Going to bed was a waste of time. I couldn’t relax in any one position. On my side I didn’t know what to do with one arm. On my back my pulse thumped in my neck. And the quilt was too heavy. The room was too warm. The traffic outside too noisy.
Thomas was here. He’d been here all this time. Just a few streets away.
Each time I closed my eyes he appeared, his eyes tight with worry, telling me to go. What kind of danger was I putting him in by simply being there? By being aware of his existence?
Frustrated at the constant rumble and tangle of my thoughts, I got out of bed and made my way into the kitchen. Locating my laptop, I made my way through to the sofa where I opened it and brought up a Word document.
Writing helps you to access parts of the brain that otherwise might lie dormant. Or so I read somewhere. Perhaps if I started to write about my earliest memories some of them might actually enter my head?
I stared at the screen, and then hit a few random keys. Nonsense filled a line of text.
Once upon a time, I wrote, there was a boy who couldn’t remember much of his childhood. His life was a mystery to him. His brother was also a mystery.
How could that be true? I thought, I didn’t even know I had an older brother. I carried on writing whatever came into my head; words, feelings, impressions, colours, sounds, but nothing new appeared from memory. Moving from Word to Google I put in a search for memory loss to see if there was anything I could find there that might help. The first article I read suggested that thinking of memory as an accurate recording, like a piece of video film was flat-out wrong, mainly because it promotes an unrealistic level of accuracy and suggests permanence.
Our memories, it pointed out, actually represent a distorted version of what happened, and importantly, they change over time. Also, memory doesn’t only record what happened, it records what we feel about what happened. And those feelings can be affected by mood, beliefs, biases and even your individual brain structure. Meaning you are recording your individual perception of the event, rather than objective fact. What’s more, perception that can be altered by time and the adult mindset through which you view the memory.
The implications of that were beyond me, so in frustration I closed the lid and lay back in my seat. What was it with me and memory? Why was it that whenever I searched within myself I mostly came up blank, with nothing to reward me but a pain drilling deep between my eyes.
I closed my eyes, thought of Thomas, Liz and the kids and fantasised about how our lives might be from now on: family visits, long dinners … and the next thing I knew my alarm was sounding from my bedroom.
The clouds were heavy and dark enough to hold back most of what was left of the day’s light. Rain bounced off the concrete and gathered in rivers at each side of the road. A tiny torrent of rain water washed along each kerb carrying its urban flotsam – fast-food wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty drinks cans. After another day’s distracted teaching, I stepped out from under the canopy at the school door and ran across the car park to my car. The rain was so heavy that by the time I sat inside it I was soaked.
Pushing my wet fringe back and wiping the water from my eyes I turned the ignition key and started the engine. The windows clouded quickly from the heat of my breath. I fired off a quick text to Chris to let Thomas and family know I was on my way to the hotel, and once the windows had cleared I drove off.
Every driver must have, at many points in their driving career, turned a corner and wondered how they had arrived there. Unable perhaps to remember the last couple of minutes of their journey. That evening I pulled up just outside The Hamilton without any recollection of any part of the journey.
My stomach lurched as I released the seatbelt. This was it. There was no going back now. I was about to learn one of the great truths of my life.
Out on the pavement, reluctance was a weight all but gluing my feet to the ground, but I pushed myself towards the door of the hotel. Hand on the wood I waited before I entered. Straightening my back, I swallowed deeply and took a step forward.
Chris was the first person I saw. He was leaning against the bar sipping from a white cup, and Thomas was on a stool beside him. He was wearing a pair of dark jeans, a zipped sweat top, and his hair was slicked back as if he was just out of a shower. He looked tight across the shoulders and there was a distinct shadow under his eyes.
‘John,’ Chris said and gave me a nod.
I responded with a nod of my own, and opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
‘You guys go sit in the corner and I’ll order us a drink,’ Chris said, his voice purposefully energetic.
I stood where I was and fidgeted with the car keys in my pocket, unsure what to say, or do – even how to be.
Thomas jumped off his stool, approached me and placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Come on. No one will hear us over there.’ He led me to the far corner of the seating area and chose a chair.
I joined him, and without at first realising it pulled my chair away from Thomas, increasing the distance between us. He ran his fingers through his hair.
‘Truth is, we were kinda expecting this,’ he began haltingly once Chris had joined us. ‘Liz mentioned the day that she met you in the shop. The day the wee one called you Daddy…’
I looked at him, wondering what he was talking about. Then recall slipped in.
‘Oh my God.’ I rocked back in my chair. ‘When I saw her yesterday I was sure I’d met her before and couldn’t think where.’
He nodded. ‘Liz came home in a total panic that day. She knew who you were straight away, because of the…’ He pointed towards my face. ‘The Docherty genes and all that.’ He paused. ‘It did set us back and we debated then if we should move. But we heard nothing more and convinced ourselves that you must have just been visiting the library and couldn’t be local.’
‘I was visiting the library, and I am local.’
There was silence for a moment. Then we both opened our mouths to speak.
‘You first,’ I said.
‘No. You,’ he replied. ‘After all I’m the one who resisted this.’ His voice was deep and well modulated with a touch of English across some of his vowel sounds, but mainly he sounded just like Dad. I said so. He recoiled.
‘Sorry,’ I held a hand up.
‘It’s okay,’ he gave a weak smile. ‘I understand this must be really strange for you.’
‘And likewise.’
He nodded and placed his hands on the table, clasped as if in prayer. His nails were clipped and thick, blue veins were prominent on the backs of his hands.
‘The kids are cute,’ I said, thinking I should start with something safe.
His eyes lit up. ‘Angels one minute, demons the next,’ he said. ‘It took so long to … because, you know…’ He looked into my eyes, apparently expecting understanding. But I wasn’t sure what he was alluding to. ‘I had to learn to trust. Myself as well as others.’
‘Right,’ I said, but I had no idea what he was talking about.
‘Two boys,’ he added. ‘Seems like boys run in our family. The oldest, Andrew, is four and the wee one, Jack, is eighteen months.’ Then he paused. ‘Go on,’ he said with his head tilted to the side, and he was so like Dad it nearly broke me. ‘Ask me. It’s okay.’
‘Why?’ I asked softly. ‘Why did you run away?’
‘Looking back I can see it was always there. In fact I can barely remember a time when it wasn’t. Just a bit too much contact, sexual remarks, lingering hands…’ His eyes glazed in memory. ‘Birthdays and Christmas were always a special time.’ He gave a rueful laugh.
An image pushed through in my mind. A bath full of water. Steam and bubbles and a row of little ducks. What age was I there? I shook my head against the memory and felt the familiar pressure build between my eyes.
‘Nothing happened to you did it?’
‘No,’ I answered, and it sounded too quick even to my ears. ‘What do you mean?’ I added.
He swallowed. ‘Years of therapy and I still find it difficult to go back to that time.’ Then he stared at me for a long moment. I broke contact first, feeling heat build in my face. What was he getting at?
‘I’m sure you can join the dots,’ he said. ‘Are you sure…?’ Again he studied me. I reared back from him, feeling anger build in me.
Chris coughed at my side, but I couldn’t look at him.
‘I went to one of Dad’s colleagues, cos that’s what you do, eh?’ Thomas continued. ‘You go to the cops. The first guy told me to piss off. I went back the next day and the next guy took me into a side room and made me give him … he unzipped and made me…’ For a moment his eyes were full of loathing, for himself or this cop, I couldn’t be sure, then the look in his eyes shifted, as if he’d self-corrected, as if he was mentally administering hard-learned good advice.
While he was speaking I started to become aware of a noise in my head, like a persistent buzzing. I had to concentrate hard to hear him.
It all seemed too much.
‘Anyway,’ he continued. ‘There was nowhere to turn. Nowhere I could go where I was sure I was safe, so I ran away.’ He paused and gave a small smile. ‘I tried to join the travelling funfair, how clichéd is that? That’s where I first met Elsa. But you know that already. How was she when you last saw her, before she died?’
‘Getting on a wee bit. Doting over that wee dog of hers. And vague,’ Chris replied.
I was pleased that Chris spoke, because the connections between my brain and my tongue felt like they’d been severed. Thomas had just told us that he’d been abused at home, and then abused by a cop he’d gone to seek help from. That had happened in the house I grew up in? I wasn’t sure I could handle more of that without challenging it – in a way that would mean he’d probably never want to speak to me again. After a great deal of effort I managed a question I hoped would help us veer off that conversational track.
‘Do you have much of a memory of me?’
He smiled. ‘I remember this cute kid following me around. Tom, you called me. You were always wanting to play football with me.’ As I listened I was disappointed that his words prompted no recollection.
‘Remember this?’ I handed him the photo of him and me down at Portencross beach.
‘Wow, that would have been just before…’ His voice became so quiet I could barely hear him. Then he spoke as if the words were meant for him and him alone. ‘That’s the boy I have to console in my mind every minute of every day.’ He coughed. Closed his eyes tight. When he opened them he looked like he’d gained a little control again. ‘Sorry. This is tougher than I thought it would be.’
‘Did you know Dad died?’
He nodded. ‘Saw it in the Herald.’ His expression darkened. ‘Pillar of the community, my arse.’
‘Why have you never been back in touch?’ I asked.
‘Jesus, where to start?’ He studied the back of his hand, rubbed the knuckles. ‘Stuff happened after I ran away. Stuff that still has consequences today.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Someone died. And if the truth of it ever came out, I’d rot in prison for the rest of my life.’
‘The real Robert Green?’ I guessed.
He nodded.
I recalled what he’d said the day before. ‘But what has that got to do with me? Why does it put me in danger?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Try me.’ I offered a half-smile. ‘I’m smart, I’ve got a degree and everything.’
‘A sense of humour, too,’ he said and smiled back grimly. ‘Good. It’s probably best you don’t know too much, but it was part of a deal I made to get out of … my previous life, that I remain anonymous.’ He shrugged. ‘Not that it was difficult. I never wanted to see anyone from that house ever again.’
That house.
The home we grew up in.
A life that was even now a mystery to me.
After a long silence he said, ‘I came up from London once. I sneaked back to see you on the day of your fourteenth birthday.’ He glanced at Chris. ‘Don’t remember seeing you there.’ Then he paused, searching my face to see if I would show a flicker of recall. ‘I came back to warn you, but I couldn’t get close. I was terrified … terrified it would happen to you too.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Pain exploded in my head. ‘Terrified about what?’
‘I felt so guilty for years. If I’d tried to get help you’d be safe.’
‘Safe from what?’ I demanded.
‘Are you sure nothing happened to you?’
‘Yes, I’m fucking sure,’ I shouted, then immediately lowered my voice, looking around the bar to see if anyone had heard.
From the look on his face he didn’t know if he could believe me or not.
A cloud passed over his eyes. ‘The first time was when I was in the shower … helping me wash myself.’ His eyes drilled into mine. ‘I knew it was wrong, but I froze and couldn’t stop it. I tell myself I was just a kid. I had no power, no control over what was happening. But I was nearly a man, wasn’t I? I should have been able to do something.’