‘Your father is dead.’
‘Okay,’ I say into the phone. I pinch a lock of my hair with two fingers of my free hand and pull it flat against my forehead. It’s almost long enough to hide my eyebrows. I should book in for a trim.
The voice, a withered little thing belonging to a fragile little man, umms and ahhs in my ear.
‘Was there something else?’ I ask.
‘Owen, are you going to be alright? Do I need to call someone for you?’
It occurs to me that the man talking to me is Welsh. Of course, he would be, given that he’s apparently my birth-father’s brother and my birth-father is reportedly from Wales.
‘I’m fine. Seriously. I never even met the guy. As far as I knew, he was already dead.’
‘Yes, well. I am sorry for that. Truly. I’d have gotten in contact with you much sooner, if it were up to me. Your father was insistent that you be left alone. I understand he and your mother didn’t part under the best of terms.’
‘You could say that.’ I notice his reticence to name my father. Owen. We share that, if nothing else. He made sure of that, waited for the ink to dry on the birth certificate before he made his escape. It used to bother me, when I was a kid. Now I’m pushing thirty and it only crosses my mind a few times a day.
A pause. ‘There’s one more thing, actually.’
‘Yeah?’ I lean back in my chair, put my feet up on the kitchen table. Glance at the digital clock on the oven, eleven AM. I hope this doesn’t take too long, I promised Martin I’d get the dishes done before he came home and I’m theoretically working from home. I’ll have to get a few invoices sent off this afternoon if I don’t want a bollocking from the head of accounts.
‘The will,’ he says, his voice timid.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. ‘I don’t need his crack pipe,’ I say, trying in vain to keep the indignation from my voice. I return my feet to the floor and reach for my cigarettes. I light one and pull the ashtray towards myself.
‘It’s not just that. As flawed as he was, my brother had some talent with money. He left you everything, including his house.’
At this my eyebrows raise. From what I’ve heard my father was a mediocre, at best, club DJ who mooched off everyone he’d ever known. Sold pills and herb to keep himself more or less liquid. How does someone like that end up owning a house?
We speak a little longer. He agrees to send me the paperwork. I just want to sell the place and burn the contents; sadly the law requires an exorbitant level of paperwork before I can light the match.
The conversation ends cordially enough. I stand, light another cigarette and start pacing around the flat. I do little laps, starting at the kitchen table and going up to the oven before turning and making my way to the sitting room. Circle the couch, back to the kitchen table, repeat. Every conversation I’d ever imagined having with my birth-father runs through my mind. I mouth my side silently and pause for the imagined responses. Light my next cigarette off the butt of the current one. Keep pacing, keep mumbling, wipe the tears from my eyes as soon as they appear, jump out of my skin when I hear a key turn in the front door lock.
When did it get dark?
No matter. I turn to face the door, force a smile and greet my boyfriend as though it’s any other day.
Martin takes one look at my face and drops his rucksack just inside the door then rushes over, wrapping his arms around me. He lets the door slowly swing shut on its own. ‘Are you okay? What’s wrong?’ he asks.
‘It’s been a hell of a week.’
‘It’s Monday.’
I smile and lead him to the kitchen table. We sit, him on the end and me along the side opposite the wall. One of my knees touches one of his, a third point of contact along with our intertwined hands. That’s good. I need to suck every spare bit of warmth from him, every ounce of comfort, every glimmer of compassion.
‘Got a phone call. Some guy called Donald Wood, says he’s my uncle. My birth father is dead. And there’s a will, apparently I’m getting a house and some other shit.’
Martin’s brow furrows. He tuts quietly and moves his left hand to my cheek. I lean into it.
‘I’m so sorry, Fin. I know you had a lot you wanted to say to him,’ he says. His voice is warm and liquid. His thumb lays at the corner of my lips. I kiss it. I love it when he uses that dumb nickname. Fin, because we met diving.
I exhale slowly. ‘Yeah, well, too late now.’
Martin nods. He half-stands and leans towards me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. He holds me like that, breathes onto my neck and rubs my back with one of his huge hands, gently but with conviction. Eventually he stands up fully and says, ‘So what do you want to do? About the inheritance?’
I shrug. ‘House could be worth a few quid. We should check it out.’
‘We can burn everything inside, if you want.’
I smile. ‘Great idea.’
Martin rises from his chair, steps over to the kitchen counter. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. You lay on the sofa, put your feet up. This is no time for good sitting posture.’
I nod and lurch in Frankenstein-esque fashion towards the two-seater that dominates the lounge, tattered and grey and thick with an excess of padding and a surplus of memories.
I plant myself down and swivel to stretch my legs out on the familiar fabric. For a moment I’m silent and still, then restlessness sets in and I turn my head to look out the window. I see a man in a brown raincoat walk past and glance in at us. He stops at our window, blows onto it and draws a spiral into the condensation before marching off quickly. A shiver runs up my spine and I call for Martin.
He rushes into the room. ‘What’s up?’
‘Some weird guy was at the window.’ I point to the quickly fading mark on our window. ‘He left that.’
Martin shook his head. ‘People, man. Bunch of freaks.’
I nod. There’s a chill in the room so I pull the throw from the back of the sofa and drape it over myself, pull my legs up and hug them to me. Martin sits on the vacated spot beside me and rubs my knee.
‘You’re going to be okay, you know that right? Shit might get a little weird, but I’ll be there. You aren’t alone.’ He speaks slowly, softly.
‘Yeah, of course.’ I smile and nod towards the kitchen as the kettle boils and clicks.