Hemispheres (27 page)

Don’t start getting techno-geeky on me. This is Dylan, by the way.
Planet Waves
. Recorded in nineteen seventy-three and not a digital thingy in sight.

We sit and listen to the music for a while. The fibre-optic light circles and circles.

He’s your brother, says Yan.

I stare at him.

Or, technically, your half-brother.

You mean Paul, I say, after a brief stunned silence.

He nods slowly.

I’ve kept in touch with him, over the years. Not often, just the odd phone call. That’s how I knew about the virus.

Who knows about this? I ask angrily. Does Paul know? Does Kate know?

A long pause.

Nobody knows, he says, finally, with a resigned look. Just me, and Deb – that’s his mam – and now you. She didn’t want me
to tell him anything
about it. She was married to Anth at the time and he thought the kid was his. I would have liked to tell him, to be more of
a father to him, but I had to respect what she wanted. And I couldn’t tell Kate. No way.

How did it happen? Paul and I are almost the same age. You must have – when you and Kate were trying for me.

He takes a deep breath.

I’m not proud of it. It just happened the once. It was getting on top of me, trying for a kid. Took the spontaneity out of
things. Out of sex. I had to perform to order when Kate’s cycle was right. And at other times she’d lost interest. Deb used
to work the odd shift in the bar, just to tide her over. She wasn’t bad-looking in them days. Average coupon but a decent
body. And one time she stayed late to clear up. It was pouring with rain outside and I offered her a lift home. Don’t know
how it happened, maybe I was just looking for kicks. Pulled the car off the road by the Synthonia ground and then her knickers
were round her ankles, skirt round her ears. Quick and ugly and the rain hammering on the roof, and that was all it took.

I stare at the fireplace for a moment, at the warm glow of Chinese lanterns.

Didn’t realize you’d been shitting in your own kennel. Right under Kate’s nose.

You wanted the truth, he says. All of it.

Aye.

I never felt like I was unfaithful, not really. It was just a physical thing, like a cow needs milking now and again. I was
never unfaithful to Kate in my head.

He pauses and sighs.

But you’re right, it was a mistake. Regret it, now.

Still couldn’t stop yourself though.

You know me Dan. Too late to change. Relationships always turn stale on me, sooner or later. You ever learn about the Magdeburg
hemispheres, when you were at school?

Nah. It was the eighties. They didn’t believe in formal learning.

It was an early physics experiment – air pressure and vacuums. They locked together two brass hemispheres and pumped the air
away from inside. More or less creates a vacuum. Even when they hitched a horse to each side they couldn’t pull the damn things
apart. See, that’s what it feels like to me. Two people glued so tight together, they use up all the oxygen. I can’t breathe.
I have to pull things apart and let the air back in.

So why now? Do you want me to tell Paul?

He ponders before answering. Bob Dylan chimes away in the background, forgotten.

Up to you, he says. Tell him if you want. Just wanted you to know about him, really. It was in the back of me mind, all when
you were both growing up. That there was somebody missing. Just go and see him. Make contact. Why are you laughing?

I shake my head.

I was just remembering Fraser’s wife, all them years ago. She thought Paul was your son and not me. And it was the truth all
along.

It’s easy to be unfaithful, he says. The easiest thing in the world. You just have to jump on when it comes past, like. I’m
proud of you Dan. You haven’t done that. You’ve carried on working at it with Kelly, even when I told you to jump ship. You’ve
stayed centred, son.

I don’t feel centred, I say. I feel like you said. Like there’s no air.

Snow falls quietly down in orange flurries, corroding on contact with the wet car bonnets and the tarmac. A few miles away
Whooper swans are settling on the dark mudflats. Winter is coming.

I don’t want to go home, don’t want to cook another meal for Kelly and Martin while they rip the piss out of me. So I stop
into the Unicorn on the off chance. It’s Friday evening, the last before Christmas, and Matt and the gang are there drinking
steadily in the packed side room and smoke is blooming above their heads.

Danny boy, shouts Matt, clearly the worse for wear. Fancy meeting
you in a place like this. It’s Black Eye Friday son. Happy holidays. He launches into song, school’s – out – for – ever, before
collapsing into raucous laughter.

Last day on site, explains Clare as I squeeze into a seat, her pale face intent. No more work till after New Year’s. Mind
you, no more pay till after New Year’s either.

Don’t you get holiday pay? I ask.

They smirk.

That’s shit, I say. Mind you, I’m self-employed. Same deal, really. So is the site finished now?

Nah, says Clare, pushing her hair back under a woolly hat. Still some bits and pieces to do. Matt’s coming back with a couple
of others in January, to polish it off, but the three of us are going. Big Roman site near Hull.

Hull, scowls Matt. Rather you than me. Pint Danny? They’ve called last orders.

He weaves off towards the bar.

Must be cold, digging in this weather, I say. Been snowing on and off for a while.

It’s not too bad when you’re working, says Julie, sucking on a thin cigarette.

There is a group of girls, an office party, squealing happily at the table behind her. They wear Santa hats, tinsel twisted
into their hair.

And the snow never seems to stick around here, she says. Hits the ground, turns brown, and melts.

Teesside microclimate, I say.

It’s when you stop working, she goes on. Filling in sheets or doing a drawing. Then it really starts to bite. Clare never
gets cold, do you Clare?

What?

She comes to with a start.

Sorry, miles away.

She has a pinched pale face, like a street urchin, and deep grey eyes
which remind me unaccountably of Yan. She’s squashed against me on the bench and I can feel the warmth of her against my side.
Matt returns with a tray full of drinks, contents slopping lightly down the sides. He passes them out. My phone rings. I look
at the display and recognize my home number. Reject the call.

Putting off going home? says Clare, lightly.

Something like that. So where are you going for Christmas?

Well, spending it on my own in the flat didn’t seem too attractive, so I decided to foist myself on the parents. Going up
there on the train tomorrow, in fact.

Whereabouts? Scottish borders, I’d say, from the accent. Jedburgh? She smiles.

Not far away. Selkirk.

Nice part of the world.

Aye. It’s a bit of a depressing experience though. There’s my brothers and sisters, all grown up with proper jobs and mortgages,
all married, starting to have kids. And there’s Clare, thirty-three, unmarried, hasn’t even got a steady boyfriend, you know.
Persists in doing archaeology, like a student. But doesn’t she know there are no prospects? Living in these awful rented flats,
like a gypsy. When’s she going to settle down?

Sounds like fun.

It’s not too bad, really. Mum always puts on a good spread.

She lifts her pint up and knocks back a good third of it.

So what are you doing for Christmas Dan?

I’m momentarily stumped. Kelly and me haven’t talked about it.

Do you know what? I haven’t got a clue, I say, bursting into embarrassed laughter. Supping beers with my terminally ill father,
maybe. At least he’s got some decs up.

People are beginning to drift away from the pub now. The bar shutters have come down and the staff are winkling the stragglers
away from their tables.

Chucking-out time, says Andy. You getting the bus back Matt?

I’m starving, says Clare, anyone up for chips? There’s one just up the High Street.

I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast, beer rapidly rising to my head. I feel flushed.

I’m in, I say.

Hugs, kisses, Happy Christmases, and the other three head to the bus stop.

Looks like it’s just you and me kid, says Clare.

The chips are mealy and pungent. We stroll back along the High Street, browsing on them, towards where I left the car, trying
to avoid slicks of black ice across the pavement.

Need a lift? I ask her.

Nah, I’m just round the corner. You know the flats over behind the church there.

I’m about to answer but my heel slips on a patch of ice and I’m suddenly sitting on the pavement. I’ve banged my coccyx and
for a moment I can’t speak, but sit there gaping like a fish. Clare bursts into ringing laughter, and then I’m laughing too.
She holds out both hands and pulls me to my feet. Small, warm hands. We carry on until we arrive at the car.

You know, she says, if you still want to put off going home, I’ve got a bottle of sloe gin back at the flat. It’s good stuff.
Antifreeze for the soul. Some friends of mine make it every year.

Sounds right up my street.

We walk along Norton Green and into the churchyard. Completely dark, trees looming either side of the drive.

It’s a good short cut through to the flats, she says. But you get all sorts in here at night. One time there was this couple
over there, lying on a sleeping bag. The moon was out and all you could see was his white arse going up and down.

I like the way you say arse, I grin. Sounds sharp and Scottish. Say it again.

She looks at me inquisitively.

Arse, she says.

We’ve passed through the lych gate, and now we’re walking alongside the church itself, past a war memorial with stone steps.

Another time, she says, conspiratorially, grabbing my forearm with her hand, I was walking up here and there was a figure
standing right there, on the steps, all dressed in white. Like a ghost. A young man, tall, with blond hair. As I walked past
he said something. The time of test is at hand. Something like that. Asked him who he was and he said I am the Christ. He
was agitated, you know. Fidgeting. I just hurried on. That’s care in the community for you. The time of test is at hand. Later
on I realized it was Easter.

We walk through the cemetery to the rear of the church, the dark hulks of churchyard yews and the pale headstones. Her arm
is still through mine. At the churchyard wall there’s a gate through to the street on the other side. We slow and stop and
then she’s in front of me, still holding on to my forearm, and I fall towards her white face and kiss her. Gentle at first,
tentative, but then our tongues are sliding together, turning over and over, my hands holding her waist and her arms around
my neck.

That was nice, she says quietly, when it ends, her dark eyes peering into mine.

You know I’m married, I say.

I’m not a bunny boiler Dan, she says. I’m going away tomorrow. You just look like you need some company. And I happen to fancy
you, quite a lot. It’s simple, really. Easy.

Cut to the chase, I say. Don’t beat around the bush.

She laughs and we kiss again. Then we walk through towards the flats. I retrieve the phone from my pocket and turn it off.

Do you want a lift to the station tomorrow? I ask, knocking back half a glass of the magenta liquid. It’s stronger than I
imagined, thick and heady with a melancholy aftertaste of autumn.

Aye, if you’re offering. Got to be away early, mind.

No bother. I’m heading over that way anyway. Going to visit somebody.

What, your other girlfriend? she murmurs, snuggling against me on the sofa.

Half-brother. Only just found out tonight. And he doesn’t know it yet.

Bloody hell, she says. You do lead an eventful life. And I thought you were just a boring computer geek. Refill?

She glugs more into the glass without waiting for an answer. My cheeks already burning with the alcohol.

Heating’s crap in here, so you’ll need a few glasses.

I tell her about Paul as we drink. The flat small and cold, the furniture shabby. Dirty yellow foam rubber spills out of the
sofa. Sirens echoing across Stockton.

I’m going to bed, she says, yawning. Coming?

I follow her into the bedroom. A sleeping bag rumpled across the bare mattress and a smell of damp.

Not exactly the Hilton, I’m afraid, she says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and stripping off her jumper and bra over
her head in one swift movement. Her long wayward hair bounces darkly down over her smooth shoulders and full breasts, her
white belly and hips. I stand in front of her, alcohol pounding in my head.

It’s easy Danny, she says, taking my hands. You just have to let yourself fall.

I lower myself on top of her and she rolls backwards into the bed, pulling me after her, quick and nimble fingers flipping
open buttons and pushing down trousers until I slide into her, her fingers running up my spine, her breath of bitter autumn
berries in my face. The easiest thing in the world.

Next morning I pull up outside the hostel. This is him. The way he thinks, the way he experiences life. The simplicity of
last night. Perfect and inevitable. Why should I feel guilty?

Me and Clare were reserved this morning, polite small talk in the car,
a kiss on the cheek as she got onto the train. Self-loathing like stale cigarette smoke clinging to my clothes. I look at
myself in the driver’s mirror. Slight bags beneath the eyes but otherwise the same lived-in face. Tell myself that nothing’s
changed.

The warden, Duncan, is busy with paperwork behind the reception desk. I finger the packet of sweets in my pocket.

Hi, I say.

He looks up abruptly.

I’m here to see Paul. Paul O’Rourke. I was here a couple of months ago?

Duncan looks uncomfortable.

Perhaps you’d better step into my office. We can talk more private in there.

A chill passes over me and my heart pounds. It’s too late. I sit down in the proffered chair and Duncan wedges himself behind
the desk. A tiny office, piles of paperwork and correspondence on the desk. Shelves with box files cover nearly all the wall
space.