Chapter 6

Aunt Lucy is marshalling an early tea when I return, vegetables—carrots, cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage—laid out in neat regiments behind a chopping board. She doesn't ask where I've been; she thinks she knows. She doesn't know the half of it.

A sliver of glorious evening sunshine from a living room window slices her kitchen. I feel it, sharp on my back, as my bag slides off my shoulder and I straddle a stool at her counter. I still feel shocked cold.

'I don't remember the house.'

Lucy stops attacking carrots with a peeler, and pierces me with her glance. 'Why would you? You weren't more than a year old.'

I know she's right, but the visit hadn't turned out how I imagined. I poke at an apple in her fruit bowl, rolling it against the round curve of the smooth glass. 'You'd think I'd remember something …'

'I'd say not remembering was a blessing, wouldn't you?'

'Maybe—maybe I hoped seeing it would release trapped memories. I don't know.'

Lucy scrunches her face; she can probably smell the alcohol on my breath. 'God, Fred. Why would you want them?'

She's right. What kind of sad sob is jealous of the memories which hurt his family most? What Mum went through—what Tom suffered—let's not romanticise. They have a closeness forged in a cauldron that I was spared. It doesn't mean I've missed out on anything, even though I struggle to accept this.

I reach across and nab a carrot stick. 'Are you going to tell her?'

She play swats my hand. 'That you've been here? I already told you. If she asks.'

'What about my plans?'

She shrugs, picking up a knife. 'Depends. Let's see what happens first.'

My teeth test the firmness of the carrot stick before sinking in for the crunch. When that one's gone, I dare to grab another, keeping my gaze fixed on her as though we are locked in a kitchen-themed battle of stealing sticks. 'I met someone today. I'm meeting up with him for a drink tomorrow night.'

'That's nice.' Lucy's strategy is to feign nonchalance; she scoops up the carrots and plops them in a pot. Then she's onto the cabbage, lining the knife against the core. With thoughtless efficiency she excises the heart.

I don't take my eyes off her. 'Jamie Latimer.'

The knife clatters onto the bench.

'How can you be so stupid, Fred?'

Okay. So there's no mistaking Aunt Lucy's thoughts on the matter. She talks it out of her system, listing the unnumerable ways I'm an idiot.

We're finishing dinner—the meat's as tough as boots—victim of my aunt's dismay. My fault, I suppose.

Jamie Latimer.

How did this happen?

Fate chucked a large icy bucket of water on me—that's how it happened. I remember getting in his van—he offered to drop me off in town—and having a flirty, bantering conversation the short ride back. I was too stunned to think clearly. I gave an evasive introduction and explanation for my visit to Broadchurch. He was heading off on a callout and suggested meeting up for a drink after work.

My deer-in-the-headlights response slipped out in panic. 'Yeah—sorry mate, got something on—'

As I was about to slam the door, he leaned across and flicked me a card. 'Hey, Just Fred, if you change your mind—'

The van drove off and I was left staring at his card. I checked in at the hostel, then found the nearest pub and spent the afternoon downing pints of bitter, wondering what the heck I was doing here. I waited a full ten minutes staring at the message I'd typed before hitting send on my phone.'Tomorrow? ;)'

Aunt Lucy isn't giving up; she's still hacking away at her chop. I consider begging for mercy on its behalf.

'When he finds out who you are, when his parents find out—you know they're still here, right? God. This is gonna be a bloody mess. I ought to ring your Mum now—for fuck's sake—you're twenty-six. You should know better—'

When she starts repeating herself, I know she's battle-weary.

There's still enough ammo stored for a final shot. 'I can't believe this is you, Fred. You know what this could do to your mother, right?'

'Fuck, give her some credit, would you!'

Lucy looks me, eyes wide, mouth open.

Sometimes I think people—those who know the sordid truth—tread too softly around Mum. It doesn't come from a bad place—they want to protect her—but it's patronizing. Everyone says how strong she is—why don't they treat her as if she is?

True, I know Mum's not going to be happy about my trip to Broadchurch. But I'm not not telling her because I think she can't handle it.

'Mum? She'll understand—she'll get it.' I say it with conviction, although I know I'm on shaky ground.

Lucy's shoulders sag and she pushes her plate away, finally admitting defeat. 'Why even think about it? Why even go there? How is it worth the trouble?'

I smile. 'Well, he is kind of cute.'

Lucy narrows her eyes; my attempt at humour is not welcome. 'Can you be serious about this? Your father murdered—strangled—his brother, Fred. He—they … It—it's inappropriate!'

I stare coldly at her. 'How exactly is it inappropriate?'

She swallows but she doesn't back down. 'You know it is, Fred.'

'For fuck's sake, Luce.' I catch myself just before my fist smacks the table. 'He's twenty-three. He's not some kid. Neither am I.'

When I look up, fighting the stinging in my eyes, I see Lucy cringing. Fear or shame? I look down at my clenched hand and let it relax.

'Fred, I'm sorry.' She sounds sad.

My hand shakes; I watch it, noting the tapering length on my fingers—long and finely shaped like my mother's. Like Mum's.

Not Dad's.

'I am being serious, Aunt Luce.' It's the truth. 'I'll make a deal with you. Let me see those boxes tonight. I'll tell Jamie who I am. If he wants me to leave—I'll go, I promise.'

'Just like that?' She doesn't believe me.

'Yes. Just like that. I'm not a complete idiot.'

'You tell me that when I pick you up from A&E. You realise you're not playing a game, don't you? You'll be lucky if you don't get your head kicked in for this.'

'Guess I'm prepared to take that chance.'

'What about your plans? Your documentary?'

The one you never believed in? It would be rich of me to have a go at Aunt Lucy considering how quickly I'm considering dropping my plans. But honestly? The documentary was probably a bit a self-deception. An excuse to legitimize coming here. Jesus, I'm flaky.

'I'll find some other way to do it.'

The chair scrapes on the floor when she pushes back. 'Okay,' she says in suspicious capitulation.

'Look—' I reach out to her. 'If Jamie Latimer can't cope with me being in Broadchurch, it'll answer my real question.'

'Which is?'

'You know.'

Lucy stands, shaking her head. 'Help me clear the table. I'll have a look once the dishes are done.'