Wasp

Isaiah had spent five years doused in that dusty archive perfume. Chasing whispers of rumours. Shadows of blood.

It had been years of repetitive form-filling, phone calls, and formal FOI requests. At every turn: clerical errors, half-redacted reports, vanished case numbers. Not forgetting the perennial "Not At This Address".

Why did he keep doing it? Why did he keep doing it to himself? Sunk cost fallacy? Also known as, "I've come this far" syndrome?

How far have I come, though, really?

The long-stale government trails had led to little. Adoption services gave polite refusals, and care records mentioned names he’d never heard, faces that didn’t match.

He found out his mother was dead, and it was suicide. Pills. His heart clenched tight.

The search almost ended right then, but he wasn't ready to admit defeat.

He wasn't some moon-faced kid who thought he and his Da and his baby brother could be together like a Real Family, but maybe a conversation would be good. Maybe talking to his father could help him find his brother.

Okay, maybe he did hope he could be a real big brother after all this lost time. A guy can dream, right?

He visited libraries for newspaper archives, hovered near staff rooms in council buildings. Once, a woman slipped him a number on a napkin. "Try this," she said. "But don’t say I told you."

It didn't come to anything, but it was wicked little moments of Hope like that, that's what kept him going. Like a gambler to the fruit machine, or the junkie to his fix.

His laptop was bursting with dozens of tabs. Registry listings, alumni notes, and property records that hadn’t shifted in years. Every tip dissolved, but he kept going.

One address he followed in the search for his father took him to Wolverhampton of all places. It turned out to be a man named John. John, not Joe. Wrong age, wrong eyes.

John had been alright. Shook his hand. Called him "kid", but it didn't sound condescending the way he said it. "I hope you find him, kid." Like that.

Isaiah's heart lifted a little inside his chest, made him walk a little taller. "Yessir," he said, holding out his hand to shake. "Thank you, sir."

Is that what it feels like?

The one person who had been easy to find hadn't been someone he'd really been looking for. His old classmate, and the school nurse's daughter. It was idle curiosity, really. His first pass brought up nothing, but he did a search for marriage records and - there she was!

Armed with a new surname, finding an address for her was easier than falling off a log.

The house sat in a quiet estate with old brickwork and lavender edging the walk. Isaiah watched the building sidelong from across the road, pretending to read the times at the bus stop. After a while, she came out to water the planters. Her hair was pulled back but unmistakable: the same copper hue, the same crinkle. Seeing it brought back the smell of disinfectant, the bin bag full of clothes, the night spent in a strange house with no Brian-bear. He clamped his teeth together and walked away.

But there was this: it was working. He could find someone. He could. At least this thread had a name. A face.

Close to losing hope he'd ever speak to his father again, he focused instead on tracking boys born within the right year. Logged surnames, visited local football matches and open days just to glance at faces. He didn’t introduce himself, and he didn't linger.

One of the boys was born within weeks of Isaiah being frogmarched into a foster home.

"Yes, that’s my son," a woman said when Isaiah called.

There was quiet on the line.

"I think he might be my brother," Isaiah spoke carefully, treasuring the delicate thread between them, her mouth to his ear.

"Oh," she said after a pause. "Perhaps you'd better... I mean, would you like to come for tea?"

Her house smelled of eucalyptus and polish. She'd set out a plate of digestives and a jug of squash. Her son, tall and quiet, hovered in the hallway, headphones clamped like armour.

Isaiah sat with the kind woman, sipping scalding tea and explaining his search.

She looked a little teary-eyed, but her voice was steady.

"Oh no," she said, "He definitely wasn't adopted. Look," she flipped through some photos, "Look how like his dad he is. Especially in that one... And he definitely came out of me," she added, with a small smile. "I'd know."

The boy in the doorway rolled his eyes and sloped off along the hallway.

When Isaiah left, she gave him a tin of biscuits. "You look thin," she said. "Take them."

It was the kindest rejection he’d ever received.

The next one stung.

"Hello, I’m trying to reach the parents of-"

"How did you get this number?" The voice was sharp and shrill, knotted tight.

"I found it through public records. I’m trying to locate someone who might be ad-"

"Cliiiiive!" the voice on the phone wailed. "There's some man on the phone, asking if Barry was adopted..."

There was a ruffling sound, exactly as if the phone was being handed over, or snatched away.

"You think my son’s adopted?" the man snapped. He said it as if asked was a dirty word.

"I’m not sure," Isaiah said, trying to be tactful. "Just following up on a few records."

"Well let me make it easy. He’s my son. You stay away."

"I’m not trying to cause trouble."

"You already have. You don’t call decent families and ask creepy questions about their kids. Don't call here again. Stay away from our family."

The phone slammed down hard enough to echo down the years until his baby brother turned eighteen.

The game changed now. No more parents standing in the way. No more sneaking.

He found a Danny born around the right time. Turned out to be a girl. He paused, wondering how certain it was that he was was searching for a brother, not a sister.

The most promising lead - a likely-looking first initial, born within the right week - turned out to be black. Broad shoulders, warm laugh, no resemblance. Isaiah went through the motions, explaining who he was looking for and why. The boy looked puzzled. Isaiah saw it plain in his eyes: "what, this guy thinks he's my brother?"

Isaiah politely declined a second drink and left, wondering if Ma had had an affair. The thought felt awkward. He didn't like it. He dropped it.

A week later, in the same pub, one boy misread his intent.

"Heard you meet a lot of lads here."

Isaiah shrugged. "I guess. A few."

“What, you into guys?” the boy smirked.

Isaiah stood so quick his seat toppled and the table lurched. Face flaming and fists clenched, Isaiah stopped himself from hitting the boy hard in the mouth and stalked out.

It took a long time for his temper to cool, and when it did, the lumpy porridge of regret settled cold and glum in his belly.

What if that was my baby brother, and now I might never know because I let my temper mess things up?

He wasn't really paying attention to where he was going...

The house looked unchanged, lavender still blooming. Toys now cluttered the porch. A plastic rake, a sun-bleached trike. A skipping rope hung loosely on the fence.

Two children played on the grass. A young boy, strapping and blonde. His dark-haired little sister, cheeks pink and chubby. Isaiah leant on the gate, watching the rhythm of their play. Wondering idly, just for a moment, what it was like.

The front door opened.

A man stood there in a faded shirt.

“You asking about the room?” he said.

Isaiah blinked once, and didn’t hesitate.

"Yes," he said. "I am."

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