The Good Son (24 page)

“And somewhere it all went tits up,” said Daniel. “I didn't become somebody. At least not like I wanted. I
became a criminal, a fuck-up. Told myself I was happy. Even believed it, too. Except that… when you wrote and told me about mum, it was like I could feel her dying. Like a part of her had been inside me and I knew when she was dead, because it crumbled to dust and blew away on the wind. I was empty inside.”

He shook his head, blinked away tears. “I know I sound like a poof, but it's true, every fuckin' word. We all have to come home one day, right? I thought I'd missed my day and I could never come home again. Felt like a fuckin' failure. The things I've seen, the things I've done and what was it that finally fucked me up? Ink on paper. My mother, who I barely even remembered and it was still like some bastard stuck a knife in my guts and twisted.”

He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening with the pressure. “Nearly two fuckin' years it ate at me, and I thought I could ignore it. Because that's what hard bastards do, yeah? They ignore things like that. They're men. Real men, like Lee Marvin, John fuckin' Wayne. Ray Winstone. He's fuckin' right there, he's the daddy. Because that's what it takes. Emotions, all that shit, it's what gets in the way. Never get attached to nothing except the money and the respect. Fight to keep every inch of both of them. For two years this shit ate at my insides. Chewed at my gut. Made me think of the fuckin' cancer that killed our mum. I couldn't take it no more, picked up the blower. Called Dad. You sent me the number when he moved house. Hoping I'd call him, right? And I did. I had to. Tell him I was sorry our mum was dead and say I would cry for her, but I wouldn't give a shit when he died. It was fuckin' stupid, like I'd regressed. Should have left the cunt behind a long time ago. Thought I had, too, until I heard his voice
on the other end of the line. A fuckin' empty shell. He'd been the bogey man for so many years, yeah? Everything that made me frightened and ashamed and suddenly he was such a disappointment.”

“You called him?”

“Yeah.” Daniel couldn't meet his brother's eyes, knew what the other man had realised and couldn't deny the truth.

“That was the night he killed himself, wasn't it?”

“I didn't mean for him to…”

“He didn't leave a note. We never knew what was going on his head. He left everyone to guess what had happened. Making me feel like the one who did something wrong. I hadn't been the good son after all because he wasn't able to open up to me, to tell me…” Robertson stopped talking, his stomach churning. His fist lashed out instinctively. Daniel staggered backwards, clutching at his face. His eyes were wide with shock.

Robertson remembered who his brother was and his anger became fear. He stepped back, shrinking into himself. For protection.

Daniel Robertson simply stood there. “Everything I am,” he said, “it's all been about running away from him. From myself.”

“So you came back to offer me this money, to make amends?”

Daniel nodded. He looked at the money. “It's yours if you want it,” he said. “It can't make up for what I've done, but… It's not just that. I came back because I realised that I had to take responsibility sometime.”

Except Robertson could see something else in his brother's eyes. “For all you've done,” he said, the viciousness in his voice surprising him, “you might
as well just kill yourself.”

Daniel pushed aside his jacket, took the knife from his waistband. A big blade, serrated edge. Wood-effect handle. The same weapon Robertson would finally bring with him to the graveyard. The one he would use to attack Liman and Ayer.

Robertson said, “Are you going to kill me?” His chest ached, like his heart had just stopped.

Daniel held out the knife, gripping the blade between his thumb and forefinger. “No,” he said.

Robertson almost burst out laughing when he realised what his brother was asking.

“If you don't kill me, I'm dead. You don't just walk out on a life like mine. They won't let you do it. The kind of sadistic bastards who work for Mister Egg.”

“Bastards like you?”

Daniel looked shaken by the accusation.

Robertson turned away from the offered blade. “No,” he said. “If you have to do it, you're going to do it yourself. But you're going to understand, Daniel, why our father was disappointed in you. You're going to understand why he took his own life. The shame he felt because of you.”

Robertson told me the story slowly. As he spoke, his stance became less confrontational. His shoulders dropped. His legs buckled. His skin paled. I thought he was ready to pass out.

I said, “He went with you, just like that?”

“We were still brothers,” he said. “And I think despite everything, underneath all of that London hard man shite, he knew he'd done wrong.”

I'd only known Daniel Robertson as nothing more
than some abstract personality built from second hand stories and official reports. But I believed every word his brother told me. There was a haunted, melancholy sincerity to Robertson's voice that no man could fake. If nothing else, Robertson believed utterly in what he was telling me.

Robertson made his brother drive. Barely a word passed between them except when Robertson gave directions.

Finally they came to a small kirk, hidden on a hillside behind a curtain of trees. Cold and alone, the stone building sat hidden in the shadows as though ashamed of itself.

It appeared alien in the dark. Their memories were of a warm and welcoming building bathed in the sunshine of childhood Sundays. It should have evoked thoughts of love, family and stability. And instead it reached into their hearts and squeezed hard.

When he had grown up, and formed his own family, Robertson found religion again. Making sure his wife and son attended church every week even though they were hardly enthusiastic, and he himself had stopped truly believing long ago. It wasn't belief that mattered, but the ritual. What church represented was a family life lost long ago.

They parked outside. Sat in the car, looking at the building before them and recalling a childhood together that seemed so dim and distant it was hard to think of it as any kind of solid reality.

“I'm glad he's not around,” said Daniel, finally, speaking about their father. “To see me like this.”

His voice was quiet, the Scots accent harder, as
though just being here had brought back something of who he used to be.

“You understand, then?”

“I think so.”

“I could kill you,” he said. “I should kill you. My own brother.” Trying not to cry. But he was ashamed of the man Daniel had become. And he knew Daniel was ashamed, too.

“But you won't,” said Daniel.

Robertson shook his head.

Tears leaked from the corners of Daniel's eyes. The moonlight reflected in the liquid streaks. Robertson thought his brother had never grown up at all. He saw Daniel still as the teenager unable to communicate with his family and unable to give expression to anything but rage and frustration.

Robertson looked to the blasted tree. Shuddered as the anger and the guilt welled up inside him. He hadn't killed his brother. At least, he hadn't acted in any physical sense. But he had been complicit in the man's death.

What kind of a person could watch their own brother die, no matter the kind of judgements they had made on him?

He turned back to me. “I'm the same,” he said. “A killer. A murderer. If I'd left instead of him, nothing would have changed. Except he'd be the one standing here.” He spoke slowly. His voice was hollow and his eyes were wide with revelation.

I took a step forward.

“No,” I said. “We all make choices and…”

I understood the difference between us, then. He
was ruled absolutely by what he had done. There was no choice for James Robertson. Like he said, if he and Daniel had swapped places, nothing would have changed except the name of the man in front of me.

I had chosen to be ruled by my anger. Because it was easier. Because it was there and urgent and important and…

Because I'd always thought of Elaine as the calming influence in my life. And without her, I'd convinced myself that it was easier to give in to the anger and frustration and guilt than to actually carry on living.

What does an investigator do? He involves himself in other people's affairs. Slips into their lives and loses himself in them. Becomes obsessed with the case and when it is done he is nothing. This is why each client is important.

Even the ones like Robertson.

He had watched his brother climb the tree. In his mind he saw Daniel as a young boy, climbing in sunlight, laughing at some childhood joke that would fade with the onset of adulthood. He tried to tell himself that this was how he would remember Daniel. The revelations of who that boy had become would fade with time and soon all Robertson would be left with would be memories of laughter and a time when the sun shone every day.

It was a lie, and even then he knew it.

At church, when they were young, the minister had talked about character and strength and responsibility. This was something that had been instilled in James Robertson. Maybe he was predisposed to
accept it. He would never know. He wasn't sure that he'd ever care to know, either. It wouldn't help him to understand why his brother had never taken the same lessons on board.

Daniel said, “I'm sorry,” the soft words carried by the evening breeze.

There was no crack.

Daniel's neck should have snapped. Robertson had been expecting it. But the sound never came. When Robertson opened his eyes, he saw his brother twisting in the breeze. Daniel's legs kicked out, searching for a purchase they would never find. His hands reached up to grab the noose, tried to loosen its grip around his neck.

Robertson fell to his knees and closed his eyes so tight he thought blood would squeeze from between the lids. His brother made guttural, primal noises.

After what felt like hours, there was silence. Robertson couldn't say how long it really was. Could have been fifteen seconds. Could have been as many minutes.