Next of Kin

by TL Dyer

  Despite this banter, I want to confess that I was glad he showed up when he did earlier. Because for a minute there I was scared. But if I do that, two things will happen. One, he’ll tell me I should have hit the panic button, the code zero that would have brought every officer within range to my aid. And two, from here on out, he’d be watching my back more than officers normally do for each other. Both of which would make me a liability, a weak link. And I refuse to be one of those. My colleagues have enough to deal with as it is.

  An hour and a half later, I leave the hospital with a clear bill of health and some painkillers for the throbbing in my chin, exacerbated by a pair of hands poking and yanking on it. I’m about to call the sarge to let him know I’m discharged and returning to the station when my phone vibrates repeatedly with several text messages and a voicemail. The texts are from Dad asking me to call him when I get a minute. The voicemail, to my surprise and even greater unease, is from Shirley. She never rings. This alone is enough to set my pulse racing. But as I lift the phone to my ear and listen to her message, all out panic sets in. A creeping terror that crawls over my stomach and embeds its claws into my skin so that I feel my heart thumping with every word she speaks.

  Jake.

  I’ve got to get home.

  Chapter 16

  I hear Jake’s cries through the open window as I hurry up the front steps. I’m still in my uniform after the sarge sent PC Mark Jones to pick me up from the hospital so I could get my car from the station and drive straight home to Dad’s. The house door slams closed behind me and I take the stairs two at a time to get to my son.

  I find him in his bedroom. He’s sitting on the bed in only a pair of pyjama bottoms, his legs kicking wildly to knot up the sheets, his face, neck and chest red with the cries he chokes out, cheeks soaked with tears that drip down to blot the cotton pyjamas. Dad’s on the chair by the window. Shirley crouches on the floor, talking in her soft lilting tones that can barely be heard over the racket Jake’s making.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, going to the bed. All I want is to gather him up and hold him, but afraid of scaring him I reach out to touch his bare arm instead. So lost is he to his torment, that he jumps, his eyes flying open with a terror that chills me to the bone.

  ‘Jake, it’s me. It’s just Mam. It’s alright, you’re fine. I’m here. See? Everything’s okay.’

  Sitting on the mattress, I lean in closer and run my hand down his cheek. His skin is hot and wet under my fingers, and he breathes hard still, but the wildness in his eyes eases, the kicking slows. Pulling him into my arms, I squeeze him tight, rocking him while the wrought-iron tension in his strong young body at first resists, then gradually, over the next ten minutes, gives in to exhaustion. He snuffles and whines as the imagined threat recedes and, soon after, the low cries turn to stuttered snores. I lie down with him and tug the duvet up over his cooling chest.

  We’re alone now in the room. I don’t know when Dad and Shirley left. I don’t know what happened either, other than Jake saw blood and freaked and they couldn’t calm him down. They tried everything, according to Shirley in the phone message. I can imagine that, their frantic attempts to settle him as his panic rose higher. He would have been inconsolable, and that would have upset them.

  Holding him a little while longer, I stroke his fine hair and kiss his forehead, the skin there back to its normal colour now. Then when I’m certain he won’t wake, I let go and get up, tucking the duvet around his body like a cocoon, the same way I would have done with blankets when he was a baby. I find Suzu on the floor next to the bed and lay it beside his neck. He reaches up from somewhere under the cover, grabbing hold and tugging it to him until it disappears out of sight. Leaving the door open an inch, I tread in my boots with careful steps back down the stairs.

  In the kitchen, Shirley gets up from the table to pour the coffee she’s already prepared for me, while Dad apologises for phoning me at work, says they didn’t know what else to do. I pull out the chair opposite him and drop into it. He looks as worn out as I feel. Dark circles hollow his eyes, his shoulders are hunched, and his two hands grip the mug in front of him, fingers overlapping. There’s no hiding the strain this has put on him. That I’ve put on him by handing him the responsibility of my son.

  ‘You did the right thing, Dad,’ I say, and thank Shirley as she puts the coffee mug on the table.

  ‘I’ll just check on our boys,’ she says, with a tap of Dad’s shoulder before leaving the two of us alone. I watch her go.

  ‘Shaun alright?’ I ask, turning back to Dad. He smiles. The kind of thin-lipped smile you force when you don’t want someone to feel bad.

  ‘You know Shaun. He’ll be fine. It’s Jake I’m more worried about.’

  I do know Shaun. I know that as they tried and failed to calm Jake, and as the tension rose, it would have been more than he could deal with. He’s struggled with loud noise and chaos from a youngster, but since he got out of prison he’s worse. When things kick off, he’s the first to leave, locking himself away until it’s all over.

  ‘You’ve hurt yourself,’ Dad says, and I only realise I’ve closed my eyes when I peel them open to see what he means. He touches his own chin, and out of instinct I reach for mine, which is sore to touch and puffy.

  ‘It’s nothing. What about you? What happened?’

  He sighs and shakes his head, letting go of the mug to show his left palm and the bandage wrapped around it. ‘A stupid, stupid thing. Just a slip of the file. Not even a knife, nothing sharp. But the damn edge of it caught me, broke the skin.’ He drops his hand to the table with a thud. ‘Course, Little Man was in the workshop with me, wasn’t he? Before I knew it, the blood was… sodding everywhere.’

  In my head I picture it. See the file jerk into Dad’s palm, the blood spring up. Feel Jake’s panic. It starts in the centre of my stomach and rises to my chest like bile, bitter and unwanted. I hear his screams, see his face, the horror in his eyes. Sense more than anything how he needed me. But I wasn’t here.

  Blinking back tears I don’t want Dad to notice, I look down to the coffee still circling slowly where Shirley stirred it. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I should have…’

  What? Worked a nine-to-five Monday-to-Friday so I would have been home before this had even happened instead of dumping him on his grandfather? Or do I mean I should have solved this problem by now, the blood phobia that started almost a year ago when some kid bust her head open falling from the top of the slide in the playground?

  ‘You shouldn’t have done anything, I should have known not to be so bloody stupid,’ Dad seethes, and rubs his bandaged hand over his mouth.

  ‘This isn’t your fault. Jake’s my responsibility.’

  ‘He’s my grandson,’ he snaps, small eyes as sharp as his words. But his anger’s not aimed at me. I wish it was.

  When we finish the coffee, I tell Dad I’ll take Jake home. He says there’s no need, that he’s settled, leave him be, go home and rest. But getting up from the table, I insist on getting out of their hair. Tomorrow’s a rest day, my only one of the week, which means it’s their only rest day too. No wonder they can’t wait to put some miles between us.

  Jake doesn’t wake as I take him wrapped up in Dad’s coat across the street to our home. Nor as I climb the stairs to his room wishing I’d taken Dad up on his offer to carry him. The week of long shifts is kicking in, and every ounce of energy leaves me as Jake leans into me with all his weight. Laying him on his bed, in his full set of pyjamas now and clutching Suzu to his chest, I wonder how much longer I’ll be capable of carrying him, or even comforting him. And then what? How will his fear present itself when he’s twelve, thirteen… sixteen? And how will I manage it?

  He stirs as I unfold the duvet to tuck him in, the sheets cool compared to the warmth of the bed in Dad’s house. He peeks out at me between half-closed eyelids, and I kneel on the floor to rest my head on the pillow beside him. I smile and put my arm around him, but his chin trembles, blue eyes water
with tears. Not fear now, not terror or tantrums, just the sense that something has happened or he’s done something wrong.

  I hush him, tell him it’s all alright, go back to sleep. But he doesn’t listen. After a moment, with his face creased, he asks, ‘Will Grampy die?’

  ‘No, of course not, sweetheart,’ I say, lifting my head from the pillow. ‘Grampy’s perfectly fine. It was only a scratch. He just needed a plaster, that’s all, and a cup of tea.’

  ‘Cause I don’t want him to die.’ His face crumples and I get on the bed to cuddle him and stroke his hair.

  ‘Grampy’s not going to die, darling. He’s as tough as old boots. Tougher than that, even.’

  His tears land on my neck, and he sniffs and grows quiet again. For a second I think he’s asleep. But then, his breath warming my skin, he says, ‘Can we see Grampy tomorrow?’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  He nods, his hair tickling my chin. ‘But I want to draw him a picture first.’

  ‘You know what?’ I give him a squeeze, kiss the top of his head. ‘I think that would be a really great idea. But first sleep, okay? It’s late.’

  Jake turns over as I get up from the bed, sinking down under the duvet until only his hair is visible. I take my weary body down the stairs and pick up the mail scattered over the floor that I had stepped over on the way in.

  In the kitchen, I sit at the table to peel off my boots and rub my sore feet through the socks. Whoever invented the steel-toe-capped boot didn’t have comfort in mind. Or ten-hour-plus shifts. Too exhausted to cook, I stab a fork in the lid of a frozen curry and rice tub and throw it in the microwave, then return to the table to sift through the mail. Amongst the takeaway leaflets and offers to fix my roof or sell my house, is a white A5 envelope with Private & Confidential stamped across the top in red ink. My first reaction is to wait until I’ve eaten. It’s been a long day and I need to refuel before I tackle anything requiring effort. But as the kitchen grows dark and the microwave drones on behind me, the envelope and its contents only taunt me.

  I snatch it up and slide my thumb under the crease to tear it open. The thin paper slices my skin.

  ‘Ow! Shit.’

  Propping my thumb in my mouth, the tang of blood on my tongue for the second time today, I pin the envelope to the table with my elbow, take out the letter inside with my free hand, and read what I already know it will say. I might just as well have had it sent straight to Ty Bryn rather than here, but this way seemed better. I was the one to set all this in motion, I have to be the one to keep a tight rein on it.

  There’s something about seeing it in black and white, though. The alternative was a virgin birth, but all the same, it’s because of what this means. Now the ball is rolling, it’ll only gain momentum. Taking my phone from the pocket of my cargoes, I lay it on the table, find Darren’s number, the one he’d scrawled on the DNA box, and stare at it for a while. I’ve got one day off before I’m back at work, one day in which to ease Jake’s mind after what happened today and reassure him that his grampy isn’t about to die. He is about to leave him, though. And for a six-year-old, how much difference is there between absence and death? Do they both feel the same?

  The microwave pings, leaving behind a deafening silence in the house. From somewhere beyond the back garden, the nightly wail of next door’s cat starts up. Between eight and nine; you can set your watch by her. If only everything in life were as predictable.

  Picking up my phone, I snap a shot of the letter and send it to Darren with a message I spend a good few minutes composing.

  Came today. I haven’t spoken to Jake yet, there’s a lot going on just now. As soon as I do, though, I’ll let you know.

  I retrieve the curry and rice from the microwave, dumping it onto a plate and taking it through to the living room where I balance it on my knees to eat while watching some soap opera I never usually watch. Anything to distract my thoughts from dwelling where they’re too tired to go. After only another hour and a half though, I’m ready to turn in for an early night.

  Darren hasn’t sent a reply to my message. Which is not altogether surprising, he’ll need time to get his head around it. I’ve had six years, he’s had less than a month. Or maybe he feels a response isn’t necessary. He’s not the type to chat for the sake of it, or to appease me in any way, let me know he understands and will wait for my signal. It’s just the way he is. As I turn off the hall lights and go into the bedroom, I’m certain that, having waited this long to be a father to his son, he won’t argue over waiting a little longer.

  Chapter 17

  It was early spring. One of those warm days that seems to come out of nowhere, but fills the air with a reminder of summer and paints everything in a different light. Even the most mundane of backdrops show their best side if you just bear with them through the dark, dreary months of winter. That’s how I remember the mountains that day. The same ones that could be overbearing and claustrophobic when it was dull and rainy, but bathed in sunshine they offered instead an alluring vibrancy, a sense of adventure, or of knowing something no one else did.

  We lounged in the back garden of Ty Bryn, catching the first proper rays of the year. Craig was sitting on the patio in a deckchair, his face tilted to the sun, eyes closed. Lauren was laid out on a lounger in a pair of shorts and cropped top that she’d tucked up under her bra to get as much UV to her stark white skin as she could. I was on the grass, a steep sloping banking, my legs stretched out in front of me, elbows propping me upright. We couldn’t have been more than fourteen.

  Lauren was talking non-stop about some boyfriend of hers that Craig and I knew didn’t exist. She liked to make bold claims about what she got up to when she wasn’t around us, but at that point, only a few years into our friendship having met in high school, we still came as a package. If we weren’t in school together, we were at each other’s houses, or someone else’s house, but rarely apart. Perhaps that was what fuelled her inherent restlessness and compelled her to create an existence she didn’t yet have. She’d only been doing it for the past few months, but it grated on all of us, none more so than Craig. That day he had taken so much of it and then snapped. The pair of them glared at each other across the patio, Lauren whipping off her sunglasses to tell him he was a jealous idiot with issues he should sort out before judging anyone else. It was typical Lauren. Anytime she felt under threat, it was the one closest to her who got the raw end of it. She knew how to hurt him the most.

  ‘Lauren,’ I berated, after Craig had leapt up from his seat and gone inside, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘What? It’s the truth and he knows it.’ She slipped her shades on and wriggled on the lounger to get comfortable, satisfied she’d diverted the attack elsewhere. ‘I don’t know what’s got into him.’

  Getting up from the grass, I brushed down the back of my jeans on my way to the house. Lauren had tutted behind me. ‘He’s fine, for god’s sake. Leave him to pout.’

  Ignoring her, I went inside and down the hallway, passing Eliza on the way who was in the lounge talking quietly on the house phone. The twins’ dad was at work, and there was no other sound in the house other than the stifled thrum of music that led me up the stairs to Craig’s room. I tapped lightly on his door, but he didn’t hear. Tapped again, louder, and a second later he turned the music down.

  He was on the bed, his back against the headboard and legs pulled up, elbows resting on his knees. His fair hair was ruffled, gaze fixed on his hands and cheeks flushed red. I had to step over his clothes in the middle of the room to get to the bed. He usually kept his room tidy, so I knew he’d thrown them there in anger, just as I knew the remnants of that anger were still there when I sat on the edge of the mattress. And maybe because of that, I couldn’t think of what to say. ‘Ignore her,’ or, ‘Are you okay?’ or, ‘She’s trying to wind you up,’ all seemed useless.

  After a while he asked why I didn’t just go back outside. I told him I didn’t want to. Then he asked why I ca
me at all, and I looked at him, not sure what he meant. He was still angry, but it was directed at me now instead of his sister.

  ‘Because you’re my friends and I like coming here.’

  ‘Why?’ he shot back.

  ‘I just told you.’

  ‘But why do you like it here, what’s so good about it?’

  I laughed. ‘Are you serious? Well, apart from you pair of idiots, you have a great house, all this space.’

  ‘So you come for the house?’

  ‘No, not just that. Course not. It’s just nice here. You have a lovely family.’

  ‘You have a lovely family.’

  ‘But it’s not like here. At mine we’re tripping over each other. If someone farts, everyone knows about it, you can’t do anything in private. And that’s not only the house, that’s the street, the entire sodding neighbourhood. I hate it.’

  Much as he might have wanted, he couldn’t keep up his interrogation after that. A smile crept over his lips, his eyes softened, and he buried a laugh by reaching behind him for a pillow to throw at me. ‘You’re the bloody idiot,’ he said. ‘Only coming here to fart in peace.’

  ‘Why else?’ I threw the pillow back at him.

  The door had creaked open and Eliza put her head around it. The headscarf she’d been wearing when I got there earlier was gone. Her blonde hair was neat and shining, framing her face and resting over her shoulders. She smiled, and I thought, as I often did, that living with her must be like living with permanent sunshine no matter what the weather outside. There was something luminous about her, a radiant aura, even when she barely said anything at all. It was hard to imagine how her two children could bicker so much, how their mother’s gentleness and positivity didn’t radiate through them as it radiated through the house and everything she touched; through me whenever I was there.

  ‘I’m just going out,’ she said. ‘To meet Lianne, do a bit of shopping. I’ll be a couple of hours. Alright?’