26

Chris twisted in his seat so that he was facing me. We were sitting on either end of the sofa in my flat.

‘What are you thinking, bro?’ Chris asked. We’d both been silent the whole journey back across town from Elsa Brown’s.

‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘I can’t…’ I shook my head. ‘That woman handed him over as if he was nothing.’

‘That’s not quite fair,’ Chris replied, but sounding like he couldn’t quite keep the ambivalence out of his voice.

I exhaled. ‘She used a child to help pay off her debts and sold him into God knows what horrific situation.’ I threw my head back and studied the ceiling. ‘I could do with a drink.’

Chris got to his feet, and threw me a look as if he was thinking that seemed to be my answer to everything these days.

‘Don’t start,’ I said.

‘What? Chris asked, throwing his arms wide. ‘Stay there. A red wine coming up.’

‘Get me a whisky?’ I shouted, as Chris sped towards the kitchen.

Moments later he was back with a full glass of red wine in each hand. He offered one to me and I took it with a questioning look. ‘I asked for a whisky.’

‘Jesus, it’s a bit early for the hard stuff, even for you,’ Chris said, as if the words were out before he could self-edit.

‘What, you’re monitoring my drinking now?’

‘Oh, for chrissakes rein your neck in,’ Chris said half under his breath. ‘I’m not sure I can handle this,’ he added as he rubbed at his forehead. ‘I thought I’d dealt with all the shit my childhood threw up, but this…’ He looked over at me, as if trying to gauge my reaction.

‘All what shit?’ I demanded. ‘I remember nothing about Thomas, and I was actually born then. You were nothing but a glint in Dad’s eye.’

Chris studied me, as if wondering how to respond. ‘Okay.’ Then, as if it was a huge effort, as if he’d just aged fifty years in the last five minutes, he got to his feet. And he held out his arms, palms up, as if offering himself to me. His eyes saying I want to help you. ‘My memories are there. Solid and absolutely irrefutable.’

‘What on earth are you on about?’ I felt my head spin.

‘I can’t do this.’ Chris threw his hands up and then left the room.

‘Chris,’ I shouted after him. ‘Chris?’

From where I was standing I could hear Chris open the front door.

‘Great,’ I shouted after him, feeling close to losing control and not caring. ‘Do what you usually do and fuck off, why don’t you?’

Chris came back to the door of the living room, his face dark, as if he was about to let rip. With a visible effort, he turned and left again.

When I’d heard the door slam shut I sunk back down on to my seat and wondered why almost every interaction between us ended in a similar fashion. We needed to learn how to be better for and to each other.

Half an hour or so later, Chris walked back in the flat holding a bottle of single malt out towards me. It looked like expensive stuff. Way better than the cheap bottle I had in my cupboard.

‘Peace?’ he said.

I accepted the bottle and twisted the top off, offering Chris what felt like a tired smile. ‘Peace,’ I replied.

Chris left the room and returned with a couple of glasses. I poured a generous measure into each glass and held one up to Chris in a toasting motion. ‘How is it we both irritate the fuck out of each other?’

Then, wondering just how many families in the country behaved in this manner, disguising their inability to communicate via the noise and sights blaring out from a TV set, we settled down in front of the screen, just like we did once upon a time with Mum and Dad. Then, it was the news, the soaps and comedy shows. Fake news, fake drama and canned laughter.

Now, like then, we were allowing the sounds and actions of other people pretending to have relationships to act as a balm on the wounds we didn’t have the courage to face.

As the evening wore on I became aware of how many times Chris looked over at me, and I could sense he was building up to something. In a feeble attempt at a distraction, or perhaps to bolster myself against what was coming, I filled my glass, pointed the bottle in his direction.

‘Top you up?’

He shook his head, opened his mouth briefly and I knew he was going to pass judgement on my drinking, but then he thought better of it and said nothing.

Chris reached for the remote and switched off the TV.

‘Hey,’ I complained, on the brink of a yawn. ‘I was watching that.’ I’d no idea what had been on the TV, my mind had been wandering for most of the time we’d been sitting there.

‘We need to talk.’

Chris studied me and in a rare moment of self-awareness I wondered if he could still see the boy he once knew behind the pale, doughy skin and the drink-numbed eyes. Because if he could, I couldn’t. I was too tired by the dark thoughts in my mind, the constancy of the heavy, sour weight in my gut, and not knowing who to blame for it, other than myself.

Fuck it. Fuck it all, I thought, and took a large swig of whisky.

‘Maybe you’re comfortable hiding, but I’m not,’ Chris said, his mouth curved into a brittle smile.

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘Sometimes I wish I could hide behind a shit memory as well,’ Chris mumbled as he leaned forwards, his head in his hands.

‘Would you stop speaking in riddles. What are you talking about?’ Certain I didn’t have the energy to go wherever Chris was heading with his comment, I made an effort to divert the conversation.

‘We’ve made a huge step in finding Thomas and all you can do is—’

‘You really remember nothing?’ He asked, and I could see he was keeping his voice low as a tactic to keep the energy in the room low.

‘I don’t know what you want from me, Chris.’

‘A brother. That would be a start.’

‘What?’ I was on my feet. ‘You’re the one who’s always running away. How can I be a brother when you’re never here?’

‘You’ve never asked why I’m never here. You rarely contact me. And when I am here it’s like I’m nothing but a massive boil on your arse.’ Chris sprung up, his eyes wide, saliva spraying from his mouth, his attempt at dialling down the energy in the room abandoned.

‘Nothing’s ever good enough for you, is it?’ I said. ‘You were always on at Mum and Dad. Complaining. Bitching. Acting like a spoilt brat…’ I knew I was out of line but I couldn’t help myself. I needed an outlet for the anger sparking in every cell of my body. Chris was the only one available to me, and it was some sort of relief not to aim that fury inwards for a change.

‘Fuck you, brother,’ Chris said, as if he was investing the word with as much spite as he could manage.

‘No, fuck you.’ I was in Chris’s face, my right fist raised in readiness for a punch.

‘Ah, there he is. Mr Angry. Just like when we were kids. Be warned, John. Now I hit back.’

I could see a war raging in my brother’s eyes. He was readying himself to block and hit back if I threw a punch. But then something softened in his face, as if he’d reached the edge and with what looked like a huge effort he’d managed to mentally back off.

I pushed Chris away from me and turned to the side, feeling shame at how close I had come to striking out. ‘I think you should go,’ I said, quietly at first, but Chris just stood there.

I roared, restraint gone, my mood swinging back to rage, my mind melting into something beyond fury. ‘Get out. Go!’