Brothers & Sisters

by Brothers

  ‘I do, I have your number,’ Kelly said.

  Chapter 5

  Monday Evening – 2016

  It was six in the evening before Robert turned his car onto Pleasant Street. Like the tide washing in, darkness had crept unnoticed over the city and street lamps glowed amber, crafting a haze in the evening drizzle. As soon as they had turned off the motorway, bumper-to-bumper traffic had created chains of red dots as far as the eye could see. They were both relieved to be back.

  ‘Home, sweet home,’ Robert said, for want of a better thing to say. While neither of them were fans of small talk and platitudes, he felt the silence needed filling.

  Tim plodded down the granite steps of the Victorian townhouse to the garden-level entrance; that was where Brandy was.

  ‘I had better let Brandy out. I can hear her whimpering.’ Tim doted on the dog; both of them did. ‘I’d say she thought we were never coming back.’

  Brandy was scratching on the tiled floor, eagerly wagging her tail and dancing on all four legs when Tim walked in.

  ‘There you go, darling.’ Tim opened up the French doors to the paved courtyard outside and the dog raced out, bounding with excitement.

  Robert poured them both a drink and they followed her.

  ‘Clever girl.’ Brandy rolled in happiness as Tim dragged his chair underneath the canopy to avoid the drizzle. ‘Calm down, you crazy dog.’ He laughed softly as the rusty-red dog barked with happiness. ‘What a day?’ Tim finally confessed.

  ‘Indeed,’ Robert answered. ‘I’m going to order in for us.’ Robert glanced at Tim.

  Robert’s engineering coupled with Tim’s architectural expertise had dragged the old Victorian villa kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century and their sleek, stainless-steel and gloss finished kitchen didn’t really see much activity, other than the opening and closing of the wine fridge and the hiss and gurgle of the coffee maker.

  ‘Yeah,’ Tim said. He shook his glass realising it was already empty. ‘I could eat.’ He walked into the kitchen, wiping his feet on the mat, and poured another glass of red wine, Robert followed. The whitewashed walls from the courtyard blended seamlessly with the clean lines inside. The open plan of the garden-level area made their home very functional.

  Tim took his refilled glass to his armchair. The furniture in the living area was pristine and dark oak bookshelves punctuated the open plan ground floor. The oversized rug softened the porcelain tiles and gave Brandy a place to doze in the afternoon, just as the sun peeped in through the front room window.

  Robert finished placing their order and put his phone on the cream Silestone countertop. He turned off the lights in the courtyard and gently nudged the sleeping dog with his foot. ‘Come on Brandy, let’s get back in.’ The temperature outside had lost all of the day’s warmth and the dampness made the chill even more noticeable. ‘You better not be wet.’ Robert scolded the dog as she reluctantly returned, barely lifting her head to acknowledge him. There was nothing like the smell of wet dog to put them off the Chinese food he had just ordered.

  Robert headed to the sofa, taking the bottle of red wine with him. ‘Are you going to tell Rose tomorrow?’

  ‘What am I going to say to her?’ Tim said. His sigh was heavy. Rose and Tim had no secrets, but as her big brother, he still felt the need to protect her.

  ‘Don’t be overcomplicating it; it is what it is. They found a body on the farm that you both used to own, simple as that.’ Robert knew Tim had a tendency to overthink things, especially where Rose was concerned.

  ‘I swear, the whole idea of selling it was so we would be done with it once and for all.’ Tim swigged from the crystal glass. ‘You were there; we drank to finally being free of it. And now this, I just can’t believe it, it doesn’t seem fair.’

  ‘I’m sure the body that has been lying in the ditch for the past forty-six years will echo your feelings of fairness,’ Robert said. Tim didn’t respond.

  ‘It’s just that, ah, it’s hard to explain.’ Tim sat back in his chair and sighed even deeper.

  ‘I know,’ Robert said. He had heard this sentence before. ‘But, if I may say so, I love Rose, just as much as you.’ His hands were animated and he could tell that Tim was about to throw in a ‘but’. ‘I know, I know, I didn’t grow up with you guys, and I know that it is not your story to tell.’ Robert was using all the answers he had heard Tim utter before. ‘But sometimes, I think you might underestimate her.’ Robert sat forward; he was passionate about what he was saying. Rose was as much in his life as she was in Tim’s. ‘She is a strong sixty-year-old woman, Tim; I think she is more than capable of handling it.’ Robert’s eyebrows rose involuntarily. ‘You don’t have to keep protecting her.’ In the early days, that comment would have sounded jealous, as though Robert envied the special bond that his lover had with his sister, but now, all these years later, it was as genuine and heartfelt as could be and Tim knew it. Robert understood that neither Rose nor Tim had any good memories of Fitzpatrick Estate, the detail as to why, he was still unsure of. He knew that Tim would tell him in his own good time, but he had his suspicions.

  ‘Nothing but misery ever came from that godforsaken place.’ Tim exhaled slowly and spoke with his head in his hands. The resentment he felt for Fitzpatrick Farm sparked across his skin making it prickle.

  ‘You’ve said.’ Robert rubbed his chin, the scratch of his day-old stubble felt comforting on his hands. It was a sensitive subject and Robert knew to tread carefully. ‘Or you could look at it like this: it made you both, who you are today.’ He topped up Tim’s glass from the bottle. ‘A pedestal to stand on, rather than a noose around your necks,’ he suggested. ‘And I for one am glad you are who you are.’ Robert lifted his glass and chinked it with Tim’s.

  Tim knew he was lucky to have him.

  ‘I know, I just can’t help thinking of it.’ Tim stretched his neck and shoulders and exhaled deeply. ‘She said a long time ago that she never wanted anything to do with the place again and I don’t blame her.’

  ‘I know, but you may tell her what’s going on, there’s a chance that it’ll make the national news. She’s bound to recognise it.’

  ‘I will, I just didn’t want to have to stir up old memories for her. I’ll tell her tomorrow.’ Tim had understood her reluctance to have anything to do with Fitzpatrick Estate. They had both made a promise, and they had kept it. ‘I still don’t understand why that Kelly fella asked me to come down. He didn’t ask me anything he didn’t already know.’

  ‘I’d say he just wanted to cross the T’s, as they say,’ Robert said. ‘With the property having changed hands so recently, I suppose he needed to include you in the file as well.’

  ‘Maybe. I could have punched the smug little bastard though when he mentioned Rose.’ The long day and the wine were gradually taking their toll on his fighting spirit, loosening his tongue and allowing his imagination to run back to those dark places. Places nobody wanted to visit. ‘The nerve of him, even to mention her name,’ Tim said. ‘She was only fourteen, Robert. How the hell could she have had anything to do with a body ending up in the ditch, seriously.’ Tim’s breathing became faster. ‘She doesn’t need this hassle, none of us bloody well do.’ His grasp tightened around his wine glass. ‘Seriously, all we thought of was getting out of the place, how could we have known anything that was going on?’ Tim said. Robert knew it was rhetorical. ‘What sort of a halfwit was I, though seriously?’ Tim shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘You were the same halfwit that every other seventeen-year-old boy was. It was the seventies, Tim, for Christ’s sake.’ Robert shook his head. ‘I don’t remember what was going on when I was seventeen and this detective Kelly is not going to be able to use anything you can or can’t remember, when you were only a boy, against you,’ Robert said. ‘You can’t be held responsible for your father’s failings, Tim, or your mother’s for that matter.’ Robert knew enough to know that the dark memories of an angry whiskey-fuelled father and
a reclusive alcoholic mother was the foundation upon which their disdain for Fitzpatrick Estate had grown, but Tim had spared him the detail of the depravity thereafter. ‘You did what you could, you got out and you brought Rose with you,’ Robert added. ‘End of.’ Robert was considerate and patient, he thought he knew the depth of Tim’s pain.

  ‘That’s just it though.’ Tim’s voice was quiet. ‘It’s not end of, it’s just the beginning of, and that little bastard Kelly, thinking he knew everything about me, about us. The fucking cheek of him.’

  ‘You should talk to Rose, maybe try and get some closure for you both. Ask her how she deals with it, you know the memories and everything. It might help you.’ Robert remained facing forward. He had suggested this to Tim on several occasions over the years. It seemed, as close as both Tim and Rose were, they had never spoken of what happened since they had left.

  ‘The only thing I want to know is whether or not it is Patrick, and if it’s not, where the bastard is or where he went that night,’ Tim said. ‘That’s the only closure I need.’ Tim was stone-faced in temper, as he was every time he allowed himself to think of him.

  ‘Have there ever been any sightings of him?’ Robert was curious, in all the snippets of Fitzpatrick history he had heard over the years, the disappearance of Rose and Tim’s uncle had barely been mentioned.

  ‘Not that I know of.’ Tim shook his head. ‘The most the investigation showed up at the time was the complete lack of interest anybody had in his disappearance.’ His tone was flippant.

  ‘I see,’ Robert said. ‘That’s unusual.’

  ‘According to the locals, and my father actually,’ Tim added, his memory of any conversation he had at the time of his uncle’s disappearance was as clear as day, ‘he had been bragging all night in the pub about what he would do to his girlfriend when he got home.’ The disgust was palpable in Tim’s voice. ‘And he was talking about getting the boat to Liverpool because the women in England were much more his type.’ Tim shook his head.

  Robert’s curiosity piqued.

  ‘They looked for him for a couple of weeks after, but no trace of him ever showed up.’ Tim coughed, the wine had gone against his breath. He cleared his throat. ‘Bloody coward.’ The adrenaline raced around Tim’s body and made his tongue sharper and his breathing faster.

  ‘Do you think it’s him?’ Robert questioned.

  ‘No.’ Tim shuffled in his seat. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I just don’t know,’ he added. ‘Maybe I should talk to my solicitor.’

  Even though it might have been the sensible thing to do, it sounded odd to Robert that Tim would think a solicitor was necessary. He leaned against the brown leather arm of the sofa and thought for a moment. He closed his eyes trying to squash the suspicions that were sprouting in his mind. He grew concerned that the nightmare of Fitzpatrick Estate was even more of a nightmare than he had imagined and if the years of whispered memories and guarded histories were about to come tumbling down around them, spilling out in the open for everyone to see, he needed to know everything, whether it was Rose’s story or not. His love for Tim was unquestionable but he couldn’t help if his hands were tied.

  ‘Tim, if there is more, which we both know there is,’ his expression was determined, ‘you need to tell me, do you hear me?’ Robert’s seriousness was unusual. ‘No matter what.’ He fixed his eyes on Tim’s. It was a phrase that had become somewhat of a mantra between them, a phrase that had given them both strength to be who they were, to be in love with each other, regardless of what anyone else had thought or how unequal society had seen their love. ‘No matter what,’ Robert repeated.

  ‘There’s no “no matter what’s” to worry about, Robert. Trust me,’ Tim answered. ‘I just need to be sensible here, that’s all,’ he explained. ‘If you had seen this detective guy today, you’d be doing the same thing, for some reason, he has it in his head that there is more than meets the eye to this story, and I can tell you now,’ he reached across and took Robert’s hand, ‘there isn’t, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Robert held his gaze. ‘I need to know everything though, there might not be a “no matter what”, but there is more to the story and we need to discuss it, okay?’ Robert finished.

  ‘Agreed,’ Tim answered. ‘But I want to talk to Rose first, tell her that I am telling you everything, once and for all. I owe her, you and her, that much,’ he explained.

  ‘But speaking of solicitors,’ Robert said, ‘didn’t your solicitor want to speak to Lizzie, in relation to the trust and transferring the monies?’ Since they had sold the Estate four months ago, both Rose and Tim had decided, neither of them wanting anything to do with the money from Fitzpatrick Farm, that the proceeds would be placed in a trust for Lizzie, Rose’s only daughter and the apple of her uncle Tim’s eye.

  ‘I think Rose was waiting for her to come home, tell her about the trust and then have her go into the solicitor to have everything signed off,’ Tim added. When he spoke about his sister, he always referred to her formally as Rose, but in his head, she would always be his Rosie.

  ‘Yeah, or you both could take a trip to London, to see her, speak to her in person there, maybe.’ Robert’s suggestion made sense. ‘You could bring the documents with you?’ Robert added.

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ Tim said. ‘It might be a good idea.’ Tim wasn’t sure. It would take some convincing to get Rose to agree, and besides, he thought, maybe it would be better to be around, he couldn’t rest easy knowing the detective would be looking for him.

  ‘How do you think she’ll react.’ A smile spread cross Robert’s face. As much as he treated Rose as his sister, he most definitely treated Lizzie as his niece. ‘When you tell her about the trust?’

  ‘I’d say, she’ll faint.’ Speaking about their thirty-three-year-old niece brought the first smile to their faces that day. Their smiles were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

  ‘Chinese,’ Robert declared; their conversation paused until they ate.

  Tim took a breath, contemplating his next move, he didn’t know what to expect and that worried him even further. Some secrets were never meant to be told.

  Chapter 6

  Tuesday Evening – March 1970

  As soon as I hear the crunch on the gravel outside, I know it is my father. I watch him from the corner of my eye as I stand at the sink, washing and rewashing the crockery so that I don’t have to move. I pinch my lips closed as though making sure no words fall out.

  ‘I presume your mother’s asleep?’ He sits at the table and unlaces his boots. I can tell he’s tired by the groan his bones make as he lowers himself down. Our normal exchanges include a cursory acknowledgement of the woman down the hall. He doesn’t refer to her as his wife, just mine and Tim’s mother. The conversations we have after he drinks, however, are entirely different. Those are the ones I hide from.

  ‘I think so,’ I answer and lift the kettle to fill it. A bowl sits on the sideboard, waiting for me to pour his soup. I have already cut his bread and softened his butter. I hate the smell of Oxtail soup. I hate the idea of it too.

  ‘Did you bring some soup to your mother?’ he says. I often wonder does he, my father, actually care. It might appear at times that he does, but then, like when he is full of whiskey and rage, I know he doesn’t.

  ‘I did.’ I don’t elaborate by telling him that she upturned it in a gin-fuelled stupor and scalded herself. It was funny, until she flung the bowl at me for laughing. I fill his bowl and place it in front of him beside the bread I had already buttered. I wipe the smile from my face before he sees it. Just in case he wants to bring it up in conversation with me later. It doesn’t take him long to finish and as soon as he wipes the bowl clean with his bread, I take it to the sink to wash it. I fill the quietness that falls between us with the sound of the tap running and the squeak of the Delph as I rub it dry. I’m relieved when I hear Tim at the back door because if I rub the bowl any harder I’m afraid that the rusty swagged pattern will come off. I’m also reli
eved because if both Tim and my father are both back at the house at the same time, it means that all the lambs are born, which means that Tim can come back to the house. My father mumbles something at Tim and then he throws the keys of his Ford Cortina at him.

  ‘Won’t be long, Rosie,’ Tim says. My father gets up to leave and Tim follows outside. He has been driving tractors for years and now my father is letting him drive the car. Tim says when we move to Dublin we’ll get our own car. I’m not sure how we’ll pay for it, but I think Tim has a plan. I make sure to leave the kitchen spotless. My father doesn’t like to come home to an untidy kitchen. I learned this the hard way and only a fool doesn’t learn from their mistakes, so he says every time it happens. Sometimes I don’t even have to make mistakes to learn a lesson. Apparently, it’s all for my own good. Tim says, that my father doesn’t know any better, that he is angry because he can’t understand why our mother has ended up so useless and in his own warped way is making sure, with his fists and his belt, that we don’t go the same way. I think that of all the things he could create a fuss about, a clean kitchen shouldn’t be one of them.

  ‘Rose.’ I shut my eyes and sigh as soon as I hear her. Fire races up my spine and explodes out my ears. The sound of her voice is infuriating. I stifle my annoyance and try to tolerate her calling.

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ I walk towards her room and stand outside the door on the chessboard tiles. The old front door must be painted shut, I think, as I study the perimeter of the frame. I don’t ever remember it being open. The first room as you enter, or the last room as you leave, depending on what way you look at it, is the drawing room. She has been holed up in there for nearly two years now. Emerging only under cover of darkness and gin, like a squirrel just to gather and retreat. Her bed stands freely in the centre of the room flanked by a Queen Anne chair on one side and a lamp table to the other. A rainbow of small coloured tablets sit in brown plastic tubs on the lace doily cloth. Her clothes hang haphazardly on the back of the door and from the picture rail that circles the room. I don’t like going in to her as much as she doesn’t like me in there. ‘Do you want tea?’ I ask.