She hadn’t. It wasn't the response she was expecting from her friend and it read like a rebuke. While Ellen lived with their mother, Mark, as the closest thing to a responsible adult in Deidre's life, had borne the brunt of her desperate need to prove her husband's innocence. Mark had propped up her belief for so long he was unable, or unwilling, to break free. Ellen fingered the edge of the tablet. How to explain what Deidre had done to Mark?
She typed. He's her puppet.
That can't be easy for him. He's trying to hold things together. How’s the appeal going?
I don't know. Nowhere, I guess.
Then, don't worry. You don't want your father out, do you?
No!
Then, Mark's okay?
She hesitated. He's okay.
If he isn't, you'll know. If that day comes when you've nobody, then come to me in Ireland.
She stared wide-eyed at the screen. It was the first time he had suggested they meet up, and given a hint of where he lived. She liked the idea he was Irish and it explained his easy going appeal.
Why? she asked tentatively.
There are great digs in my area. You can get your hands filthy.
She laughed. Dirty man.
Humour was good. It softened destructive edges and eased tension, like a crumb fight.
~ * ~
Ellen pounded on the door. ‘Nicky!’
The boom of the bass beat weakened, and the door opened a crack.
‘Ellie, hun.’ Nicky waved her in with a beaming smile. ‘I thought you were out.’
She pushed the door shut with her bottom. ‘I should get one of those broomsticks with an extension so I can bang on the ceiling.’
He laughed. ‘Little old ladies do that.’
‘Little old ladies are generally deaf. I'm not.’
He swaggered across the room, sashaying his hips. The effeminate mannerism was the only one Nicky possessed. The rest of him was pure masculinity. From his beefy shoulders to his lithe calves with their pronounced tendons and chiselled muscles, Nicky exuded youthfulness, which, given he was close to thirty, was especially impressive.
Ellen stole an apple from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter. His bedsit was identical to hers, even the kitchen units were the same, except his were stained and one of the handles had come loose. He might be proud of his body, but Nicky wasn't keen on exercising it with housework. Somewhere, buried under abandoned clothes and fitness magazines, were his dumb-bells and fluorescent pink trainers.
‘So, tell me. How did it go with big bro?’
She swallowed a mouthful of apple. ‘Better than I thought. He didn't know I’m a vegetarian. In fact, he doesn't know much about me at all.’ She perched on the end of the sofa next to a lingering odour of take-aways.
‘Hardly surprising, is it?’
‘It was a bit like a blind date.’
Nicky covered his mouth in feigned horror. His burnished eyes sparkled with merriment. ‘You're dating and it's not me. I'm heartbroken.’
‘I'm dating my brother, yes. That's how sad my life is.’
They both laughed.
The translucent t-shirt revealed what she liked best about him, as did the knee-length shorts that hung awkwardly low on his pelvis. He yanked them up and immediately, they dropped back to below his hipbones. The ribbons of his groin muscles rose up to meet the brace of parallel abs. She couldn't imagine him in a suit and tie. Nicky was born for the grunge look and it reminded her why he was forbidden fruit. She turned away and spun the apple on her palm. One bite and she had lost her appetite.
‘We didn't talk about family,’ she said.
‘You mean the unmentionables.’
Not long after they met – colliding halfway up the stairs, then spilling out their gripes over a coffee – she had told him about her dad being in jail and her mother's obsession. Nicky was irresistible in nature and treated friends and lovers with equality when it came to advice and companionship. He was the real-life teddy bear who talked and hugged, but never went any further. When they went running together, he concentrated on the pavement and breathing. He pushed her, dragging her the extra mile especially if she complained that her legs would dissolve. When she’d suggested he should be a personal trainer, he’d blushed. ‘Too personal.’ The shyness surprised her.
He worked as a barista three streets away. Ellen had never had bitter coffee at Nicky’s flat.
‘He's still doing her bidding.’ Ellen held out the apple. ‘Sorry. You finish it.’
‘You're taking sides again.’ Nicky's observation stung. He took the apple but didn't bite into it.
‘There are sides. He should quit defending the indefensible.’ Mark's belief in their dad's innocence was unfathomable. As far as she was concerned, Bill Clewer had lied and Mark was aiding this duplicity by keeping his head in the sand, year after year, hoping it would all go away.
‘You can be friends, though. Go on dates.’ Nicky leaned on the kitchen surface. Picking up a knife, he slowly began to pare the apple and the peel came away in one serpentine coil. A small knife, too. It could fit in his pocket.
‘I want to be part of a family, Nicky. I want somebody to care about me.’ A miserly whine and she regretted the implication that she couldn't look after herself. She had always looked after herself. She was sick of the responsibility.
‘You've always got me.’ He put the knife and apple down and drew her into his embrace. They were strong arms with tattoos extending from shoulder to wrists. He could crush her if he wanted to. His thrumming heartbeats were little more than pitter patters against her chest. Hers thundered with confusion.
‘Why did you have to be gay?’ She had asked that question many times.
‘Why did you have to be a girl?’ The usual
