by Ryan Casey
He was the only person who’d believe Brian about the Children of the Light.
He was the only person who could help Brian right now.
Forty-Three
It’d help if Brian knew exactly where the fuck Birch Road was.
He sprinted down Belton Hill. He’d left his car by the join between Lightfoot Lane and here simply ’cause he didn’t want to get too lost in this maze. He was sure it was around here somewhere. So many detached houses. So many little side streets. Roads you could live around for years and still not have a clue they were right next to you until you needed them.
And Brian really did fucking need Birch Road right now.
’Cause George Andrews was in trouble.
Someone had got to him.
And he couldn’t let that happen.
He felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. He lifted it out. Checked it. In the past, he might’ve ignored it. Buried his head in the sand and pretended no one was on the other end. But not anymore. Not while Hannah was in the state she was in.
He needed to be aware. He needed to stay available.
He needed to be the husband that he knew he was in all but name.
When he looked at his phone, he saw a familiar name. Marlow. His stomach turned. Fuck Marlow. He knew what was going on with the Children of the Light. He was doing his damnedest to cover up every last bit of evidence. He was one of the bad ones. One of the ones George Andrews told him about. A sell-out.
Brian didn’t want to accept the truth. He didn’t want to accept he worked in a morally bankrupt institution.
But it was about time he started facing up to the facts.
He ignored Marlow’s call. Stuffed his phone back in his pocket. Looked up. Beech Drive. Melbecks Causeway. Roads he’d vaguely heard of. Roads that all looked the same.
Fuck. He knew Andrews’ road had to be around here somewhere. He ...
In a red-faced moment of realisation that often cursed people of his generation, he realised he had a smartphone in his pocket. And smartphones were, by nature, pretty fucking smart. Like Google fucking Maps smart.
Smarter than him.
He lifted his phone out. Opened maps. Keyed in Birch Road.
Naturally, he had no signal. No fucking signal. Might be smart in principle but in practice? They were just as dumb as Brian.
He lifted his head and looked back around this maze of roads. He knew Birch Road was around here somewhere. Unless Andrews was on about another Birch Road. Unless there was another Birch Road in Preston that Brian didn’t know about, right on the other side of town. In which case he was screwed. Andrews would be dead. Hope of bringing down the Children of the Light, gone.
Because Andrews knew the truth. He might have some documents remaining. Some evidence. Some ...
He saw it. Saw it in the distance. A little road sign covered in weeds and birdshit. Birch Road. The B half scratched away by some chavvy kid who had nothing better to do.
That didn’t matter though.
What mattered was Brian had his location.
He knew where he had to go.
He knew where Andrews was.
He sprinted towards Birch Road. Passed the sign. His legs ached. His knees felt like they were going to burst out of their sockets. His phone vibrated in his pocket again. And again, he checked it. Saw Marlow’s name.
Again, he ignored it.
Because this was his job.
This was his duty.
This went beyond procedure.
This went straight into the heart of justice.
In a moment of brain-fuzz, Brian forgot which number George Andrews had said he lived at. Was it 49? Or was it 59? He couldn’t think. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t ...
He saw the door of 59 partly ajar.
He took in a deep breath. Slowed his run. The cold breeze battered against him, summer taking another turn for the grey and shitty. He walked towards the house. Walked slowly. Feet aching. Heart pounding. Chest tight.
He walked right up to the door and put a hand on it. The reality of his situation hadn’t quite settled in. He was entering a house of someone who was in trouble. Someone who was in serious trouble.
He wasn’t just holding the wasps’ nest anymore. He wasn’t just shaking it.
He was sticking his head inside it and screaming at full blast.
He pushed open the door. It creaked as it eased open. A narrow hallway stretched out in front of him. A bristly Welcome mat that looked like it’d seen a few too many shoes. A faint hint of aftershave in the air.
Brian took another deep breath of the cool “summer” air.
Then he stepped inside.
He walked slowly down the corridor. He knew he had to get to George Andrews fast, but he also knew he had to be aware of his surroundings. He had to listen out. Listen out for footsteps. Listen out for a voice.
He had to keep his guard up.
Or it might just kill him.
He moved past the foot of the staircase. Green carpet which was upturned at the seams and definitely needed replacing. A large frosted window letting in the light from outside. He thought he felt someone. Someone watching him. Something acknowledging his presence.
But he pushed on.
He pushed on because he had to.
As he got further down the hallway, closer and closer to the closed doors at the end, he heard something. Something low, like mumbling. Like someone was speaking. Someone in one of the back rooms.
He dug his fingernails into his palms and held his breath. His heart raced so fast it distorted his sense of hearing. Upstairs, he thought he heard a creak. Then behind him, he thought he heard footsteps walking up the driveway, walking towards the house and towards him.
But he kept his focus on the doors at the end of the corridor.
On the muffled voices.
He walked right up to the doors. His head spun. The mumbling got louder. He was convinced someone was in there. The room on the left. Someone had to be in there because he could hear them. He could hear them and he had to go in there and ...
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Almost made his heart finally give in. He lifted it out with his shaky hands. Looked at the screen.
His stomach sank when he saw it wasn’t Marlow.
It was the hospital.
He found himself caught in a dilemma. Answer it and give away your position. Leave it and miss out on news about Hannah. Potentially bad news. News that she needed him. Needed him in her final moments. Needed ...
No.
She was going to push through.
He’d ring her straight back.
Just as soon as he found out what was in this room.
He let the phone buzz. Felt guilty with every vibrate.
He lifted his hand. Put his palm on the cool exterior of the chipped white door.
And then he pushed.
When the door swung open, the first thing Brian noticed was the slight crackle to the muffled voices. The faint hum of static in the room.
It was as he stepped around the doorway that he saw why.
The voices were from a television set. A dusty old CRT in the corner of the room. Some daytime television bullshit blasting at full.
Two women grinning and laughing as they chatted and joked with one another.
But Brian didn’t focus on the television for long.
He couldn’t.
Because of what was to the left of the television.
Of who was opposite.
George Andrews was dressed in just his boxers. He smelled of sweat. The air around him was somewhat sweet. His flabby belly hung over the edge of his boxers, and his wide eyes stared at Brian with more of a glassiness than they had when they first met.
Blood dripped down his wrists.
Trickled onto the cream carpet.
And around his neck, a belt.
A belt attached to the ornate lampshade in the middle of the room.
Brian stared at George. Phone buzzing.
Heart racing. Mind spinning.
In the corner of his eye, he swore he saw movement in the long, overgrown garden.
Forty-Four
“Never thought I’d see the day you’d let your brews go cold.”
Brian sat on the white leather sofa. Weird experience because he used to own this sofa. Hell, he’d probably bought it. Probably had good cause to ask for it back. But y’know. He wasn’t a dick. And it brought back too many memories.
He stared down at his cooling cup of tea. That took him back, too. To the way Vanessa always used to make it. Brilliantly, so damned sugary, just how he’d liked it.
But sickly sweet.
A sickly sweet reminder of the truth.
Of his past.
“Well, people change I guess,” Brian said.
He looked over the top of his brew. Vanessa hadn’t aged much over the years. Still had that silky blonde hair. Still had those slim legs he used to go mad for. But it was weird looking at her. Weird staring into her eyes. Because it was like he’d never looked into them at all. Like he was staring at a photograph of someone he’d once vaguely knew. Not the woman he’d married. Not the woman he’d loved. Not the mother of his first child.
Sam made a loud farting noise with his lips. He lay on a colourful play mat in the middle of the beige carpet. “He does that a lot these days,” Brian said.
“He’s done it a lot today,” Vanessa said, grinning as she looked down at Sam. “In the lip-puffing stage.”
“That well-known developmental stage,” Brian said. It was the sort of raw sarcasm that used to drive Vanessa up the wall. She loved it really. Part of his charm, she used to say. All part of their fun.
Now, she barely acknowledged it. Just smiled. Smiled and watched as Brian’s son kicked around on the floor in a fantasy world of his own.
The silences were the worst. The awkward silences. Not the silences of comfort that they used to be able to have. Not the silence of lazing around in front of the telly on a Sunday morning. Not the silence of sitting together in the car, completely comfortable with one another’s company. That other kind of silence. The one that grows with distance. The one that itches at your neck, pinches at your body, begs one of you to break it by any means possible.
“How’s work?” Vanessa asked.
Oh God, break the silence by any means other than that.
“Yeah, it’s ... Yeah. Not bad. You?”
“It’s okay.”
And that was that. Another silence stretched out. A silence where the pair pretended to be focused and preoccupied with Sam to cover up the truth. To bury the realisation that the closeness between them had gone. Faded. That all honesty had died.
“We never were good at small talk,” Vanessa said.
“You weren’t.”
“Oh come on. You were hardly ... Oh. You’re doing your thing again.”
Brian smiled as well as he could. “As if you’d forget. How’s ... How’s Davey?”
Saying his son’s name was difficult. Because he loved Davey. Loved him like mad. Vanessa had moved away though, and after that Davey didn’t seem too interested in his dad. She moved to Yorkshire, now she lived in Salford, which Brian took as something of a downward step but didn’t say anything.
Vanessa rubbed her hands against her black trousers. “He’s … Yeah. He’s alright. Spends a lot of time rock climbing now.”
“Rock climbing?” Brian said, laughing.
“Yeah. He’s away there now actually.”
“With some of his mates?”
Vanessa scratched at her head. “Nah, um, Anthony. My ...” She lifted her ring finger.
“Ah,” Brian said, nodding and smiling as politely as he could. He couldn’t deny the envy he felt, though. The envy that some other man was taking his son rock climbing. What if he was shit? What if he was a clumsy fucker? Brian was Davey’s dad. Surely he had some kind of say in what Davey could and couldn’t do? Surely he ...
No. Of course he didn’t. Because he’d given up on those rights the moment he decided he wasn’t going to fight for him.
“You can always see him,” Vanessa said. “You know. He’s ... difficult. At that stage. But he would see you.”
Brian nodded. Stared at Sam’s smiling, saliva-covered face. “Thanks.”
“You’re always welcome here.”
“I appreciate that.”
Their words were all so polite. All so well-formed and organised. But were they sincere? Brian wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure at all.
Another awkward silence kicked in. But this time, Brian found himself drifting in his thoughts once more. It’d been a day since he’d found George Andrews hanging in his living room. The police weren’t treating it as suspicious. A suicide. A run-of-the-mill suicide. Nothing more.
Somehow, that didn’t surprise Brian. Not after all the other evidence of cover-ups he’d been forced to face up to.
But it saddened him. Not just because George seemed a decent guy trying to fight the good cause. But because it made him realise just how much of an impossible battle he was fighting. Just how unattainable true justice really was.
“How’re you coping with everything?”
Brian glanced at Vanessa. He knew that look. The look she’d given him a number of times after his suicide attempt. She was perfectly entitled to ask it. Hannah was struggling for her life in critical care. The call from the hospital yesterday was torturous in that it revealed nothing new. Just that she was still fighting. Still clinging on. No visitors allowed.
“I’m doing okay,” Brian said.
“No point lying to me,” Vanessa said. “I can read you like a book, Mr McDone.”
He offered a narrow smile. “I suppose people don’t change after all.”
“I’m not sure that’s true,” Vanessa said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Vanessa leaned forward. Rubbed her thighs. “I dunno. You seem to be doing a decent job with this young chap.”
Brian looked at Sam. Saw his son smiling back at him. Looking at him with loving eyes. With innocent eyes that didn’t understand. “We do our best.”
“I can see that,” Vanessa said.
Brian made eye contact with her and caught her smiling at him.
He smiled back at her. Not forced, not unnatural, just honest.
Brian lifted his tea to his lips and sipped some of it back. It was cold, way too sweet. “You’re right,” he said. “I guess I have changed.”
“Nice to see you being as modest with praise as ever.”
“I’ve learned,” Brian said, looking down at Sam. “Not the lessons I wanted to learn. Not in the way I have. But ...”
He leaned down. Held out a finger, which Sam grabbed and bit with his gummy mouth.
“I’ve learned what I’ve had to learn. About life. That sometimes things don’t always work out the way you want. That sometimes ... sometimes there is no justice. You’ve just got to do what you have to do. To keep those you love safe.”
“Such is life,” Vanessa said.
Brian picked up Sam. Vanessa grabbed his bags and handed them to Brian. Walked him to the door.
“It was nice seeing you, Bri,” she said.
Brian looked back at her. “Thank you. For watching him. I’m so grateful. I mean that.”
“Any time,” Vanessa said. “Well, not any time. But—”
“You’re doing that thing you always used to do.”
“What?”
“Over-explaining yourself.”
Vanessa smiled back at Brian. And Brian looked at her with love. With recognition. Because there was something between them. Not sexual or anything like that. Just an appreciation of one another. A respect for one another.
Because he had loved her. And he saw that now.
He saw that he’d let her down in pursuit of unattainable justice.
He’d let Davey down for the same reason.
He wasn’t going to make the same mistake with Hannah
and Sam.
He held Sam and walked towards his car as the fumes from the busy road filled his nostrils. He was going to go back to Preston. He was going to go into work. He was going to meet with the chief and he was going to accept whatever consequences came his way.
He wasn’t going to keep on fighting the Children of the Light.
He wasn’t going to become another George Andrews.
He was going to stand in line and accept the way the world worked because that was what people did.
He got a bitter taste of tea in his mouth as he remembered what Samantha Carter told him. About justice. She’d followed the morally right way. She’d killed the Eye Snatcher because he’d killed someone she loved. But look where she was now. Look what it had done to her.
“Come on, big man,” Brian said, strapping Sam into his car seat. “Daddy’s got to find out whether he’s gonna be poor or not.”
He sat in the front seat. Started up the car.
Looked back and saw Vanessa standing by the door, waving.
He waved back at her. Smiled.
And then he put his foot down and he drove away from his past, away from his old mistakes, and towards his future.
Even if he wasn’t totally comfortable with that future.
Forty-Five
The following week passed by in a blur, and a mostly sleepless one at that.
Hannah was okay. Well, not okay, but getting better. She had serious burns to her arms and legs. Severe. Scars that’d be with her for the rest of her life.
But she still looked just as beautiful.
Not that it mattered. Brian loved her to bits regardless.
Brian took the time off work to look after Sam. It was difficult, especially hot on the heels of the Mahone and Galbraith case—a case that would forever creep into his deepest thoughts and torture him late at night. A case that would forever be unresolved; he knew and accepted that now. But the time off work was good. The time spent with Sam, mostly alone while Hannah was at the hospital, was a real great spell for him. He felt himself getting closer to his son. Becoming the father he should’ve been for Davey back when he was younger but never quite managed it. He could’ve cracked after what’d happened to Hannah. He could easily just slip over the edge and into a dark abyss.
