I like weekdays. Weekday mornings, like this one, when it's just us.
Don't get me wrong: I love the kids, love them being here at the weekends, and Steven feels their absence every time they go back to their mother. He's tetchy or he's quiet for a bit – withdrawal, I guess you might call it – but he deals with it, and it doesn't stop him being happy. He adjusts. Me, I appreciate the freedom we're afforded when we're here on our own, even if it's more than my life is worth to say so to him. I appreciate the freedom to stay in bed. I appreciate his freedom not to curb the noises he makes when we're in bed, in case there's a child outside the bedroom door. I appreciate not having to look over my shoulder when I find him in the kitchen, say, going about his day, before I slide my hand down the back of his pants.
Some weekdays I've got meetings or I've got to see in a delivery at work myself to save getting someone else in early, but most days I can sleep in. I need to, with how I don't get home till two, three, four in the morning sometimes, whereas Steven gets to bed when he likes so – even if I've disturbed him for a while when I've come in – he might get up hours before me. But often he comes back to bed.
Days like today.
He's brought me coffee and toast and I've sat up to have it, and he's got back into bed – dropped the dressing gown and slid back under the cover in a grey vest which is mine if I'm not mistaken, and purple boxer briefs. He shares my coffee but he's had breakfast, he says, Ages ago, so I get all the toast to myself. He picks a crumb out of my moustache, as is his habit.
I get comfortable again when I've finished eating; lie down on my side, and he lies facing me.
"See, I'm good to you," he says.
His face is so close to mine that it's out of focus. I move my head back a little so I can see him better, although to be honest he's still a little blurry. He reckons I need my eyes tested: I squint when I'm reading, or so he says. Maybe he's right.
"You are good to me," I say, and then I touch the front of his vest. "'Cept for when you're nicking my clothes, you gouger."
"Looks better on me."
"Looks better off you."
He laughs: "Cheesy line."
"Gimme a break, how much sleep have I had?"
He reaches and kisses me, and his hand stays on my neck, his thumb stroking my beard.
"What's a gouger?"
"A wee robber like you."
"Is it Irish?"
"Yeah, s'pose so."
"You know what? Your... y'know, it ought'a taste like Guinness."
"My what?"
"Your... cum."
"You going red there, Steven?" I touch his ear and he shakes his head. "Adorable."
"Get off. Your cum ought'a taste like Guinness, right, cos you're Irish. Like, the foam on top of the pint – that's what your cum ought'a be like." He grins, pleased with his idea.
"You wouldn't like it though, would you."
"That's true. It's horrible, Guinness."
"Philistine. Yours tastes like... ice cream. Melted."
"No it dun't."
"Yeah it does. Not the fiver-a-tub kind with all the real dairy cream and whatever, though, Steven. More like the stuff you get from a van down the street, y'know, just sugar and air all whipped up, and drips down over your fingers soon as they hand you the cone."
"Shut up, they're alright, them ice creams. I like them anyway."
"So do I."
"Good."
I rest my hand on his waist under the cover, then pull up his (my) vest a little so when I touch his waist again I'm feeling skin. He's warm. The air is warm between us. He touches my chest then takes me by surprise, dips his head and licks my nipple, kisses me there, has a bit of a suck. I stroke up his back, hold the back of his neck where the hairs are razored and bristly when you go against the grain. His fingers are between my thighs.
There's a buzz at the door: apparently there is a world outside these four walls.
"Fuck."
Steven's head comes up and he says, "Who's that?"
"How do I know?" I pull him to me and kiss him, but the buzzer goes again and he's distracted now.
"I better go and see," he says.
"Steven, ignore it. Probably just the postman or something. Come here."
"You expecting anything?"
"No, but – "
Again the buzzer goes off, and he escapes from me and goes out to check the monitor on the intercom. A second later and he's back. He looks panicked.
"Brendan, it's the police there."
"What?" I sit up. "Uniform, yeah?"
"Yeah. What do they want?"
"I dunno, Steven." I get out of bed, grab the nearest pair of jeans and get into them, throw Steven the dressing gown. "I ain't done anything, okay?"
I pat his back to get him moving and we both go to the door. They're still there on the screen, two of them. They're just plods but my heart is hammering.
"What do they want?" Steven says again. "They in't taking you, I'm not letting them, no."
"No one's taking anyone," I say, but the thoughts are crashing through my head: Walker or Michael or Danny Houston, some new forensics, some CCTV turned up, or (best case scenario) my name coughed up by some drugs contact from back in the day. "Ask what they want, good lad."
They buzz again making the both of us jump, then Steven pushes the answer button.
"Hello?" he says.
"Mr Brady?" says one of them, the woman.
"No. What d'you want?"
"We really need to talk to Mr Brady. Can we come in please sir?"
I nod to Steven and he tells them it's the top floor and presses the unlock button. They disappear from the screen as they enter the building.
I go and put socks on and trainers and a hoodie. I feel like I'm moving in slow motion, and I feel sick. There's nothing, though, nothing I've done; if it's something I've done it's something I thought was buried. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
There's a knock on the flat door, and, "Mr Brady?" from outside. I look at Steven. He looks swamped by the dressing gown, it's hanging loose on him and so is my vest; he looks frightened, ready to cry but ready to fight.
"It's okay," I say, "I promise," and I go past him to the door and open up.
"Brendan Brady?" This one's a sergeant, looks like he's not too far off retirement and the stairs have filled his exercise quota for today.
"What can I do for you, officers?"
"Can we come in please, sir?" says the constable. She's very small and very young.
I step aside and they come in, and we all stand in the living room.
"This a social call or..?"
"I'm afraid not," says the girl. "This is Sergeant Lawrence and I'm Constable Howse, we've been asked to call by our colleagues in Liverpool and... Has your wife got hold of you today, Mr Brady? Sorry, your former wife. Only, she's been trying and got no answer."
"What? My... No. No, why? Is it the kids, my boys?" The nature of my fear has switched entirely. "Something happened?"
"Not so far as we know, no, but... have you seen or heard from your son Paddy today?"
"Padraig? No, I ain't spoken to him since..." I don't know when. "Text last week I think, I can't..." I look around for my phone, and Steven goes to see if it's by the bed where I usually put it at night.
"Right, well, he seems to have gone missing this morning from his school trip – "
"What school trip?"
"In Liverpool. And we just wanted to check if he's come here because..." She gets out her notepad and checks it. "Because Eileen gave us your details as someone he knew here."
"Gone missing? Someone taken him?"
"It doesn't look like it at this stage," says the sergeant. "He was with the rest of the group then what seems to have happened is he went back to their... hostel, was it?"
"Youth hostel, where they're staying," the constable says.
"...And picked up his bag. So most likely, he's just off on an adventure and he'll turn up safe and sound in the next hour or two. His phone's switched off but that doesn't mean anything, his mum said he's left his charger at home so he's probably just run out of battery."
Steven's found my phone, not by the bed but still in the pocket of my jacket where I'd slung it over the back of the sofa when I got in.
"You've got four missed calls," he says as he hands it to me. "Maybe Paddy's phoned."
I scroll through: three are from Eileen but one's from an unknown number. I listen to the voicemails. Eileen has left two: Brendan, call me when you get this. Our Paddy's run off, he's in Liverpool, and I don't know if... Has he come to you? Call me, okay? And then there's the unknown number, but it's just the police asking me to get in touch. And then Eileen again, Where are you? They've called the police now cos they can't find him. If you know anything, Brendan, if he's said anything to you...
I hang up without listening to the rest of her message.
The police ask me if I can think of anyone else Padraig knows in England and I tell them it's just us, and then I remember Magdalene, Eileen's friend they stayed with last time they were over; but Eileen's already told them and they've checked her out on their way here. They don't seem to want to hang around – I guess it's not on their patch so it's not their problem – so they give me a number to call if I hear from my son, and they try and reassure us that everything's going to be fine: "We've got no reason to be too worried at this stage," they say, and then they go.
Steven and I stare at each other. I don't know what to do.
"You gonna phone Eileen?" he asks.
"Yeah. Yeah."
She must have her phone in her hand because she answers straight away.
"Brendan? Where were you, I've been trying to – "
"I know, I left my... Any news? Police just came, they – "
"They say anything? Any leads, or..?"
"No, just came looking case I'd got him or something."
"You've not heard from him? Has he said anything, Bren? He's never run away, not before, he's never gone off, only in town to see his mates. Never... Where's he gonna go in Liverpool? He's only been there once when he was wee when we went to see you there that time, but he'd not remember anything from then. Oh, god, what if he's... You've not seen him?"
"I didn't even know he was in England, Eileen. Jesus, I can't get to see him because yis all live in Dublin, and then when he comes here you don't even tell me? What's he even doing here?"
"It's a school trip, he wouldn't have had time for going off meeting people, it's all organised."
"Well he's gone off now, ain't he – see what people he meets now." There's silence her end, then a sob. "Eileen. Eileen, I shouldn'a... Tell me what happened, yeah, far as you know."
"They're in this youth hostel, they're staying there, and they... they all went down for breakfast in the... It's a canteen I think, or... Anyways, they went straight from there to the cathedral for a... It's why they're there, it's the..."
"And what happened?" My eyes are shut. I'm pressing my knuckles against my forehead. I want to do something.
"I'm telling you. They did a head count or something, realised our Paddy was gone. Some of the lads said he'd gone out of the canteen before he'd got his breakfast, said he'd left something in the room and that's the last time anyone saw him. He's taken all his things with him, he's..."
"It's okay. He's a bright lad, ain't he? He's likely just..."
"Just what, Brendan? He's a child, he's on his own in a city he doesn't know." She pauses, and then a whole new idea seizes her. "What if it's one of your..? What if it's like when that nutter got hold of Declan? Oh, god, if it's... If this is down to you, some enemy you've made with your dealing and your god knows what... If something's happened to Padraig because of you, I swear – "
"What? Are you serious?"
"I've gotta go, case someone's trying to get through. You better let me know if you find anything out."
"He's my son too, Eileen, I – "
"Bye, Brendan."
I stand for a moment when the call is ended, and then I throw my phone across the room and it ricochets off the wall and breaks apart.
"Brendan?" Steven says as I grab my keys from the table. "Where you going?"
"Liverpool."
"Liverpool?" He grabs my arm as I head for the door. "What you gonna do when you get there, eh? Drive around till you just happen to see him?"
"Yeah." I shake him off but he grabs me again.
"And no phone with you cos you've smashed it up, so you can't even get no news. No."
"Padraig can't phone me anyways, his battery's dead, they said so didn't they."
"He might'a just turned it off to save the battery for when he wants it, yeah? Alright, look, least let me give you my phone, if your sim card ain't bust." He gets on his knees, gathering the fragments of my phone, then he opens the back of his own phone and replaces his sim with mine and turns it back on, and we wait while it restarts. "What did Eileen say, then?"
"Nothing."
I look at Steven, and he's not the frightened boy in oversized clothes that he was when the police came to the door: he looks like he's got strength to spare, and I realise all the scrabbling about on the floor and the swapping over of the sim cards was just a stalling tactic. He had no intention of letting me drive off to Liverpool, he just wanted to delay me till I cooled down enough to see it was a stupid idea.
"She must'a said something," he says.
"She asked me if it's someone out to get me, like Walker when he took Declan."
"It's not though, Brendan. There's no one, is there, and anyway they said Paddy took his stuff, so it must'a been his idea, not someone, like, snatching him."
Someone snatching him. He's saying it's not going to happen but his words have conjured the possibility into both our heads and we can't look at each other.
The door buzzer rips into the silence.
Steven gets to the monitor as its screen is triggered.
"Police?" I ask.
"No. It's Paddy."
I go and look too, and my son is standing there shifting from one foot to the other. He looks fine.
"Jesus."
"Hiya, Paddy, it's Ste."
"Can you see me?"
"There's a camera," Steven says, and Padraig looks up at it and grins. "Push the door when it makes a noise, alright? We're up all the stairs right at the top." He pushes the unlock button.
"Little bastard," I say.
I pull the flat door open. I'm going to head down the stairs and when I reach my son he won't know what's hit him.
Steven gets in my way, pushes the door closed again.
"What you gonna do?" he says.
"What d'you think I'm gonna do – give him a hiding? That what you think? Cos you'd be right."
"No you're not."
"Get out'a my way, Steven."
"No. You're not gonna do that, Bren, you know you're not."
"Give me one reason."
"Cos if he's gonna run away, right, he's got to know he can run to us."
I feel as if the air has gone from my lungs.
"Yeah. Yeah, that's..."
"Come here." Steven hugs his arms around my neck; I resist for a moment and then I hold on, and he steadies me.
We let go and he opens the door, and we wait until Padraig appears, dragging his rucksack by the strap.
I grab him, hug him tight enough to break his bones.
"Your ma's been worried sick," I tell him. "You don't do that to her, okay? Don't ever do that."
"She only would'a said I couldn't come see you, though, so."
I hold his shoulders.
"What's this all about, son, hm?"
"Dunno. Just got the train," he says, then he shrugs me off and turns to examine the intercom. "How does it switch on?"
"Never mind that." I want to smack him.
"Hadn't you better phone his mum, Bren?" Steven gives me a warning look. "Come on, Paddy, are you hungry? Let's get you something to eat."
He steers Padraig off to the kitchen and, once I've figured out how to use Steven's phone, I call Eileen.
"Any news?" she says.
"He's here. He's fine, he's just shown up."
"Oh, thank god. He's alright? He's come on his own or he's been with someone?"
"Turned up at the door, says he got the train down. Seems fine, Eileen, okay, acting like he does it every day."
"Where's he been though? Why'd he do it?"
"Ain't been anywhere I don't think – there wouldn'a been time, just finding the station and getting on the right train, and finding our place. I don't know why yet, he's only just got here. Steven's fixing him something to eat, then we'll ask the questions."
"Put him on the phone."
"Don't interrogate him though, yeah?"
"Just let me talk to my son please."
I go to the kitchen. Steven's got a pan of beans on the go, and Padraig's standing against the worktop eating a biscuit.
"Your mum wants a word."
Padraig looks worried but I make him take the phone.
"Alright?" he says, and then there's a long pause while Eileen says whatever she says and the kid looks at the floor, and then he says, "Don't want to... Here's Dad back," and he shoves the phone back at me.
"Eileen, you gonna tell the police to call off the search, yeah? He's fine here."
"I'll call them now, and the school. He's not staying with you, though, Brendan, if that's what you're wanting."
"That's not what I..." I go back to the living room. "When's the school trip heading home?"
"Ferry first thing tomorrow, and he'd better be on it."
"No. I can't do that."
"You can't – ? You will, Bren."
"I'll get him back to you myself, okay, in a day or two, but – "
"How d'you propose doing that? You're not allowed out of England all the while you're on probation, or so you say, so how d'you figure you're gonna bring him to Dublin, eh?"
"Steven can take him."
"Steven? Not being funny, Brendan, but they don't just let kids to go through customs with random men."
"He ain't random, Eileen. He's his stepdad, for chrissake." I take a breath, lower my voice. "Look, Padraig ain't going anywhere. Not until I know what he's running from."
"What – you're saying he's run away cos of me?"
"No, course not."
"Michael then? Is that what you think? Oh god, you do, you think it's because of him." She laughs, short and brittle. "The cheek of you – the irony. You think Padraig's better off with his murdering father than he is with us?"
Another breath. I notice there's a mark on the white emulsioned wall where my mobile hit it.
"Ain't saying it's him. Could be the school, could be anything. I just need to hear it from our son."
"I've got a call waiting, I've got to go. I'll come over myself and get him."
Jesus.
"When?"
"I can't just drop everything, can I. It'll have to be tomorrow. I'll call you when I've booked the flights."
"And you'll – ?"
"I'll tell the police and the school. Bye now, Brendan."
"See ya," I say, but the line is already dead.
:::::::
We've got nothing out of him. The two uniforms came back – Steven called them to put them in the picture so as to make sure we didn't look like we were hiding anything – and they didn't get anything out of Padraig either. They went away once they'd checked Eileen was okay with the situation which, to be fair to her, she told them she was.
I was going to call the club and tell them I wouldn't be going in, but Steven reckoned if he had some alone time with him, Padraig might open up. Maybe he's right: Steven's better with kids than I am, he's easy with them; he's himself.
I don't speak to Steven from work because I've got his phone, but I get home relatively early, not long after one. I check the kids' room but the bunks are empty, so I look in the living room and Padraig is bedded down on the sofa. The night light that's usually clamped to Lucas's bunk is plugged in where Padraig would see it if he opened his eyes. This is the first time I'll have slept under the same roof as him since I fucked up and got thrown out of his life six years ago, and when I look at this boy laid out here on the sofa, all I can think is how I've never been the father he needed me to be.
I close the door, go to the bathroom then to our bedroom.
Steven is sitting cross-legged on the bed, respectably pyjamaed, putting vaseline on his lips.
"Chapped," he says by way of explanation. "Too much snogging."
"Too much?"
"Or not enough." He leans across and puts the tin back on his bedside chest. "You're early."
"How's things?"
"Alright. He's on the couch, I offered him a bunk but he said they're for kids."
"Ha. He said anything?" I take off my jacket, sit on the bed and take off my shoes and socks.
Steven scoots across behind me and gives my shoulders a bit of a massage.
"Not much. I mean, loads of chat and that – he must'a kissed that blimey stone, your Paddy – "
"Blarney stone."
"Blarney? Blarney stone. Anyway, it's like, he's fine. I think he's just being naughty."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, mainly."
"Mainly? What's that mean?" I twist my head round to look at him.
"Sit still. You're all knots." His fingers and thumbs dig into my muscles painfully. "There's a few things that's sort'a bothering him, but it's nothing really bad."
"What things?" I close my eyes as his hands work; if it's his way of soothing me as he delivers whatever the news is, it's working so far. The agony is delicious.
"He misses his nan, for one, now that Eileen's decided they're staying in Dublin for good, and he misses his aunties and his cousins an' all cos they're all still in Belfast, in't they."
"So it's permanent now, is it, Dublin? Thought Eileen'd want to move back north eventually, y'know, with her ma not getting any younger. Dunno why Padraig likes it so much in Belfast, mind, I doubt he remembers much of it."
"According to Paddy it's permanent now, yeah."
"What else?"
"I think... I think he feels like he's a bit, like, second best. Your Declan's off with his uni mates most of the time, right, so Paddy reckons whenever he does come home it's like, he gets treated like a celebrity, and it's all our Declan this and our Declan that. Plus, it's all wedding talk, innit. Sounds like she's been making plans for months and months, your Eileen, and Paddy's up to here with what they're wearing and who's coming and all that girly stuff."
"Poor wee bastard."
"I know. He said he's grateful we just done our wedding, like, no arsing about. I was glad when he said that."
"Hard as you like," I say, and he takes me at my word, jabs his thumbs between my shoulder blades. The pain is savage, and the relief when it stops is like an anaesthetic.
"The other thing is... he's got to move out of his bedroom, share with Declan. I mean, Declan's never there cos of uni, so it's gonna be like it's Paddy's room mostly, but..."
"Why's he gotta move rooms?"
Steven squeezes my shoulders, gently now.
"Cos they want his for the baby," he says.
Fuck. I don't know why this has taken the wind out of me, but it has.
"She's having a baby?"
"Yeah. Not yet, like, not for ages. Christmas he said, but... yeah. You okay?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Cos it's weird. I mean, I know I'd feel funny if Amy got pregnant, even though it's nothing to do with me and I don't even fancy her and I'm with you, aren't I, and I've never been as happy as I am right this minute. I'd still feel funny, I know I would. So I understand if it's a bit..."
"Good luck to them." I stand up. "Like you say, nothing to do with me, except if it's putting my lad out."
"He'll get used to it – he'll probably like it when he's a big brother, won't he. He's alright, Bren, I'm sure he is. He just wanted a bit of attention."
That's what it comes down to: it comes down to me.
I take off my watch and unbutton my shirt.
"Eileen phoned back," I say. "She's gonna get here twelve or so tomorrow. Didn't want me to meet her at the airport, getting a cab down. Then they're going back at six or something."
"Oh well, at least you'll have a bit of time with him in the morning before she gets here."
He's still kneeling on the bed, and he reaches for my wrist to bring me closer to him, and then for my face to make me lean down to kiss him.
"I better get some sleep, " I tell him, "Else I won't wake up in time, will I."
I touch his cheek then turn away.
"Brendan, don't." He gets my wrist again, brings me back around and looks at me. He wants me to kiss him. I want to kiss him, but I don't.
He strips off his top over his head.
"Steven." I resist when he tries to bring my hand to his waist. "We can't. Padraig's here, ain't he."
"Lock the door, then."
"What if he gets up, hears something? No."
"Lock the door. I can be quiet." For a second the worry on his face is replaced by a flicker of a smile that reminds me why my heart keeps beating. "I can. Lock the door."
"Okay."
There's a line in between his eyebrows and I smooth it away with my thumb, and then I go and turn the key in the lock.
When I turn back he's sitting on the bed taking off his pyjama bottoms and his boxers. He stands up when I go to him, and we kiss. He holds on to the front of my unbuttoned shirt, and his kisses feel urgent like he's trying to hold on to me with them too. He moves a hand down and tries to undo my belt; I stop him, and when I look at his face I see he's worried.
"It's not your fault," he says.
"Isn't it?" That runaway boy asleep in the next room is there to remind me how I've let him down all his life.
"No."
I've got the urge in me to push him away, my default setting when the insecurity bites, and I can't keep doing it, can't keep testing him because I'll wear him out with it. That line is there again, that frown line, and again I rub it away, and then he sits down, falls onto his back, his thighs spread and bent up at the hip joints, his hands holding the backs of his legs. He's erect, and he looks at me through his knees.
This boy laid bare in front of me is something else. He shows me, with his soft-tongued kisses and his body offered to me like a gift, that he believes I'm the man he needs me to be.
I slide onto my knees on the floor and take his cock in my hand and run my tongue up and over its tip, and I watch his face as I suck him. His noises start straight away and I break off to say Shush, and he shuts his mouth so his Ahs become Mmms.
I drop his cock and push his thighs back with my palms, spread the cheeks of his arse with my thumbs. I get my tongue inside, bury my face in him. His moans sound strangled with the effort of keeping them quiet. I lick up from his hole and over his balls and feel them with my tongue, distinct in their soft sack. He pushes my shirt off my shoulder with his foot, and I sit back on my heels to take it off then sit up on the bed beside him, feed my fingers into his mouth to wet them then hoist his leg out of my way and push my middle finger inside him, curl it and turn it. He throws an arm across his face, gasps into the crook of his elbow. I try another finger and he grabs clumsily at his dick as if he's not exactly sure where to find it.
My cock is straining inside my pants. I stand up and get out of my clothes, and he sits up as soon as I've done it, presses my erection against me with the palm of his hand and kisses my stomach next to it. I pull him to his feet and kiss him; finger him again, catching his yelp in my mouth. He turns his back to me, kneels on the bed with his feet hanging over the edge. Falls forward onto his arms. I get behind him, lube him outside and in. Stroke his buttock and give it a slap. He turns his head and I lean over the curve of his spine and kiss his mouth.
I straighten up and enter him, bend my knees to get the angle right and rock into him. He fucks himself, jolting back to meet my thrusts so my balls smack against his. He bunches the duvet in his arms and smothers his cries in it, and we keep going. When he starts flagging I lift him by the hips and push in deep.
I step back, slip out of him.
"Turn over now, yeah?"
He turns onto his back and shuffles to the middle of the bed and I kneel between his legs. He sits up, squats so he straddles my lap, twines his arms around my shoulders and kisses my neck, open-mouthed.
I whisper to him, "Say it, Steven."
"Fuck me," he says, but that's not what I meant.
I kiss his mouth and then I scrape my beard across his cheek and I say into his ear, "D'you love me?"
"Yeah."
"Tell me. Say it."
"I love you."
He gets me inside him again, and then he lies back and I look down at my cock curving into him, his ring stretched and the skin around it pink from the scratch of my beard. I lean forward over him, and he works himself up with his hand until his cum spits up at me and drips down on him. I kiss him, shift my position and go fast and hard; stop to cover his mouth with my hand because he's forgetting to be quiet. Watch him as I finish, his nostrils flared, his pupils blown. Hear him gasp when I take my hand away. Tell him I love him. Lie on him kissing his neck, his throat; his sweat tastes how his body lotion smells, of mandarin and lime. He's got one hand in my hair, the other on my back, stroking.
We get under the cover and I feel the slow rhythm of his breaths against my shoulder as we fall asleep, just him and me inside these four walls.