Page 130 of Forever, Maybe
He slapped the boy’s back and moved off. No-one had stolen his car. The only bonus point in a day that had sent his heart soaring and plummeting to the ground. Would anyone notice if he planted his face on his steering wheel and wept?
Reluctantly concluding that someone might, he started the car up and drove off. How did this stand him with Nell now that they both knew they were evenly matched, infidelity-wise?
It made no difference. His child or not, Nell wouldn’t forgive him for the sanctimonious way he had treated her when he found out about Jamie Curtice, and she’d only ended up sleeping with him because he had let her down so badly when she was offered that exhibition.
No, she hadn’t use that as an excuse, but it could not have been a coincidence.
Rain didn’t obscure his view as he drove back along the A82; rather the tears that poured down his cheeks.
Chapter fifty-four
Daniel’sphonebatteryhaddied somewhere between arriving at his mother’s house and setting off for the industrial estate. Now, as he sat at yet another red light on the A82, he plugged it into the cigarette lighter. The screen lit up, revealing several missed calls—Joe and his mother among them.
Joe had sent a text too:Nell on the warpath.
Brilliant. So she must have gone to the office first before dropping in on Trish with the bombshell.
Mark would be at the kitchen-fitters in the Hillington industrial estate, blissfully unaware of the chaos heading his way. Daniel drove over the River Clyde, turning right into the sprawling estate—far bigger than the one in Anniesland—but the second he pulled into the car park determined to have a go at the little shit, his nerve failed him.
No. This wasn’t the time.
Instead, he swung into a parking space outside Dunelm Mills, the furnishings store, staring at his phone. No missed calls from Nell. That wasn’t reassuring. He called her anyway.
The cheery voicemail message kicked in:Hi there! I know people hate speaking to answer machines, but I’d love it if you left me a message…
He hung up. The phone rang immediately. His mother.
“Well?” Trish demanded. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
Daniel exhaled. “The boy’s not mine, Mum.” He ran a hand over his face. “Though… he could have been.”
“What?” Her voice sharpened. “What does that mean?”
At forty-three, should you be ratting out your brother to your mother? No. No matter how tempting it was to finally dump Mark—her golden boy—right in it, he decided against it.
“Ryan—that’s the boy’s name—works for me. I’ve just spoken to him. Turns out I’m not his dad. Years ago, I woke up in this woman’s room and had no idea if we’d… slept wi’ each other. Which is why I thought there was a chance. But Ryan knows who his father is, and it’s no’ me.”
Silence.
Then came the explosion.
“Terrible, terrible! To not evenknowif you’d slept with her! What sort of man, a son of mine, does—”
“If we’re weighing up good and bad,” Daniel said, voice flat, “what sort of woman provides false alibis for her brother? Knowing full well she’s lying about where he was when people turn up beaten or dead? Connor Kelly, for a start. That’s worse than infidelity, I’d say.”
“I… I…” His mother faltered. “WeneededShane’s money! Your dad couldn’t work.Youneeded it too! You’d never have started the business without it.”
It was a low blow, and he knew it. Trish had probably never grasped the full extent of her brother’s crimes. Chosen, deliberately, to remain ignorant. Spent plenty of time on her knees in the chapel, begging God for forgiveness.
Unlike him.
He’d known exactly where Shane O’Malley’s money came from—heroin, trafficked women, smuggled cigarettes and booze—but he’d taken it anyway. Shane had likely assumed the van and shop would fold quickly, that he could launder money through them for years.
He hadn’t expected Daniel’s sheer bloody determination to make it work.
So Daniel worked. And worked. And worked. Paid Shane back as fast as he could.
Still, when Jennifer Frazer had mentioned Shane, he’d jumped a mile. But Dougie, the crime writer, hadn’t followed up. No ominous emails, no digging. NoWell, Mr Murray, despite their best efforts, the police were never able to link your uncle to murder, trafficking, assault or drug possession with intent to supply. But when you accept blood money, how do you reconcile your conscience?
