Page 7 of Second Story

Plenty of people don’t keep cars in London, but I grin again at Josh refusing to be diverted by baby talk or nursery decorating. “I needed it for work.”

“What work?”

“Why are you so interested?”

“Because if you’re actually in Cornwall to see the Emerson kid before he gives evidence, I need you to do me a favour.”

“No.” I’m not black and white about much. Give and take is my usual motto. In my new role, this is the one subject I can’t give an inch on, even for Josh. “Because if the kids I support through the court process think I share their secrets with someone who works alongside law enforcement, they won’t trust me, will they? That’s why we don’t talk about work.”

“That’s your rule, not mine. Just because?—”

“Shit!” I cut him off. I have to when that van driver behind me makes his move, and none too safely. He only just makes it past me. Any slower and he’d be pancaked by the milk tanker rumbling past in the other direction. “Fuck, that was close.”

“Close? What was close?” Josh makes a long-distance guess. “Don’t tell me you’re driving. Pull over. Now.”

I don’t always do what my twin tells me, but that was too close a shave for comfort. “Hang on. I’m almost at a lay-by.”

I head for it, the sea glinting to my left and sheep grazing to my right as Josh spits facts about mortality rates caused by distracted drivers, like the one who cost us our always-laughing mother.

“I wasn’t distract?—”

“Shut your yap and keep your eyes on the road.”

My phone spews penalties for driving without due care and attention. Josh recites sentencing guidelines chapter and verse, and I don’t interrupt how he shows his version of care. Snapping at me like this is one example.

So is him finishing up by grumbling, “I already told you all of this, you bellend. Yes, taking hands-free calls is legal, but do you know how many calls were connected during road traffic accidents last year? Or how many of those ended in fatalities?” He tells me in precise, if grisly, detail and finishes with, “That can’t be coincidental. Nothing is. Those fatalities were due to?—”

“PPD,” I finish for him once I’ve pulled off the road. “Piss-poor decision-making.” That’s what Dad used to say in the ring down at the local boxing club if I didn’t raise my guard fast enough, or when I couldn’t make myself take a swing at Josh while sparring. I’m resigned to being a lover, not a fighter. And when it comes to my brother, I’m resigned to another lecture as I pull up in that lay-by and come to a stop behind a different van.

The driver of this old Transit can’t be in as much of a hurry as the vehicle that just overtook me. He’s taken the time to get out of his rust bucket to admire the sea view while I do a little admiring of my own, but I’ve always been a sucker for long and lean men built like Isaac. For heavy biker boots combined with painted-on jeans. For wild, black hair that today’s sea breeze teases as he turns to stand in profile, and?—

It’s him.

Again.

Fuck whatever my brother thinks about coincidences. Here’s a second chance to get an answer to what really left me burning last night. Because if Isaac is here, where’s his little brother?

I can see the irony of an ex-school dodger like me trying to keep kids in education, but if there’s anyone better to prove that kids going off the rails early only leads to a world of pain in their future, I’ve yet to meet them.

My brother is another reminder of why early intervention matters as soon as he switches our call to video. Josh fills my screen to bark, “Don’t ever answer a call when you’re driving. I want you around to be an uncle.”

I nod at my almost double. Yes, Josh and I still share the same dark stare and thick, black headful of hair as all da Silvas, but Josh is only scarred by frown lines.

If he rolled up his shirt sleeves, his forearms wouldn’t be my own melted nightmare, and if he took off his shirt, his back and midriff would be as unmarked as Isaac’s, who can’t have any idea I’m right here watching him shoulder out of his T-shirt.

Surely he isn’t planning to swim like I did last night. It’s one hell of a drop from this cliff.

Again, another question niggles.

Where the fuck is his brother?

I reach for my door handle, about to go find out, when a wasp buzzes. Or at least my brother does, just as annoying and persistent. “Promise me, Joe. About not using your phone when driving, yeah?”

I look away from a compelling view of gold-toned skin to nod at my phone—at Josh, who won’t quit until I answer aloud. “I promise, I promise. Listen, I’m parked up, safe and sound, so calm your tits and tell me what you really want. I’m running late, so spit it out already.”

Beyond my dashboard, Isaac has swapped that T-shirt for a slim-fitting button-up shirt. He bends to unfasten his boots next, andhello. His arse is a whole lot more appealing than listening to my brother.

I tilt my head, studying what I couldn’t let myself notice back when his brother was on my caseload. Maybe I study him peeling down his jeans for too long. A wasp buzzes again. “Sorry.” I drag my eyes away to focus on my brother’s face on my phone screen. “I missed that, Josh. Say again, will you?” Payingattention is tough when Isaac kicks out of his jeans. He also glances back, and I remember this kind of chin-raised challenge. Before he realises it’s me, this narrow-eyed stare asks a silent question.

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