Chapter 3
THREE
Harry
“Dad? Greg?” I call out. “Is anyone here?”
There’s no answer. But that’s not much of a surprise.
The house has a chilling type of quiet to it that’s only achievable when it’s completely empty – a rarity these days.
Between Dad not-so-quietly slipping through the front door past noon after drinking in the local pub and Greg slamming his door to keep me out (only for me to slip back in and spend the night sleeping on his floor), this silence is easily distinguishable.
No one’s home.
I turn on the TV, adding some background noise. The remote bounces across the sofa seat as I chuck it sideways, exiting the living room. But a news alert lights up the room before I can make it through the door.
“They hadn’t even stolen anything, from what I could see,” a woman says shakily, causing my steps to falter. “But they had a good time wrecking up the house and scaring Mittens. He was petrified, poor thing. I found him shaking in a corner. Scared in his own home.”
A chill creeps over my shoulders at the familiar voice, and I turn back to the TV screen. A woman I recognise from the end of our street – our fucking street – is cradling her cat close to her chest as she details the events of the break-in.
Not again! I want to yell.
This woman is no younger than seventy, clearly shaken from the disturbance, and I’m certain I know the identity of her intruder. A little too well.
The scene cuts to a police officer. She’s dressed in uniform, “Officer Brady” branded on her nameplate.
“We’ve brought in a suspect for questioning in connection with this incident.
We believe they may be responsible for the break-ins in Surrey these past few weeks.
But until we make an arrest, we advise that locals lock their doors and stay vigilant. ”
Christ, Greg.
A gust of wind turns my body cold, and I turn towards the open front door.
If not for the mess littering our small home and the overall lack of anything valuable, I’d think someone might have broken in. Whoever left the door ajar must have been in a rush, desperate to leave. Perhaps it was Dad missing his early dose of beer down at the local boozer.
I have little time to investigate as my phone starts to buzz in my back pocket.
“Harry?” Greg sounds irritated, a subtle sense of urgency lingering under the surface of his voice.
The trusty “one phone call” policy.
“Where are you?” I ask, already pulling on my shoes.
“Police station.”
I shrug on my jacket to hide the dissatisfied growl in my throat. Why? Why would you do this again, you fucking idiot? It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t bring myself to say it.
“I’ll be twenty minutes.”
Silence lingers for a moment through his end of the line as I walk the few steps down from the house to where my car is parked against the kerb. I pause with my hand resting on the door handle, clearing my throat to bring forth a gentle tone.
“Greg—”
“Just save it.” He hangs up.
The drive to the police station is no shorter than half an hour, but having completed the route a handful of times in recent years, it only feels like a few minutes.
I pull up outside the station in the dated motor.
The car’s nothing much, but it’s what I’m able to afford. It’ll most likely be Greg’s one day.
I jog up the steps and push open the double doors, passing through the reception and heading straight past the “staff only” sign.
Greg will be in the back for questioning like the handful of other times.
The building is busy, several officers walking through and dishing out orders to one another, but my eyes are like magnets, drawn to the back of the room.
Officer Brady is giving Greg a stern talking-to in her open booth, her features set rigid and her finger wagging in his face, but his whole demeanour is off, shoulders hunched over, attention focused on the grey flooring.
He’s slipping his arms into the sleeves of his coat before I’ve fully approached. His face is blank, unreadable, though I know a smirk is probably lingering under there somewhere. The slight thrill of achieving some foolish crime, and then the satisfaction he’s been bailed out yet again.
An older woman sits in the booth adjacent to Greg, detailing her findings to the officer. There’s a cat perched on her lap, and I recognise her immediately from the TV. She seems more irritable now though, her shrunken pupils eyeing Greg as he acts so leisurely.
“I’m so sorry.” I approach her side, crouching next to where she sits on the end of the chair. “I’ll have him personally clear up all the mess he’s made and pay for all damages.”
“What?” Greg snaps, mid zipping up his coat. “That’s not fair.”
“Get in the fucking car,” I hiss.
He sighs, frustrated, storming through the police station and slamming the door behind him. The blind bounces back against it. I shake my head before drawing in a short, measured breath.
“Thank you,” the woman tells me, her shaking hands running over the back of the cat’s fur. “But he’s just a troubled kid – there’s no need.”
And it’s not the first time he’s targeted her address either.
“Here.” I dig into the back pocket of my jeans, withdrawing my wallet. A few ten-pound notes sit crumpled at the bottom, and I hand out the money that was rationed for this week’s supermarket shop. “Take this at least to get a cleaner in to help tidy.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t take anything off you. The St. James family has lived down my road for years.”
“Please,” I encourage. “I’d feel awful otherwise.”
She gnaws at her lower lip before begrudgingly taking the cash. Her smile is genuine, and it helps to mask the sting in my chest from our empty pockets this week. But I’d rather struggle for food than face the embarrassment of whatever stint of activity Greg is putting us all through.
I rise to my feet, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I’ll have a word with him.”
Her lips tilt up at the edges, and even though I see straight through the fake smile, both of us knowing a conversation will do little to keep my brother under control, she gives a gentle nod.
As I step away from the booth, Officer Brady comes up to my side. She’s been looking over Greg’s case for years, helping sweep the petty crimes under the rug. But time is ticking. There’s only so much more that can go unnoticed before the heads of department start investigating.
Either Greg will have to turn his life around, or I’ll have to find someone dodgy to—
I cut off the thought immediately. I’m not going to start bringing more people into my family business, especially not those who’ll come with costly consequences. We have enough of those already with Dad refusing to pull his weight.
“Harry,” Officer Brady sighs.
I inwardly cringe, running my hand through my hair, tired. “I’m working on him.”
“I’ve exhausted all options.” She lowers her voice, stepping closer. “This is the last time I can cover for him. They’re already starting to suspect foul play.”
I throw a subtle glance towards the end of the station, where a few officers are lingering. They pass us a look through their laughter.
“I told the people what they wanted to hear. They think the suspect has been taken off the streets, and luckily, your neighbour isn’t looking to press charges.”
I lower my head, grinding my jaw as she keeps her voice quiet.
“The next time Greg crosses the line, I’ll be forced to make an arrest. And given the evidence against him, he won’t hold out much hope—”
“Yes, yes. I understand. I’m trying.”
She presses a hand against my back. “None of us want to punish him, but our sympathy can only spread so far.”
I can’t expect her to choose – not when her job stands on the line. Not when I know the hardship of a family struggling for cash. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But the voice in my head screams, He’s just a kid.
A kid who I’d defend to no end.
It would take utter heartbreak, something so drastic, near impossible, for me to ever turn against him.
“Thank you, Officer. I really appreciate it.”
I offer one last apology before slipping out of the police station and getting back into the car.
Greg remains tight-lipped as I settle in the driver’s seat – not that I expected anything different.
My days of expecting a thank-you are far beyond me, though the stuff that spews from his mouth nowadays continues to surprise me.
A radio station plays low, but Greg turns it off and sinks further into his seat with an irritated sigh.
I focus on the road. “What made you act up this time?”
There’s a breath of silence before he grumbles, “Had an argument with my girlfriend.”
“I see.” I nod slowly, pursing my lips to hold in the laughter. “What relationship issues can you be facing at thirteen?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Pain stabs me at his dismissive tone. I’d listen if he really wanted me to. Do anything to stop this behaviour he’s slipped into.
I spare him a glance out of the corner of my eye. His head is resting in the palm of his hand, attention directed out the window.
“You want to talk about it?” I offer. “About her?”
“No,” he grunts.
“She must be pretty special if you’re getting this down about an argument.”
I can almost hear the eye roll as he argues, “Just fucking leave it, okay?”
A smile plays on my mouth as I try to lighten the mood. “That’s pretty foul language for a teenager.”
“Who are you – Dad?” he spits. “He doesn’t even tell me how to act.”
I whip my head towards him. His eyes flare momentarily from the sudden outburst, but he doesn’t attempt to bring the words back.
“Don’t do that. Don’t compare me to him,” I say, my voice low. “I’m trying to help you.”
He mutters under his breath so quietly I don’t think he intends for me to hear. “Then just stop trying.”
I fist the steering wheel, the leather groaning beneath the pressure of my palms. The question I ask myself time and time again slips out. “Why do you always turn to violence? Just tell me.”
“You do it too.”
“How?” I rear my head back. “When?”
I’d never let Greg see that side of me. Not ever.
“With Brian, a few years ago.”
“That’s different. Brian—” I cut myself off to exhale a steady breath. “Brian deserved it.”
He throws back, “So if they deserve it, then it’s okay?”
“Yes – no! Fuck.” I rub my hand over my eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”
The remainder of the drive continues in silence.
The little fucker has climbed out of the car before I’ve even pulled up the handbrake.
By the time I’ve got out, he’s already stepped into the house and slammed the door shut.
When I make it through the front entrance, I hear the remaining echoes of his footsteps before the final slam of his bedroom door.
Fucking teenagers.
I toe off my shoes and throw the keys onto the kitchen counter, but the sound makes me pause. The clatter of metal is obstructed by a piece of paper set loosely on the counter by the fridge, a pen discarded at its side.
Call it intuition, call it whatever you want, but something inside – something deep down – feels the weight of what that paper contains even from a few feet away. I stare silently before braving a few steps forwards.
I don’t trust myself to hold it, so I stuff my fingers into the front pockets of my jeans and read over the messy handwriting as a lump fills the back of my throat.
Harry,
Don’t look for me.
The house is yours.
Sincerely,
Dad
P.S. Happy 18th birthday.
I grip the piece of paper in my hands, squeezing pressure into the words, until it crumbles under the weight.
No. No. No.
Does he not understand that this is the worst thing he could’ve done? Just leaving us to fend for ourselves again?
How can he just up and leave? And without sparing a single thought for Greg?
I never wanted this.
I want him here. With us. I want him to try. To spare Greg some of his attention and help steer him onto the right path. That’s all he needs. Greg’s just craving attention. That’s why he’s acting out and I’m cleaning up his mess every time.
He needs a dad, but his father didn’t even try.
He didn’t even fucking try!
When I bring my attention back to the crumpled piece of paper, I only find more. Documents scattered across the countertop that didn’t first catch my eye.
Mortgage documents.
Forged signatures putting the house in my name, and my self-declaration to take on the debt. The monthly payments that are far more money than an eighteen-year-old can make.
Eighteen.
I’m eighteen, shackled with the burden of paying for the house and providing Greg with a home. A home I’ve vowed to give him above all else.
In some sick, twisted way, maybe this is my destiny.
I wonder now what I’d say to Mum if I’d met her before I was born.
The answer hits me quickly.
Don’t marry him. I’d rather not exist.