by Kat Gordon
“So where are we going?” I ask.
“You know a pub called The North Star on New North Road?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. We’re going there.”
What if it turns out it wasn’t an accident, after all? What then? I try to distract myself with thinking about Toby.
“Tallulah, you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You just looked a little flushed. You got a fever?”
“No, I’m fine.”
We cut through the estates, and then the nice residential roads, with cute three-storey houses and windowboxes and well-mannered teenagers learning to drive in quiet squares.
The dry-cleaners comes into sight, and the Golden Jade – Chinese food and fish & chips – and then we’re opposite the pub. There are a few bollards in front of the building; someone’s leaning against one now, smoking and coughing a lot, bending over to spit into the gutter.
A drunk, I think, until Malkie crosses the road and stops in front of him. “Here we are,” he says. I don’t know who he’s addressing; the man in front of us is still bent over. I look at him properly and feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.
“Uncle Jack?”
He looks up and grimaces at me, coughing some more. Even standing straight up he looks bent over. His arms are hanging loosely by his sides. He’s lost weight and his hair is dirty. “Hi, kiddo,” he says. “Malk said you wanted to see me.”
Beside me, Malkie shifts uncomfortably again. “I thought maybe it would be better to meet out here – neutral ground.”
“Okay,” I say. I can hear my voice, a pitch or so higher than normal. I’m looking at Uncle Jack’s eyes – they’re bloodshot and dead flat. “Is he alright?”
“Jacky’s not going to cause any trouble, are you?”
“Nope,” Uncle Jack croaks. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” He grins at me.
Malkie’s looking even more worried than before. “You sure you’re ready for this?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, at the same time as Uncle Jack.
Malkie hugs me and steps backwards. “I’ll be on my way then,” he says. “But you have my number now. Call me if there’s any problem. Any problem at all.”
Uncle Jack pulls a face.
We watch Malkie shamble off; when he reaches the corner he turns around and raises his hand to me. I wave back at him. Call me, he mouths and vanishes from sight.
“You’ve got even friendlier since we first met,” Uncle Jack says.
“I’m in shock,” I say. “I didn’t think Malkie would find you. You disappeared, remember?”
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
I bite my lip. “How did he find you?”
“He knew where to look for me.”
I remember Starr saying that Aunt Vivienne tried to track Jack down too, and wonder, briefly, how she went about it. And why she didn’t try harder.
“It’s funny, actually – you think we’re so different when we’re really the same person. Guess Malk’s just cuddlier.” He coughs again, retching at the end of this fit.
I dig out a bottle of water from my bag and hand it to him, silently. He drinks thirstily, spilling half around his mouth and chin, then tries to give it back.
“You keep it.”
“What did you want to talk about?”
He’s shivering uncontrollably. The afternoon’s as cloudy as the morning, and I can feel goosebumps starting. I wrap my arms around myself. I don’t want to be alone with Uncle Jack, but I can’t take him into the pub. He’s clearly in a bad shape, and the last thing I need is a public drama.
“Look,” I say. “We can go to my flat. But no funny business.”
“What do you think of me?” Uncle Jack asks, then holds up his hand. “Don’t answer that.”
We walk back together without speaking, Uncle Jack coughing next to me. The noise reminds me of my grandmother and I wish she was there with us. ‘Be brave,’ I hear her saying.
Inside, I throw the keys on the kitchen table and turn to Uncle Jack. “Does anyone else know you’re around?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Didn’t you ever want to see them? Vivienne at least?”
Uncle Jack shrugs. “Maybe it was best I stayed away,” he says. He looks sick and clammy. “So?”
“I asked Malkie to find you,” I say, “because I want to know some stuff.”
“Yes?”
Breathe, then launch. “About my mum. About when I was younger. Lots of shit happened that I don’t really understand, and I feel like you were the reason it happened.”
“Always the villain with you, huh?” He sits down in a chair, letting his head fall forwards until I can’t see his face anymore. “I haven’t slept since she died you know.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think?”
I shake my head, although I know what’s coming.
“Evie,” he says. “I haven’t slept since Evie died.”
Hearing my mother’s name is exactly like that feeling on a rollercoaster; the feeling of my insides plummeting. “You haven’t slept for eleven years?” I say.
“You know what I mean. Were you always this pedantic, Tallulah?”
“Pretty much.”
Uncle Jack laughs and shrugs his shoulders. There are dark circles around his eyes and his cheekbones jut out like little cliffs overhanging the dark fleshy pool of his mouth. Outside I’d thought that he was just unhealthy, but now I recognise the look from people at the hostel.
“You on heroin?” I ask.
“There – that’s my smart little niece,” he says, rubbing the back of his hand against his cheek. Skin rasps against beard and sets my teeth on edge. Uncle Jack laughs again; he’s starting to annoy me. “So what did you want to ask me about your mum?”
“Do you know what happened the day she died?”
“No,” he says. “I left when Eddie came home early.”
“Oh.” I feel deflated suddenly, like I’ve been waiting for his answer for a really long time, and now it’s never coming.
“Sorry I can’t help,” he says. He does look sorry, or at least that’s what I think his face is doing. He squints at me. “Why are you asking now, anyway?”
“Dunno,” I say. “I guess when Starr was the only person I saw, it didn’t seem as important.” I shrug. I don’t know how to explain what I’ve been thinking – how suddenly it felt like the right time to clear up unanswered questions, confront things from the past that I’ve never understood.
Dear Uncle Jack, if you hadn’t shown up, my mother might still be alive. Then I might have finished school and gone to university. But I think I’ve let that possible life stop me from living this one.
I cross over to the sink and lean back against it, facing him again. “What can you tell me about my mum, then?”
He looks sly. “What do you mean?”
“Why was she so upset when you turned up?”
“She obviously didn’t want to see me, wouldn’t you say?”
I think back to the conversation in the rose garden, remembering what my mother had said: ‘Don’t you dare say anything. I’ve worked so hard to build a life for my family. I won’t – I won’t let you come between us, you hear me?’
“What did you have over her?”
Uncle Jack slams his fist down onto the table. “You were always so strong, weren’t you, Tallulah?” he says. “So unable to forgive weaknesses in anyone else, huh? You had it so fucking easy, that’s why.”
My heart’s going a million miles a minute, but I keep my voice steady when I answer him. “Apart from everyone dying, I guess I had it okay.”
I start clearing up the crockery from the draining board, shoving bowls and mugs into cupboards, rattling and slamming, half to get away from him, half to let myself calm down. Uncle Jack comes to stand next to me, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry,” he says. “This isn’t going well, is it?” He leans back against the counter. “
Has anyone ever told you you look nothing like your mother?”
“I’ve got eyes don’t I?”
“You’re too defensive, kid.”
“Don’t call me kid. Or kiddo.”
“Here.” He pulls an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I put this together after Malkie got in touch. This is for you. Don’t say I didn’t try to look out for you.”
He’s baring his teeth in the wolf smile I remember from our first meeting. I take the envelope; it feels heavy. I slide the flap open and look at, then run my finger over the giant wad of notes inside. They’re dirty and creased, lined up neatly in order of value. Fives, tens, twenties.
“Is this drug money?”
“So suspicious.”
“Can you blame me?”
He pulls a face.
“Excuse me for not falling at your feet,” I say. “I thought junkies were pretty tight.”
“Don’t you worry about me,” he says. “I’ve got my own little stash.”
“I don’t worry about you,” I say. “I don’t want your money, either.” I put the envelope down next to the sink, between us. Uncle Jack licks his lips.
“It’s yours,” he says. “Take it.”
“Nope.”
I walk to the fridge and open the door, pulling out milk and a packet of coffee.
“I’m not taking the money back,” Uncle Jack says. “I mean, Christ… ” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m trying to do the right thing, here, ki – Tallulah. Can you just let me, for once?”
“I don’t want to be mixed up in something dodgy.”
“It’s not dodgy.”
“How can I believe that?”
“It’s not,” he says, trying to look sincere. “It’s from Edward. A more upright man than my brother has yet to be born.”
At the mention of my father’s name I feel a pang; I haven’t thought about him once since Malkie turned up, even though he’s the reason I needed to work all this out. I haven’t even mentioned his condition to Uncle Jack, although I can’t be sure he’d care.
“Why would you have my dad’s money?”
“A coffee would be good,” Uncle Jack says.
“Tell me about the money first.”
“Edward gave it to me.”
“So you said. Why would my dad give you money?”
“Your dad didn’t give it to me. Not exactly.”
“So you stole it off him?”
“No.”
I roll my eyes. “I think your brain’s been fried by all those drugs. Did he give it to you or not?”
“Yes, Edward gave me the money.” He looks up then, trying to catch my eye. “But not your dad.”
“What?”
“My brother,” Uncle Jack pauses, “is not your dad. I am.”
For a moment I feel like I’m falling, not my stomach this time, but my brain. I put a hand out to steady myself. “I’m sorry?” I croak.
“I’m your father.”
“You can’t be.”
“I know, I know; it was a surprise to me too. But Evie wouldn’t have done the dirty on me.” He sees my expression. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. That was low.” He bites his lip. “What I was trying to say was – we were an item. We were in love, for fuck’s sake.”
“You and my mum?”
“Now don’t tell me you hadn’t guessed that.”
“I knew something had happened,” I say, even though a voice inside is saying you did. You always knew. Even if there had never been that weirdness going on, you look exactly the same as Uncle Jack. “… She was always so scared of you.”
Uncle Jack laughs again. “That’s a good one.”
“When did you get together? Where was my d – where was Edward?”
“Away in Africa.” He tugs at his ear-lobe. “I’d worshipped her from the moment I met her. And then, one night, I walked her home – this is before she lived with Viv – and she asked me to come up.” He spreads his hands in a shrug. “I didn’t need asking twice.”
Please, no more, I think, but he’s carrying on.
“She was so gorgeous, your mother. And we were happy, you know, really fucking happy. We spent all our time together, didn’t need anyone else. I remember when she told me she was pregnant – I couldn’t stop kissing her.”
I shift from one foot to the other; it feels strange, jarring, to hear myself mentioned like that.
“Is this why she had the fight with Vivienne?” I ask.
Uncle Jack smiles his wolf smile again. “My sister can be a tad possessive,” he says. “She said Evie was just using me while Ed was away. That she didn’t love me as much as I loved her.”
“Nice friend.”
He laughs.
I clear a space on the sofa and sit down. A million questions are crowding my brain, but I can’t work out which are the important ones right now. “Then what happened – how come she ended back up with Edward?”
For a second I think I chose the wrong question – he looks angry again, really angry, and I don’t understand what he says next. “I’d have given my life for Evie, you know? And you too. I did give my life.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Protecting you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you think me and Evie didn’t work out?”
“Drugs?”
“Nope.”
“You went to jail?”
“I did.” He has his arms wrapped around his body, hugging himself. “And she waited a whole three months before moving in with my brother.”
There’s something else in the room now, something big. Uncle Jack’s blinking at the floor. I feel my voice sitting at the bottom of my stomach, and I have to clear my throat twice before I can get the next question out. “Why?”
“Because I killed him,” he says. “I killed my father.”
PART FOUR
Blood
Nineteen
“What?”
Nothing I ask seems enough of a reaction. “How? Why?”
We look at each other properly for the first time.
“My father was a bully,” Uncle Jack says, “Everyone in the village was scared of him. His kids walked around with black eyes, permanently, and no one said anything.” He scratches his face; if not for the tremor in his hand, I’d assume he was completely calm right now. “He never liked Evie because she had no money. When he found out we were going to have a baby he lost it, told me he’d disinherit me before he let me squander the family savings on some gold-digging whore.”
“What did he do?”
“We’d gone to see Mother. Albert was meant to be away that weekend – meeting someone who was trying to sell him a horse. Our flat in London was pretty dingy, and Evie ended up looking after Starr more than Viv did. She needed a break. You were nearly due and she used to fall asleep all the time.”
“Was he there?”
“I’d gone to the pub. Mother was upstairs, reading. Evie was in the library, just sitting, thinking about you, apparently. She liked doing that.” He takes a deep, ragged breath. “We found out afterwards the meeting hadn’t gone as planned. The man was asking too much for the horse, and Albert didn’t like to be taken for a ride. He came home early. When he walked in on Evie, he was three sheets to the wind and in a foul mood. He started on her, saying she’d never get a penny out of him. Accusing her of lying about who the father was.” Uncle Jack looks at me quickly, then away again. “She stood up to him, and then he got violent.”
I feel faint.
“That’s the scene I came home to, my father pushing Evelyn around.” He splays his fingers open. “He put his hand on her face, like this, and shoved her backwards onto the floor. She was crying, she was alone and scared and the bastard could have killed her. Or you. Then, when I come in, he starts on me. Shouting about how worthless I am.”
“What did you do?”
“I hit him.”
“That’s it?”
He shakes his head. “He fell over and cut his face pretty bad – he was lying there bleeding and I couldn’t stop.” He gives me a funny smile. “I hit him enough for his heart to give out.”
“Then what?”
“Your mother was horrified – couldn’t understand that the man had had it coming.” He’s working himself up into a rage, and now he points a shaky finger in my direction, “After everything he’d done to me.”
For a moment I feel trapped. If he’d wanted to hurt you, he would have done it by now, I tell myself. He wants you to understand him, that’s all. I focus on breathing slowly. “So. You went to prison.”
“Yes I went to prison.”
“And?”
“For manslaughter. Twelve years. Out in ten.” He laughs. “That’s when I started taking heroin – I’d only ever done cannabis before, believe it or not.” He looks at the floor. “There was a mix-up. I asked for gear, but it was a heroin-tobacco blend. They said it would be less likely to show up on drug tests. And the rest is history.”
I let myself fall backwards on the sofa. The tap is dripping onto the dirty mugs and empty beer bottles in the kitchen sink; it’s easy to let myself get distracted by the noise. Drip, your father killed your grandfather, drip, your mother never told you, drip, and then she married his brother… drip, while your real father turned into a junkie.
“Why,” I start, and then I don’t know where to go with the question. “Why… didn’t you stay in touch? Why didn’t I know you existed?”
Uncle Jack lets out a sigh. “I killed him, Tallulah,” he says. “As much as I hated the bastard, I’d crossed a line even he’d never crossed. And your mother wouldn’t look at me anymore, let me touch her.”
“So she wouldn’t come and see you?”
“She did – once or twice. She felt guilty, like it was her fault we’d been at Mother’s in the first place. But she didn’t want to visit, I could tell.”
“Then?”
“I stopped coming out of my cell. I just wanted to smoke H. Visitors can’t get in if you don’t want them. That’s the one thing you have control over.”
“And my mum?”
“Edward told me he found her in a hostel.”
I feel my heart give a little thud. My father – Edward – my uncle. I think of him in surgery, surrounded by tubes and green gowns and shiny instruments, and somehow he seems even more vulnerable now I know the truth. If he’d died on the table, there’d be nothing left, I think. When my mother died, I was proof that she’d existed, but he doesn’t even have that.