Next of Kin

by TL Dyer

  The youngsters’ high spirits can be amusing on some occasions, irritating on others, but tonight more than anything I’m glad of their distraction. Because any time I have a moment to myself, my visit to Ty Bryn at the weekend plays itself on loop with a high-def close-up of Darren’s hostility and my own pathetic embarrassment. That’s what I feel above all else. Ashamed. That I had thought to expect any other reaction than the one I got. Now every time I look at Jake, that shame twists a little tighter. But just as I do in the job, I tell myself to let it go, move past it. Stopping to wallow will only drive me to despair.

  With that in mind, as the pubs close their doors and the last stragglers make their way back to student digs, I cross from Commercial Street into High Street to indulge in a proven coping technique. With any luck, the evening rush will have passed and there’ll be little to no hanging around to get served. Nothing brings out the waste-of-taxpayers-money brigade faster than a copper standing in line waiting for her McDonald’s order. But I’m within touching distance of the automatic doors when a voice calls out behind me.

  ‘But soft! What light through yonder window breaks. It is the Macca, and a Double Whopper is the sun.’

  ‘Bacon quarter-pounder with cheese, actually,’ I say, turning to the dramatist and dropping my weight to one hip. ‘How goes it, Jarhead? Any trouble tonight?’

  Jared Khatri might be two years younger than me at a sprightly twenty-five, but he’s been with South East Wales Police longer than I have and is arguably one of the best-liked CSOs in the area. He’s a familiar and friendly face to the locals, one they can trust. If they were forced to make a choice between telling their concerns to me or spilling all to Jared, they’d choose the latter. Which is fine, in some ways that’s what PCSOs do, they provide a bridge between the community and the police officers. We both act on their behalf, but somehow the community support officers, even just their title, suggest someone more approachable, less authoritarian.

  ‘No trouble on my watch,’ Jared answers, removing his lid to brush his fingers through thick, black hair. ‘Nothing I can’t handle, anyway.’

  ‘I can believe that.’

  He presses the lid back on, a bashful smile nudging his lips and dark eyes glimmering in the glare from McDonald’s. ‘That what you’re having then? Bacon quarter-pounder?’

  I huff a sarcastic laugh. ‘That’s just for starters, my friend.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ he says, hooking his hands inside the armpits of his utility vest and addressing me as if I was a concerned – or concerning – citizen. ‘Rough shift?’

  ‘Nope,’ I say, brushing him off the same way I did Smithy. ‘Just what the hell.’

  ‘Fair enough. Sure you’re alright though?’

  A top man, Steve Fuller had called Jared not so long back when he was trying to matchmake; a really good lad. I’d shrugged off my colleague’s prodding, but I’m not as naïve to Jared’s attentions as I make out. It’s just that Fuller was right, Jared is a decent human being, with a heart of gold and not an inch of the ego about him. He’s also a colleague I admire and a friend I trust and I’ve never seen him as anything more than that. He’s young too, the two years between us seeming much greater when one of you has a child and comes as a package. He’s far too good to be saddled with that. Though, if I were to handpick a role model for Jake…

  ‘Sacha? You are alright, aren’t you?’

  ‘Course,’ I say, remembering he’s asked a question I haven’t answered yet. ‘Absolutely fine. Nothing to worry about.’

  He’s trustworthy and reliable. Honest, but also fun.

  ‘Actually, Jar…’ A strong sense of decency, morals all in order. And his work ethic is faultless. ‘Do you think you might be free on the bank holiday at the end of the month? The Sunday, more specifically?’

  Jared’s eyes widen and he recoils in surprise, before covering it with hesitation as if thinking it through. ‘Hard to say off the top of my head. But I can certainly find out.’

  ‘Great. That’s great. Yeah, if you could.’

  He nods and smiles. And it might be the blinding light from McDonald’s, but his eyes seem brighter than normal. ‘So, why is that then?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh shit, sorry. God, I really need to feed the brain,’ I fumble, and point to the windows behind me. ‘It’s actually my son’s birthday that weekend and I’m thinking of having a party for him at home. But the thing is…’ I need a hot young thing to play dad and kick the ball around with the kids. ‘I’m not too keen on filling the house with people I barely know. You know how it is. But if I can get enough of us, then it will still feel like a party, just without all the… guests.’

  ‘Wow, okay.’ Jared nods in agreement while probably wondering where all this is coming from. Usually he’s the blusher between the two of us, but for once I’m the one who’s getting warmer around the collar the longer this conversation goes on.

  ‘It’s been a while since I’ve been asked to a house party,’ he adds.

  ‘Well, don’t get too excited. It’ll be more Panda Pop and animal balloons than Alcopops and condoms. Though if you stick around long enough, I’m sure there’ll be some vomiting at some point.’

  ‘Sounds perfect. I’ll check my shifts and let you know.’

  ‘Brilliant. Thanks, Jarhead, appreciate it,’ I say, stopping short of asking what he’s like with children under the age of seven and whether he knows any party games. ‘Anyway, I’d best get inside before—’

  ‘353, are you available for an urgent?’ the radio interrupts.

  ‘Shit-sticks.’

  ‘Oh mate. Cruel,’ Jared says, with a pained laugh.

  ‘353. Go ahead.’

  I throw Jared a wave and listen to the despatcher’s response while jogging up the high street to where I’ve parked the unit. My stomach isn’t happy about it, but self-annihilation will have to wait.

  It’s only much later, in the early hours of the morning when I’m back at the station with a tube of sour cream and onion Pringles, a Chunky Kit-Kat, and Jared’s text message confirming he’s the first guest to the party, that I consider my earlier tick-box evaluation of my devoted colleague and then the impulsive invitation, might be a whole new low, even for me.

  Chapter 10

  It’s at times like this that my thoughts return to the great Tazer debate. Or rather the appalling lack of them, given all their many benefits and uses.

  There are seven children, Jake included, sprinting around my house, up and down the stairs, and in and out to the back garden as if they are three times that many in number. And that’s before they’ve sat down at the table to cram their stomachs with miniature sausage rolls and cherryade.

  Then there’s the state of the place. Not the fault of the kids, this one. Because, having been designated balloon duties, Shaun has gone above and beyond. A strong gust of wind would be the only thing needed to tear the house from its foundations. Every chair, stair post, and door handle, has a coloured balloon attached. Jake thinks it’s fantastic, like a scene from the movie Up! And while I’d be more than happy to float off somewhere remote just now, I wouldn’t wish to take a small army of someone else’s kids with me.

  ‘Oh yes!’ the biggest child of them all exclaims when I take the Angel Delight from the fridge and peel the cling film away from the bowl. ‘Strawberry. Sis, you absolute bloody—’

  ‘Oy!’ I slap Shaun’s hand away when he points a finger towards the perfectly set pink gloop.

  ‘Oh, go on. They won’t fucking care.’

  I pin my lips between my teeth and tilt my head to glare at him. Realising his mistake, he glances around. But the party guests are out of earshot, lining up on the lawn to pull on boxing gloves and take pot shots at Jake’s new inflatable punch bag. A couple of them are foregoing the gloves for bare-knuckling. I make a mental note of their names and faces for future reference, and pray that a split lip doesn’t bring this whole occasion to an abrupt and traumatic end.

  Wit
h my heart rate on the rise, I turn to the dining room where Shirley’s removing covers from the plates and dishes filling the table. She makes a space for me to set the bowl down, leaving a gap in the centre for the cake still to come.

  ‘You’ve done a grand job here, Sacha. The wee man is very lucky.’

  ‘Course he is, he’s got a great mam,’ Dad says, appearing from the hallway. ‘Sorry I’m late, love, got tied up finishing a job that has to go out tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s alright. All under control. Well, apart from… Oh Shaun, for god’s sake,’ I hiss as he nears the Angel Delight again. He snaps his hand back.

  ‘That’d be right,’ Dad says, his own eyes skimming over the spread. ‘Done well here, kid, fair play. God, though, I’m bloody starving.’ He pokes a finger at a sandwich to peer at what’s inside it. This time, it’s Shirley who doles out the punishment, giving him a playful punch to the shoulder. ‘You pair. Honestly. Worse than the kids.’

  ‘Hey, I’ve been working all day.’ Dad’s gaze lingers on the miniature burgers and hot dogs.

  ‘Me too, blowing up all these sodding balloons.’

  ‘Shaun,’ both Shirley and I warn.

  He tuts. ‘They didn’t hear me, they’re outside. Which means they won’t notice if I just have one of them little…’

  ‘Okay, that’s enough,’ I say. ‘Call them in to eat before you demolish the lot or someone gets knocked unconscious and I get branded public enemy number one by the yummy mummies.’

  He whines a complaint, but I nudge him towards the kitchen just as the doorbell rings. ‘Make sure they wash their hands first. And please put it nicely,’ I remind him, as I head down the hall, trying not to think about the new words the kids might take home to their parents before the day’s out. I’m already picturing Jake never receiving an invitation to a party ever again.

  Before opening the door, I glance in the hallway mirror and do a double-take. ‘Bloody hell!’

  When I greeted the parents earlier, I’d thought I looked at least half decent. Someone who can hold down a job and remember to pay the gas bill. But whatever’s happened in the meantime – it’s all a bit vague – that image has been somewhat skewed. The doorbell rings again.

  ‘Bugger.’

  I hurry to do something with my hair, which is flat on my head but sticking out around the sides. I look like a chimney sweep’s brush. A well-used one. I tuck the wayward strands as best as I can behind my ears and straighten my blouse so it sits square across my shoulders. Neither seems to improve the picture. It’s the flushed cheeks and the strangely wild eyes that are the biggest problem, but there’s nothing I can do about them. With a tut and a c’est la vie shrug, I throw open the door to my visitor.

  Jared stands on my doorstep dressed in dark jeans and a short-sleeved, button-down pale blue shirt, clutching a large rectangular present that’s been neatly gift-wrapped, and sporting a broad grin that says he’s more excited to be here than all the kids put together. Disguising the urge to laugh, I feign sheer delight at his arrival and invite him in while simultaneously telling him off.

  ‘I didn’t mean for you to buy anything, you silly sod,’ I say, taking the gift from him and gesturing for him to follow me into the living room, where I add it to the growing pile beside the fireplace. ‘Bloody hell, this weighs a ton. I hope you didn’t spend a lot.’

  ‘Couldn’t come without something for the birthday boy,’ he says, looking around the room with more wonder than anyone has ever afforded it before. I glance around too, satisfied it’s still in half-decent shape, aside from the discarded jumpers and jackets thrown over the sofa. I gather them up into a neat pile.

  ‘Found us alright, then?’

  ‘Russian cosmonauts on the International Space Station could find you right now.’

  ‘Oh right, the balloons. That was my brother.’ I peer out of the window at my colourful front railings. ‘He went a bit overboard.’

  ‘Not at all. Man after my own heart. If you’re gonna party, might as well go all in.’ He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘Nice place you’ve got, Sacha.’

  ‘It’s home,’ I say, certain that a thick-stoned mid-terrace in the heart of an old coal mining village is probably not somewhere Jared has ever lived. A townie through and through, he looks out of place here in my poky living room.

  ‘Come and meet the gang,’ I add, opening the doors to where the brood are being ushered into seats after washing their hands at the kitchen sink, one or two drying their palms on their grass-stained trousers.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Jared says. ‘I think I can pick out the birthday boy.’ He looks to where Jake’s taking the chair at the head of the table, the one wrapped in blue Six Years Old Today banners and barely grounded if the half a dozen balloons tied to it are anything to go by. My visitor seems about to expand on his sarcasm, but something takes those words from his mouth, and he looks back to me instead. ‘Oh my god, yes, I can pick him out. Spitting image, Sacha.’

  ‘What, apart from the different hair and eye colour?’ I tease, mine dark compared to Jake’s lightness.

  ‘No doubt about it. That’s spooky.’

  ‘Poor sod,’ Shaun murmurs to my right.

  I make the introductions and Jared shakes everyone’s hands, including the lads around the table, much to their sniggers of amusement. And when he gets lost to a discussion with Dad about the carpentry business, I get a nudge on the arm from Shaun’s elbow.

  ‘Not so bad, is it?’ he says, nodding to the table.

  I fold my arms and blow out a sigh, leaning his way to whisper, ‘There’s a twelve-pack of Bud in the cupboard for when this is all over.’

  My brother’s hazel eyes light up and his grin shows all his teeth. ‘Sweet. A lock-in. I look forward to it.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was sharing.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Chuckles. I did all the balloons and everything.’

  ‘Alright, maybe one. But only if you help with the party games.’

  ‘Yeah, no wor— Actually, I have a condition of my own.’

  I pick up a paper bowl from the stack on the table and hold it out to him.

  ‘Yes!’ he says, snatching up a spoon and leaning over one of Jake’s friends to put the first dent in the Angel Delight. ‘Excuse me, lads, coming through.’

  Across the other side of the table, Shirley chuckles. I roll my eyes and go out to the kitchen to stick candles in the cake.

  ‘Can’t wait for him to open my present,’ Shaun says, coming in after me while scraping his spoon around the bowl and making approving noises.

  ‘Oh god. It is age appropriate, I hope.’

  He flutters his eyebrows, licks the strawberry flavour from his lips. ‘He’ll love it.’

  I stifle a groan and go back to spacing the candles in green frosting beside a racetrack in the shape of a number six, on which sits two actual Hot Wheels cars. Chequered flags lie next to the track, and on a strip of icing around the side of the orange-frosted sponge cake is Jake’s name decorated with steering wheels and stars. It was more expensive than the rest of the party food put together, but making my own would have cost more in terms of my patience, my sanity, and Jake’s credibility.

  Once the candles are lit, I follow Shaun back into the dining room. We sing Happy Birthday and I lay the cake down, but it’s Jake’s reaction I’m watching for, and it’s worth every penny. He looks from the cake to his friends and back again, a broad beam fixed across his lips as he peers closer to check out the Hot Wheels cars, confirming they’re ones he doesn’t have. The singing ends with three cheers and a round of For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow started by Jared that keeps Jake from blowing out his candles. He drops back in his seat in mock annoyance, while the boys giggle their way through the song and make him wait. When they’re done, he kneels on the chair, drawing in an exaggerated breath before extinguishing all six flames in one go.

  Amid the cheers that follow, I slip through into the living room to prepare for
the games. I’m setting up the stereo with Jake’s Party Bus CD when Jared appears around the door.

  ‘Need any help?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind. There’s a bag behind the sofa.’ I turn to point across the room. ‘It’s got the presents for Pass the Parcel. If you could just…’

  My words disappear as my smile freezes then evaporates on my lips. Outside the window, standing on my front path and peering in through the glass, is Darren Isaacs.

  Chapter 11

  ‘Sacha? Are you alright?’ Jared lays a hand on my arm. It makes me jump, and he drops it quickly away.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry. If you could… I’ll just be one minute.’

  I leave him in the centre of the living room wondering what’s going on, and ease the front door closed behind me. Darren hasn’t rung the doorbell or knocked, so no one else knows he’s here yet besides me and Jared. Jared won’t know who he is. But Dad and Shaun will.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I say in a hushed voice, walking up to where he stands by the gate so he can’t come any closer to the house. In his hand is a Spiderman gift bag. He smiles despite my snapped question, and looks to the balloons and banners decorating the railings.

  ‘Wasn’t hard to find which one was yours.’

  I glance at the house, but don’t see anyone at the window. All the same, I turn my back to obscure him from view. This is not the same Darren I spoke to on Sunday. The hard stare is still there, but there’s a coolness to it now, a mild humour and a clarity that’s no less disconcerting than the rage of a few days ago. His hair is neat, beard trimmed, and the black denims and grey shirt are closer to the well-groomed style I remember about him. He’s come ready to meet his son on his birthday. But this isn’t the way it’s supposed to go.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, Darren? You can’t just turn up here.’

  ‘Why not? You wanted me involved. So here I am.’