Boar

Ugh. Walking into that flat was like stepping back in time, and not in a good way.

I knocked, politely, and got no answer. He's an old guy by now, so maybe he didn't hear me? I knocked louder, and raised my voice.

Why did I do that? I was telling myself, it won't be him, anyway, but I must have thought it might be, to keep trying. Guess I have to think that every time, right? Or there's no point.

So there was nothing special about this one. Crummy little flat, older guy, living on his own, by the seems of it. Could be him, right? Could be my Da.

I wanted it to be him. I wanted some part of my search to be over. I wanted success. Wanted to talk about Ma. Be a step closer to finding my baby brother.

I didn't want it to be him. Didn't want to have come from... this.

Bang, bang, bang, on the door, determined to get this over with. Get an answer one way or another...

"Bloody well come in, will you, you stupid woman!"

This yelling, halfway between peevish and gruff, came from the bowels of the place. And "bowels" is the right word because it was shitty. The door was grubby and peeling. There was a faint stink of fried fish, with an overlay of damp, and hints of piss.

Right as I was curling up my nose at the smell, the memory of that fat social worker slammed into my mind. The judgement dripping off her, the way she wrinkled her nose.

I ironed the expression off my face and raised my fist to knock again.

A stumping and muttering told me my host was coming to the door. Little chains rattled, singing his paranoia. As if anyone would want to get in there. As if the stench didn't do a fine job of keeping people away.

Belligerent, he threw the door wide and stood there glaring at me. His eyes looked watery and blank, and his vest was saggy and stained.

"Well?" he demanded. "Aren't you going to come in, then?"

I stepped over the threshold, and the smell and gloom hit me full force. The decades shrivelled away like a crisp packet in the microwave. Leaving me freshly exposed like a peeled shrimp. I could have been a skinny little kid again. Always hungry, always sick.

"You should be a woman," the old man grumbled. I wasn't sure what to say to that. We sat in the kitchen and I tried to explain why I was there, but he just stared at me as if he was waiting for something. Or he got angry. I couldn't figure out what he was angry about. I think he was saying some things only in his head, so I was missing chunks of it.

He didn't offer me anything. I remembered all the people who had offered me tea or juice. The kind woman with the dented tin of biscuits. He sat there, on a rickety chair, as if he was a king on a throne. I felt as if he expected me to serve him. I wondered if I should, if it might make him warm up to me and answer my questions. Or would it just offend him more?

When he muttered about "queers" I held my temper this time. Remembering that young man in the pub, who could have been my brother... and now I'd never know.

"Would you mind if if I used your bathroom? " I asked.

He shrugged and grunted, and made no move from his chair.

I didn't go to the bathroom. With a furtive step, I nosed into the place he probably spent most of his waking time. Threadbare carpet and armchair, both green. The sort that fades easily to a dull brown in the memory. An ancient TV, a mantelpiece over an ancient gas fire. My heart quickened when I saw the pictures on the mantel.

This was it. This was him. That was me. Us. Ma.

He was so vague and forgetful, I didn't even go into the bathroom and pull the flush. I walked right back into the kitchen, determined, now, to make him recognise me.

"Da?" I said, "Da, I know it's you. I need to talk to you. It's important."

He "humphed " again, a bit of spit flying from his lip, his eyes pale and cold.

"Don't be daft, boy," he said. "I'm not... I haven't got..."

He trailed off into muttering for a few moments, and then raised his voice, whiny like a child.

"Am I minding him, am I? Oh, shit, and I don't know where he is..."

I was put in mind of a radio being tuned in and out, landing on different stations, or giving static.

"D'you think that Shona will know where he is? Skinny lad. Dark hair. Mammy's boy. But I can't lose him! Oh, she'll be so mad..."

"Da!" I said it a little louder this time, put my hands on his shoulders. "Da! Look at me. It's me. Isaiah. Your boy. I'm here."

"What? Who..."

His face was slack for a moment - static again - and then he roared to life, knocking my arms away and shouting. Face flushed, eyes bulging.

"You try that inside!" he was yelling, "You'll learn!" His shirt sleeves slipped up his wrists, and I glimpsed the tattoos there.

Maybe I should leave and come back another day? I'll make a plan. Avoid setting him off. Get him to remember me. Somehow.

My resolve crumbled. Does he even know he has another son? How can he even tell me anything about him at all?

His yelling had dissolved into a sneer.

"Wipe your face," he told me. "Bunch of pansies," he added.

The front door slammed behind me.

+Thank you for reading!