21

‘Christ you look a mess,’ said Chris, when I opened the door to him.

‘Hello, yourself,’ I said and looked down at my dark-brown towelling dressing gown, stained white T-shirt and green, cotton pyjama bottoms.

Chris, in contrast, looked tanned and fit. He watched with a half-smile as I took in his dark designer jeans, grey full-length wool coat, and plain white T-shirt.

‘You’ll catch your death in that,’ I said, then turned and walked back inside my flat.

‘Good to see you too, bro,’ Chris said as he followed me inside. In the living room I slumped onto the sofa and regarded my brother.

‘What’s up?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t think you’d be coming back so soon.’

‘Yeah, well. Man plans, God scoffs. Or something.’ Chris looked around. ‘Life’s treating you well, I see?’

‘I’ll give it a clean later,’ I said, feeling my face heat at the state of the place. Over the last few weeks my only concern had been making it into work each day. It was about the only thing I could raise the energy for.

‘What happened? I mean, I know you live like a teenage boy, but you don’t usually let it get this bad,’ Chris said as he looked around again.

‘Angela and I broke up,’ I replied, finishing off my statement with a weak, I’m-really-okay smile.

‘There’s an Angela?’

I gave Chris the hard-eye.

‘I knew you were seeing someone. I just forgot her name is all.’

‘Stop talking American,’ I said.

‘Shit. Looks like about two months of crap here. How long ago did this happen?’

‘A couple of months.’

‘Fair enough. A broken heart isn’t to be sniffed at.’ Chris clapped his hands against his thighs and stood up. ‘But time for the pity party to be shut down. C’mon…’ He reached for me, grabbed the lapel of my dressing gown and pulled me to my feet. He knew that when his energy levels were high it irritated the life out of me, and I knew he was playing on that. ‘It’s time to clean this place up.’ Chris smiled. ‘I’ll even give you hand.’

With me trailing behind him, Chris went round the flat like a whirlwind, opening curtains, picking up soiled clothes and flinging out rubbish. After we were done I let Chris sit me down with a can of beer.

‘Why did this Angela give you the elbow, then?’ Chris asked.

‘I was an arsehole. It was richly deserved.’ I held my can up and toasted the notion.

Chris assessed me for a moment. ‘Still doing the self-sabotage thing?’

‘What do you mean, still?’ I demanded.

Chris made a pfft sound. ‘You’ve only been doing that with women all your adult life.’

‘I have?’

‘Please,’ Chris laughed. ‘A string of one-night stands. Three serious girlfriends that I know of. All of whom you dumped when things got too heavy.’

I sat back in my seat, opened my mouth as if I was going to refute the accusation, then sighed. Even I could hear the truth in what he was saying.

‘Enough about me,’ I said, feeling uncomfortable. I hadn’t spent weeks burying my head in the sand to have Chris excavate my feelings after two minutes of being in the flat. ‘What happened with you two? I thought you were head over heels.’

‘I was,’ Chris answered. ‘I kinda knew from the start it would have its limits. But silver lining…’ He adopted his happy face and rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ve still got her credit card and all the fancy clothes she bought me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, but I felt just a frisson of pleasure there. It was good to have company in my misery. ‘What’re you going to do now?’

‘Kick around for a little while. See what’s what, and then hop a plane. Maybe try the Florida Keys this time. Bag me another rich widow.’ Chris studied me and asked. ‘Why? You got a use for me? I take it the search for a brother was a bust?’

‘Oh, that.’ I coloured.

‘What?’

‘He’s real,’ I leaned closer. ‘We did have a brother. Thomas.’

‘What? Jesus. Why haven’t you been keeping me up to speed, bro?’

‘I found a birth certificate. One Thomas Docherty born in 1975 to William and Lorna Docherty,’ I said.

‘Fuck,’ Chris said, emitting one elongated vowel sound as he slumped back into his seat. ‘I knew it. The lying bastards.’ He shook his head.

But then, as if furious that our parents had kept this from him, he jumped to his feet. ‘Fuck,’ he repeated, and looked around him as if he was wishing there was something he could kick or punch. He rubbed at his head. Then turned back to face me. ‘Why didn’t you let me know?’ he asked sharply.

‘I was going to. I tried…’ I paused, studying a spot on the carpet.

‘You were so full of your own shit you couldn’t even get in touch with your brother. I deserved to be kept informed, John. A phone call. Or an email if you couldn’t be arsed actually talking to me.’

‘Don’t be like that.’

‘Like what? Angry my brother would keep something this big from me?’

‘Oh, right.’ I was on my feet now. ‘Play the brother card now, why don’t you?’

‘Yeah, ’cos you play the martyr so well, brother.’

‘Fuck you.’

We stared at each other for a long moment. Faces almost close enough for me to feel my brother’s breath on my skin. A dozen comments flitted through my mind, each of them designed to wound. But I forced myself to resist that temptation.

With what looked like a massive effort, Chris moved back to the sofa and took a seat. ‘How about Mum? And the house? It sold yet?’

Shit. The house. The money in Mum’s account wouldn’t last much longer. I had to get it sorted. And at that thought I felt the usual stab of resentment that all of this was on my plate.

‘There’s an estate agent I was about to contact,’ I lied, thinking I’d get on it as soon as possible. Then wondering why I was acting as if I was ashamed at my inactivity, I shot back at him. ‘And like you care. Are you even going to see her while you’re here?’

His lips were a thin, pale line, as if he was restraining himself from shouting back at me.

‘Okay.’ He held his hands out. ‘It’s unfair all of that stuff has been on you. But I promise to help now. Get me the details of the estate agent and I’ll take that over.’ He paused as if he’d had a thought. ‘How can you sell the place without Mum’s say so? Officially, like? Can she even hold a pen to sign anything?’

‘Not sure.’ It hadn’t even crossed my mind. I had a memory of people coming to see Dad, asking him as a local professional to witness documents. ‘She definitely has the cognitive ability to understand what’s happening. Perhaps whatever signature she can manage needs to be witnessed?’

He bit his lip, and I knew he was thinking if he took on this bureaucracy it would mean he’d have to go and see her.

‘Okay. Leave that with me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’ He leaned forwards. ‘In the meantime, how about you take a seat and you tell me everything you found out after I left with Marjory?’

‘Sure,’ I agreed with a small smile as I sat down. ‘Sorry I blew up there. Things have been…’

‘Shitty. I hear you.’

Feeling mollified at his evident sympathy, I began to recount the events of the last few months, telling Chris about my library searches, the visit to meet the old man from the Shows, how good-looking his granddaughter was and how she’d given me details of a few of the Marinellos’ employees.

‘Gina was as good as her word. An email came in from her just the other day with the details of two or three of her grandad’s workers. I’ve just kind of sat on it since.’ As I said this, I reached for my laptop, which was sitting on the coffee table. I located the email and read aloud from it.

‘Look at you, Mr Private Eye,’ Chris said with a grin. ‘Dick and Gillon? Sounds like a firm of funeral directors. Maybe I can put that old journalism degree of mine to good use. Want me to try and find out more about them while you’re off at work?’