8

As kids we were never allowed into our parents’ bedroom. We were told, if we wanted something while our parents were inside, to knock and wait for an answer. This rule was so heavily imprinted on my psyche, even with one parent dead and the other in a nursing home, it took a solid effort to cross the threshold of their ground-floor room.

Two single beds about a foot apart were the focal point of the room, the covers were hotel-smooth, and with the soft purple throw at the foot, and masses of pillows and cushions at the head of each bed, it looked as if it had just been staged for a boutique hotel photo-shoot.

As a kid, knowing my parents slept in single beds didn’t seem odd. It was just the way it was. But viewing this through adult eyes does suggest a lack of intimacy and reinforced my thought that there was an emotional distance between them.

Under the bed nearest the door, sat a pair of red-velvet slippers, my Christmas present to my mum two years ago.

With a heavy sigh, I walked over, picked them up, felt the lightness of them and wondered how much use she’d get from them in future. I shook that thought from my head and put them back. I made a mental note to take them with me next time I visited. Mum was certainly far away from placing her feet on the ground, but … you never knew.

I got to my knees and checked under the bed. Nothing. Not even a suggestion of dust. Then I checked both bedside cabinets. Apart from some TV magazines, three pairs of reading glasses, a basket of heated rollers and a selection of shampoos, make-up and perfumes there was nothing worth further investigation.

Inside the wardrobe, under rows of her skirts and dresses, I found an old suitcase tucked into a far corner. I pulled it out. Judging by its lack of heft, it was empty, but I needed to be sure, so I placed it on the bed, zipped it open and had a look inside.

Nothing.

Once I’d checked every available corner of the room, I stepped back to the doorway and scanned it all. There had to be something; who loses a child and keeps nothing of them? There was something, somewhere, I was sure.

I looked back at the wardrobe. There was a space of about twelve inches between the top of it and the ceiling. Could there be something stashed up there?

Pulling over a chair, I placed it in front of the wardrobe and stepped up. And there, just within reach were two small shoeboxes. I picked them up carefully, and one at a time placed them on the bed.

I stared at them for a long moment, feeling a little nervous, suddenly filled with the importance of what I might discover. Did I really want to find out? My hands were sweating, my mouth dry, and my pulse was heavy in my throat.

Taking a breath I sat beside the boxes, telling myself it was probably just going to be a lot of receipts and financial stuff. I picked up the heaviest one, sat it on my lap and lifted the lid.

Paper. Lots of it. Cards displaying sympathy. I picked one up and opened it. It was addressed to Mum and was signed ‘with love from Dave and Mandy Collins, and all the gang at Maryhill’, in an expansive and curly script.

I flipped it over and looked at the front. It all looked very grown up, not a card for a lost child. And it was only addressed to Mum, so must have been sent to her when Dad died.

There were another twenty or so cards in the box. All of them variations on a theme. Sympathies and condolences, with doves, butterflies and flowers. All with verses sweet enough to cause tooth decay.

Only twenty? I could remember the house being strewn with flowers and cards. Did Mum just keep those from the people important to her?

I recalled a tall man at Dad’s funeral, puffy-faced with deep wrinkles and a head of white hair. David Collins, he introduced himself as. His handshake was strong enough to crush bone, which made me think he must be a bit of a dick. Only weak men feel the need to display their strength when they first meet you. ‘Worked with your dad back in the day,’ he said.

The woman I took to be his wife placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘He was a lovely man, your dad,’ she said. ‘Just lovely.’

I mumbled my thanks, trying to work out why I’d never met these people before.

‘God, you’re his spit,’ Mandy said, almost under her breath. She was silenced by a look from her husband, and before I could ask her what she meant, someone else stepped in and offered their condolences

You’re his spit, she’d said. She couldn’t have been comparing me with my dad. Everyone said we looked nothing alike.

Mandy and her husband must have known my brother.

I replaced the cards in the box and set it to the side. Then I placed the other box on my knees and opened it.

A newspaper headline blared up at me.

‘Boy, 14 Disappears. Parents Appeal for News’.

With trembling fingers I picked the excerpt up and read:

A city-wide search is underway for a missing boy, fourteen, who disappeared after going out on an errand for his mother. Thomas Docherty was last seen riding a sports bike towards Duke Street. He has dark-brown hair, and was wearing a navy-blue shell-suit top with a white panel on the chest.

Below the article was the same image I’d found among my father’s things, except the lower half of the picture, where I was, had been cut off.

With reverence I placed the cutting back in the box and took a breath.

Holy shit. I was right.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket, thinking I should send Chris an email. He needed to hear about this. But just as I keyed in my screen password a knock sounded at the door.

It was Paul.

‘Hey, big guy,’ he smiled. ‘I’ve got a Chinese meal here for you.’ He held up a white plastic bag.

‘How did you…?’

‘Mum. Who else?’

I stepped to one side to allow Paul entry. He walked past me towards the kitchen speaking over his shoulder. ‘Sweet ‘n’ sour chicken?’

‘Does it go with whisky?’ I asked as I followed him.

Paul served up the food, and I tucked in.

He looked over at the box. ‘What’s this?’

Swallowing a mouthful of chicken, I told him everything I knew so far.

‘We had this brother,’ I finished. ‘And our parents told us nothing.’

His chin dropped. He looked down at the newspaper cutting and then back at me. ‘This is mental. Like something out of a movie.’

‘Real life, mate.’ I pushed my plate away from me. I’d talked for so long the food was cold.

‘Mind if I have a look?’ Paul asked, pointing at the shoebox.

I nodded. Paul pulled the box closer, wiped his hand on his trouser leg and stretched inside. He took out a small black jewellery box that must have been tucked into the corner and opened it. Inside there were three little milk teeth.

‘Do you think that’s one for each of you?’ he asked.

‘Would make sense.’ I reached over and carefully pulled one out then cradled it in my palm. It was tiny. Like an absurdly shaped pearl, with a jagged edge and a stain of blood.

‘And, wow. Look at this…’ I could hear the reverence in his voice. It was a form of some kind. He read silently. Then he looked over at me. ‘Thomas Docherty. Born in Glasgow in 1975. Father, William Docherty. Mother, Lorna Docherty…’ He slid the paper across the table. ‘All the proof you need, mate. Your brother’s birth certificate.’