Twenty-one

For the third night running I'm awake before dawn.

Dog tired, I pad to the kitchen and make myself the first of what'll most likely be many coffees. Because even though I'm exhausted, it's better than the alternative. Restless hours, staring at the cracks in the ceiling as my mind turns over my latest argument with Tony, that cop's simple sounding request.

Or worse, when I do finally drift off, my sleep is plagued with nightmares I haven't had in years. Not always that day, in the park— sometimes I'm back in McAlester, or fighting with Ma, picking a fist fight with Winston, even reliving the day Dad died—but always, no matter how it starts out, it always ends up there, with a gunshot. Waking in a cold sweat, struggling to breathe as the raw pain burns into my soul, and my world spirals out of control again.

I glance at the clock. Still another hour at least before the kids'll be up, filling the house with chatter and life again. So for now I'm left with nothing but my own thoughts for company. That soft, persistent whisper in the back of my mind that's growing stronger, more persuasive, the tireder I get. Suggesting that there's an easy way I could deal with this. That just one drink might help me sleep, take the edge off. I need to make it stop. Pouring myself another coffee, I busy myself tidying our already-spotless kitchen, folding laundry. Anything to keep me occupied until the pair of them wake up.

But my attempts at distraction don't help, don't quieten my mind. Maybe Tony was right and I ought to talk to that cop. Maybe that's the only way I'll ever be able to move on. Or maybe I'm an idiot, letting all this get to me again. I was doing alright before Peterson came poking his nose in, so maybe that's what I ought to focus on. The kids, work, going to meetings. One day at a time, and no looking back.

Refilling my cup and lighting a cigarette, I check the meeting schedule tacked to the side of the refrigerator, even though I know what it says pretty much by heart after all these years. There's a meeting later today, cross town. Not one of my regular haunts, but I could fit it in around work, maybe get some control back.

'Dad, can you sign this.' Grace darts into the kitchen and thrusts a piece of paper and a pen in front of me, gnaws at her bottom lip. 'It's for the school trip, remember.'

'Thought that wasn't for a couple weeks?'

'It's not.' She rolls her eyes at me as Tony ambles in to the room behind her, yawning. 'But the permission slip has to be in today.'

Tapping the pen against the table edge, I skim through the text. History class, a long day out in Oklahoma City, starting off with a tour round the state capitol building then on to some museum. Some new enthusiastic teacher's idea that showing these kids who live on on the wrong side of town this stuff will make them care more about it, study harder. A long list of instructions telling me what time she needs to get to school: 7:15am, fifteen minutes before the departure time; what she needs to bring: a packed lunch, a snack for the journey home, a small amount of spending money; even what she should wear: students are representing the school so should wear smart, sensible clothing, comfortable footwear as there will be alot of walking, and remember to bring a sweater or jacket. Then finally the time I have to be there to pick her up in the evening: parents/guardians to arrive at 7:45pm, as the bus is expected to return by 8:00pm. Underneath there's a slip to tear off and return with a space for me to sign, tick the box to say I've enclosed the fee. A space for me to write down contact telephone numbers, in case of emergency.

'You really want to go?' I ask, my mind racing as I'm suddenly uneasy at the thought of her going, being that far away from home for that length of time and anxiety threatens to overwhelm me. What if something does wrong? If there is some kind of emergency? The bus could break down, crash. Or what if she gets lost or hurt and I'm not there?

I rub a hand across my brow and make like I'm still reading the letter, annoyed at myself all over again for letting that cop showing up unsettle me as much as it has. Maybe I should say no. At least when the kids are here, in Tulsa, I'm rarely more than fifteen minutes away if either of them need me. 'Sounds kinda dull.'

'It will be,' Tony mutters, looking up from his cereal bowl for the first time since he slumped down in the chair opposite me to grin at his sister. 'Grace only wants to go because she thinks Robbie Wilson—'

'Shut up!' Grace turns beet red as she cuffs Tony across the back of the head, before turning back to me, fixing me with her best, pleading smile. 'Please, Dad. All my friends are going, and Miss Barnes says it'll be real interesting. And I don't wanna be the only one in my class made to stay behind in school, having everybody laughing at me 'cause they think we're too poor or something.'

'It ain't about the money, sweetheart—'

'Then what? Don't you trust me?'

Jesus. Now if I say no, I'm the asshole. And better she's asking to take a school trip than sneaking around behind my back, doing lord knows what, like Angela did at her age, like I did. I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet before scrawling my name on the dotted line. 'There you go.'

'Thanks, Dad, you're the best.' Grace hugs me, snatches up the cash and form. 'Gotta go, Sarah's waiting for me.'

As she darts away down the hall, Tony gets to his feet, drops his bowl into the sink, before stalking off towards the door.

'Tony, wait a sec.'

'What now, Dad?' he sighs, scraping a hand through his messy hair, as he glares at me. ' I gotta get a move on too, or I'll be late for school. Wouldn't want me getting trouble again, would we?'

'Nothing. Just I might be a bit late tonight. With work. You have a good day, yeah?'

Wipers dragging backwards and forwards across the windshield, I slow the car, scanning for a spot to pull in. But there's nowhere close by to the church hall, and I end up more than half a block away and having to hurry, head down against the drizzle, zig-zagging between the office workers spilling out of the surrounding buildings. I should just about make it in there on time.

I weave past a dawdling couple as I round the corner, coming to an abrupt stop as i almost collide with a guy coming in the opposite direction.

'Mr Shepard! Good to see you.' Peterson holds out a hand for me to shake. 'You thought any more about our conversation the other day and looking to talk to me?'

I frown a little, initially confused as to why he might think so, until he nods towards the imposing stone building opposite, the police HQ.

'It really would be helpful, we're almost on the point of a breakthrough, just need a little something more, something to tip the scales in our favour and make sure things stick this time. That Brannigan gets the punishment he deserves.'

'No, I—' I stop, pushing back my sleeve to double check the time on my watch as the church clock tower chimes. Now I am gonna be late, because of him. Maybe I should give it a miss, go see Otis instead, talk things through with him. But then Tony's words, all his anger and bitter disappointment at me pushes to the front of my mind. Maybe my boy was right and I do need to deal with this, and I hear myself changing my response before I can stop myself. 'Yeah, okay. Though I ain't sure I know anything that you don't already know.'

'You never know,' he beams, his wide smile revealing bright white teeth, as he ushers for me to accompany him back across the street.

I follow Peterson up the stone steps, and he holds open the heavy wooden door, waiting for me to enter. Being back here makes my skin crawl, as memories of all the times I've been here in the past start jostling their way into the corners of my mind, not helped by the desk sergeant glaring at me from behind the counter.

Guess it's now or never, time to make Tony proud of me for once, maybe even find some peace, too. So after a moment's hesitation I step inside, before I can change my mind.

As Peterson walks me through the building, my brain works overtime, flooded with disjointed images of my previous visits here, my nerves jangling, hypersensitive so that every tiny noise or movement puts me more on edge. The numerous nights when I was left to rot in the drunk tank, surrounded by the stench of vomit and pissed up assholes looking for a fight, just to teach me a lesson for being a punk kid from the wrong neighbourhood...hauled in for anything and everything going down on my side of town, and slapped around by lazy cops hoping to beat a cheap confession outta me instead of looking for the actual culprit... being sent down to the reformatory for someone else's mistakes, to McAlester for shit I didn't do... Maybe if I'd been smarter then this whole sorry chain of events might never have happened, my life could have been different...

'Here, take a seat,' Peterson offers as we step into an interview room.

'In here?' I ask, my hand rests on the back of the chair but I don't sit down, not yet.

'Yeah. Thought it would be quieter, less chance of interruptions.'

He flashes me one of those dazzling smiles and sits down, pulls a pen from his pocket and rests it on top of his notepad. But it doesn't stop the prickling feeling of unease creeping over me, or stop me feeling more like a suspect than someone here doing him a favour.

'Alright.' I drag the chair back, legs scraping against the floor and sit down. 'But before I say anything. Where do I stand? If I tell you something I might've done or been caught up in, back in the day, you gonna come after me? Because I ain't that guy any more, I got my kids to think about.'

Peterson laughs. 'I'm not interested in going after you for any of that shit, not after all this time. All I want is to put Brannigan behind bars, for the rest of his days, but he slips through the net every god damned time, never quite enough evidence to get a conviction. So if you can give me something concrete, something that'll link him to the death of your wife...' Peterson shrugs. 'Well there ain't no statute of limitations on a murder charge.'

'Right. So where do you want me to begin?' I feel off-balance, as though I'm standing, teetering on the edge of a cliff, about to step off.

He fishes in his pocket and produces a pack of cigarettes, offers them to me as he slides the plastic ashtray into the middle of the table. 'How about at the beginning? How you and your family wound up on the wrong side of Brannigan?'

As I talk, I smoke, lighting the next cigarette of the butt of the previous, smoke hanging thick in the air around us. For the most part Peterson sits back and listens. Or scribbles the odd note, only interrupting with the occasional question when something I mention piques his interest, until I've told him pretty much everything I can remember about Brannigan and his business back then, the events leading up to that day in the park, when he...when Leigh... My voice sticks in my throat, and my eyes sting.

'How about we call it a day, Mr Shepard?' Peterson asks, giving me a sympathetic smile. 'I understand, that this must be difficult for you.'

I pinch at the bridge of my nose, I won't lose it. Not here, not in front of him. For all he carries on as if he's my friend, he's still a cop, with his own agenda. 'So what now? You go arrest him?'

'We could.' Peterson shifts forward a little in his chair. 'But even if I put you on the stand, it's still your word against his. The defence'll tear you apart once they figure out you've got a record too. And he'll have a whole line of people ready to swear he was somewhere else, that he was never near the park.'

'What? So this was all pointless, an excuse to rake over my past, my life? You bang on about justice, for Leigh, but aren't even gonna do anything?' I lurch upright, sending my chair clattering over as I stumble towards the door. I need to get out of here, get some air, a drink, get home before I do something stupid. 'All that bullshit you spouted about her, but all you cops are the damn same, you don't give a fuck about people like me and her.'

'Mr Shepard, Tim, wait!' Peterson strides across the room and grabs a hold of my arm, stopping me in my tracks. 'That's not what I'm saying. But if we had something concrete to link him to the shooting then he'd have no chance of getting off.'

'But I've told you everything I know, I don't have anything else to give you.'

'I know, but I reckon, with your help, we can get it exactly what we need.'

'And that is?'

'Brannigan, admitting it, on tape.'

'No way,' I scoff, wheeling away. 'He'll never tell you, he's not that stupid.'

'No. But I'm pretty sure he wouldn't miss the opportunity to throw it in your face, would he?' Peterson flashes me another of those toothpaste commercial bright smiles. 'And if we can get him on tape, we'll have everything we need to send him down for good.'

A/N: Thanks for reading :)