Nineteen

1985...

'Hey, sweetheart, good day at school?'

Grace shrugs, head down over the mess of school books spread across the kitchen table. 'It was fine.'

I rest a hand on the back of her chair, peer down at the text book pages filled with incomprensible graphs and complicated diagrams. 'What you working on?' I ask, hoping she don't want me to help, because I don't have the first clue where to start with this.

'Science,' Grace mutters, her pen scratching across the page.

'Your brother home?' I ask, even though I reckon that's unlikely, given there's no music blaring down from upstairs, shaking the paper-thin walls.

'No.'

'He knows he's supposed to be in by now on a school night. You got any idea where he's at?'

Her shoulders twitch up again as she finally looks up at me, her lips curling into a grin. 'Yeah, sure, as if he'd tell me. Probably off trying to impress Casey or Kelly or whichever airhead cheerleader he's got the hots for this week.'

For the fifth time in the last ten minutes I check my watch. Three minutes to eleven and I'm getting twitchy.

Pacing back and forth from the kitchen to the lounge, I grab my car keys, on the point of going to try track him down. Not that I've got the first idea where to try. It's not as though Tony shares much with me these days, and I can't exactly disappear anyway, can't leave Grace here in the house alone, at this time of night, and it's hardly fair to drag her out in the car with me, either, not when she's most probably already sleeping.

I sink back down onto the couch, check my watch again. Maybe I'm overreacting. It isn't the first time Tony's chanced his luck and stayed out well past his curfew, and its not as if I wasn't doing far worse than coming home late when I was his age—but it's the first time he's pushed me this far. Coming up on fifteen and already thinks he knows everything.

There's a knock on the door, and relief hits me as I recognise the figure outlined through the glass is my boy. Not that it lasts long, by the time I'm down the hall, dragging open the door I'm back to angry again.

'The hell time you call this? Bad enough you're rolling home now. You better not've lost your damn key as well, Tony.'

Tony glares up at me, chin jutting forward in defiance, his face bloodied and bruised, but it's not him that speaks.

'Mr Shepard?' A cop steps out of the shadows to the side of him asks, not releasing his grip on my son's arm.

'What's going on? Tony? The hell've you been—?'

'Yeah, yeah,' Tony sneers. 'Should've known you'd assume it was all my fault. You always do.' Shaking free of the cop's grip, Tony lurches forward, shoulder knocking into me as he barges into the house, bolts up the stairs.

'Kids eh?' The cop rolls his eyes as Tony's bedroom bangs shut, before giving me all the details of why exactly my boy has been picked up and delivered home. 'We'll let him off with a warning, this time. But if he gets caught up in anything again, then we'll be looking at taking things further...' The cop shrugs, the threat of potential punishment hanging heavy in the air as he turns to leave.

'Daddy?' Grace peers out at me from her bedroom doorway, eyes bleary. 'Is Tony—' the rest of her words unintelligible as they're swallowed up in a yawn.

'He's fine, sweetie, go back to sleep.'

She nods, retreats back into her room. Waiting until she's climbed back into her bed, I pull her door closed then cross the landing where I rap my knuckles softly against Tony's door, resisting the urge to blunder straight in.

'Go away.'

'Not gonna happen, buddy. Reckon you and me need a talk, don't you?'

'Fine! Whatever!' he snaps back, not exactly an invitation to join him, but definitely less of an argument than I'm expecting.

'So, you want to tell me your version of events?'

'What's the point, you won't believe me anyway.' He's lying on top of the covers, back towards me as he faces the poster-covered wall.

'You keep going on about how I should treat you like an adult? Then how about you act it?' I ask, harsher than I mean to, 'cause getting him even more wound up isn't gonna help me deal with this. It's these times I miss Leigh more than usual, more than seems possible after all this time, 'cause I'm pretty sure she'd say exactly the right thing, get him to open up. But then maybe, if she was still a part of our lives, he wouldn't feel the need to act out every damn opportunity he gets.

But he doesn't even tell me to get lost, or that he hates me, or that there's no way a loser like me could understand. He ignores me.

'Come on, Tony.' I cross the room, perch on the edge of his bed beside him. 'Tell me what happened, why in hell you're getting dragged home by the cops. You think it's funny? You reckon getting a record or being sent off to reform school will be some big joke, something to brag about to your buddies?'

'What's the big deal?' He twists to look at me as he speaks, giving me my first real close up of his injuries. Split lip, black eye, gash above his eye. 'You did, and Uncle Eddie too. He told me you was only thirteen the first time they locked you up, and you made it out, no sweat.'

'Oh yeah? He tell it like that did he? Make it sound as if it was something to be proud of?' Because if he did, then I reckon I need to have a few words with my idiot brother too, next time I see him.

Tony huffs out a deep breath, eventually shakes his head.

'No. Didn't think so.' I pat his shoulder, get to my feet. 'Now come on, you need to get those cuts cleaned up, 'fore they get infected.'

Following me across to the bathroom, Tony perches on the edge of the tub while I rake through the contents of the wall cabinet, searching out cotton wool, antiseptic.

'Don't see why you're so worked up. It was one lousy fight, Dad. Asshole shouldn't've said that crap.'

'No, you should've ignored it. Not let some punk get a rise outta you.'

Tony rolls his eyes at me and looks about as impressed as my teenage self would have, if anyone had tried to feed me that line back when all that mattered to me—all I had to lose—was my reputation. 'Oh sure, Dad, and have everyone saying I'm some pussy. He started it, opening his big mouth, saying shit.'

'And who threw the first punch?'

'The jerk deserved it.'

'So you keep telling me. But I thought you were smarter than that?' Tony winces as I press the soggy, antiseptic-soaked cotton wool to his cheek, swiping away the dried blood. 'Jesus, Tony. You're a bright kid, got your whole life ahead of you. But you keep doing this shit, get a reputation at school as a troublemaker, earn yourself a record, wind up in the reformatory? You know that's not the smart choice.'

'You ain't done so bad.'

'Yeah? I ain't done so good either.' I toss the pink-tinged wad into the waste basket, grab a fresh ball from the packet and set to work on the gash above his eyebrow. 'You think when I was your age that all I wanted outta life was to be working in a place like Bennett's hardware store for the rest of my days? That it's my dream job? That—' I bite my tongue, don't say out loud that thing that still haunts me constantly... if I'd been a better person, then you and your sister would still have your mom...that Leigh would be here, and we'd be together, happy—

'Why do it then? If you hate it so much?'

'Why d'you think? Pays the bills. And...' I smirk, mussing up his hair. 'Keeps you in hair gel.'

'Dad!' He pushes my hand away, but his protest is half-hearted, accompanied by the slightest of grins, so perhaps he is actually listening.

I peel the wrapper from an Elastoplast, tape it across Tony's forehead despite his protestations that he doesn't need it and it'll make him look ridiculous. But as he sits there scowling at me, all it does is make me realise how much of a kid he still really is. How much I don't want him to make the same mistakes I did. 'Back when I was your age, I used to imagine I was so tough, that I was untouchable, invincible. But that ain't true, Tony. Everything choice you make, every wrong turn, they all add up, have consequences that can change your whole life.'

'Hey, you sure you're doing alright?' My sponsor, Otis, appears beside me, grabs the next chair from this final row to fold away and add to the growing pile at the back of the church basement.

'Sure.' I keep my head down, carry on working. 'Why wouldn't I be?'

'Getting your eight year chip, is supposed to be a good thing, right?'

'I guess.' Folding the last two chairs, I stride away, heaving them on to the top of the stack, then turning towards the stairs. Need to get out, get some air.

'You not having a good week?' Otis flicks off the lights, starts following me out. 'You didn't have nothing you needed to share with the group?'

I shrug. 'I'm fine.'

Normally, usually, a meeting helps me. Just by being in that room, the reassurance and familiarity of the routine. But these so-called milestones that I'm supposed to feel good about, on top of all that shit with Tony lately, school ringing me, him more interested in chasing girls or staying out late these days? Feels like everything is exhausting, and pointless.

But Otis doesnt let me off that easy, has known me long enough now to know I'm not giving him the whole story. 'Hang on. How about we grab a coffee?'

'Not tonight. The kids—'

'—'ll be just fine. It's not even seven, and you, being well, is more important than you being ten minutes later than you told 'em. They ain't babies no more, Tim. You need to trust them a bit. You be too hard on 'em, they're gonna leave home the first chance they get.'

And with that we're crossing the street, slipping into a booth in the half-empty diner. Otis sits quietly, as the waitress fills our coffee cups, as I heap three spoons of sugar in, swirl the spoon round and round in the thick dark liquid.

'Stir that any more, you'll make a hole in it.' Otis grins, his remaining teeth yellowing from all the years smoking. 'So what's eating at you, Tim? Eight years sober, you should be proud yourself.'

'I am.' After a few stumbles and false starts that first couple of years, when the need for a drink overwhelmed me, after nights wiped out and me waking up no idea where I was, or who was watching my kids, somehow something clicked. So this time, somehow, I've managed eight years, without a drink. Without a pill or a joint or a line of anything to take the edge off.

'You sure about that?' Otis leaves his question hanging.

'Me being eight years sober, means it's close to ten since...' I turn the cup round in my hands, take a sip, then stare at the window for a few minutes at the deserted street while Otis waits, watches. 'Means sonehow Leigh's been gone longer than we were together. Kids don't barely remember her, my friends now mostly never even met her, let alone knew her. Then on top of that, my brother's on some non-stop crusade to set me up with someone else. Keeps telling me I can't keep living in the past forever.'

'And what do you think?'

I shrug at him, take another gulp of luke-warm syrupy coffee. 'I dunno. I mean, its not like I've been living like no priest all these years, there's been other girls. Only every time it feels like things might get more serious then I back out, break it off. Even now, it feels so wrong.'

Otis raises an eyebrow.

'Yeah, I know. Pathetic, ain't it?'

'Nah, Tim. When you're ready to move on, you'll know. But 'til then you gotta do what you need to keep yourself well, be there for them kids of yours.'

'Was beginning to think you'd got lost.' My brother smiles up at me, from where he's sprawled on my couch, watching my TV. Grace is curled up beside him, and Tony's slouched in the armchair, eyes glued to the noisy sitcom on the screen, canned laughter echoing around the room. 'Where you been?'

'Meeting.'

'Another one? Didn't you go Wednesday already?'

My brother, he doesn't get it, doesn't understand why I still go after all these years, because in his eyes I don't have a problem, wasn't ever really an addict, notlike Ma with all her pills. And I wasn't some long-term drunk same as that asshole she married after Dad died either. So Curly doesn't understand why can't I go back to how I was and have a beer with him now and then, with the guys after work, or a drink or two with dinner, then leave it alone? And maybe he's right, and I could be that guy. But what if, deep down, I do take after Ma? So a shit day turns one beer into three...three into five...sends me hunting for something stronger? Then what happens as things spiral out of control? Me yelling at the kids, belting them for no reason other than being home at the wrong time? Them coming home to find me lying on the bathroom floor in a pool of my own vomit, no money for food or rent or anything else 'cause I spent my pay packet on booze?

'Yeah, Curly. Again.' I snap, harder than I mean to 'cause Grace and Tony both momentarily tear their eyes away from the TV to look at me.

'You sure you're okay?' Curly asks, sitting upright, his expression suddenly serious. Just what I don't need, him making a big deal about this in front of Tony and Grace.

'I'm fine. A bit tired is all, and hungry.' I pinch the bridge of my nose, divert the conversation with talk of food. 'You guys eaten already, or d'you wanna order pizza?'

'Finally! I'm starving.' Tony moans, as the doorbell rings. 'Thought they were never gonna get here.'

Opening my wallet, I hand him a couple of notes. 'Go pay then.'

He darts away down the hall, as Grace continues to tell me all about some drama that took place in her history class this morning.

'Dad!' Tony calls. 'Can you come out here. Now.'

'What's the matter?' I ease myself up off the couch and head towards him. 'You need more cash? Thought that should've been enough to cover it.'

'No, Dad, it ain't the pizza guy, it's—'

'Mr Shepard?'

'Yeah.' My blood turns to ice in my veins. He might not be wearing a uniform, but it's obvious from his tone, his stance, as he stands there smiling on our front step, that this guy's a cop. So much for Tony listening to me, or that grounding him this past week might actually make any difference. 'What's the problem, officer? My boy hasn't been in any more trouble, and I was led to believe that business last week was done and dusted. So if—'

'Mr Shepard, please. It's nothing to do with your son. But I need to have a word with you.' He glances at Tony, then past him, where my daughter stands peering round the lounge door at us, my brother behind her. 'In private.'

Nodding, I step out onto the porch, closing the door behind me. 'So, if it's not about my son, then what is it?'

The detective takes a quick glimpse left and right, at the a gaggle of noisy kids hanging around on the sidewalk, and my neighbours loitering on their porch, clearly pretending to chat when really they're watching us, hoping they get to witness some drama. 'Perhaps we should go inside?'

'No. Perhaps you need to tell me what this about first.'

'Well okay, if you insist.' He rubs a hand across his chin. 'I'm sorry, I know it must be a shock after all this time. But some new evidence has recently come to light connected to the death of your wife.'

A/N: Thanks for reading :)