Padraig must have worn himself out with his stunt yesterday, because Steven and I have both got up and showered and dressed, and all the while he's stayed fast asleep on the sofa.
We're holed up in the kitchen, talking quietly. I've got my ears open for in case the living room door opens.
"You never had your tea when you got in," Steven says. He gets the plate out of the microwave where he'd left it for me last night and puts it in the fridge.
"Forgot."
"Worrying about Paddy."
"Yeah." I drink my coffee. "You took my mind off it though."
He smiles at me.
"Did me best."
"Didn't you just."
"What d'you think your Eileen's gonna be like when she gets here? She gonna give him a bollocking?"
"Dunno. She'll give me a bollocking, obviously."
"Obviously. I was thinking I'll do a fry-up when Paddy gets up, but d'you want some toast to keep you going?"
"Toast, yeah." I get out a couple of slices of bread and put them in the toaster. "I wouldn'a belted him, Steven, by the way. If you hadn'a stopped me, I would'a stopped myself. Ain't ever hit my kids, not once, it's... I would'a yelled at him though, probably say a load'a things I'd end up regretting."
"Like with Declan."
"Yeah." I feel hot with shame when I remember some of the things I said to Declan back in the day, sending him away like I did: I never hit him, but what I said to him will always throw a shadow. "You stopped me from doing that with Padraig. So thank you."
He acknowledges what I've said by his hand staying on my elbow a second longer than it needs to when he moves me out of the way of the fridge. I watch him rummaging around for bacon, sausages, whatever. He hasn't done his hair today, just combed it back with his fingers and let it dry like that after the shower; it looks soft.
"You'll have to get yourself a new phone," he says, "So I can have mine back."
"You can have yours back. I can make do without it now Padraig's here, till I get one. You need yours."
The toast is done. I butter it, give a piece to Steven.
"Ta. Did I tell you he fixed yours? Well, sort of," he says. "After you went to work, he saw all the bits of it on the table and he sat there, like, putting it back together."
"It work?"
"Don't know. It's got cracks in it, so you're still gonna have to get one, but you might be able to, you know, at least save your photos."
"Yeah?"
"Hopefully anyway. I know you never hardly take photos, but, you know."
"Pose for new ones, couldn't you?"
He smiles.
"Not the same though, would it be. Them ones from our honeymoon."
"Among others."
"Shush."
He nods towards the door. I look, and see Padraig emerging from the living room, tired-eyed. My son is at that stage a lad goes through growing up, when you can't tell from one moment to the next if you're dealing with a boy or a man, and he can't tell either; he's neither and he's both.
"Alright?" I say. "Sleep okay, did you?"
"What's going on?"
"'What's going on?'" I say.
"Breakfast," says Steven. "Ready by the time you've had your shower, go on. You got everything you need? Clean clothes and that?"
"In my bag, yeah, sorted. Mum not here yet, no?"
"Getting here at twelve," I tell him.
"She gonna be... y'know, mad at me?"
"What do you think?"
"She's gonna be glad to see you, in't she," Steven says. "If she's cross it's only cos you gave her a fright running off."
That seems to make sense to him, and he disappears off to the bathroom, and I'm left wondering how come Steven wound up knowing how to say the things a dad ought to say – how come he's got so good at being a dad that he's easier with Padraig than I am by miles, even though he's only ever met him a handful of times? It's not like he had a father to model himself on, any more than I did.
I think it's his heart: it's bigger than mine, and more porous.
:::::::
He's got all the chat, Padraig does. Gives Steven a run for his money with it, the pair of them gassing away, elbows on the table, gesturing with their knives and forks as they talk. It's good to hear him, anyhow, all about school and his mates and so on, in between working his way through the breakfast Steven's cooked up for him. I'm listening out for anything he might say that would throw a light on why he ran away from his school trip, but there's nothing, nothing to be read between the lines about any of the teachers, nothing that hints at being bullied or ganged up on or left out by the other kids.
"School's alright then, son, yeah?"
"Boring sometimes. Too easy."
"See," I say to Steven, "He's got my brains."
"Modest with it though, eh?" Steven says, and Padraig laughs. "Give us your plates. I'll go and do the washing up, let you two catch up."
"You've got a dishwasher though, so," says Padraig.
"Got things to do, in't I. No," he says when my son gets up to follow him, "You stay and talk to your dad."
Steven goes out and shuts the door behind him.
I swear Padraig is different now that it's just the two of us. There's a tension in him, and he makes even less eye contact with me than he was doing before.
"Come and sit down." I leave the table and go over to the sofa, and he follows after a moment. "So, your mum's having a baby, then, is she? You'll like being a big brother, I bet."
"That's what Ste said."
"Be able to boss them around, won't you, hm? Take care of them as well, it's..."
"I fixed your phone. Won't be much good, but Ste said you've got photos on it you've not backed up."
"Thank you."
"How'd it get smashed up?"
"Dunno. Must'a dropped it, or something."
"That's what Ste said. Want me to get the photos off it for you?"
"No, I'll do it later."
"You don't know how though. Ste said you don't know anything about technology."
"He did, did he?"
"I can do it for you." He stands up.
"Sit down. We'll do it later. I wanna talk to you." I wait for him to sit. "Listen, son, I wanna... I want you to know, you can talk to me, okay? I know we... I know I ain't hardly seen you, with... with prison, and living in another country, and... But it don't mean I don't care about you, okay? Because I do care. I... You can tell me, anything that's bothering you, anything at school, at home... You tell me about it and I'll sort it, I promise. You hear me?"
"Yeah."
"Steven says things at home are... weird, are they? With the wedding coming up and the baby on the way. That right?"
He shrugs: "S'pose so."
"And that's why you did a runner yesterday?"
"It was only for, like, one day."
"Your ma didn't know that, though, did she? She was thinking all kinds. You can't go disappearing, Padraig, it don't get you anywhere."
"Dec did."
"What?"
"Dec ran away, didn't he. Ran to England, not just once, but, like – "
"And he got into all kinds of trouble, didn't he."
"He was alright when he got home, though. He got, you know..."
"Got what?"
"Got treated sort'a special. Presents, and whatever he wanted for dinner for, like, months and months."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. Mum felt guilty, didn't she, so."
"Why she feel guilty?"
He puts on a voice, his mother's accent: "Oh, poor wee Deccy, likes his deadbeat daddy better than he likes me. What kind of a mother am I?"
"So you thought you'd try for yourself, did you, see if you can get some attention?"
"Dunno."
"Look, listen, let me tell you something man to man, okay?"
"Okay."
"Women, see, when they got a baby on the way, all's they can think about is making things right for it. That's what it's all about, if it seems like she's not got so much time for you right now. But all the plans she's making, you're in them, I guarantee it. The baby, the wedding, it's all for making a family for all of you."
"But it's like, it's all their family now. It's gonna be Mum and Michael and the baby, and Nan and Granddad Donovan, and all them, cos now we're not going back to Belfast, are we."
"Miss your nana, do you?" I remember how we could never tear him away from Eileen's mother in the times we lived in the North. "You'll still go for visits, son, or she'll come and see you. Same as your auntie Cheryl."
"You won't, though. Cos of your probation."
"It ain't for ever, Padraig. And d'you know what? Me and Steven, we been thinking maybe when I'm free to go in a couple of years – less – we'll get ourselves a place in Dublin, move over there. Ain't definite yet cos of... Anyways, so you'd have reinforcements then, yeah? See the Bradys give the Donovans a run for their money."
"That's what Ste said. A couple of years is long, though."
"Depends, don't it. It's gonna fly by for you, you'll be up to your eyes in your exams and your..." What is it he does? "Your music thing, and your girlfriends... Likely when it happens, you'll be too busy to see your old man after all, hm?"
He laughs.
"Mum won't like it."
"Ain't up to your mum."
:::::::
"That'll be your mum," Steven says when the buzzer goes.
"Is she on CCTV?" Padraig asks, and he gets up from where he's sat on the floor playing on Steven's Xbox – he'd wanted to escape from the father/son chat almost as fast as me – and goes to look at the intercom by the door.
"D'you wanna talk on it, let her in?" Steven asks him.
Padraig looks at his mother on the screen for a second then shakes his head and goes and slumps onto the sofa, looking like a condemned man.
"Come on up," I say over the intercom. "Top floor."
I open the flat door and wait for her to get up the stairs.
"Where is he?" is her greeting.
She looks tired, and as if she's been crying. Experience tells me that her fuse is short when she's like that.
"Go easy, Eileen."
I stand back and she walks through to where Padraig's sitting.
"Come here, you," she says, and when he stands up she goes and hugs him. "You gave me the fright of my life, Paddy, you know that?"
"Sorry," he says.
He's taller than her now.
"I'll put the kettle on, then," I say, and Steven and I leave them to it and retreat to the kitchen.
"She never even said hello to me," he says.
"Sorry, Steven. She shouldn't be like she is with you. She's... I think she's, you know, stressed about Padraig."
"And what about all the other times?"
"I'll have a word."
"Right, d'you know what, it don't matter. Let's just get through the day."
"It matters to me."
I kick the door closed and get him around the waist, pull him into my arms, and we hold on to each other. It's just for a second, and I don't know if it helps him but it helps me.
When we go back in the living room, Eileen and Padraig are both sitting down and it seems like they've cleared the air.
"We'll be getting off now," she says.
"Thought your flight was at six?" I say. "That's what you said on the phone."
"It is, aye. Want to get this one something to eat though, maybe call round Maggie's if she's in. Thanks for looking after him."
"When do I ever get to see him, Eileen, hm? Come on, give us this afternoon, please."
"I was gonna do some food," Steven says. "You'll stay, won't you?"
"Junk food makes him hyper," says Eileen.
"Junk food?" Steven says, and his eyes spark with anger.
"He's a chef," I tell her.
"Thought he was a barman," she says, and she looks at him like he offends her eye. "My mistake."
"Bit of respect, Eileen. You got no argument with Steven." I wait for her to say something. "You hear me?"
Padraig is looking at her too, and she must decide this is not an argument worth pursuing because she says, "I'm sorry, Ste. I didn't mean to sound rude," and then asks our son, "You want to stay here for a wee while?"
"Yeah," Padraig says.
"Right," she says, and then to Steven, "That'd be nice. Thank you."
:::::::
I won't say we're one big happy family, but we get along without throwing too many insults right until the end of lunch. I think the three of us – Steven, me and Eileen – are wanting to keep things on a level in front of Padraig.
As soon as we've finished eating, Padraig goes back to the Xbox but his mother's got other ideas.
"Put that down, Paddy."
"I was playing it before. Ste said I could."
"You're not playing anything, not till I say so. Not after the trouble you've caused."
"Leave him be," I say. "He knows he's done wrong, he's not gonna do it again, are you, son?"
"No."
Eileen glares at me then turns back to Padraig.
"Are you not listening to me? Leave that thing right this minute. And you," she says to me, "You always were too soft on them, left me to be the bad guy."
"Ain't what Padraig says. Says you spoilt Declan after he ran away over here."
"Which time's that? The times he came home broken-hearted and I had to pick up the pieces? Or the time he almost died of an overdose?"
Her words feel like a slap, and I guess I asked for it but it's put me on the defensive.
"A minute ago I was too soft. Now I'm breaking their hearts? Which is it, hm?"
Eileen glances at Padraig; he's started up with his game again so he's not listening to us, but still she gets me by the sleeve and steers me out of the room and into the kitchen. I let her.
"You've not got a clue, have you?" she says. "It's two sides of the same coin, Brendan. If you're not running away you're pushing them away."
"He's a good dad," Steven says.
I didn't realise he'd followed us.
"You think so?" says Eileen. "You've got to be there to be a good dad, not waltz off doing god knows what. Michael's more of a dad to them than he's ever been."
She's stung me and I retaliate, spitting my words into her face: "Who'd Padraig run to, Eileen, hm? Ran to me, didn't he, not you and Saint Michael."
"Are you blaming me for him going missing? Cos if we're trading off on who's the unfit parent, you're not gonna win, Brendan, not when you've murdered your own father."
"I didn't."
Fuck. They're both staring at me, Steven like he's calculating the possible repercussions of Eileen finding this out, and Eileen like she can't wait to hear what excuse I've come up with.
"Miscarriage of justice, was it?" she says.
"I... It was manslaughter. Wasn't murder."
"Sorry," Eileen says, "I should'a said killed. It's still sick."
"Yeah he was," Steven says, and it's like I can see the nerves beneath his skin. "He was sick, weren't he, you hard-faced cow. He had that PTSD."
"Steven!"
"Are you gonna let him talk to me like that, Brendan?" Eileen says. "'Bit of respect', you said to me. That's a joke."
"What d'you mean, is he gonna let me?" says Steven. "I can say what I like."
"You shouldn'a said that, Steven," I say, and I'm not talking about what he's called Eileen. There's sweat between my shoulder blades, and what I'm talking about is, he shouldn't have mentioned the PTSD.
"What 'PTSD' anyway?" Eileen says as if she's read my mind.
"Post-traumatic stress disorder," says Padraig, and we all turn and see him stood in the doorway. "Why you all arguing?"
"I know what it means," Eileen says. "I'm asking why this one's saying your dad's had it."
I make eye contact with her, shake my head, willing her not to pursue this. She opens her mouth to say something then shuts it again: I guess she gets that this is not a conversation to be had in front of our son; I doubt she gets that it's not a conversation to be had at all.
Steven steps in, says to Padraig, "Nobody's arguing about you, alright? Everyone's just got, like, stressed, that's all. D'you wanna go out, mate? Yeah, come out with me, I'll show you around, and your mum and dad can have a chat."
"Is that a good idea?" Eileen says. "I don't want him getting ideas in his head."
"What ideas?" Steven says. "D'you think I'm gonna – ?"
"About running off again."
"He ain't running off again," I say. "Are you, son?"
"No."
"Come on then," says Steven. "Get your shoes on."
"And for god's sake tidy yourself up," Eileen says to Padraig. "You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards. You got a comb with you?"
"It's in my bag."
"Been in your bag since you left Dublin, by the state of you. Come on."
She hustles Padraig off to sort him out. Me and Steven are left in the kitchen.
"Brendan, I – "
"You shouldn'a said that, Steven."
"I know, it just came out. But she dropped it, didn't she, so – "
"She ain't dropped it. It's in her head now, ain't it."
"Maybe it's better if she knows. Cos if she knows why you're... why you was like you was, she'll understand then, won't she, and she won't be so funny about you seeing your kids."
"That why you said it? So she'll find out what my dad did?"
"No. I told you, it just came out."
"You can't just... It ain't your secret to tell, okay?"
There's something there – a flicker in his glance, a hesitation – and I think, has he told someone about what Seamus did to me? And then he says, "I know, and I wouldn't."
"We going, Ste?" says Padraig from outside the kitchen door.
"Yeah."
Steven brushes past me and goes and gets his keys and whatever.
Eileen says to them at the door, "Just half an hour, mind."
"See you in a bit," Steven says to me. "Love you."
I hear my ex-wife hiss out a breath between her teeth and when Steven moves to give me a kiss on the cheek I flinch away from him. It hurts him, and my mumbled Me too is no compensation, but I don't care. He shouldn't have mentioned the PTSD: it's a door I don't want opened.
When they've gone, Eileen goes and sits down on the sofa and shuts her eyes.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Fine."
"Okay."
I sit.
"Nice place," she says after a while, and she opens her eyes and surveys the room. "Bit poky, mind. One bedroom, is it?"
"Two. It's big enough while the kids are young enough to share. They're here weekends, so." I think she's going to make some remark about his kids versus my kids, but she doesn't, and I say, "Padraig's upset about his bedroom, Eileen. Says he's gotta move out of it for the baby."
"He told you, then."
"Congratulations."
"We've only said he's to move into Declan's room. Declan's never even home so it's not as if they'll be sharing much."
"Feels like he's being pushed out though, don't he. Thinks you and Michael are all about the baby now."
"So I'm neglecting my own son, am I? That's rich coming from you."
I take a breath.
"I ain't saying that. I don't think that. I know you love the bones of him, sweetheart, okay? I'm just telling you what he said – just asking if you can do something about it."
"Could leave things as they are for a while, I suppose, have the baby in with us for a few weeks when she comes. She's not due till December anyways."
"'She'?"
She smiles for the first time, and she looks like the pretty teenage girl I decided in the last century I ought to be fancying.
"We don't know yet. Just a feeling."
"Boys'd like that, I bet, having a baby sister."
"I hope so." Eileen nods towards the windows. "They open, do they? That a balcony there?"
"Yeah."
"Go on then."
I go over and pull up the blind, open the glass doors wide. Eileen steps out onto the balcony. She's got her bag over her shoulder and she digs around in it and pulls out a packet of cigarettes and then a disposable lighter.
She lights up.
"What you doing?" I ask.
"What does it look like?"
"You're pregnant, Eileen. Jesus."
"Got them at the airport. It's the first one I've had since January."
"Half the pack's gone."
"First pack I've had." She drags quickly on the cigarette, blows out the smoke straight away. "Must cost a bit, this place, right on the canal. You buying or renting?"
"We've bought it."
"We? He paying his way, is he?"
"We're married, Eileen. Don't matter who puts in what, it belongs to the both of us."
"Nice to see you taking marriage so seriously," she says, ice cold.
"I'm different now," I say.
She flicks her cigarette with a painted thumbnail. I watch the ash fall.
"What's this about post-traumatic stress?"
"Nothing."
"I knew you'd got... treatment in prison, for... I don't know, mental problems I s'pose. So was it PTSD, then? Was that what you got treated for?"
"I guess."
"So what was the trauma? Being gay?"
"What? No. No. Jesus."
"Alright. Thought that was what messed you up, that's all. So what was it, then?"
"Does it matter?"
"According to him it's what made you kill my sons' granddad, so I'd say it matters, aye."
"Steven's got a name. Would it kill you to use it?"
"What was the trauma, Brendan?"
We both stare out onto the canal.
"My dad, wasn't it. You know what he was like."
She must remember the black eyes I used to come to school with; the time I came to her, broken and bloody after Seamus beat me up for getting her pregnant, and she had to patch me up while I sat shaking and ashamed. She must remember, and I hope it's enough for her, enough trauma to satisfy her.
"I know," she says. "But that was years ago. You can't use your dad as an excuse, not when you were gone thirty and he was a middle-aged granddad."
"It's not an excuse. It's an explanation." The psychiatrist's words sound trite when I say them.
I snatch the packet of cigarettes from Eileen's hand and lob it into the water.
"Brendan!"
"Makes me sick," I say, and I go inside.
:::::::
I've taken refuge in the bedroom. I lie on the bed, hands behind my head, looking at the ceiling; and then I reach out for the pillow on Steven's side, hook it over and breathe in Steven's scent from it.
"I don't know what went on." Eileen is standing in the doorway, nervy like she's on the edge of a contamination zone. "And seeing as you're not gonna tell me, I can't judge."
I sit up.
"So?"
"So I'm... It's good you got treatment for whatever it was. I'm worn out, Bren, I got no sleep last night with worrying about our Paddy. I shouldn't..." She takes a deep breath. "I can see you're different. I shouldn't be acting like you're not."
"Was that an apology?"
"Don't push your luck."
"Would I?"
She half smiles, and goes, and I follow her back to the living room and sit down at the far end of the sofa from her.
I doubt I've seen Eileen a dozen times since I got myself thrown out of our family, and I doubt there's one of those times we haven't fought. Maybe finally we've both had enough.
Or maybe not.
"What's with the beard? Thought that was your prison look."
"Steven likes it," I say, and when she can't help grimacing I can't resist saying, "It turns him on, don't it."
Eileen retaliates, naturally.
"Guess your... love life is different now than it was with me. Not so..." And she pauses to come up with the adjective that will unman me most efficiently. "... Insipid. Give him a better time than you gave me, do you?"
I give each word weight so she'll feel them hit her, one, two, three: "Yes I do."
Yes. I. Do.
"For god's sake," she says.
"Nothing personal. You just weren't my type."
"Pity you didn't think of that before you married me," she says, and I wonder if she knows that I thought of nothing else, before I ever even touched her. "D'you know, I asked the priest about getting it annulled? After the divorce came through, I asked him, and he said I had grounds."
"Why would you wanna do that?" I ask.
"So I could get married in church again."
"Why's it even matter? You never were much of a Catholic – you been living in sin long enough."
"Because I thought... Whenever I think of our wedding, Brendan, all's I can think of is the lies, and how stupid I was believing you meant it like I did. Can you remember the words? I can. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honour you all the days of my life. It was one big joke."
"It wasn't a joke."
"Oh, so you meant it all did you? Don't take me for the idiot I used to be."
"I wanted to mean it. Would'a given anything for it to be true, Eileen, okay?"
"You were a bigger fool than I was, then. What did you think, Brendan? When the priest said, What God has joined, men must not divide, what did you think was gonna happen?"
"Thought God was gonna strike me down." I look at her. "Aren't you tired of this?"
"Of what?"
"Of this... scratching the scars open every time. You're happy, ain't you, with your fella and the baby on the way? Declan's happy. Padraig's... a teenager, so. I'm... Me and Steven, we're happy. Come on, Eileen."
"As the song goes," she says, our go-to joke from way back when we liked each other, and we both smile.
"Why didn't you go through with it?" I ask after a minute. "The annulment – why'd you change your mind?"
"It's too... public. Didn't wanna air my dirty laundry, any more than I already had. And it wouldn't be nice for the boys."
"Me and Steven did it in a registry office – it's alright, you know? Think you can write your own vows or whatever, if that's what you – "
"Is that what you did? Wrote your own vows?"
"What? No, we just did what we had to do: Are you both free to marry? Yes we are. Done."
"Very romantic."
"We didn't do it for the romance."
"What did you do it for?"
"For life."
We're both silent then, and we both jump when the door opens and Padraig and Steven come noisily in.
"Alright?" Steven says as if he'd expected us to have turned the flat into a war zone.
"Get your things together, Paddy," Eileen says. "We've got to get going."
"I'll drive you," I say.
"We can get a cab."
"I'll drive you."
"Okay."
"Here, Eileen," Steven says, "While you're here, d'you wanna tell your mate to back off?"
"Pardon?"
"Yeah, your mate Maggie or whatever her name is, she keeps asking to be me friend on Facebook."
"You sure it's her?" Eileen looks incredulous. "Why would my friend want to be your friend?"
"It's her," I say. "She came to my club. You got her spying on us?"
"No. Why would I want to spy on you? Honest to god, Brendan, I had no idea."
"Maybe she fancies you, then," I say to Steven, but he ignores me. He hasn't forgiven me for not letting him kiss me in front of Eileen, but the hurt has worn off and he's just pissed off with me now. Which is good. His anger is easier to face than his pain; always was.
"You going straight to work after?" he asks me. "Cos you better get changed if you are."
I nod and I head for the bedroom, and as I go I hear Eileen say to him, "Bet you even iron his shirts for him."
"He irons his own shirts." I don't have to turn back to look at him to know that his lip is curling. "Why? Did you?"
It's tempting to stay and watch them scrap, but I resist and go and change into a suit.
When I come back, Eileen must have gone off to the bathroom, and Steven is telling Padraig, "Go and get yourself a drink form the fridge. Not a beer, though, alright?"
Padraig laughs, "Alright."
When we're alone I say to Steven, "Sorry about before. I was... you know, about the PTSD thing."
"Whatever," he says and gives a heard-it-all-before shrug.
"I know you wouldn't go telling anyone about... about my dad. I shouldn'a – "
"It's okay," he says, and it's there again, not a hesitation this time but something too quick about his answer – It's okay – and I'm on alert, my heart speeding, my back prickling, the choke in my throat of a burning-out cigarette, everything telling me that my trust has been betrayed. And then he sniffs and frowns and says, "Someone had a fag?"
And I laugh from the relief of it. It wasn't a ghost rising, it wasn't a sign; it was the lingering smell of Eileen's cigarette come drifting in from where she dropped it on the balcony.
"Eileen," I tell him. "She's given up, but..."
"Crafty bitch."
"Sketch," I say as she comes back in.
:::::::
When they're ready to go, Steven and Padraig give each other a hug.
"Phone first next time, alright? We don't want no police knocking our door down," Steven says, and Padraig laughs and disappears down the stairs.
"He's left his rucksack," Eileen says, and picks it up from the sofa.
I take it from her and head for the door.
"See you tonight," Steven says.
"I love you," I say to him, loud enough for Eileen to hear.
I don't touch him but I kiss him full on the lips, the force of it pressing him back against the door frame.
"Love you too," he says, and then as I follow Padraig down the stairs I hear him say, "Bye then, Eileen," and I smile to myself when I imagine the smug look on his face.
:::::::
There's no big airport goodbye. Eileen won't have me go in with them; they get out of the car at the drop-off point, and all I can do is tell Padraig to look after his mum for me, and in return I get a "See ya, Dad" from him and a "Thanks for the lift" from her.
The traffic is bad driving back down to Chester and I only just make my meeting at work, and then it's a busy night.
A couple of hours in, my phone hums with a text and I'm lifted up for a second until I remember Steven hasn't got his phone because I'm still borrowing it, so it can't be him. It's Padraig: We're home. Mum says thanks for dinner and taking care of me haha :) x
I type Ok. Speak soon, then just before I send it I add x. And then I wait for closing time.
It only takes a minute to drive home.
Steven is still up when I get in, sitting at the table in his dressing gown with one of the kids' drawing pads, pen in hand.
"You alright?" I ask, and I stand at the side of him to see what he's doing.
"I've got an interview," he says. "Got an email about it. Lucky I checked cos it's tomorrow."
"That school chef one, yeah? Good going." I rest my hand on his shoulder, stroke the back of his neck with my thumb.
"Ta. Yeah, and they want a sample menu. That's what I'm doing. Look, does that look alright?"
He tears a page from the pad and gives it to me to read.
"Looks good, yeah."
"I'll type it up in the morning, print it out so it looks, like, professional."
"You are professional."
"I know, but I'm rubbish at interviews."
"Hey. Don't put yourself down."
He stands up and stretches.
"It's not till the afternoon anyway. Eileen and Paddy get off okay?"
"Yeah. Had a text, they got home safe."
"You okay, Brendan? I know it's been a funny couple of days."
"I'm fine. Come here." I open my arms and he slots into them. "I'm fine now."
"Good." He kisses my neck.
I hold him against me, give his arse a squeeze.
"You got nothing on under this?"
"No. Had a shower, didn't I, put it on after."
I pull the collar aside to expose his shoulder and kiss along it. He squirms in my grip, almost shivers.
"You like that?"
"Your beard tickles." He smiles and kisses my mouth. "You hungry? I can do you something."
"Yeah I'm hungry," I say, and tell him what I'm hungry for with my tongue in his mouth and my fingers digging into the cheeks of his backside. "You wanna?"
He leans his head back so he can look at me, and he says, "Yeah. Not rough though."
"Not rough?" Okay then. "Not rough."
I let go of my fistfuls of his behind and instead I hold his face and I kiss him, and he loops his arms around my neck and chews on my lip, and my hands work their way down his body again but gently this time. I think a few minutes pass, and I think we sway.
"I like this suit," he says when we come up for air.
I comb my fingers through his hair.
"Take you to bed, will I?"
"You're so Irish," he says, and he has a try at the accent: "Take you to bed, will I?"
He laughs softly. Everything about him tonight is soft.
"Will I?" I ask again.
"Yeah."
At the bedroom door I stand aside to let him go in first, and as he walks in he lets the dressing gown fall off him, and he turns to face me and I kiss him, my hands on his skinny hips. His skin is scented and gleaming. He unbuttons my shirt, untucks it from my suit trousers; pushes shirt and jacket off me in one; kisses my chest. His breath feels hot like steam.
"Turn around."
He turns his back and watches me over his shoulder as I finish stripping off. With his spine half twisted around like that, his waist looks minuscule and his shoulder blades jut sharply. I step closer and lift him onto the bed so he's kneeling on it, and I kneel behind him, my knees either side of his shins, and I hold him with my arms around his belly. My cock is hard, and he must want to feel it because he rubs his arse against it. I stroke the front of his thigh and then the inside of it. He's warm there. His hands are on my wrists, lightly, and his head rolls back onto my shoulder, his mouth open.
When I kiss his neck – keep kissing it and tasting it – he's making these rhythmic groans deep in his throat, low like the breaths of some beast, only when I hear another moan in a higher register I realise that the first sounds were mine.
I lean over to the bedside cabinet to get the lube, holding him close still with an arm around his ribs, and then I pump out a blob onto my fingers and he moves his pelvis forward to make space enough for my hand to get between us, and I smear it between his cheeks and wipe the excess onto my dick and get it up.
I look over his shoulder, look down at his hand playing with his cock.
"Gonna do it from behind?" he asks.
"You want me to?"
His answer is to fall forward onto his elbows.
I stroke his back from hips to shoulders, firmly so the skin ripples ahead of my hands, and then I try him with a finger. He's tight – deliberately: I feel him clench. I slide out and in again to the knuckle, do it till he says, "Brendan." Then I go in with my cock, slowly until he's filled with me, and I reach for his hands, knit my fingers with his; thrust long and deep. Keep going, gripped by him, the curve and contour of his inside as familiar as the planes and angles of his outside. I go faster, but not rough. I slip out of him and get him to turn over and I suck him, my tongue tender on the tender head, my hands splayed around his root, his trimmed pubes prickling under my palms. I can tell when he's going to come, by the crescendo in his voice and the rising pulse in his veins. His cum shoots erratically into my throat and I swallow it down.
And then I kiss him, and I fuck him again, and his hands are on my arse, and I can judge it now that I can see into his eyes. I can judge how hard I can go and in the end I don't have to judge it because it's him, in the end it's him, dragging it out of me in a storm of heat and light and noise.
I'm still on him, still in him but spent, when he says, "Brendan? You know before?"
"Mm?"
"I lied. Right, I lied cos I... But I'm telling you now."
I shift a little, try and focus on what he's saying. My head is still full of the physical, but something else is forcing its way in.
"What you talking about?" My voice sounds thick with sex, not yet caught up with the change in the air.
"I have told someone. I said I never but I have. It's Amy, Brendan. Amy knows about what your dad done to you."
"You told her?" I lift myself up on my arms, pull out of him.
He winces, but then he reaches up, takes my head in both his hands to keep me with him.
"Yeah, but Brendan, I had to. Listen, right, she weren't gonna let me see the kids, not when I told her you were back, so I – "
"When? I don't... Fucksake, Steven, when?" I can feel my heart rattling in my chest.
He's staring up at me, eyes wide, and he's still holding my head, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones.
"When you got out, few weeks after. When we were scared of her finding out about us, d'you remember? We were scared so we couldn't let the kids come to see us in case they said something to her. And we couldn't, like, live like that, could we? Me just going to see them at hers, and being scared all the time in case I let on by mistake."
"So you told her? Just told her that... thing about me? You said you wouldn't, Steven, it's... You know I can't – "
"I had to. Cos I had to tell her you were back, didn't I, you know I did. It was our fresh start, like, no hiding or... Only when I went and told her, she kicked off. She would'a never let me see me kids ever again, Brendan, right, so I had to... I had to prove why it was different this time. Cos if she knew why your head was messed up before, she'd, like, believe you'd got better. I didn't wanna tell her but I had to. I had to."
"You been lying to me for months."
"No. No, not lying, I just... I had to tell her, cos I couldn't lose me kids, not again, and it would'a been for ever."
I stare down at him, and one question is rising like bile in my throat, and in the end I have to get it out.
"She believe it?"
He lifts his head off the pillow and pulls my head down and presses his lips on mine.
"She couldn't not, cos I believed you."
I clamber off him, roll onto my back but he comes with me, turns onto his side and reaches for my face and makes me look at him.
"Months," I say, and I can't get my head around this: every time I've seen Amy these months since he told her, she's known all about my father.
"I know," Steven says. "I know, it's months ago and I should'a told you but... Look, you know you was always scared of how people would look at you if they knew? Like, feeling sorry for you and that, and... But has Amy ever looked at you like that, has she? No. She understands why you were fucked up, but she in't all Poor Brendan, is she? She still can't stand you, can she, she just knows how come you did them things cos there was a reason, and the reason's gone now."
"She told the other fella?"
"No. She promised she wouldn't tell anyone."
"So did you."
"I've told you why, Brendan, and I was right. We wouldn'a had the kids, and what would that'a done to us, eh? Every row we had, you would'a been walking out cos of feeling guilty, like you did before. I'm right, you know I am."
He's right, I know he is. But I'm angry, and I think, is this what not rough was about? He wanted me mellow, did he, because he was scared what I'd do when he told me he'd betrayed my secret? Only, when my mind flashes back to the moment he told me – I lied – what I see is him lying beneath me, as naked and vulnerable as it's possible to be. That wasn't a man who was scared, who was minimising the risk to himself; that was a man trusting me to be better.
And I'm lying with him, face to face now and mouth to mouth, more breathing than kissing, and I think we'll be asleep soon. And I remember what he said: he had to tell Amy, because he never would have seen his kids again if he hadn't made her understand. And my heart jolts at the realisation – is it really what he meant? – that it's not them he'd have chosen if it had come to it, but me.
His eyes are closed now.
I think of the lies I told before God when I married my wife, the words she reminded me of a few hours ago, and how I'd wanted them to be true but couldn't see how they ever could be: I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honour you all the days of my life.
They're true now. You've just got to say them to the right person.
