Don't Look Back (2 page)

‘You'll all be sorry one day. Sorry you didn't listen to me, that you didn't understand me or love me more … I won't be around much longer. That will teach everyone a lesson … especially you, Sinead.'

The door was made of sturdy oak with a Gothic arch mellowed with age, the grain prominent in blackish whorls and knots. My ear rested against the warm wood for at least five minutes, trying to pluck up the courage to enter. I wasn't naive. My father was a doctor and had never protected me from the realities of his profession, which seemed like a curse just now. But there was no going back. With trembling hands I inserted the spare key into the lock. One small turn, a twist of the door handle and I hesitantly entered, clumsily moving forward, all my senses working overtime. There were no strange smells or unusual sounds; in fact the silence was eerie. I couldn't even hear any street noise floating upward. My eyes quickly scanned the living room as I moved into the bedroom, lifting the duvet with the toe of my trainer in case anything was lurking underneath.

No matter how hard I tried to block it out, my mind conjured up the horrors I was expecting to see – a red tinge stained my vision as if I'd recently peered at the sun. Terror, apprehension, guilt – whatever Patrick had done this time, some of the blame had to be mine. I'd heard my mother say so often that we'd failed him, all of us. I approached the bathroom; time stood still and my heart thumped
like crazy. Inch by inch, I moved to look around the door as if limiting my vision would somehow shield me from whatever was there. But the reality was simply plain white tiles with an electric blue border. The shower cubicle was completely dry, not a droplet of condensation remaining, which told me it hadn't been used recently. The kitchen was the same except for one tantalizingly slow drip from the mixer tap.

With a huge sigh of relief I sat on the sofa and tried to swallow, my lips so dry that they stuck together. Now I could get angry.

You are completely selfish, Patrick, without a thought for anyone but yourself. Everything revolves around you. I feel like your prisoner. You make me so furious I just want to explode.

I took a moment to cool down and calm my pounding heart, unable to stop myself from reflecting how different things might have been without the spectre of Patrick hanging over us. My parents might still be together instead of torn apart by years of arguing over their wayward son's behaviour. I didn't blame Dad for leaving. Whenever he'd suggested getting tough with Patrick, Mum had stopped him. Patrick needed love, she would insist, nothing else. Four years ago, when I was twelve, Dad had accepted a medical posting overseas, working for an aid organization, and since then I didn't get to see him often. Patrick had robbed me of so much, but there was no use feeling sorry for myself. I'd always looked out
for him, and as long as he needed me I couldn't abandon him.

I stood and rotated my neck, trying to release some of the tension. It was then I noticed what was weird about the room, so weird that I stood up and turned three hundred and sixty degrees to absorb every detail. It only took a minute for me to realize that I had to tell someone. Now.

‘Slow down,' Harry said, ‘take deep breaths and tell me what's happened.'

I blew out noisily, trying not to pant. ‘Patrick hasn't been in contact for over two weeks. I went to his flat and found it's been totally cleaned. It's freakishly spotless.'

Harry shrugged. ‘So he's turned over a new leaf and decided not to live like a slob any more.'

I shook my head doubtfully. ‘You know Patrick – his space reflects his personality: chaotic and out of control. I think something's very wrong, and so does Mum.'

Harry pursed his lips. ‘Why didn't your mum go herself? It wasn't fair to send you alone.'

My eyes widened. ‘You don't understand, Harry. It's what I'm expected to do, what I need to do.'

I'd asked Harry to meet me at our local police station and he pulled me on to the wall outside. I looked affectionately at his shaggy hair, scruffy T-shirt and ripped jeans; Harry never gave his appearance a thought. He was
my best friend, but I'd always tried to spare him the mess that was Patrick's life. I smoothed the creases from my forehead with my fingers, my eyes squinting in the low sun.

‘You've never really explained this thing between you two, Sinead. Why this huge sense of duty?'

‘He's my brother, Harry … Isn't that enough?'

Harry's silence spoke volumes. He always knew when I was holding out on him. I stared into his soft blue eyes wondering why someone as easy-going and well adjusted as him would bother with someone like me. We were both science nuts, only one school year separating us, and he'd made it more than plain he would have liked me to be his girlfriend, but I didn't feel that way about him. I never seemed to have the time to think about relationships.

‘OK, there is something else,' I said, sighing. ‘Patrick used to play this game with me when we were younger; “Following Patrick's Footsteps”, he called it. He made me promise that whenever he went, I'd always come looking for him.'

Harry looked grave. ‘I worry about you, Sinead. You're so manic and … angry. Don't you ever feel it's time to let go of Patrick, and stop running from everyone?'

I ignored the last part. ‘Of course I'd like to be free of Patrick … and not be so constantly wound up … but family stuff's complicated.'

‘Help me to understand,' Harry urged.

I stared into the distance at a group of children having fun spraying each other with water and shrieking with
laughter. ‘The thing is … I feel responsible in a way. Everything changed when I was born. Patrick's jealousy got out of hand.'

‘Sibling rivalry is … kind of normal.'

‘Not like this,' I came back fiercely. ‘Patrick was so jealous it wasn't safe to leave us alone together. Mum really feared for my safety until … she devised a way to pacify him.'

‘What was it?'

I swallowed with difficulty because I'd never told this to anyone before, but I had a compulsion to finally make Harry understand what it had been like living with Patrick.

‘I had to stay completely covered with a blanket. If no one saw me or paid me any attention, then he didn't mind. I'm not sure how long it went on for, but Mum told me when I was older as if it was funny or endearing.'

Harry grimaced. ‘That's bizarre.'

I raked my fingers through my short hair. ‘I don't know why Mum had another child – she's spent the last sixteen years trying to make up to Patrick for it.'

Harry put a hand over mine, his voice suddenly gentle. ‘You should have told me more before. I knew things weren't good at home …' He trailed off and then kind of shook himself. ‘I'll help you find Patrick. This could be his wake-up call … and a chance for you to escape and get your life back.'

It's too late
, I wanted to say.
The damage was done a long time ago and I can't ever go back. I can't even
remember my life before Patrick's problems consumed me.

I stood, flexing my hands. Before we set foot in the police station Harry gave me his usual pep talk.

‘Don't lose your temper, Sinead. It will only backfire.'

I smiled at him. He was always trying to keep me in check, although he wasn't often successful. The automatic doors opened and I went in first. The police officer behind the glass screen was obviously practised in intimidation. He listened to my story about Patrick with a dead-eye stare that was crushing and antagonistic at the same time.

‘So, let me get this straight,' he said. ‘You want to report your brother missing because his flat has been mysteriously tidied?'

‘No, of course not,' I answered. ‘That's just one of the strange things. It's the fact he's been missing for over two weeks that concerns me the most –'

‘No beer cans or wine bottles around,' Harry interrupted. ‘Now that's
really
weird.'

The police officer pulled a resigned heard-it-all-before face. I gave Harry a furious sideways glance. From when Patrick had first began to go off the rails I'd been schooled in covering up his drinking, and this was so ingrained that I grew hot at the nakedness of Harry's words. In an instant he had stripped away all the years of pretending and keeping up appearances. I coughed affectedly, but now it was in the open I felt I should elaborate.

‘You don't understand. My brother has an … um … addiction problem and is quite … vulnerable.'

‘Does he have a social worker?'

‘No … he has a therapist … a private therapist.'

That didn't go down well. It smacked of elitism and snobbery. The police officer didn't reply but a deep V-shape appeared between his eyebrows. Something told me I was losing his interest.

‘I really think you need to investigate,' I persisted. ‘The entire flat isn't right. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to erase … something.'

‘Are his possessions still there?' the bored voice continued.

‘Yes, his clothes are still in the wardrobe, but I couldn't find his wallet.'

‘Are you eighteen?' the policeman demanded.

I shook my head.

‘Your parents should have come themselves.'

I winced. ‘They would, but my mother is really … distressed and my father is abroad, working for an overseas aid organization … he's a doctor.'

The police officer held one hand against the screen as a colleague appeared and they put their heads together, deep in conversation. This was obviously his you'll-have-to-wait-don't-bother-me-any-more gesture. Someone sighed very close behind me and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up in anger. I hated anyone invading my personal space, and this person was doing just that. Their arrogance made
me instinctively assume that whoever it was was male, and I slowly turned my head, pleased to be right.

He was a few inches taller than me. His hair was sun-bleached and his skin tanned. The colour told me it wasn't from a couple of weeks frying on a package holiday. The white vest, denim cut-offs and sandals made him look like he'd just come from the beach. I could almost smell salt and sun cream. He was muscular, although not in a pumped-up way, and he flashed me a cocky smile. I disliked him intensely at first sight.

Unconsciously I threw back my shoulders and raised my head to look him in the eye. My stance was confrontational – arms folded, face set hard.

‘Sorry? Can I help you?'

He took a step back. ‘My phone's been stolen. I'm waiting to report it.'

He had an accent that sounded Australian. ‘Your phone's been stolen,' I repeated with as much contempt as if he'd said that someone had pinched his lollipop. ‘My
brother
is missing, and all you can do is breathe on me.'

‘Sinead!' Harry said warningly.

I thrust out my chin but tried to simmer down. ‘Anyway … a little space would be nice.'

The beach boy weighed up Harry, which took me by surprise. Harry used to be so geeky, but he'd undergone a transformation these past few months, shot up in height and got broader shoulders. Even his face had lost its roundness. It was my turn next. I could feel a pair of hazel
eyes moving from the top of my black spiky hair, down to my nose stud and long legs. I was skinny and sometimes I'd been mistaken for a boy from behind. Harry's nickname for me was Big Bird. Only he could get away with that.

‘You must be the rudest girl I've ever met.'

Despite Harry's disapproval I was glad to have needled the stranger. ‘You obviously don't get out much,' I said, and indicated the benches running either side of the room. ‘That's the waiting area.'

Something about this tickled him because he gave a cynical smirk. ‘Life's just one big waiting room,' he drawled, and lazily flopped on to a bench, arms clasped behind his head and legs outstretched.

I was strangely incensed at his words. ‘Thanks for the philosophy lesson,' I shouted across. ‘But my time's precious.'

He leaned forward, his face serious, and ran one hand through his tousled hair. ‘So is mine … it's always later than you think.'

‘Uppity, arrogant, opinionated, macho …' My tirade ended only when I ran out of insults.

Harry shook his head at me in amazement. ‘He's in a strange country, Sinead, he doesn't know the system and you bawl him out just for standing behind you.'

‘He was too close for comfort and I didn't like his attitude.' Reluctantly I grinned, noticing Harry's stunned expression. I had a terrible attitude problem and I knew it. I swiped his arm with the tips of my fingers. ‘He mentioned time. You know how much that gets to me.'

‘I know,' Harry soothed. ‘Your obsession it's a bit … unusual.'

‘I almost died when I was little, remember? Maybe I'm still running from the grim reaper.'

‘You're so completely weird,' Harry said. ‘That's what I love about you.'

I looked away, uncomfortable. ‘It's always later than you think,' I mocked, still livid at the stranger. ‘As if I
needed reminding. That guy was like a weird messenger of doom.'

Harry's eyebrows peaked. ‘Most people don't constantly measure time as if it's their last day on earth.'

‘Well, they should. We spent thirty-three minutes in that police station, in a pointless exercise in going nowhere.'

‘You need a shrink, Sinead.'

I pulled a face. ‘Patrick has the shrink … my mother didn't think I was important enough to get one.'

We reached Patrick's flat and I impatiently keyed in the entry code and ran up the stairs three at a time. I flung open the door and absorbed the whiteness of the walls and the pristine space, not a thing out of place.

‘Look, Harry, I wasn't exaggerating. This could be a monk's cell, and the bed is made like in a hospital, so tightly tucked it's impossible to get into.'