Walking along the streets of his childhood, his and Joe’s footfall loud in his ears, Luke’s thoughts were crowded with the names and faces of his old friends. And for the first time Luke realised what united them apart from their poverty: it was a lack of parents. Fathers in particular.
The Smith boys, Fraser and Joe, their father had disappeared when they were just babies, leaving their mother to cope on her own. As far as Luke knew the twins never heard from their father again.
When he and the Smith boys chatted, they always felt a little bit of envy towards Danny and his father. They thought that Danny was the lucky one. His old man was there. He had a good job. Provided well for the family. It was only one evening, years later, while they were neck deep in their third bottle of Buckfast that Danny told Luke what Gordon Morrison was really like.
‘It was like abuse central round ours. Dad would scream and hit Mum. She would scream and hit him back, and if one of them wasn’t around it was me that got it. Arseholes.’ As Danny said this he was leaning forward in a low-slung chair, finger stabbing the air in front of him. Then he slumped back, drink and fatigue robbing him of energy, the memory of past pain in the half-light of his eyes. ‘Thank the great god, Johnny Walker of Boozeville, they stopped at me. Our Amanda and Jamie were left alone. Or at least I think they were. Who knows what’s happened since I walked out.’
Luke recalls listening to this, mouth open with surprise. Sure, he remembered times, particularly when they were younger, when Danny would show up for school with bruises or scratches on his face. When teachers asked what happened to him, he’d say, ‘Ma ma (or ma da) were showing me how much they loved me, miss.’ And he would say it with such a wide grin that nobody believed him. Besides, he had a bit of a reputation for being a troublemaker, so everyone thought it was just another one of those random acts of violence that young males experience in their lives.
But what about Luke’s own father?
His absence from Luke’s life was arguably a reason for his own poor behaviour as a youth. His father had been a shadowy figure in his early childhood. He had memories of hugs from someone with a scratchy face, strong arms pulling him out of a paddling pool, hearty chuckles and a rocking belly while they watched cartoons together.
Then nothing. His name was rarely mentioned in the house, and when it was, his mother used the past tense, making Luke think he was dead. But if he brought the subject up his mother would ignore him, shout at him, or worse, get tearful, so from a young age Luke learned not to ask about him.
‘Me and you,’ she’d say, and hug him tight to her. ‘That’s all we need. Just me and you.’
Until his fifteenth birthday.
A card dropped onto his door mat. He guessed it might be a birthday card, so ran to the door and reached it before his mother. Her face was white with shock when she saw what he held in his hand, and in a moment of insight, sudden as a curtain being ripped back, he saw that his mother did not want him to see what was in this envelope.
While she watched, all but wringing her hands, he opened it. The number 15 was a gold blaze on the front of the card. Accompanied by the word ‘Son’.
Open mouthed, Luke opened the card, found a hand-written letter and some cash. He read the message inside the card:
Sorry I can’t be with you again. But until the day we can properly meet, have a great time and spend the money well, son.
He looked over at his mother and read the last word: ‘…Dad.’ He pulled out the cash – fifty pounds. ‘But…’
His mother turned and walked along the hall to their small living room. He followed her, his mind a tumult of questions. As usual every surface shone, and everything was in its place. The furniture was proudly second-hand, but repurposed with a style that was the envy of his mother’s friends. ‘You should be on one of them TV shows,’ they would say every time they entered the flat to see another nearly new piece being given the Bernadette Forrest treatment.
His mother reached for a cigarette packet – her once-a-day treat – and lit up. Luke could see her hand was shaking as she brought the cigarette to her mouth.
‘My dad? I got money from my dad,’ he said in stupefaction.
‘Waster,’ his mum said. ‘We hear nothing from him for years, and he thinks fifty quid is going to patch it all up.’
Luke had a flash of memory. Several memories. Previous birthdays and Christmases. Envelopes being bundled into pockets, hidden before he could see what they were.
‘You let me think he was dead,’ Luke said to her, still struggling to compute what was in his hand. ‘I thought my dad was dead, Mum. What the hell?’
‘He was dead to me,’ she said, chin tilted up as if ready to take on Luke’s anger and disappointment. ‘And you never asked.’ She shouted now, as if thinking that attack might be the best form of defence. ‘Not once did you ask, so I thought this wee life we built was enough for you. That I was enough for you…’ She tailed off, eyes pleading.
‘I learned a long time ago not to, Mum,’ he replied. ‘Anytime I did you’d go mental at me and then stay silent for days.’ He paused. ‘There’s been other cards, hasn’t there?’ Luke took a step closer to her, brandishing the new one.
His mother turned away. ‘He went off with that other woman, that bitch, without even a goodbye.’ Then she turned back to Luke, brandishing her lit cigarette. ‘I’ve been your mother and your father ever since. No one ever talks about that. About the sacrifices I made to keep you housed and fed.’
A storm of half-processed thought and unnameable emotion swirled in Luke’s mind and heart. He felt betrayed. Abandoned twice over. Once by his father, and now for a second time by the lies of his mother.
He ran to his room, slammed the door shut, curled up on his bed and held the card tight to his chest. He had a dad. And if he was sending him money he must care about him, right?
His mother was at his door. Gently knocking. ‘Talk to me, son,’ she pleaded.
He remained silent. Turned his back to the door and read the letter that came with the card and the cash. It was three pages long, handwritten and full of details of his father’s new life with his second family; a wife called Carol and two kids, Sandra and Sarah. His father finished off by apologising for not trying harder to be in his life and said he was sad that Luke hadn’t replied to his other letters but hoped he might reply to this one and they could begin to be a proper father and son again.
There were other letters too? His mother must have kept them from him. Who did that?
‘How could you, Mum?’ he shouted at the door, feeling a weight of disappointment in his mother.
There was a phone number in the letter. He didn’t have a phone of his own, and feeling the need to speak to his father like an itch in his mind, he waited until he heard his mother go out for her shift at work before leaving his room and sitting at the house phone in the hall.
Mouth dry, heart pounding, he dialled. As he waited for the call to be answered he began to doubt himself. Could the card, letter and cash just be his dad going through the motions? He had all of this new family to worry about; did he really want him to get in touch? And his mother had clearly tried to keep him from his father. Why? Was there something wrong with him? He had all but convinced himself that he should hang up, when he heard a deep voice answer. And even after all this time he recognised his father in the two short syllables:
‘Hello?’
‘Dad?’ he replied.
They arranged a meeting there and then for the following weekend. The night before, Luke stared at himself in the mirror, as if that might provide a curtain-raiser to the main event. His eyes everyone said were his mother’s. But his nose, his jaw, that kink in the hair at the side of head whenever it grew too long – had they come to him from his father? Was that wariness in his half-smile a bequest from his absent dad?
To be fair, the answers his father gave as to why he had been absent were not critical of his mother. He seemed, to Luke at least, only to blame himself.
‘Should have tried harder, son.’ The gravel of his voice strained through with seams of shame and regret.
*
‘We’re here,’ Joe said as he looked up at a window facing them. ‘Just ca’ canny with the missus. She’s still pissed at you by the way.’
‘Great,’ Luke replied.
He and Stef had a history. He’d gone out with her before Joe, but cheated on her with her best friend. A best friend who was, at that time, going out with Danny. A best friend who died from an overdose. Stef was convinced her friend would still be alive if Danny and Luke hadn’t been such bad influences.
Luke couldn’t really argue with her reasoning.
‘She’ll be happy to see you, Dunk … I mean, Luke.’
‘Just keep her away from the knife rack, eh?’
‘It was her that saw you out of the window. Told me to come and say hello.’
‘Aye?’ Maybe it was time to move on, thought Luke. If he and Stef could talk like grown-ups…
‘She still hates your guts, like, but, hey, you can’t have everything,’ Joe grinned. Then he turned and indicated his doorway.
‘What you doing with yourself now?’ Luke asked as they walked up the path to the door.
‘On the sick, mate,’ answered Joe with an apologetic shrug. ‘Been on the methadone now for a year. Turned it around, so I have. House husband an’ that. Proper look after the weans while Stef goes to work.’
‘Good for you,’ said Luke. ‘The modern man.’ As he spoke he avoided meeting Joe’s eyes. Didn’t want him to read his disappointment that his old friend had fallen into addiction. Probably fed by his grief, trauma and unanswered questions over his brother’s death all those years ago.
And who was he to judge anyway? They all had shit in their lives. It was just that Joe had been such a smart guy. He’d got into computers before anyone else but hidden his intelligence at school like they all did; then left as soon as he could and was one of the fortunates who got a trade. Plumber to the stars, mate, he used to joke with Luke when he got to install a new shower in a premier-league footballer’s house.
Joe pushed open his door, and in silence they entered the close and walked up the communal stairs to the landing on the first floor. The door on the right was ajar, a boy’s fire truck was abandoned in the middle of a doormat, the ‘Welcome’ sign faded. A voice that Luke recognised floated out into the hallway.
‘Fraser Smith, if you don’t come and finish your lunch you’ll no’ get to the swimming pool with your da this afternoon.’
‘Aww, Mum…’ came from just behind the door, and Luke felt a pang. How many times had he heard, or taken part in, that very same conversation with Nathan?
‘You called your kid Fraser. That’s a nice way to remember him,’ Luke said.
‘My only boy,’ Joe said with unabashed pride. ‘In you go,’ he said placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘The living room’s straight ahead.’
Luke followed Joe’s instructions, smiling at a small blond boy who stared up at him with undisguised curiosity, and walked into a well-lit room. Two pony-tailed girls sat either side of Stef on a corner sofa.
Stef looked up at him with an almost-smile. ‘Duncan Robertson, as I live and breathe.’ She said it as if she was going to use his new name only on her terms. And his old one from her mouth hit his ear with a discordant peel. He recoiled mentally and almost stumbled. A quizzical look appeared in her eyes. Stef missed nothing; she looked pleased that she’d made him feel uncomfortable. ‘I nearly didn’t recognise you. Been bulking up?’ Luke read the tone and heard: because there’s nothing better to do in prison. ‘You’re looking well on it.’
‘So are you,’ said Luke. She wasn’t. She looked exhausted. The lustre had gone from her skin and her hair, and her too-lean frame was clothed in an overly large T-shirt and black leggings.
‘You never were a good liar, Duncan,’ Stef said as she smoothed back her hair.
One of the girls coughed. Stef looked from one to the other and back up to Luke, and as if she’d rather not, introduced him to her daughters. ‘This is Emma…’ She indicated the one on her right. Blonde hair, big eyes and wearing her dad’s grin. ‘The one with the cough…’ she nudged the other girl ‘…is Chrissie.’ Chrissie was her mother’s double. ‘Girls, this is … Luke. An old friend of your dad’s.’ Stef placed a heavy emphasis on the word ‘old’.
‘Have a seat, man,’ Joe said, indicating an armchair facing the forty-inch television. ‘I’ll get us a beer.’
Regretting that he’d allowed himself to be persuaded upstairs, Luke took a seat. Such was the lack of support in the chair that he felt himself sink almost to the floor.
‘Girls, why don’t you go into your room…’ Stef reached behind her and pulled a laptop from underneath a cushion. It looked like it had been hidden there as some sort of punishment. ‘And watch some stuff while your dad makes Luke and me a nice cup of tea.’
Joe made a face at Luke. ‘Right enough. It’s a bit early for booze. Cup of tea coming up.’
‘Let your brother go with you, girls.’
‘Aww, Mum…’
‘Want me to take the laptop away, Emma?’ Stef held a hand out as if to grab the computer.
Emma dodged out of her reach. ‘If he doesn’t sit at peace, I’ll be chucking him out,’ she said, as if that was the final word on the subject.
Then it was just Luke and Stef in the room.
She looked at him as if she was judge, jury and just possibly his executioner.
‘Was it deliberate?’ Stef asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘There was lots of chat when you went down for Danny’s death. Some thought you got off lightly. Others thought you should have got a medal for taking that arsehole off the street.’ An old hurt lingered in her eyes. Luke read that it was for Brenda, the girl who died.
‘And what do you think, Stef?’
‘You don’t want to know what I think.’ Her eyes narrowed as she spoke. ‘Why are you here? You better not mess with his head.’ She tilted her head in the direction of the kitchen.
Whatever scrapes they all got into as young men, Luke was usually one of the ring-leaders. And it was clear to him that what had happened to Joe in later life, Stef was certain it stemmed from Luke’s bad example. He debated, just for a moment, standing up for himself. Perhaps it would do her good to hear that Joe was not an unwilling puppet in their games. But he decided against it. He didn’t have the energy.
‘Can we wait until Joe’s back?’ he asked. ‘Don’t want to go through all of this twice.’
Stef grunted, crossed her legs and arms, and leaned back in her seat. ‘So where you been since you got out? You certainly stayed away from us. We too good for you now that you’re a … therapist?’ There was amusement there. That one of them would try to pass in the wider world. Aim for betterment.
‘You been checking into me?’
‘The internet.’ She uncrossed her arms. ‘The new name got us foxed for, oh, about ten minutes.’ She smiled. ‘Nothing’s secret anymore.’
‘That’s for sure.’
Joe walked back into the room, bearing a tray with three empty mugs, a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar and a plate of chocolate-covered digestive biscuits.
‘Hey, what’s going on? You giving my mate a hard time, Stef? It was your idea to invite him up,’ said Joe.
‘That was quick,’ Luke jumped in to deflect the conversation. ‘The kettle boiled already?’
‘Nah,’ said Joe. ‘I thought I’d just crack open the biscuits first.’
‘I was just about to tell Stef why I was round here this morning.’
‘Oh aye?’ Joe sat on the arm of the sofa next to Stef, and Luke couldn’t help but read the body language; the way they each inclined to the other suggested that this couple were close.
Luke took a breath. Where to start? He couldn’t talk about Nathan without talking about what had happened to him since he got out of prison, perhaps fuelling their resentment about his efforts to leave them all behind, so, he just opened his mouth and began to speak, hoping that his subconscious would push out the right words in the right order.
‘Didn’t think you had it in you,’ Stef said when he stopped.
‘Aye, good on you, mate. Taking on the poor lassie’s wee boy,’ Joe said while throwing an expression at Stef that was part see, he’s not that bad, and part, do you have to give him such hard time?
‘Who’s this Rab Cameron character, then?’ said Joe. ‘Do you know him?’ he asked Stef.
She shook her head. Thought about it some more. ‘Changed times.’ She shook her head again. ‘You barely know your neighbours these days. Where did you say he was living?’
Luke gave the name of Rab’s street, which was just around the corner.
‘My mate Olive lives at number fifty-four…’ She reached into the large handbag squatting at her feet and pulled out a mobile phone. ‘And she’s well tapped into the jungle drums. Give me a…’ She thumbed her screen. Pressed something and held the phone to her ear. It was answered quickly.
‘Hey, Olive.’ They exchanged some pleasantries before Stef moved on to the reason for her call. ‘I’ve got an old friend here, asking about Rab Cameron. Do you know him?’ Then she made a few mmms and ahhhs. At each one it was all Luke could do not to reach across and pull the phone from Stef’s hand. ‘Thanks, honey. See you at the weekend, eh? Get your dancing shoes on, by the way.’ Luke could hear the peals of laughter coming from the phone.
‘Cameron’s a waster, apparently,’ Stef announced after she cut the connection. ‘But you know that already. Got music on all hours. Doesn’t work. A kid’s appeared out of nowhere.’ She nodded meaningfully at Luke. ‘Cameron had a massive TV delivered yesterday. Oh and he picked up a new car this morning.’ She paused. Smiled in admiration. ‘Google would do well to give our Olive some work.’
A kid. Nathan.
‘Olive’s wondering where the money’s coming from, seeing as he’s been on the benefits for yonks.’
‘Did Olive say anything about Nathan. The child?’
‘Said he was quiet. Which is a blessing cos she lives through the wall and cannae be doing wi’ anyone else’s weans making a noise; hers make enough for Scotland.’
Luke jumped to his feet. Paced to the window. Then back to his seat.
‘What are you going to do, Luke?’ Stef asked, staring into his face with a worried expression. ‘You’ve got that glazed-over thing going on. Don’t be doing anything daft or you’ll lose that kid forever.’
‘I’m just going to go round. Make sure Nathan’s in one piece. Make sure Cameron has the wherewithal to look after him properly. Proper grown-up, adult chat.’
Stef looked down at his hands, which were both formed into fists. ‘You sure? Looks like your body’s saying otherwise.’
Luke stuffed his hands in his pockets as if he was hiding evidence.
Stef got to her feet. ‘This needs a woman’s touch. Watch the weans,’ she said to Joe in a tone that brooked no dissent. ‘Luke and me are going for a visit.’