A/N: If you've read this far then I guess you already know that Tim is in a bad place right now, but he kinda needs to reach rock bottom before he can start fixing things...which means dark themes/thoughts of self-harm are once-again present at times in this chapter...

Seventeen

There's a tapping on the front door. I ignore it.

The knocking repeats, louder this time, accompanied by the deep rumble of my brother's voice. 'Tim, come on. Open up. I know you're home.'

Scowling, I stalk cross the hall, crack the door open a couple of inches. 'What d'you want, Curly? Imma trying to get the kids settled.'

He grins at me from behind the flat brown box, as the greasy scent of pepperoni and melted cheese wafts in around me. 'Brought you dinner. Figured it'd save you trying to cook.'

'I can manage to make one meal.' I go to shut the door but my brother edges forwards a little, his foot in the door.

'No one's saying you can't,' Curly continues, 'I only thought—'

'Come on, Tim.' Angela's sharp voice cuts over his. 'Open the damn door. It's freezing out here.'

I'm sorely tempted to tell them no, but then I hear Grace toddling down the hall towards me, drawn by the sound of the aunt and uncle she adores, her face lit up into a bright smile as she babbles their names. So I guess I don't have any choice but to let them in. I pull open the door and try not to think about the state of the place.

'Yeah, alright. But no drama, alright? Don't need you getting them all riled up this time of the night.'

Two hours later, and the kids are finally fed, into pyjamas and settled down in bed.

But my brother and sister are still here, lingering, in the kitchen.

'You need a hand with anything else?' Curly asks, wiping soap suds from his arms, all our dishes and plates and cups from the last god knows how many days sit gleaming on the drainer, as Angela dries and stacks them.

'Nope.' What I need is the two of them gone, some space to be alone with my thoughts, my plans. To have a stiff fucking drink without their judging eyes watching me or the pair of them ganging up on me.

'I don't mind.' He opens cupboards, starts shifting the clean crockery up onto the shelves.

'Leave it, I can do the rest.' My palms feel itchy, I need some air, I need them to leave, to let me get on with the shit I have to do. Tomorrow, Chris promised me. Tomorrow morning he'll have it ready for me to collect—and I'll finally be able to do what I should have done, months ago. 'I can manage.'

'Really?' Angela asks, as she glances towards the cluttered counters and the tangled heap of clean laundry that I haven't gotten around to sorting or folding, while our brother continues with his tidying up.

'What, so I'm a bit behind on the fucking chores. Big fucking deal. I'll catch up at the weekend. Christ, you two have been banging on at every opportunity about how I oughta be spending time with the kids, and now you're bitching at me 'cause I ain't on top of the fucking housework? Well sorry I'm such a fucking failure.'

I storm away, out into the crisp, dark cold of the yard, light a cigarette and count the seconds off in my head as I wait for Curly to creep out to join me. My brother is nothing if not predictable.

Except when the door cracks open two minutes later, it's Angela who appears, cigarette in hand, not Curly.

'You got a light?'

I nod and dip my hand into my jeans pocket, turning the cool metal over in my hand as I hold out the lighter, my thumb flicking the rough wheel until a flame sparks into life.

'Tim, we ain't having a go, I swear.' She cups her hand around the end of the cigarette as she breathes life in to it, the tip glowing red against the darkness.

'Sure you're not,' I sneer.

'Come on. You know what Curly's like, he takes after Ma too much the way he worries about everything.' She takes a drag on her cigarette, exhales deeply sending smoke spiralling up towards the dark skies. 'With good reason, too, I reckon.'

'What in hell's that supposed to mean?'

'Means we care about you.' She stares straight ahead, as she continues speaking. 'Means it's time you moved on.'

'What? You expect me to forget her? Pretend that none of that ever happened? I swear to God, Angela, you are un-fucking-believable—'

'No. Just listen, will you. Course that's not what I mean, But do you really imagine Leigh would want you to still be carrying on like this? Getting wasted or high every damn night of the week?'

'I'm not.' I shove my hands into my jeans pocket, fingers closing around the familiar curve of the pill bottle even as I deny her claims. 'You got it wrong. I don't—'

'Quit with the stories, Tim. We're not idiots. And we're not blind.' Curly appears out the shadows. 'It's plain to anyone you're still drinking too much. And I know you took them old pills of Ma's out the house.'

'And? It was something to get me through those first few weeks, help me sleep. That's all.' I shrug at him, even though I'm burning up inside, a flaming cocktail of shame and anger.

'What, so you're telling us that when they ran out you didn't get nothing else?'

'None of your goddamn business, Curly.'

'Tim, please,' Angela begins, 'we only want—'

'To poke your self-righteous noses in? Tell me everything I'm doing wrong? Well I already know that, so why don't you two go home and leave me the hell alone?'

'I better get going, don't wanna be late for work.' I turn back down the front path as the kids scamper past Curly and into the house without a backwards glance in my direction.

'Tim, wait.' Curly pads after me, hobbling barefoot over the cracked paving slabs. 'About last night—'

'Don't worry about it. I was being a dick, as per usual.' I drag a hand through my hair. 'But I've been thinking a lot about it. Starting today, I'm gonna change things, I promise.'

'Yeah?' His face cracks into a grin as he claps a hand down on my shoulder. 'That's great, buddy. Anything I can do to help, you just say the word?'

'Sure.' I shrug him off, carry on towards the car, before stopping, hoping I sound casual as I stare down at my boots, scared he'll see right through the charade if I dare to look him in the eye. 'Oh, forgot to say. Might be a bit late tonight, picking them up. We've a big job on right now.'

'For Curtis?' My brother's forehead creases into a frown as I slip into the car, start the engine.

'Yeah. For Curtis.'

I nurse the bottle between my palms and watch the building. No movement, no one coming or going. But then it's still early, before the regular clientele show up, so it should only be Brannigan inside. Well, not exactly alone. Brannigan doesn't ever go anywhere without his handful of heavies. But that's as close to getting him alone as I'm going to get. Which is good enough.

Popping open the glove compartment, I swap the bottle for the gun, unwrapping it from the oil-stained rag, slipping it into the back of my belt as I climb out the car and saunter across the car park towards the front door. No sneaking in the back, not this time.

The door creaks open, so everyone inside turns to stare at me. Brannigan gets to his feet, raising a hand to stop the two guys beside him from charging at me as he spots the gun in my hand.

I never understood, back then, why Dallas chose the way out that he did. But standing here, a gun pointing at Brannigan's head, and knowing there's no chance I'm walking back out, it all comes sharply into focus. There was never any other way this could end.

I lurch upright, pain searing through my ribs as I haul myself up onto my feet, towards my car that's somehow here, a hundred or so yards down the road from me, in the middle of fucking nowhere...I had one thing to do, one lousy thing...Turns out I couldn't even do that right.

Every damn step, every single breath is exhausting. Dragging open the car door, I slump down behind the steering wheel, lean my head back and close my eyes for a second, as I try to get a handle on the pain...but somehow that's worse...because all I can hear is Brannigan. Laughing.

Laughing at me as I point the gun, as I hesitate just long enough for him to move, for me to miss the shot and graze his arm, not take him out. No second chance because before I can react he dives across the bar and smashes his fist into my face, his boot into my ribs, over and over and over...a gun in my face as I goad him into giving me what I want and pulling the trigger, not caring any more as I resort to pleading with him, begging for him to make this final...but he shakes his head, his teeth gleaming white against his tanned skin as he looms over me, grinning, kicks me one last time in the head before he walks away.

I slam my swollen, bloodied knuckles against the steering wheel. I used to be tough. Capable. No one ever got anything past me, put one over me, got the better of me. A hard-as-nails hood who didn't give a damn for anyone but himself. The gang leader who everyone listened to, respected...Not any more, not by a long shot...Guess this is what hapoens when I let people in, allowed myself to love her.

The streets slip by as the sun sets. Buildings begin to appear, one or two, then more and more, closer and crowding on top if each other as the empty nothingness along the road side is squeezed out. And somehow I'm back here, this place filled with nothing but the aching weight of all I've ever lost...too many people, all gone too soon, yet I'm still here, no matter how I might wish for something different.

Stopping the car outside the cemetary gates, I stumble out, unsteady on my feet as I search for her in the darkness, the tiny glimmer of hope that we might be reunited driving me on. Weaving across the carefully-tended grass, I find her in the crowds, kneel down to trace my finger tips across her name...Leigh Shepard, beloved wife, mother, daughter...fresh letters etched in the soft white stone, pristine compared to it's weathered neighbour...Frank O'Connell, much-loved father of Leigh. Christ. Frank made it plain, that first afternoon as he grilled me in their lounge, that he was sure I'd never be good enough for Leigh. He was right too. Though maybe if he had still been alive he'd have talked her out of marrying me. Stopped her ruining her life. Stopped me from destroying everything...

Pulling the gun from my belt and the bottle from my inside pocket, I sink down onto the damp grass, hissing in a sharp breath as pain rips through my ribs, though it's not a patch on the agony of the memory of that day. Watching that asshole gun down my wife. Or the image of Brannigan laughing in my face. Twisting off the cap, I take another slug of whiskey, let it burn through my gut, into my soul.

'I'm sorry.' My voice sounds alien, a cracked whisper. 'I fucked up, couldn't even do this right. You deserved so much better.'

Hands shaking, I pop the lid off of the pill jar, gulp a handful down with another mouthful of booze, shake another half-dozen painkillers into my palm, and repeat another teo times.

'I miss you, so damn much, I—' my words are swallowed up as grief and loss and pain overwhelm me and hot, angry tears streak my cheeks. My shoulders convulse, sending the last few pills skittering to the ground. 'Shit!' I begin fumbling around, trying to retrieve them, but it's a lost cause, so tiny they've disappeared into the darkness.

I take another gulp from the bottle, my eyes drawn to the gun. Picking it up again, I study it, the weight reassuring in my hand. Maybe this is my answer. I lift it higher. The barrel is cold against my temple. Pretty sure even I couldn't miss from here, no matter how bad my hand shakes.

The gun slips from my fingers, landing with a soft thud by my feet. Laughter echoes through the air, and it isn't until it stops I realise its my own voice. I take another swig, and let the soft warmth of the medication and booze wrap tighter around me. I want to sleep. Sleep and never wake up.

Rough hands grab at my shirt, shaking my shoulders. Someone, somewhere, is calling my name.

'Tim! Get up! Wake up!'

The voice sounds so distant through the haze of my drug-fuelled sleep. Half-heartedly, I try to push them away but they don't stop, won't let me rest.

A hand slaps my face, cold and hard as my brother yells at me. How is he here? Why can't he leave me in peace? But he shakes me again, backwards and forwards, again and again, until I beg him over and over to stop.

'For God's sake, Tim? What about Tony, Grace? You can't do this to them! They need you, we all do! Stop being so damn selfish and stay awake. Stay with me!'

Maybe it's not too late for me, after all, maybe I do have a reason to carry on.

Because now I see it. The intensity of how much I love my kids is more powerful than the agonising pain of losing Leigh. They need me, and that has to be worth living for, no matter how hard, how impossible, my life feels right now.

A/N: A huge thank you to anyone who's still reading this...