We were about four weeks into our friendship when I noticed it; the way Gareth used to look at me. It wasn’t the way friends should conduct themselves. He used to gaze at me for long periods of time when he thought I wasn’t looking. At first I wondered if I had been rumbled, and that perhaps he was looking for similarities in our features, trying to see if I had his eyes and working out which parent I looked like. But of course that wasn’t the case at all. He was slowly but surely falling in love with me.
It soon became obvious that my business queries would come to nothing. I told him I had decided to ditch the idea of going self-employed as a financial consultant and would continue my job at the accountants where I worked. Whether or not he saw through my tissue of lies at the time is anybody’s guess. Everything was too far down the line at that point to even matter. We were firm friends and I knew Gareth had visions of it going even further.
After a while, he’d asked me out for dinner as opposed to getting together in the pub after work. Then came the gifts. First it was chocolates and flowers. Then the necklace; a gold chain with a tiny ruby heart at the centre. At that point I should have come clean and told him who I really was – I know that now – but I was so desperate and in need of affection that I let him continue. I don’t mind admitting that I was flattered. The most I had ever been given by any of my previous boyfriends was the occasional birthday card, and flowers from one particular guy, bought from a petrol station forecourt after an argument. He hadn’t even bothered to remove the price. Gareth was in a different league to any of them. They were just boys whereas Gareth was a perfect gentleman.
I had drunk far too much the first time it happened. I know I should have told him. I know that now. But it’s all too late. I was attracted to him for sure, but I knew that he was head over heels in love with me. I held his heart in my hands and eventually I broke it.
It was a Wednesday evening after work when I finally came clean. The burden of guilt had become too much to bear. I wasn’t sleeping and had spent night after night trying to work out ways to break it to him. He had to know sooner or later. It wasn’t fair on either of us. I had done this terrible thing and I couldn’t go on any longer with the deceit.
I had hoped that he would be forgiving about the whole thing and lenient towards me, given the circumstances of my upbringing. A small part of me actually hoped he already knew and would save me the heartache of having to tell him. I should have just lied and said nothing about who I was; just walked away citing other reasons for our break-up, but the whole thing was making me insane. He was my brother and I still wanted to have contact with him. He was all I had. I had waited my entire life to see my family and I didn’t want to lose him. As it turned out, that was exactly what happened.
We were in my house, the place we spent most of our time since our relationship had taken off, and I had sat him down with a glass of wine and told him, as gently and as sensitively as I could, who I really was.
I told him how I had kept check on my parents, looking them up on the electoral roll every few months to make sure they still lived at the same address. I had been doing it for years. The fact that they still lived in the same house somehow soothed me. It was the only bit of stability I had in my life. They were my comfort blanket. It gave me such happiness, seeing their names in the same place year after year.
And then Gareth’s name appeared alongside theirs once he was old enough to be registered as an adult living at that address. So I did a bit of digging, researching birth certificates, and that’s when I discovered I had a brother. I kept checks on him too, noticing he had moved to London as soon as he was old enough. I didn’t go there straightaway. I needed a job, somewhere to live. London is a big, expensive city and although I am needy, I wasn’t stupid enough to think I’d go there and find a job and somewhere to live immediately. It took a good few years to make the move. It was a risk, but it was one I was prepared to take. I had a brother. Somebody just like me. That’s when I set out to find him.
I watched as he initially laughed, thinking I had gone mad, then felt my legs go weak as his face turned a sickly shade of grey, all colour leaching out of it. I knew then that I should have found another way. He adored me. It was an indisputable truth, evident to all who knew us, and whatever I did to end our relationship, and go back to the amicable people we once were, would have left him shattered. He deserved to know the truth. At least that’s what I told myself. I convinced myself I was doing the decent thing – the right thing by him. I wasn’t. If I had wanted to do the right thing by him, I would have walked away before it all began, but I didn’t because I needed him. Not as a lover but as a brother. I needed him to be the family I never had.
And now look what I have done to him.
He sits opposite me, a complete wreck of a man, barely recognisable and covered in blood. I am a cursed individual, ruining people, even myself.
‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter, aware of how feeble my apology sounds. It’s all I have to give.
I expect a backlash from him, a torrent of abuse and blame which I will accept, but there is nothing. He sits, slumped, his energy spent on attacking me while I slept. No more than I deserve.
There’s no way out of this. I know that now. The damage is done and no amount of time will ever repair it.
‘I have to go,’ he says suddenly, wiping his face. His skin is stained bright red with blood and his arm is in an awful mess where I sank my teeth into it.
‘Here, let me clean you up,’ I say as softly as I can, while getting up to my feet.
He shakes his head like a frightened child and scrambles back away from me. ‘No! I’ll be fine. I just need to go.’
I don’t try to stop him. That would simply fuel his anger, and I fear things are bad enough without exacerbating them any further.
‘I suppose you’ll be going to the police?’ he says. I watch him as he limps towards the stairs, his eyes dead, his tone weary.
‘No. Of course I’m not,’ I whisper, too afraid to say that I deserved everything he did to me. That and more besides.
He nods, and for a brief time I pray that he will turn around and tell me that he forgives me. He doesn’t. I don’t really expect him to but I live in hope. Hope. That’s all I have. I’ve destroyed everything else, haven’t I?
He drags himself down the stairs with the gait of an elderly man. I have really injured his arm and face. Guilt rips through me. I want to shout for him to come back, to return to how we were when we were just friends. Instead I follow behind him at an acceptable distance and watch as my brother, the only family I know, disappears into the darkness of the street.
The door closes with a click. I survey the damage to the lock. I can call a locksmith in the morning and get it fixed. The landlord need never know. If anything I will be doing him a favour by replacing it with a more substantial lock than the flimsy old one that was previously on there.
I go upstairs and drag a chair back down, jamming it up under the handle once more. My earlier efforts at staying safe in a possible fire left me wide open to Gareth’s anger. I shrug and sigh heavily then head back in the bedroom to begin the clean-up process.
Who would have thought one person could lose so much blood and still live? It’s everywhere, tiny splashes up the walls and smeared over the floor.
I spend the next hour scrubbing and rinsing, stripping off bed sheets and washing floors and walls. The metallic pungent scent of blood is everywhere. I keep at it, refusing to stop until every mark, every splash of blood, every single microscopic trace of Gareth’s presence here in my flat has been removed.
It’s 3am by the time I finish. My hands are raw and my throat feels as if Gareth’s hands are still clasped around it. I don’t go back to bed. I am awake. Instead, I sit by the window with a cup of cocoa and watch the sun come up. I have no idea how I am going to move on from this juncture in my life but I have to find a way. I resist the urge to top my cup up with alcohol. That isn’t the answer.
I do know what I am going to do next, however. I may as well get on with it while I’m up and there is nobody around to see me. I gather together what I need and wrap up warm making sure it is tucked away in my pocket. I can’t lose it. It’s the only connection I have to them. I just hope they know how it got there and that they don’t destroy it. If they do… well, if they do then there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m taking a chance on them and hoping that just for once, they won’t let me down.
The walk there doesn’t take long. I slide easily through empty streets, shadows making me jump, strange noises making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Even in the early hours of the morning, Whitby seems to have its own secret little world going on with the sound of the sea in the distance and the echo of dripping water as it hits the cobbled alleyways.
I am there before I know it. Everywhere is in darkness. This is good. I don’t want to be seen. Not at the minute when I am a complete mess. I also want to give them some time to adjust to the idea of me being here; to break them in gently so to speak. I’m being kind and showing them the generosity of spirit they never once showed me, but then I am not my parents, am I? I am me, and despite my issues and mistakes, I will always try to do the right thing. As earlier events show, I don’t always make the right decision but kindness is never far from my mind.
Once I’ve posted it, I head straight back. Although I don’t feel unsafe or threatened in the town at this time of the morning, I would rather get back as quickly as I can.
At home, I make myself another hot drink and resume my position by the window, my eyes fixed on the horizon. I sit for what feels like forever, waiting for the sun to make its ascent then finish my drink and stand up.
In another bid to put some demons to rest, I seek out every bottle of wine and Bacardi and gin I can find and empty them all down the sink, then slump onto the freshly made bed and let the tears come.
I have no idea if I am tired or not. I no longer know my own body. My senses have been dulled by what happened earlier. If sleep comes then it comes, and if it doesn’t, then that’s fine as well. What will be, will be. Just a few hours ago my ex-lover, my brother, the person I almost destroyed with my careless, thoughtless behaviour, attacked me. I am done with questioning everything, planning my life with military style precision. I will take life as it comes.
I’m not complaining. I deserved his anger. The only question I have now is, what am I going to do? My life is a disaster area and I no longer have the energy or inclination to do anything about it. I could go back to London. There are more jobs for me in the city for sure, but then, I will leave here no wiser than when I came. They kept Gareth and abandoned me. Why? Why would anybody do that? Is there something about me that is inherently bad? I would rather not have the answer to that one, actually. Not after what has just taken place.
My eyes get heavy and my body finally succumbs to sleep.
By the time I wake a few hours later, I am rested and ready to what needs to be done. I deserve Gareth’s anger and more, but I also deserve to find out who I really am and why I was discarded and forgotten about. And today, I will get my answers no matter what.
21
Gareth
They’re not half as bad as he first thought. Once he washed all the blood off, the scar on his hand was no more than a superficial wound and his nose is swollen and sore but it doesn’t look as if she has done any permanent damage. He’s pretty sure it’s not broken, though only time will tell. He had no idea the bitch had it in her. He had no idea he had it in himself.
Maybe it’s genetic. After all these years of hating his father, what if it turns out he is just like him? Violence breeds violence. That’s what they always say, don’t they? All the psychologists and therapists would have a field day if they were to study his family, to see what he and his sister have done, what they have put each other through. They would think them half insane. And that’s without taking a good look at his parents who are actually mad. Gareth shakes his head and puffs his cheeks out. This entire thing is one huge fucking farce.
He stares in the gilt-framed mirror that is sitting on the dresser and studies his face. How did he not see it before? The fact that he and Eva resemble each other. Is that what attracted him to her in the first place? He once read somewhere that people are drawn to other people with features similar to their own. Was that what he saw in Eva perhaps? Were their similarities so great that his attraction to her was like a great big magnet and he was powerless to its lure? He’d like to think he has more self-restraint than that, more control over his impulses and that it was Eva who caused it all, but he has done much soul searching in the past few weeks, and loathe though he is to admit it, he was totally captivated by her and made a huge effort to get to know her better.
In fact, if he is being honest, he pursued her relentlessly, sending her gifts and calling her ten times a day until in the end she capitulated to his demands and requests for dinner and more. That doesn’t excuse what she did. She knew from the beginning they were siblings and made no attempt to tell him. She’d had plenty of opportunities to let him know. They were friends long before they were lovers. He feels like throwing up at the very idea of using that word when it is associated with Eva.
He looks again at his reflection. He no longer wants to study his own features. Every time he looks at his own face all he can see is Eva. Only her hair is different. His is dark brown like his mother’s whereas Eva’s is a deep copper colour. Just like their dad.
He’ll go and see his mother later. Not that he wants to, but there are things he needs to know – like why didn’t she tell him he had a sister? And why was she left in care? Although he can’t help but feel that she was better off there. He doubts very much that she suffered the beatings and abuse that was meted out to him on a regular basis. He should envy her really. She got off lightly, not having to be part of the Tweedie family that stayed put and had to endure the wrath of Russ the drunkard who once told Gareth he would rather spend his life in prison for murder than spend it with his son. That’s when Gareth knew it was time to leave. He was almost as big as his father at that point and had fought back, to defend himself against his useless brute of a dad.
Gareth rests his head back on the chair and closes his eyes. He also wants to ask his mother why she did nothing about his father’s violent ways. Not only did she do nothing about it, she went to great lengths to actually hide it. In many ways that is as bad as what his father did. She enabled him; she gave him permission to use their only son as a punch bag. He feels his temperature begin to rise and drums his fingers on the edge of the chair to curb his agitation. He’s had enough stress for one night and needs to get some sleep.
He steps over his clothes which are in a bloody, crumpled heap on the floor and lies down on the bed. Soon he will visit his mother and he will ask her all those things, then once he has his answers he will return to London, where he will remain. Never again will he come back here. Not as long as his mother is alive anyway. Once she shuffles off this mortal coil, he may reconsider but until then, he will stay well away. He will return to London, to his secure job and circle of friends and carve out another life for himself. One without Eva. He’s done with her.
Gareth closes his eyes and brings his hand up to nurse the swelling on his face. He won’t miss her. Not after this. There will be no void in his life once she is gone. He turns onto his side and lets out a small groan as a wave of pain tears through his face. Eva is toxic; a reminder of a family he would sooner forget. She may well be his sister, but she will never ever be his friend.
22
Celia
She is up and out of the hotel shortly after 8am. She will have breakfast in a nearby cafe. The last thing she wants is to be in the hotel restaurant and look up to see him walk in. It would take all of her resolve to not launch herself at him and stab him with her cutlery or hurl a hot drink over him.
The temperature outside is chilly but bearable. She pulls
her scarf tighter around her throat and tugs at her gloves, flexing her fingers in a repeated fashion until she is satisfied that they are on properly, and then sets off towards the town. There will be a plethora of cafes serving hearty breakfasts there. She has a deep craving for a full English and a large latte.
Sleep evaded her but she isn’t tired. Energy is pulsing through her veins setting her senses alight. A solid breakfast will add more fuel to the already raging fire that is burning deep in her belly.
The town is relatively empty and she finds a seat tucked away in the corner of the first place she passes. She is too hungry to be selective about eateries and their levels of hygiene, something that is normally high on her agenda. It’s not too far from the pier and is equidistant between Eva’s flat and her parents’ house which is just perfect. She doesn’t want to get too close to Eva at the minute. She needs to give her some time to cool down, which she will. Of course she will. She and Eva have known one another for too long to let a silly spat like the one they had yesterday be the ending of them. They are stronger than that. They’ve had to be.
Besides, isn’t that why she is here? To help Eva come to terms with her upbringing and convince her that meeting her mum and dad is most definitely the wrong thing to do. It will be the undoing of her. They didn’t want her when she was a cute little toddler so they’re not going to want her now, are they? Plus Eva is teetering on the brink at the minute. Yesterday’s carry on proved that. She is in complete denial over how she was as a younger person, making out as if it was Celia who did those dreadful things. It’s nonsense, but poor Eva with her addled brain and warped sense of reality has gotten everything backside first.