Twenty

I stand on the porch and stare at the cop. Not sure what to say, or do. There's movement around me: the gawky teenager clutching our pizza order, Tony and Grace bickering as my brother hands over the cash, but it's like I'm frozen to the spot, or having some out of body experience. Because while I'm physically here amongst them, in my head I'm at the park, surrounded by the sound of gunshots, screaming, squealing tires, a hundred and one memories and emotions all crushing down on me as I relive the minute my world changed forever.

Someone tugs at my hand. Grace. 'Dad? Did you hear me? I asked if you're coming in for dinner too? Before Tony wolfs down the whole lot?'

I pinch at the bridge of my nose. 'You go ahead. I'll be right behind you. Promise.' I force an unconvincing smile onto my face and send her back down the hall, towards my brother who's loitering a few feet away.

'Tim? You okay?' Curly pads back towards me, stony faced. 'There some sort of problem? You need me out here?'

'No. Everything's—' I can't say fine. Not when I feel like I've been sucker punched. 'Just do me a favour and keep the kids out the way.'

'Why? What's wrong?' He's starting to sound panicked, gabbling his words. 'Please tell me you're not in some kind of trouble—'

'No, Mr Shepard, there's not a problem.' The cop smiles as holds out his hand and shakes my brother's hand. 'Sergeant Peterson. I simply need to talk to your brother. It'll only take a few minutes of his time.'

Curly looks between me and the detective, but doesn't budge.

'Mr Shepard?' Peterson asks me. 'Five minutes of your time, that's all I'm asking.'

'Yeah, alright.' I nod at Peterson, gesturing for him to follow me. 'I suppose you better come in.'

'So what exactly is it you think you've found out?' I ask, offering Peterson a seat at the table as I push the kitchen door shut behind him. 'And what's it got to do with Leigh?'

He drags the chair out, it's legs scraping across the linoleum, and sits down. 'It came up through another investigation I've been working. One of the people being charged offered up the information, claimed he was in the vehicle and could tell me where to find the gun that was used.'

'Right.' I lean back against the counter and fold my arms, trying to curb the urge to hit something as my emotions threaten to overwhelm me. 'So some scumbag asshole wants to trade on what happened to Leigh and you believe him? How d'you know he's not telling you a whole load of bull 'cause he thinks he'll get a couple of years off his sentence?'

'It's a possibility.' The cop acknowledges. 'But if his story is true, it gives us some traction on being able to take someone far more important—and dangerous—out of the picture. '

'So if you've got all that evidence already why do you need to talk to me?'

'Because at the moment, it's his word against his boss. Even with the gun, there's not any actual proof which one of them pulled the trigger. Which is why I'm here. I want you to tell me exactly what happened that afternoon, in case there's anything, no matter how small that might—'

'I gave my statement at the time,' I interrupt. 'What makes you think I'll have anything different to say now, after all these years?'

Peterson leans forwards in his seat and rests his clasped hands on the table. 'I don't expect you remember me, no reason why you would given what happened. But I was there, that afternoon. Three weeks on the job, and me and my partner get a call, go and investigate reports of gunfire near the kids play area. Thought it was going to be nothing. Kids messing with an air rifle or something. Not—'

Another image creeps in, the young, baby faced uniform cop, standing beside me and urging me to go in the ambulance.

'Yeah, I remember you. Should've realised you were new on the job.' I laugh, but it's a cold, hard sound, devoid of any humour. 'Wouldn't have been stood there calling me Sir if you weren't.'

'Was the first shooting incident I ever...' Peterson is pale, serious. 'Well let's just say, I never forgot what I saw that day so I can't even begin to imagine how horrendous it must've been for you, having your family ripped apart like that. No one deserved that. And I guess it stuck with me, how I wished they caught the bastard who did that.'

'Yeah, well, I doubt your bosses back then put much effort into finding anyone. Not with my past. I'm hardly someone the cops gave a fuck about helping. Pretty sure that as soon as they heard my name they wrote of off as fallout from gang turf wars. That detective who was supposedly investigating couldn't care less about Leigh. Didn't see her as anything more than collateral damage, probably thought she deserved it for being stupid enough to get tangled up with some gangbanger in the first place.'

'We're not all like that, Mr Shepard.' Peterson shakes his head. 'Not all cops are looking for the easy option, some of us are actually interested in the truth. So when I made detective, I went back over the files, kept going back to them, in the hope that there'd be some detail that'd been missed or something new would turn up. And now it has.'

I shake my head, not sure I really believe him. 'I'm sorry, I can't help you.'

'I know you've got a record, Mr Shepard. And I'm no idiot, I realise that you were involved in shit back then, that what happened wasn't some freak, random accident. But I don't care about that. I'm not looking to go after you for things you may or may not have done ten years ago. What I want is to take Mitch Brannigan down, once and for all. And I think there's a chance you can help me do it. Figured you would want to.'

Hearing him actually say Brannigan's name, here in my house, sets my nerves jangling all over again. My heart races as my skin crawls and burns. I recognise that all-too familiar sensation, the need for something—anything—to shut it out, to numb my emotions, to not feel anything. I reach for a cigarette, go to pull my lighter from my pocket, but my fingers close around my eight-year chip instead. I don't know that I could trust myself if there was drink in the house right now...

'I understand.' Peterson's voice breaks through, bringing my attention back on to him. 'How maybe you didn't want to speak out at the time. You'd lost your wife, had the rest of your family to think about, and pointing the finger at someone like Brannigan would've been too big a risk.'

'So why d'you think I'd want to rake it all up again, now? My kids are settled, we're getting by, doing okay. Why would I want to put them through anything else, make them relive all that?'

'Might give you some sense of closure, justice. Whatever the rights and wrongs of what went down I'm pretty sure your wife wasn't to blame, that she didn't deserve what happened. Neither did your kids. So why not make the bastard pay?' He shrugs as he gets to his feet, shakes my hand and then passes me his card. 'Look, Mr Shepard, I get this is a lot to process, a big decision, but I hope you'll make the right choice. So if you think of anything you think'll help, then ring me. Any time.'

The title music for Magnum, PI is blaring out from the television. I should be going in there, grabbing the last cold slice and making the most of Grace and Tony both actually being here, wanting to hang out at home on a Saturday night for once.

Instead, I busy myself making coffee, chain smoking my way through one cigarette after another as I wait for the water to boil before heading outside, sitting on the back step where I carry on working through the rest of my pack of smokes until the carton's empty.

I rest an elbow on my knees, my head in my hands and close my eyes.

The door creaks open, guess it's time to stop wallowing and pull myself together, or Curly'll be fussing around me all damn night. Except I'm wrong, it's not my brother who appears, it's my boy. Yeah, I definitely need to get my shit together. Don't need him thinking I'm cracking up or nothing.

'Hey, Dad.' Tony sits beside me, holds out a plate. 'Brought you this, 'fore Uncle Eddie eats it all and blames it on me.' His words are lighthearted, but his expression gives him away.

'Cheers, buddy.' I take it, set the plate down to the other side of me, between my empty coffee cup and the overflowing ashtray.

Tony frowns. 'Thought you said you were hungry.'

I shrug. 'Not so much. You want it?'

'Nah.' Tony shifts a little, turns towards me. 'So that cop. He was talking about Mom, right?'

'Yeah.' I keep staring straight ahead, not sure I can look him in the eye right now.

'You gonna help him?'

'No, don't think I will.'

'Even if it's the right thing to do?'

'Right thing for who?'

Tony's on his feet again, moving to stand in front of me so I can't miss how he's glowering at me, his face twisted with anger. 'So everything you said the other day, you lecturing me how I need to do the right thing? Was all garbage?'

'That's different, Tony—'

'How?' he demands. 'Why is it one rule for you and a different one for me?'

'Me helping him, won't bring Mom back. And I have to think about you, your sister, do what's right for you. All me getting involved'll do is drag up shit that's best left in the past, where it belongs. I can't risk it.' I get up, point towards the house and bark out an order. 'Now get back inside. I ain't talking about this no more.'

'Tony strides past me then wheels back around, his face twisting into a sneer. ' You know what, Dad. You are so full of shit. You reckon you loved Mom.'

'The hell you saying?' I take a stride towards him, stop short of cuffing him upside the head for what he's suggesting. How can he question that, of all things? 'You shut your damn mouth, Tony. Of course I loved—'

'Yeah? You sure about that?' Tony's words tear into my heart, more painful than if he'd knifed me with a jagged, rusty blade— worse than getting my face bust up with that bottle. ''Cause if you really did, how the hell can you let her murderer get away with it?'

A/N: Thanks for reading :)