grimaced. ‘Shit.’ I smiled. ‘When you going down to see her?’

Chris joined me on the sofa, leaned forwards in his seat, elbows on his knees. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t home in time to help out, John. It sounds as if it was really rough.’

‘Will be good to get your help when we go down to clear out the house.’

‘Yeah…’ he said, looking away from me. There was a strong reluctance there.

‘I need your help, Chris,’ I said. ‘I’m tired of dealing with her all on my own.’

His shoulders slumped, and he sat back in his chair. Then, as if he’d made a decision, he slapped a hand on his thigh and jumped to his feet.

‘Where’s my manners? And where’s the nearest off-licence? How about I get some wine in?’

I stood in front of him. ‘What’s going on, Chris?’

‘I’m thirsty, brother. Tell me where the nearest offy is and I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ He stretched into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a smart phone. ‘Never mind. I can find it on this. And I’ll be back before you can rinse off the manky glasses in your kitchen.’ He gave me the full glare of the Chris smile. All teeth and sparkly eyes. ‘Great to see you, man.’ And he was out of the door before I could say anything more.

Twenty minutes later he was back with two bottles of red wine and two massive bags of crisps. He held them before him as he walked back in the door.

‘Since when did Scotland get with it on the fancy flavour front? Thai sweet chilli, or sea salt with balsamic vinegar? So cool. I couldn’t decide which to get so I bought both.’

‘When was the last time you were back in the country, Chris? We’ve had these for ages.’ I registered a note of irritation in my voice and fought to temper it with a smile as big as his. But gave up. There was no way I could compete with him on that, and his high-energy act was already getting on my nerves. ‘And dial down on the enthusiasm, will you? You’re giving me a headache.’

‘Okay, okay,’ he said as he walked towards the kitchen. ‘I hear you. It’s all those grey skies,’ he said. ‘Makes you a miserable bastard.’

‘Wanker.’

‘Fannybaws,’ he shot back and his Scottish accent was back in full play. I laughed. He joined me.

‘Just two bottles?’ I asked as I walked into the kitchen and pulled out a couple of glasses. ‘What are you going to drink?’

Chris rolled his eyes and then followed me as I walked through to the living room. We settled down on the sofa with a bowl of crisps each and a glass of wine.

‘In your last email you were six months into a relationship with a rich American. How’s that going?’

‘See that BMW I arrived in?’

‘She’s that rich she bought it for you?’ I was incredulous.

‘Eejit. She rented it.’

‘So, you’re a kept man?’

He sipped at his wine. ‘That noise is the penny dropping.’

‘Nice work if you can get it,’ I said.

‘She’s amazing,’ he said, his eyes shining.

‘What? Is little brother in love?’

He raised his glass.

‘Name?’

‘Marjory.’

‘Not very American. Just how rich is she?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Where is this amazing lady just now?’

‘She’s back at the hotel.’

‘Why didn’t you bring her to meet me?’

‘Because I wanted to see you on my own first, we’ve a lot of catching up to do.’ He grew solemn. ‘I’ve missed you, you know.’

‘Yeah right,’ I answered, feeling myself shrink into my seat and away from the implied affection, but simultaneously pleased at his response.

‘You’re the only brother I’ve got.’ He looked deep into my eyes. Assessing. Probing. It made me feel uncomfortable. ‘I don’t want us to be strangers anymore, John.’

I was touched, perhaps it was time for both of us to grow up. But not quite yet. There was still some undealt with resentment on my part.

‘How long are you and Marjory staying in Glasgow?’ I asked.

He laughed. ‘After me saying I no longer want us to be strangers, we’re leaving tomorrow. We’re on Marjory’s version of the Grand Tour.’ He spoke the last two words in a self-mocking tone. ‘We’re going all around Europe. Driving down to London tomorrow – hence the car. Then flying across to mainland Europe and Paris, Madrid, Prague. Should be a lot of fun.’

‘Good for you.’ I couldn’t disguise how disappointed I felt.

His expression slumped, then darkened as he read my tone. He held his hands out to the side. ‘I can’t do it, John. I can’t.’ There was a sense of deep pain in his eyes.

‘You didn’t come back for Dad’s funeral. And now you’re leaving me to cope with family stuff on my own again. Fucksake, Chris. Doing the drug and beach tour thing while you were still a kid was fine, but it’s time to grow up.’

I looked away from him, out of the window. Then I put my glass down and, crossing my arms, folded into myself. It was great to see him again, but the realisation that he was only here by accident and on his own terms hurt.

‘Really? You’re giving me the “grow up” line?’ He looked around. ‘This flat is like the space where boys’ toys go to die.’

‘Shut up. You love it.’

‘True,’ he grinned. He closed his eyes, exhaled. Then he looked over at me with a conciliatory smile. ‘We’ve got a table booked at the hotel for dinner in an hour. Join us? Marjory would love to meet you.’

‘Sorry,’ I said feeling a little spiteful, then instantly regretting it. ‘I’ve got a busy night. Lots of papers to mark and hand over to students in the morning.’ I was caught between resentment of him and pleasure that he wanted to spend the time with me.

‘My bad,’ he said. ‘I should have warned you we were coming.’ He clapped hard down on his thighs. ‘But I wanted it to be a surprise.’

‘Yeah, well.’ I fought to keep my tone even. ‘All the time with Mum over the last few days means I’m behind on my work, so I need to spend the evening elbows deep in teen angst.’

‘I hear you,’ Chris said as if he was acknowledging how let-down I felt. ‘Next time I’m over you and I will really talk.’ His blue eyes pierced mine.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked with a sinking feeling. The words ‘really talk’ were heavy with importance. At least to him. What did he need to talk to me about? I’d had enough of revelations. Life could get back on an even keel any time soon.

‘Never mind; it will keep for now.’ He stood up, indicating it was time for him to leave.

I had a thought. ‘Can you hold on a minute? There’s something I need to show you.’

‘Sure,’ he replied with a quizzical look on his face. I pulled the photo out of my jacket pocket and handed it to him.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, looking from me to the photo. He squinted, then smiled. ‘Eeesh, when did you ever have a haircut like this? Flat-top boy. And who’s the kid?’ He looked over at me. ‘I recognise Portencross. Some family outing that, eh? Half a mile down the road.’ Then, back down to the photo: ‘Hang on … That car has a weird number plate. Whose car was that?’

‘I’m guessing Dad’s. Why would he take a photo of me leaning against someone else’s car?’

He turned the photo over and read what Dad had written there. ‘That’s his writing.’ He made a face. ‘Why am I not in this picture? It says “the boys” here. That was always how Mum and Dad referred to us two.’ He paused. ‘This makes no sense.’ He looked back to the photo. ‘And the car – it’s old.’ He looked back up at me.

I read the look and knew instantly where he was going. ‘That was always Dad’s thing, wasn’t it? A new car every two years,’ I said. And he had a thing for Fords.

‘This is a Ford Sierra,’ Chris said.

He was always a bit of a petrol-head so I took his word for it.

‘And look at your hair … and Jesus, that shell suit. When did you ever have a shell suit?’

I shook my head, utterly mystified.

Chris brought out his phone, and tapped on the screen as he mumbled about Ford Sierras.

‘Right,’ he read. ‘Those cars were phased out in 1989. No way did Dad have a Sierra when you were a teenager. He would have gone on to the Mondeo by then.’ He went back to the photo. ‘The smaller kid though…’ He looked at me, his mouth hanging open.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked, feeling the world shift around me.

His face was pale with the realisation. ‘You’re the infant here, John.’

‘What?’

‘Look closer at the older boy. Sure, he looks like you … but he doesn’t quite … Jesus.’ He put the photo down on the sofa as if burned. ‘Now that I’ve thought about it, how could I possibly think that’s you? The hair, the tracksuit … the face. It’s almost you … but not.’

I shoved my hands in my pockets as if afraid to touch the thing, but still bent over to get a better look. Chris was right. The older boy wasn’t me.

‘Fuck,’ I said. ‘There could be more.’ I told him about the shoe.

He rubbed at his scalp and stared across at me. ‘What the hell have you stumbled onto?’