by Claire Askew
You almost told him, Helen. You idiot.
Moving towards the door, Anjan looked down at the lager can on the carpet beside the sofa. The fluid line of his exit wavered, but he didn’t turn. At the door, Birch stood back and let him fiddle the lock open. He glanced back at her, his hand on the latch.
‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘If ever you do want to . . . talk. About anything at all.’
She still wanted to throw something, smash something. But she also wanted to cry.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘Take care.’
He opened the door. ‘See you . . . tomorrow?’
Oh God. She had been trying not to think that far ahead. She tilted her chin up and tried for a smile. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said, and then Anjan was gone.
Birch stood with her ear to the door, waiting until his smart shoes had crunched away down the path. When she heard the gate slot closed, she pushed down the snib on the Yale lock and then turned the key in the mortice. When she turned, Charlie was standing at the top of the stairs, looming down at her.
‘Who in the name of hell,’ he said, ‘was that?’
I’ll never forget the sound Jimmy made as Fenton pulled the trigger on that gun. I still hear it sometimes, when I have nightmares. Sometimes he’s there, my da, and it’s him making it; other times I open my mouth in the dream, and I make that noise myself. It was the sound of pure, distilled terror – a sort of howl, the last of Jimmy’s rotten soul giving out. I let go of his arm and he hit the ground like a sack of wet soil.
Fenton stood over him, laughing. He levelled the gun above Jimmy’s head and pulled the trigger again, then again. Each time, the same loud, hollow click. On the sticky tarmac, I watched my da gibber and cry, spit-bubbles blistering on his lips.
‘Are ye frightened, Jimmy?’ Fenton said.
My da couldn’t speak, but he pressed his palms together as though in frantic prayer. He nodded.
‘Good,’ Fenton said. ‘While ye’re down there, I want ye thinking back. I ken ye’re addled wi’ the drink these days, and it’s a while back. But when this kid’s sister was a wee lassie’ – Fenton nodded towards me – ‘his mammie got pregnant again. Wanted a new wean to add to the family. Didn’t she, Jimmy?’
My da’s eyes were pink as a rabbit’s. I could see the blood vessels in them, broken by fear and booze. He smelled pretty rank.
‘Didn’t she?’ Fenton yelled.
I jumped, and my da squirmed and wailed. ‘It wisnae,’ he said. ‘I didnae . . .’
Fenton drew his foot back then, and drove it into my da’s side, sending all the air out of him. This was it. Time for me to step up. Mimicking Fenton’s movement, I did the same, planting my foot slightly higher in the side of Jimmy’s body. I heard the wet snap as his ribs caved. He howled again, higher pitched this time.
‘What ye did, Jimmy’ – Fenton was still shouting, and I was kicking and kicking methodically now, punctuating his rant – ‘was beat that baby oot. Was kill this laddie’s brother or sister. And ye ken that fine well.’
I looked down at my da, spasming on the ground in fear, in pain, in the dirt. I realised he was nodding. He admitted it.
‘But . . . the drink,’ he coughed. ‘It wis . . . the drink.’
I booted him again, in the same spot as I had at first. No snap this time, just a dreadful, sloshing sort of thud. Jimmy folded in half, his face a mask of pain. Fenton circled him, lining himself up to cave in the other side.
‘Okay,’ I said.
Fenton glanced up at me.
‘Okay,’ I said again. ‘That’ll do. That’s enough.’
I saw Fenton frown. I got the feeling he thought we were just getting started. But for a second, I held his gaze, and saw him get it. This was my da. I’d got what I wanted.
In truth, I felt sick. The old man made me feel sick – making excuses, even now, as he snivelled down there among the trodden fag butts and stale piss. But I also felt sick at myself. I’d never had a father. I’d known he was out there, somewhere in the world, and deep down, I’d always wanted him back. There was a part of me didn’t care what he’d done, I just wanted him – there, alive, near me. And now, here he was. Hadn’t I got my wish? And wasn’t I just showing myself to be every bit as bad as the old man: a hard-nosed arsehole who hurt people and didn’t care? Hadn’t I also abandoned my sister and my maw? Who was I to dole out justice? I wanted to throw up.
Above us, the clouds that the Forth had pushed in were breaking: fat drops of rain began to detonate on the tarmac.
I bent down over my da’s jack-knifed body. I wanted to speak, but I couldn’t think of a single word to say.
‘Charlie,’ my da croaked – softly enough, but it made me swivel upright again and cast my eyes around like a trapped cat. I hated him, and I wanted to comfort him, and I wished I had never gone to Fenton with any of it. Like so many things, I wished I could get out and start it all over again. Don’t remember me.
‘Charles,’ he whispered. It was so quiet that I almost didn’t hear. Above us something gave, and the rain opened out like a sail.
I stood over the old man, upright now. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Fenton hitch his hoodie up and tuck the Glock away, out of the weather. He tugged his hood up round his face. Time to go.
‘Look at yourself, Jimmy,’ I said. I reached out one foot and toed the old man’s body, as though he were roadkill, but in the corners of my eyes I could feel the sting of tears. ‘Just fucking look at yourself.’
He was keening now, his arms wrapped around his smashed ribcage. I spat. I saw the white star of it land on the side of his neck.
‘That’s for my maw,’ I said, and then followed Fenton out of the yard and into the rain.
Birch had retreated to the kitchen. She didn’t know quite how to answer her brother, so she’d simply walked away. She filled the kettle and let it boil. Charlie had gone into the bathroom: she heard him bang the door of the cabinet. She couldn’t seem to focus on anything other than berating herself: she really had been about to tell Anjan everything. She’d been about to hand Charlie over to the defence counsel, and potentially end her career in the same breath. Did Anjan care about her enough to become accessory to a crime, too? Of course not. How could she have been so stupid, as to nearly tell him that the Operation Citrine informant was upstairs in her bedroom?
She poured out two cups of tea, and the water wavered with her shaking hands and slopped across the worktop. Upstairs, Charlie was quiet. She’d expected him to schlep down the stairs and follow her: she had no idea what he was doing up there.
At last, his tread on the stairs. He did away with the stealthy dance that she had started: his feet landed on every loose board, every creak and squeal. The house seemed to be groaning under his weight. Birch wrung the tea-mopped cloth and leaned back against the sink.
‘What,’ Charlie said, appearing in the kitchen doorway, ‘the actual, actual fuck?’
Birch had to try not to laugh: she’d forgotten about the yoga pants and shirt. Over the top, he’d thrown on a waterfall cardigan she’d kept in the wardrobe for years and never worn. It was mustard yellow. He pulled it across his chest now, and folded his arms.
‘What are you smiling at?’
Birch bit her lip, and gestured at his outfit. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s the costume.’
Charlie placed his hand on the worktop beside him. Birch was struck by how similar his gestures were to her own, when frustrated. Sibling mannerisms.
‘Yeah.’ Her brother was scowling. ‘Whatever. Now tell me who the hell that was and why you just nearly shopped me to him.’
Birch blinked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was on the stairs. I heard. This ain’t a big house.’
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry, but—’
Charlie flailed an arm. The cardigan billowed in its wake. ‘You know what,’ he said, ‘I don’t actually care. Where are my real clothes?’
&
nbsp; ‘They’re here, in the washer. But they’re wet, honey.’
Charlie bent, opened the washing machine and began hauling his clothes out, slopping them onto the tiles. The kitchen filled with the purplish smell of laundry detergent.
‘Look. I’m sorry, I lost it a bit for a second, there. But I didn’t say anything, did I? I sent him away.’
Charlie ignored her. He picked out the boxer shorts from the pile of damp clothes and, straightening up, flicked the fabric against the front of the washer. It made a wet cracking sound. Birch felt a spray of droplets settle on her forearms.
‘That was a pal of yours, though, wasn’t it?’ Charlie said. ‘You polis. Wouldn’t be surprised if you gave him the high sign to come back in fifteen minutes, pick me up.’ Charlie turned his back on her, rolled off the leggings, and began to wriggle himself into the still-wet boxers. He huffed as they dragged against his skin, as the baggy T-shirt twisted itself around him.
‘Anjan isn’t a policeman,’ she said. ‘He’s a lawyer.’
She knew as soon as she’d said it that she shouldn’t have. Charlie twisted his head over one shoulder to look at her.
‘Whose lawyer?’
Birch had opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She watched Charlie un-knot his jeans from the pile of fabric on the floor. When she did speak, her voice was miserable, tiny.
‘He’s working on the case.’ She didn’t have the strength for a lie. ‘He’s . . . Solomon’s lawyer.’
Charlie’s eyes boggled. ‘Nella.’ He snapped the jeans out to straighten them, and in spite of herself, she jumped. ‘Tell me you’re not serious.’
‘He’s also a friend,’ she said, trying to rally. ‘He came over to see if I was okay. And I didn’t say anything. He’s gone.’
Charlie was wrestling the jeans on now, shaking his head. ‘Gone for now,’ he said. ‘But you can’t tell me he wasn’t suspicious.’
Birch passed a hand over her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She really was. Idiot, she thought, idiot, idiot, idiot. ‘But I think it’s going to be okay, honestly. Anjan’s a good guy.’ And defending a fiend, she reminded herself. That too.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Charlie said. ‘Why don’t you run after him? He could help you arrest me, like you’ve been saying you ought to.’
‘That’s not fair.’ Anger was bleeding into her voice now. ‘I’ve been saying I want to help you.’
But her brother was contorting, the wet jeans halfway up his thighs. ‘You polis are all the same,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t know how to actually help someone if they drew you a fucking diagram.’
Birch threw up her hands. ‘What help do you want?’
He rounded on her. ‘I want what I was fucking promised! Why do you think I came here? I thought you could make them give me what they promised!’
Quiet fell between them. After a moment, Charlie began pulling up the jeans again, but less frantically. They slid over his skin and Birch watched as he fumbled with the fly, the buttons greasy with detergent.
‘You’re still talking about immunity,’ she said.
‘Yeah.’ Charlie straightened up and glared at her. It was the first time he’d met her eyes since he’d come downstairs.
‘Charlie,’ she said, ‘I’ve told you, it’s not going to happen without you going into custody. You’re in dreamland.’
Her brother snorted. ‘See? All the same.’ He broke his gaze and reached down for his crumpled T-shirt.
Birch spluttered. There were a thousand things she wanted to say, and they seemed to swirl around her like leaves in a high wind. ‘I can help you,’ she said. ‘I can help you. But I’m not a fucking miracle worker. No judge on earth would let you off with everything you’ve done. But if you agree to testify—’
Charlie shot upright again, the T-shirt balled in his fist. ‘Exactly!’ He was shouting now. ‘If I agree to testify – against the biggest scumbag you or I have ever fucking known – I get nothing? I get chucked in jail with the same guys I just grassed on? What sort of justice is that? If I help put away that cunt I should get a fucking community service medal.’ He flapped open the T-shirt. It sounded like a wet sail.
‘So wait.’ Birch was furious now. Her head was thumping. ‘What you’re saying to me is, where’s my reward? You want to be rewarded?’
‘Yeah. I do.’ Charlie shrugged her cat T-shirt to the floor and dumped his own over his head. ‘Is it too much to ask that I get to walk away after, and have a life?’
Birch reached up and pressed one hand to her forehead. ‘That’s just not how the world works! You committed fourteen years’ worth of criminal acts. It was your choice to do that. I mean sure, there are deals to be made, but—’
Her brother took a step towards her. For the first time since she’d come out of her fainting fit on the kitchen floor, Birch felt afraid of him.
‘Did you say it was my choice?’
The feeling in her ribcage was familiar. She’d felt it as she lay on the couch, listening to him break in.
‘Yeah.’ She squared up to her brother, showing him the extra inches in height she had on her side. ‘Yeah, I think it was.’
For a moment, they eyeballed each other. Birch realised every muscle in her body was tensed, waiting for the next spat line, or even for a blow. But then, Charlie seemed to shrink back.
‘Then you don’t know shit, Helen,’ he said. ‘It was a mistake even coming here.’
His eyes dropped to the floor. He tugged the T-shirt down over his stomach, then reached for the hoodie. The floor between them was slick and shiny. Charlie’s clothes stuck to him at odd angles. Though she could tell he was still angry, he looked beaten. He’d obviously really thought she could give him what he wanted. He’d thought she could make it all go away.
‘Listen,’ she said, watching him drag the hoodie onto his shoulders. His garments’ wet fabric gave off a slimy sound that made her want to cringe. ‘There are things we could do. If you confess to everything you’ve done, if you testify—’
‘No, Nella, I—’
‘If you testify.’ Birch was realising this was her last chance before – something. Before Charlie did something decisive. ‘If you agree to cross-examination. That, with a guilty plea – there could be a deal.’ She tried to meet his eye. ‘There could be a good deal.’
He looked at her again, like she’d wanted. She wished she hadn’t made him: his face was shuttered up now, and icy.
‘You don’t know what I’ve done,’ he said. ‘You don’t know what I’d have to deal my way down from.’
Birch wanted to hit him then. She wanted to run at him, hammer on his chest with her fists. Did he think she was stupid?
‘You killed people,’ she said. ‘Is that it? Is that the great mystery? You killed people . . . and yet you want a hero’s medal and to be able to walk away.’
Charlie stared at her, as though he couldn’t believe she’d said what she’d said. His mouth was slightly open. On his arms, the hairs that had been slicked down as he rolled up the damp sleeves of the hoodie were beginning to spring back, little by little.
‘Yeah,’ he said, after a pause that seemed endless. ‘But I’ll settle for one out of the two.’
He turned then, and walked out of the kitchen. The damp clothes squelched.
‘No.’ Birch followed him. ‘No, Charlie, you can’t just run out on me.’
He wheeled round. ‘Why not? You can just go back to assuming I’m dead – that seemed to work out pretty well for you.’
Birch spluttered. A hot lump was growing in her chest. Its name was panic. ‘How can you say that? How can you – after what you put us through, me and Mum—’
Charlie snorted, and turned back to his course through the living room. ‘Don’t start,’ he said.
Birch trailed in her brother’s damp footprints. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘fine. Screw me, and screw the fact that you helped send Mum to her fucking grave, screw the last fourteen years, whatever. But Charlie – Solomon
is going to walk free at nine o’ clock on Friday morning, unless you do something. Unless you step up to the fucking plate.’
Charlie ignored her. He’d made it to the hallway, found his shoes, and was bent double, puffing, trying to get them onto his slick, bare feet.
‘For goodness’ sake!’ Birch realised she was screaming, but her brother was inches from the door now. Her baby brother, who she’d tried to find for over a decade. Her baby brother, about to walk out into a night that was filled with knives. ‘Are you really such a coward? Are you really going to let him get away with it? With everything he’s done – because you don’t want to face the consequences of your actions?’
Charlie unfolded himself so quickly that he almost head-butted her. She took a step back.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Of course I’m a coward. Of course I am. I’ve seen what this man can do. I am terrified of him. Have been for years. You’re not going to lecture me on this shit, because I hate, loathe and detest the guy with every fucking sinew in my entire fucking being. Do you get that? Do you understand?’
A fleck of his spit landed on her cheek. She didn’t dare reach up to wipe it away.
‘No,’ he went on. ‘Of course you don’t. You don’t know fuck all about what this man is capable of, not really. And yet you’re asking me to grass on him, and grass on his boys, and then go and sit in the same fucking jail as them all. And I’m supposed to see that as help?’
Birch was shaking. Her fingers and feet prickled as the blood ran out of them, rerouting to her hammering heart.
She could only stand and look at her brother. The damp clothes clung to him in patches, and the shoes he’d wrenched onto his feet were still undone, laces snaking over each other.
‘Don’t go,’ Birch said quietly. ‘Stay and face it.’
He looked at her, and she could see that all the anger had gone, and been replaced by sadness.
‘I should never have come back, I’m sorry. I should just have stayed dead.’