This is day 24 of @mydivathings's #365daysofwriting challenge. Every day she invites you to write a short story based on the image she chooses. Today's image (below) is a Photo by Easton Oliver on Unsplash
Find out more about the challenge (you can join anytime!) here @mydivathings/day-24-365-days-of-writing-challenge
This story is part seven of a longer story. You can read this part as a standalone piece or you can read part one here: @felt.buzz/reunion-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge
and part two here: @felt.buzz/reunion-part-2-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge
and part three here: @felt.buzz/reunion-part-3-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge
and part four here: @felt.buzz/reunion-part-4-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge
and part five here: @felt.buzz/reunion-part-5-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge
and part six here: @felt.buzz/reunion-part-6-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge
Al didn’t know why he was talking so much. He could tell that Mitch wasn’t listening to half of what he was saying.
And he couldn’t really blame him.
Shut the fuck up! he wanted to say to himself. Was he nervous? Why should he be? He wasn’t the one at fault here.
If you discount the bit where I tried to kill Mitch the day of Mamie’s funeral.
Yeah, well, you have to ignore that. Aside from that, he was definitely the injured party.
Al could tell Mitch tuning out. He was probably listening to that idiot behind him talking about getting his nails done. Why can’t I just shut up?
Ten years was a long time to not see your brother. But before Mamies funeral Al hadn’t seen Mitch since they’d climbed, over the crumbling wall, into the church yard to bury Justin’s ashes with their Dad. And almost twenty years had elapsed between the two funerals.
Mitch had just disappeared. Mamie had a postcard from time to time, and - to be fair to Mitch - he always phoned on her birthday. Sometimes, without warning, and always when Al and Amy were away on holiday, Mitch would visit Mamie. He’d stay for a day, maybe two and then disappear again. It was only when Mamie’s illness became worse that Mitch opened up communications with Al.
When she collapsed at home and was rushed to hospital, Al phoned Mitch. He wasn’t in the country, he said. But he’d come home as soon as he could. But soon wasn’t soon enough, and Al had to tell Mitch over a crackling line from godknowswhere that Mamie had passed on.
“I’ll be home for the funeral,” MItch said, after a long pause.
“You can stay with us, of course,” Al said. And it was after that was when he had an argument with Amy.
“Why can’t he stay at Mamies?” Amy said, her eyes burning into Al’s. “I don’t want him here, in my house. The man is poison.”
“He’s my brother,” Al said, simply. “He’s the only brother I have left.”
“And it’s because of Mitch you lost Justin. I don’t trust him, Al. He’s dangerous.”
“It’s been a long time, Amy. Twenty years. Mitch was only a boy, himself.”
It felt strange, to Al, to hear himself defending his older brother, after all these years. After the fight in the garden, the night before Justin’s funeral, they had barely spoken. Either side of Mamie they stood heads bowed. Amy came to the funeral, but left at the end of the ceremony.
The next day she asked to meet him in the park. Somewhere neutral. Sitting there, the evening sun painting shadows on the grass in front of them, she told Al they were finished.
“I won’t be pushed around, Al,” she said. “Not by you, not by anyone.”
Al didn’t blame her. His recollection of the events of that night were hazy, at best, but she had told him exactly what he had said, and what he had done. He didn’t try to make excuses for it. He said he was sorry. He let her go. But he did decide that he wouldn’t lose control like that again. He vowed never to touch alcohol again.
They met again four years later. Both of them had been to university. Al was yet to make a name for himself in the City - he’d only just started his first job - but he had a certain confidence about him. They took it slow, and were married six years later. It was a small wedding. Mamie, Tim and Babs were their witnesses. Mitch was not there. He hadn’t been invited.
When their first child was born, and Amy told a tearful Mamie she was going to call him Justin, Mitch phoned to congratulate them. He sounded genuinely pleased for them, touched at the choice of name. He sent a gift every year on Justin’s birthday. It was usually not age-appropriate, but - as Al said to Amy, every year - at least he was trying.
“He is not staying here,” Amy said. “I don’t want him under my roof, not with Justin and Tina. We don’t know him!”
“It’s my roof, too,” Al said. “And he’s my brother.”
In the end, Mitch told Al that he would be more comfortable in the Travel Lodge on the outskirts of town. He worked late, he said. That way, he wouldn’t disturb anyone.
They met at the church. Mamie was a popular woman, and it seemed to Al that the whole village was crammed into the cold stone building. He and Mitch, and four others, were pallbearers. Justin, who had just turned eight walked beside his father, looking solemn in his crisp white shirt, and black tie.
They held the wake in the village pub. Mamie probably wouldn’t have approved, Al said. But he couldn’t have it at his house, it was too far away. And he couldn’t face holding it at Mamie’s.
It was later, after Amy had taken Justin and Tina home, that things turned nasty. Inevitably, the talk of the ‘old days’ had led them to talk about their brother. And to confessions.
“It was his idea,” Mitch said, when Al returned from the bar with another two whiskeys. “I didn’t ask him to do it.”
Al sipped his whiskey. He had already had too many. He hardly ever drank. And never spirits.
Fuck, he was wasted.
“I still have flashbacks, you know. I hear the sound of that fucking body hitting the car: I dream of it most nights. It’s been twenty years and it still fucking haunts me. You know,” he said looking Al in the eye. “If I could go back and change it. I would. Like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Without hesitation. I would take the punishment, and Justin would be sitting here with you, instead of me. I would stand up and say it was me. Not him. Not our Justin.”
“But you didn’t, did you?” Al said, feeling the anger and hostility of twenty years rising up within him. “And you know the worst thing,” he said, slamming his glass down, with enough force that droplets of whiskey leapt onto the table. “The worst thing is that Mamie went to her grave - her fucking grave! - thinking that her youngest son had killed someone, and then took his own life out of guilt.” Al was talking too loudly. He was aware of the looks from other customers. “You let her believe that,” he said. “And that is why I’ll never forgive you.”
“You’re still the self-righteous little prick you always were, aren’t you Al? You weren’t there, and” Mitch pointed to his head, his finger jabbing into his temple. “You’re certainly not in here. But you sit there in your fancy fucking suit, with your fancy fucking car sitting outside, passing judgement like you’re so fucking perfect.”
“I’m going,” Al said, standing up. A little too quickly, he realised, swaying slightly. “I don’t need to listen to your shit. I’m going home to my wife and kids. You can fuck off to your fucking Travel Lodge! ON. YOUR. OWN.” He pulled on his coat and was almost out of the door, when he heard Mitch say:
“Give Amy my love, won’t you Al. Ask her if she still thinks about me.”
Al stopped.
“That night you lost your shit, the night before Justin’s funeral. The night you pushed Amy over. I walked her home. She was so upset.”
Al stood still, still facing the door. He could hardly breath.
“I fucked her twice, little brother. That night, in her room was probably just a fuck you fuck. But the morning fuck - just before Justin’s funeral - man, that shit really meant something. Perhaps that’s the real reason she dumped you, little brother. Once she’d ridden a Harley, she didn't want to climb onto a fucking Vespa.”
Al turned, fists and teeth clenched. Mitch was sitting back in his chair, a smug smile spread across his face. Everyone was looking at him. Al could feel the eyes of twenty people bore into him.
“Fuck you, Mitch,” he said, and left the pub. He could hear Mitch laugh, followed by a sudden eruption of conversation as the spell was broken, and the pub's customers realised the show was over.
His car was in the car park. He had promised Amy he would get a taxi home.
Amy. Promised... what a fucking joke.
He felt in his pocket for his keys, and pressed the button. The lights on his Jag flashed twice, and he heard the doors click open.
He collapsed, rather than sat, into the driving seat. He would just sit here for a moment.
Get his head together.
He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his heart thump in his head. The sound of a door slam brought him round again. It was Mitch. Leaving the pub. Al watched as Mitch weaved his way over to the side of the car park. He relieved himself against the door of a Land Rover, whistling.
For some reason, when Al looked back at what he did, it was the casual whistling that pushed him over the edge.
He waited until Mitch finished and swayed out on to the road. The engine purred quietly, as Al followed his brother. He stopped at the car park entrance and looked onto the road. There he was, meandering in the middle of the road back towards the village centre. Where the hell he was going, Al couldn’t guess. And he didn’t really care.
Al put his foot to the floor and, wheels spinning, drove his car straight at his brother.