Manny is sat behind his desk when I walk in. He does it on purpose, just so he can walk around the front to sit with me on the two leather chairs. Gives him the illusion that I’ll think he’s one of the boys. He jerks up the legs of his suit pants before he sits down so he doesn’t stretch the expensive material around the knee.

‘Good to see you, Charles. How have you been?’

‘Fine.’

Can’t make it too easy for him. The NHS must be paying him a fortune for this. Anyway, he does have a knack of asking the right questions to get the information he needs.

‘What about the sleeping tablets? Nights any better?’

‘When I take them, yes. But I feel sort of disconnected during the day.’

‘Well, they can have that effect, but the main thing is, they allow you to sleep and stop you focussing on the past.’

And that’s the thing. He wants me to move on, move forward. I can’t help obsessing about the past and I want to talk to him about it but he’s already made clear that won’t be part of the treatment. Looking forward is all that counts, he says.

‘Have you stayed away from the house?’

‘This week, yes.’

‘And the voices?’

‘Not voices – I’ve told you, it’s Mikey I hear.’

‘You tell yourself it’s Michael, but I’ve told you, it’s just your mind.’

‘He’s pretty quiet when I take the tablets.’

‘It’s pretty quiet,’ he corrects.

And this is how it goes. I know he means well, he might even be right. But I can hear Mikey. He calls to me from that fucking house. Every night I don’t take the tablets he calls. He calls me ever back to that fucking dirty hell hole. The space between now and then narrows and thins and I remember. I can almost reach out and touch him. His face.

‘Here and now, Charles, here and now. Look forward.’

I snap back to Manny while he sets targets for the week ahead.

~X~

Michael washed his face above the weir in the still waters of the river. Apart from a slightly swelling nose, all he was left with as evidence of his fight were growing clouds of purple beneath each eye.

‘How’s it feel?’ Charlie asked, examining Michael’s face.

‘Not bad. Better than Killan feels I bet. Come on, best get home.’

Up the path, past the oak, through the railings, left at the newsagents and back to Wood Street. Michael took the key from his pocket to unlock the door. Before he’d got the key in the lock, the door opened. Standing in the door way was their father; clearly dressed ready to leave.

‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked.

‘Just out, playing,’ Michael said.

Debney looked at his oldest son, and frowned.

‘What have you done to your face?’

He reached out and took Michael’s chin between thumb and finger, raising his face.

‘Fell over a root and bashed my face on a rock.’

Debney turned Michael’s face one way then the other, examining the bruising.

‘Likely story. Come into the kitchen. We’ll get something cold on that.’

The boys followed their father into the kitchen. Charlie sat at the table and watched while Debney broke a piece of ice from the freezer box and wrapped it in his handkerchief.

‘Hold that on the bruising for half an hour or so. It’ll take the swelling down.’

‘Thanks.’

Michael took the ice and held it as instructed.

‘I’m going to the club if you need me. Be back later. There’s fish fingers in the fridge. Alright?’

‘Right dad,’ Michael replied.

‘Look after Charlie, eh?’

‘Yes, dad.’

Debney looked at his youngest son and frowned.

‘Cheer up, kiddo. See you later,’ he said and left, ruffling Charlie’s hair as he went.

Charlie waited for the front door to close before he flattened down his hair. He reached under the chair and produced the grease proof bag containing the sandwiches made by Michael that morning.

‘Plates,’ said Michael. ‘We don’t want crumbs.’

~X~

The things Manny won’t discuss with me are many. He says he’s on the cutting edge of a new style of cognitive behaviour therapy. He says the past doesn’t matter. Time moves us relentlessly onto what is to come next and what has passed before is done and finished with. It’s how we approach new phases in our life that matters. So he says. When I tried to talk to him about my mother for example, he refused, saying: ‘But you never knew your mother. She died when you were born. It’s in the past Charlie, look forward.’ Always that phrase, look forward. He says it like it’s a mantra.

He says I didn’t know my mother, but I did. There was an old black and white photograph of her sat on the mantle piece. It may even still be there. Probably taken before Mikey was born, she stands tall, dark and pretty. She has the look of Mikey proudly looking just over the photographer’s shoulder. From this photograph, I’ve built a whole world around my mother. I may have her completely wrong, but in that world, I know her very well.

~X~

‘Get up stairs, now,’ Michael ordered, pushing Charlie out of the kitchen.

‘You come too.’

‘You know I can’t. This way’s better.’

Michael turned back to the sink to face what remained of the dishes.

‘Go.’

Slowly, but quietly, Charlie went upstairs to their bedroom and pushed the door silently shut. He placed his favourite comic on Michael’s pillow, got into bed and waited. Darkness, as it does, revealed noises in crystal clear broadcast that before went unnoticed or unheard.

The front door banged open and footsteps traced a path to the squeaking kitchen door. Silence, then a thud and furniture scraped across the floor, upending itself in a clatter when it reached resistance.

Charlie turned over and put his pillow over his head.

A raised voice penetrated the feathers, then a door slammed and all was quiet.

Even though he’d tried hard not to sleep, Charlie found himself waking to Michael getting into bed. In the lamp light through the thin curtains he saw dark smears around Michael’s face.

‘Nose bleeding again,’ said Michael.

Charlie peered through the thin light coming from the window and sniffed. He smelt blood, and something baser, more fundamental.

~X~

I’m finished with the Nitrazapam. I can’t even concentrate on the simple job of trimming flaps of skin off chicken thighs and arranging them in neat sixes. I’ll tell Manny when I see him next week. Maybe he’ll have something different to offer, but until then, that’s it.

Looking forward, perhaps I’ll have to face my own future. And I know just where to start.

I don’t need Mikey to tell me where to go. On this occasion, as on every other, I can find my own way there without him. Off the bus, down York Avenue, across the road at the newsagents, through the railings and into the wood. It’s about fifteen years since I’ve been here, but the sound of the river falling over the weir takes me first to the oak, now leafless, and then down to the den.

Even in the dark, it’s easier to see in the winter. The shrubbery has died back leaving its frosted bulk reflecting light from the half moon and stars. There’s the old board across the opening daubed with some sign left as a warning by a gang, I suppose. It’s a simple job to move it and I climb in and light a match.

The crates have gone, replaced by old car seats. There’s no meat safe or newspaper on the floor. The blanket is long gone. The light fitting is there, and before the match goes out I light the paraffin lantern that’s been hung there. There’s cigarette butts and empty beer cans kicked to the sides. An old baseball bat stands propped up in one corner. It smells of piss.

~X~

The cycle of the week fresh again, Charlie followed Michael to school. But instead of turning off York Avenue at the newsagents, unannounced, Michael crossed the road and ducked through the railings into the wood. Charlie stood and looked at the gap made by two, bent iron bars. Routine broken, he stood and waited.

Twenty minutes had gone by and Michael hadn’t returned. The steady ebb and flow of children had ceased, telling Charlie he was already late for school. Michael always walked with him to school. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the way; it was just what always happened.

‘Oi, kid. Shouldn’t you be at school?’

The newsagent stood in the doorway to his shop, hands on hips.

‘I said, shouldn’t you be in school. Go on. Piss off.’

Charlie looked at the shopkeeper but remained still and watched as the man started to walk towards him. He got within a few paces when something inside clicked and he ran in the direction of the school.

‘Make sure you get there,’ shouted the shop keeper. ‘Little bastard.’

Charlie ran to the End of York Avenue, turned onto the main road and then ducked down the alley opposite the bus stop. It led to the back of the shops that lined the road. The alley ended in a dead end of refuse sacks. He scaled the high brick wall and dropped down on the other side. He was still surrounded by old rubbish bags, but a few steps took him into the wood proper and he followed the sound of the weir to the den.

Charlie smelled the smoke before he got there and changed course to follow it. He found Michael standing at the weir smoking one of their father’s cigarettes.

‘Want one, Charlie?’

‘Why, how many did you nick?’

‘None. He gave me a whole packet.’

Michael flicked the butt into the water at the top of the weir and watched it race the four feet down into the swirling waters where it was lost. He turned, walked past Charlie and headed up to the den.

‘School. What about school? Mikey?’

Michael turned and looked at Charlie.

‘No school for me. No point anymore.’

He walked on and reached the entrance to the den.

‘You though. You should go.’

Michael threw the house key at Charlie, moved the board from the opening, climbed in, then replaced it from the inside.

‘Go to school, Charlie. Go to school.’

~X~

I walk back up to the road. Even in my thick coat and gloves, I’m wishing I’d worn more layers. The newsagents, now licensed, is still open and I go in for a half bottle of whiskey, just for the warmth. The bastard of a shop keeper has been replaced by rotund middle aged lady who smiles and reminds me of a brief stay with a set of foster parents after I went into care. Something else Manny refuses to discuss. Forever forward.

Leaving the shop, I cross the road and quickly find myself on the corner of York Avenue and Wood Street. I stand in front of the house and take it all in. The small front garden is slightly neater than it used to be. Block paved with a small pot of something dead stands in the middle. The front door is the same. It’s not even been painted by the looks of it. Both upstairs windows are dark, but the downstairs window, the lounge, glows red through the drawn curtains. He’s probably in there now. By the slight flicker across the curtains, I can tell he’s watching TV. And Mikey; Mikey shouts loud and clear across the thin space between him and me and then and now. Manny can go to hell. Magic does exist and the past leads to the future.

~X~

For the first time, Charlie stood at the school gate and waited for his brother. The yard and the surrounding streets were quiet after the rush at three-thirty. His eyes never leaving the junior boys entrance, he stood, with his shirt tails loose and his bag at his feet.

When the teachers started to drive off in their cars, Charlie too made his way home, alone. Down familiar street and past well known shops and houses, Charlie walked as if for the first time. Usually to the left and one step behind Michael, Charlie looked uncertain until he came to his own front door. He pulled the key from his pocket and let himself in.

He sat at the kitchen table and waited. Eventually, darkness began to creep in and he took himself upstairs to bed. Ablutions completed and pyjamaed, he climbed into bed. Eyes fixed on the ceiling and wide awake he continued to wait, and listen.

The front door opened and Charlie listened to the person downstairs go through the lounge and kitchen then climb the stairs. Irregular footsteps reached Charlie’s straining ears and his bedroom door opened, casting light across both beds. Debney stood in the doorway, filling the space.

‘Where’s Michael?’ he asked. ‘I said, where’s Michael?’

Debney took an unsteady step into the room and stood at the foot of Michael’s bed, lifting the covers as if he might be hiding.

‘Where is he?’

Charlie concentrated, searching for the correct answer. Debney took a step towards his bed and sat down next to him.

‘Last time, Charlie. Where is he?’

Still concentrating, Charlie said the only thing he thought he should say.

‘Don’t know, dad.’

Debney sat, saying nothing while Charlie continued to stare at the ceiling straining to hear something just beyond his register.

‘You’ll do,’ said Debney, pulling back the covers.

And that was when Charlie heard Michael for the first time.

‘Get out Charlie. Get out now.’

~X~

The thin gaps so carefully created by Manny and the Nitrazapam are gone and I walk down the path to the front door and knock. There’s a short wait until I see movement behind frosted glass, and for a moment, I’m frightened. I’m seven years old again and walking back into the one place I can get hurt. But the door opens and he stands in front of me, just looking. The years haven’t been kind. Decades of heavy drinking and God knows what else have taken their toll. He’s still looking at me when I glance down at myself and realise I’m bigger, stronger and in much better shape than he is. I have nothing to fear.

‘You’d better come in,’ he says and steps back to make room.

I walk in, close the door behind me then head straight for the kitchen. The table’s still there with same tired cupboards and chairs. I sit down in my chair and he takes a seat opposite. I put the unopened bottle between us.

‘It’s been a long time, Charlie. What do you want?’

I sit and listen. But it’s not his voice I hear now, it’s Mikey’s. Loud, clear and strong. He doesn’t just call to me now, he speaks.

‘I want an end to all this, dad.’

~X~

‘Now, Charlie. Run.’

And Charlie ran. He burst from his bed, jumped over Michael’s, shot through the door and down the stairs. Bare footed and still dressed in his pyjamas, he ran out the front door and headed to York Avenue and the gap in the fence. When he reached it, he stopped, turned round and looked to see if Debney was following. Seeing nothing, he ducked between the bent railings and followed the sound of the weir down to the den.

~X~

‘An end to what, Charlie?’

‘Ever hear from Mikey, dad.’

‘Don’t be stupid. You know I don’t hear from him.’

He looks confused now and looks at me more carefully.

‘You alright, Charlie? You always were a deep one.’

He sits and looks at the whiskey bottle.

‘Want some, dad?’

‘Given up, son. Doctor’s orders.’

‘Drink it. Now.’

He looks at me, but makes no move towards the bottle. I get up and walk round the table so that I’m stood behind him.

‘Drink it, dad. Do it now.’

He twists in his chair and looks up at me. Now he’s worried. Now he looks like Mikey used to before dad came home from the club. I pull my arm back and whip the back of my hand hard across his face. His nose bursts and there’s blood on the table.

‘Drink it. All of it. And do it now.’

He reaches for the bottle, breaks the seal, and like a dog to its vomit, starts to drink. Two gulps and he stops.

‘What’s this about, Charlie?’

‘Just drink it.’

He doesn’t need any more encouragement, and in less than a minute the bottle is empty.

‘We’re going out. Come on.’

I grab him by his shirt and pull him to his feet. He’s lost bulk and tone. I push him towards the front door. He stops and takes his coat from the hook.

‘I’m still welcome at the club, you know?’

‘Come on then.’

Anything to get out of here. Anything to get him moving. He locks the door behind him and we set off towards York Avenue. He makes to turn left opposite the off-licence but I push him over the road towards the railings.

‘The club’s this way,’ he says.

‘Short cut.’

He stands in front of the gap looking unsure. I don’t want this to go on any longer than it has to, so I kick him hard in the leg. He collapses.

‘We’re going this way. Get up and go.’

He lies on the floor, not moving, so I kick him again, this time in the ribs. He reaches for the railings and pulls himself up and I guide him through the space.

The skeletal trees quickly envelop us as I push him down towards the sound of the weir. He’s breathing hard and I can see his heavy breaths fogging in the cold air. He keeps stumbling into bushes and over roots, but my memory and the water’s song take me surely to the den.

I pull away the board and push him in. He lands in a heap and doesn’t move so when I climb in I have to tread on him. I reach for the lantern, take it down, light it and put it in the corner next to the baseball bat.

‘Sit up, dad.’

He struggles to an upright position. There’s blood down the front of his coat and a hole in the leg of his trousers. The baseball bat feels well balanced in my hands and as I swing at his arm I think back to Killan and his friends.

There’s a thud and a scream, so I hit him again. This time across the face. Blood explodes from the point of impact and he slumps forward. I bend down close to his face and listen. He’s still breathing. I take the rope, fasten it tightly around his neck, loop it through the light fitting and pull.

~X~

Charlie reached the den. The boards were still across the entrance.

‘Michael?’

There was no reply. Charlie waited until he began to get cold then pulled the boards to one side and climbed into the den.

He fumbled round for the meat safe where he knew there would be matches to light the candles, but the meat safe wasn’t where it was supposed to be. On hands and knees he ran his hands over the floor of the den until he found the matches. Facing the wall, he stuck a match and lit the candle in the left hand corner.

Charlie turned round and saw the reason the meat safe wasn’t where it was supposed to be. It was lying on its side, slightly away from the middle of the den. Hanging above it was Michael; face blank, lips white, tear tracks down his cheeks.

~X~

I walk towards the water where the trees open out and the light from stars reflect from the dark liquid cascading over the weir. It froths and bubbles away. Holes in the ice on the downstream side of the river bubble with occasional releases of trapped air.

I step backwards to give myself space then run full pelt at the weir.

‘Forever forwards, Manny. It’s magic. Forever forwards.’