Page 23 of These Tears

I grind his words quietly between my molars, nails digging crescent moons into my palm beneath the table.

When the meaning finally sets in, my tongue presses hard against the back of my teeth and my nails bite deeper into my skin. ‘Are you saying the article wasn’t true?’

He snaps up in his seat like a puppet yanked upright.

‘I’m sayin’ cash is hard tae come by, as I’m sure a wee no-name writer like yerself understands.’

His eyes drop briefly to my handbag.

I narrow my eyes at him, fingers already twitching. Because he’s been selling me bloody gossip.

Jaw clenched, I slap fifty quid against the table, and he snatches it as if it might grow legs and run off.

‘Old man Crane was known for a bit o’ domestic violence, yeah,’ he mutters, eyes darting to the side. ‘Heard it didnae take much tae get the boy worked up wi’ him.’

I stare. ‘You left that out in the article.’

He grins. ‘Can’t print what ye can’t prove. But knock on enough doors, ye hear things.’

‘What about his mother?’ I ask.

He regards me shrewdly for two long breaths.

‘Typically,’ I say hurriedly, ‘when someone grows up with one parent missing and the other violent, they internalise it. Could be the basis for something more sinister.’

He hums. ‘Emotionally stunted, no secure attachment figure, aye?’ His lips curl into a sneer. ‘Christ. Ye women watch too many crime dramas and think ye’ve got a bloody doctorate in forensic psychology. Sociopathic da’, absent mum, troubled son, jealous brother?’

I try not to make it obvious that my mind has latched onto the adjective he’s attached to the brother.

When no follow-up comes, and two thick beats of silence hang between us, I reach into my bag again. Fingering another note, I pull it out and slide it across the table. The Queen stares back from it as if she’s in on the joke.

‘And what else have you heard?’

He grins a mouthful of crooked, yellowed teeth and pulls a battered packet of cigarettes from his coat. He taps one halfway out and offers it to me.

I glance pointedly at the NO SMOKING sign at the door, and he follows my gaze. With a muttered curse, he tucks the cigarette behind his ear and takes another swallow of rum instead, enjoying the tiny kingdom of leverage I’ve handed him.

‘I’ve heard…’ he drawls then, clearly enjoying the stage he’s placed himself on. There’s a pause, drawn-out and purposeful, as though he thinks I might gasp or beg. But when I don’t so much as blink, he moves on. ‘There’s some… unhealthy brotherly rivalry in the mix. Some lass.’

My brow twitches. ‘What does that have to do with Arthur Crane?’ I ask, keeping my tone level, though it takes everything in me not to recoil from his proximity.

One of his bony shoulders rises. ‘As I said—’ He smiles. ‘Big brother might have a few answers.’

His grin widens with obvious pleasure in himself: he’s just swindled a hundred pounds out of me for little more than a breadcrumb.

I nod slowly and thank him, resisting the urge to demonstrate my actual sentiment by sending my glass with the entirety of its questionable contents into his face.

Pushing my chair back with grace, I gather my things and remind myself that cockroaches are rarely worth the effort.

Nevertheless, the word brother follows me all the way to the door – along with an ugly flicker of relief that I’m no longer chasing the wrong question.

Less than half an hour later, I step through my front door.

As I’m shedding my boots, voices drift from down the hall, and I head into the sitting room.

Before I even reach the kitchen archway, I recognise who one of them belongs to.

‘Marina?’ I frown.