Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ROBBIE
Age eight
The rain hammers against the window like it’s trying to get in. I press my nose to the cold glass, watching puddles grow in the garden where me and Johnny were meant to be playing today.
“Get away from there, Robbie! You’ll leave smudges all over the glass.” Maw’s voice makes me jump. She’s sprawled across the sofa, painting her nails bright red, a glossy magazine balanced on her knees.
I shuffle away from the window. “But I’m bored.”
“Find something quiet to do then. And keep your brother out of trouble.” She doesn’t even look up.
Johnny sits cross-legged on the carpet, his wee face scrunched up as he tries to fit puzzle pieces together. He’s only four—four years younger than me—which means I’m supposed to be the “responsible one”. That’s what Maw always says.
“Want to play a game, Johnny?” I crouch beside him.
His face lights up. “Yes! Ball game?”
I glance at Maw, who’s still focused on her nails. “Let’s go in the hallway. More space there.”
Johnny follows me, giggling with excitement, and I fetch the soft indoor ball from under the stairs. The hallway isn’t big, but it’s long enough that we can stand at opposite ends.
“Ready?” I ask, and Johnny nods, bouncing on his toes.
I squat down and roll the ball along the floor to him. He stops it then rolls it back.
After some more passing backwards and forwards—and only losing it under the shoe rack once—we move on to gentle throws. Johnny’s idea of “catching” is to grab the ball and hug it to his chest like he’s trying to keep hold of a wriggly puppy. Still, he manages not to drop it most of the time.
“Look, Robbie!” Johnny tosses the ball up and catches it himself. “I did it all on my own!”
“Nice one, wee man!” I say, imitating the kind of voice I imagine Da would use if he ever bothered to play with us.
We get braver as we go, me throwing just a wee bit higher each turn because Johnny keeps squealing with laughter when he manages to hold on. It’s actually a pretty fun game.
Then Johnny decides he wants to show off and flings the ball way too hard. It sails past my hands and straight towards Maw’s prized photograph on the wall—the one of her and Da on their wedding day, back before she had us.
Time slows down just enough for me to think Oh no , then the photo frame hits the floor with a crash, glass shattering everywhere, the sound like thunder in our quiet house.
I freeze. Maw’s smiling face peeks up at me from under jagged shards. And then she appears in the doorway, only in real life she’s not smiling. Nope, her cheeks are red with anger.
She looks from the broken frame to me, barely even glancing at Johnny. “ROBBIE! What have you done now?”
“I didn’t?—”
“It was me, Mummy,” Johnny pipes up, his voice small. “I throwed the ball too hard.”
Maw ignores him completely, her eyes fixed on me. “Why can’t you ever be responsible? I leave you alone for five minutes and you break something. Just look at this mess!”
“But Maw, Johnny was the one who?—”
“Don’t you dare blame your brother!” Her voice drops to that scary quiet tone that’s even worse than shouting. “He’s just a wee boy. You’re supposed to know better!”
She kneels next to Johnny and brushes his hair from his forehead, her face softening. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart. Your brother should have known not to play ball in the house.”
Then she turns back to me, and her face hardens again. “Stay right there. Don’t touch anything.” She stomps off towards the kitchen, muttering under her breath.
Johnny’s bottom lip trembles. “I’m sorry, Robbie.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
I spot a large piece of glass near my foot and bend to pick it up, thinking I should at least try to help clean up. But the edge is sharper than it looks. I hiss as it slices into my finger.
“Robbie’s bleeding!” Johnny calls out, just as Maw returns with a dustpan and brush.
She gives my finger the briefest look before rolling her eyes. “For God’s sake, Robbie! I told you not to touch anything.” She grabs my wrist roughly. “You can’t stay still for a moment, can you? No, you never do as you’re told.”
She drags me to the kitchen, Johnny trailing behind us with worried eyes. Maw runs my finger under cold water, her movements quick and impatient.
“Always making more work for me,” she mutters, fetching a plaster and wrapping it around my finger with none of the gentleness she shows Johnny when he’s hurt. “Always causing problems. Why do you have to be so difficult?”
Back in the hallway, she points at the stairs. “Both of you, out of my sight. I’ll clean this up myself. You’ll only make it worse.”
Johnny looks like he might cry, so I take his hand. “Come on, let’s go to my room.”
We sit on my bed, listening to Maw banging around downstairs. Johnny leans against my shoulder, and I let him play with my toy cars, even the wee motorbike I usually keep on my shelf.
The front door opens around six o’clock, and Da’s heavy footsteps echo in the hallway. Johnny and I creep to the top of the stairs to listen.
“How was your day?” Da asks, his voice tired but kind.
“Terrible,” Maw replies. “Your eldest has been a nightmare. Smashed our wedding photo, after I specifically told him not to play ball in the house.”
Da sighs, and I can picture him rubbing his forehead the way he always does. “Robbie! Come down here, please.”
I trudge down the stairs, Johnny following close behind.
“Just for once, could I please come home and hear that you didn’t get up to mischief? Apologise to your mother.”
“But Da, I didn’t?—”
“I don’t want to hear it! Just apologise to your mother. Is that really too much to ask?”
I curl my hands into fists, my fingernails digging into my palms. My chest feels tight, like something is squeezing it.
“Young man, apologise to your mother right now!” Da’s voice gets that stern edge that means I’m in real trouble.
I look at Johnny, who stares back at me with sad eyes. I look at Maw, who’s waiting with that smug face she gets when things go her way. I look at Da, who’s too tired to even listen to my side.
Without a word, I turn and race up the stairs, slamming my bedroom door behind me. I kick my schoolbag across the room, scattering books and pencils everywhere.
It’s not fair. It’s never fair.
I throw myself onto my bed and punch my pillow, pretending it’s something else. Someone else.
It doesn’t help, but at least up here, no one can see the hot tears that spill down my cheeks.
* * *
The punchbag swings wildly as I slam my fist into it again and again. Each hit sends a jolt of pain up my arm, but I welcome it. Physical pain is simple. Straightforward. Nothing like the mess churning inside my head.
Sweat drips down my bare back. The garage is stuffy despite the door being wide open, but I don’t care. I need this. Need to hit something until my muscles scream and my lungs burn and my mind goes blissfully blank.
But it’s not working today.
I land another punch, harder this time, but it’s still no good. I step back, chest heaving, and grab a towel to wipe my face. The memory of Cat standing in her kitchen, talking about the fucking universe paying me, sends a fresh wave of anger through me. Gritting my teeth, I slam my fist into the bag again.
What kind of person hires someone when they’ve got no money to pay them? What kind of person talks about manifestation like it’s an actual strategy for paying bills?
A spoilt one, that’s who. A princess who’s never had to worry because there’s always been a big brother to fix her problems for her.
I’ve spent days working my arse off in that flat, thinking I was earning money I desperately need to keep afloat while this theft accusation hangs over me. And all the while, she was relying on the universe to sort things out.
Jesus Christ!
My fist connects with the bag so hard it nearly comes off its hook.
The worst part is, I actually opened up to her. Told her about my maw, about the night I found her parents’ car, about how I gave up fighting. I never tell people that stuff. There’s only Johnny, and even then, I prefer not to burden him with my mess.
And shit, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t talk to Johnny right now. Da’s made sure of that. My own brother—the one person who’s always had my back—is off-limits because of this investigation.
I pause, breathing hard, and lean against the workbench. My gaze falls on something crumpled in the corner of the garage. A small scrap of blush-coloured lace.
Cat’s knickers.
I stare at them for a long moment, remembering how I took them from her last night. How I walked away with them in my pocket.
Before I can think better of it, I cross the garage, pick them up, lift them to my face, and inhale deeply. Her scent hits me like a physical blow—sweet and musky and unmistakably her . In an instant, I’m back in those woods, with her on her knees, her mouth on me, her hands gripping my thighs. The memory sends heat surging through my body, pooling low in my gut.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tossing the knickers aside like they’ve burned me.
I stride back to the punchbag and hit it again, harder than before. What is wrong with me? I should be furious with her. I am furious with her. But even now, part of me wants to get on my motorcycle, ride to her flat, and finish what we started in those woods.
And that’s exactly why I need to stay the hell away from Catriona McIntyre.
I keep punching, trying to drive her from my thoughts. Left jab. Right hook. Repeat. My knuckles are raw despite the wraps, but I don’t stop.
This is why I keep to myself. Every time I let someone in, they let me down.
My maw was the worst for it, blaming me for anything that went wrong, looking at me like she wished she’d had a different kid altogether.
I pause, breathing heavily. Even now, I don’t understand what I did to make her hate me so much. Aren’t mothers supposed to have some primal urge to protect their kids? Survival of the species and all that. Well, apparently I was so fucking unlovable my mother was able to override that maternal instinct.
When she left, when I was eleven, she said to me, “I can’t do this anymore. Not with you always making everything so bloody difficult.” Like I was personally responsible for driving her out of our house. Not Johnny. Not Da. Me.
Now, as an adult, I know that’s bullshit. I know she was unhappy in her marriage, unhappy with small-town life, unhappy with being a mother. It wasn’t my fault.
But as an eleven-year-old? I believed her. And that belief shaped everything that came after—the scrapping, the vandalism, the stupid choices. If I was going to be blamed for everything anyway, why not actually do something to deserve it?
I slam my fist into the bag one last time then rest my forehead against the cool vinyl. What I really want is a proper fight, the kind I used to have in those warehouses in Inverness. The adrenaline, the danger, the clarity that comes when it’s just you and your opponent and nothing else matters.
But I gave that up. I made a promise to myself: no more fighting. No more risking lives, mine or anyone else’s.
I step back from the bag and unwrap my hands, flexing my fingers. They’re going to be stiff tomorrow, but that’s the least of my worries.
Cat’s knickers catch my eye again, sitting on the garage floor. Common sense says I should lob them into the rubbish and be done with them, with her . I actually reach for them to do just that, then I hesitate. Can’t bring myself to do it. Bloody pathetic.
Ugh. Get a grip, Robbie. What I need right now is a plan. I need to figure out who framed me at the resort, and I need to do it without Cat’s help. I can’t rely on her, or anyone else for that matter.
I’m about to head inside for a shower when there’s the rumble of a car working its way along the dirt track to the cottage. I tense. Is it the police, coming to arrest me? Maybe they’ve concluded their investigation and decided I’m guilty. Or perhaps it’s Cat, come to apologise—or to stir up more trouble.
Either way, I’m not in the mood for visitors.
I step out of the garage, squinting in the late afternoon sunlight. A red car parks beside my motorcycle, then the driver’s door opens and a familiar figure steps out.
David Adefope. Johnny’s boyfriend.
He’s dressed in what can only be described as an assault on the senses: a yellow shirt so bright it practically glows in the sunlight, electric blue trousers, and thick-rimmed turquoise glasses that ride low on his nose until he nudges them back into place.
“Oh my!” His eyes widen as they take in my bare, sweat-slicked upper half, and for a second his jaw actually drops. Then he throws a dramatic hand over his face and peeks at me through his fingers. “I resist temptation! I’m taken—and it’s your brother I’m with!”
Despite everything, I can’t help but chuckle. His embarrassment is pure theatre—I know he’s loving every second. “Relax, David. It’s just a chest.”
“Easy for you to say,” he replies, still covering his eyes, his fingers spread wide enough for him to ogle me shamelessly. “Some of us aren’t used to Greek gods strutting around half-naked on a Saturday afternoon.”
Smirking, I grab my T-shirt from the workbench and tug it over my head. Just moments ago, I’d have bitten someone’s head off for disturbing me, but actually, David being here? I’m strangely glad for the company.
When Johnny first introduced me to David, I was a wee bit surprised. My brother, quiet and reserved, with this loud Londoner who dresses... well, like he’s on his way to a pantomime rehearsal? But then I saw how Johnny lit up around him, how David could make my brother laugh like nobody else could, and that was enough to win me over.
David and I are about as different as two men can be, but I’ve always looked out for Johnny, have done my entire life. Anyone who loves him gets my respect too.
He walks over to the garage, his eyes flicking around, taking in my tools and the punchbag still swinging on its chain, then they land on Cat’s knickers on the floor. He raises an eyebrow but, to his credit, doesn’t comment on them (thank Christ).
“Well?” I say. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to see you, David. But why are you here?”
“So, the thing is...” David leans against the garage doorframe. “Johnny’s been having a tough time this last week.”
I frown. “ Johnny’s been having a tough time?”
“Okay, so maybe he’s not the only one,” David concedes with a small smile. “But he’s been out of sorts. At first I just thought it was because he was worried about you. I mean, he’s always worrying about you, but more so recently, of course.”
This catches me off-guard. I’d have said it was the other way around—that I’m the one always worrying about Johnny. But before I can question this, David continues.
“Plus, obviously he’s frustrated he’s been told to keep his distance from you while the police are investigating. But then today, when I was talking to him, I realised something else was eating him up, and I finally got it out of him.” David crosses his arms and fixes me with a piercing stare. “He confessed to me what you made him do, not tell anyone where he found that signet ring. More than that, lie to your da and the police about it.”
I pause a moment before answering, then point out with half-hearted grouchiness, “Seems like he didn’t do a very good job of not telling anyone .”
David waves away this comment. “I don’t count. The point is, we both know what Johnny’s like. He’s not one to step out of line or do things he’s not supposed to. So, not only has he been worrying himself sick about you, but the thought that he did something wrong by lying has been gnawing away at him.”
Guilt tugs at my conscience. I’ve always tried to protect Johnny, shield him from the worst parts of life. It bothers me that he’s suffering on my account.
“So, here’s what I need to know,” David says, straight-faced now. “Did you do it?”
“Are you being serious?” I step towards him. Old instincts—get bigger, get mean—kick in before I can think better of it. “You come here to my own home and ask me that?”
“I need to hear you say it.” David doesn’t back down even though I tower over him. “Did you do it?”
“No. Of course I bloody didn’t.”
David watches me for a few moments more, then he nods. “Yeah, I know you didn’t. I just needed to hear you say it.” His shoulders relax. “Anyway, Johnny isn’t supposed to talk to you about the investigation, but... I’m not Johnny!” He grins, our charged moment of just a few seconds ago apparently already forgotten. “And when I suggested that maybe I could come here and talk to you, the biggest smile lit up Johnny’s face. Honestly, you should have seen it. It was adorable.”
A reluctant smile twitches at my lips. I can imagine the look on my brother’s face.
“I don’t have much of an update,” David continues, “but Johnny has mentioned that nothing else has been stolen since you left, which is a pain.”
I groan. That just makes me look guiltier, as if my absence has magically solved everything and I was the problem all along.
“ However ,” David says, “Johnny was able to get me some things that may prove useful. Let me fetch them from the car. Drumroll, please!”
He’s as bad as Cat.
“This isn’t a game show, David,” I growl, although there’s no real heat behind it.
“Fine, fine. No appreciation of drama, you Highlanders.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “But trust me, you’re going to want to see this.”
He heads back to his car, whistling as he goes, and despite myself, the tiniest spark of hope flickers in my chest.