Shooting in the Dark

she won’t know what’s happened. And what about Ralph? When he comes home from sea?’
    But nobody was listening. They were carers, these people. They were paid to care, not to listen.
     
    The rough stubble on Ralph’s cheek was nothing to do with the brother that Geordie remembered. The large, ugly face with the missing front teeth, the coarse accent, the way the man had his arms around Geordie’s back, half lifting him off his feet; none of these things struck a match in Geordie’s memory.
    But the salt did. The tears. If he’d stopped to think about it, Geordie wouldn’t have known if the tears belonged to him or to Ralph. What he knew beyond any doubt was that the tears that were smeared over both their faces were the same tears that had been smeared over their faces when they found themselves alone in that house in Sunderland ten years earlier.
    People change and remain the same. The young Ralph, with whom he’d shared the news of their abandonment, was still there, in glimpses, peeking out from behind the brawn of the trucker. He’d always be there, always abandoned, never fully able to hide.
    They broke apart, still holding on to each other’s shoulders; Geordie gazed into his brother’s face, and Ralph looked back with the same glint of wonder.
    ‘How’d you find me?’ Geordie asked.
    ‘I’ve been following you for days,’ Ralph replied. ‘I didn’t know if it was you or not. I still didn’t know, not really, until I got hold of you.’
    Ralph laughed. Threw his head back and roared out a laugh that came from way down in his belly.
    Then there was another sound which Geordie couldn’t identify at first, until he realized that it came from himself. He was laughing. The two of them, standing together outside the Banana Warehouse, laughing like a couple of loonies.
    People passing by on their way to work, or to do their shopping, watching these two men laughing their heads off, wondering what the joke was. Geordie wanted to tell them there was no joke. There wasn’t anything funny. Just an ocean of relief.
     

12
     
    When Celia arrived Angeles came to the door with red eyes, a mess of wet tissues clutched in her hand.
    ‘Come in,’ she said, moving aside. ‘I’m sorry. I must look awful.’
    ‘You look as though you’re giving yourself a hard time, m’dear,’ Celia said. ‘But that’s only to be expected. Take me to the kitchen and I’ll get the kettle going.’
    She followed Angeles into the kind of kitchen she’d only visited in dreams. She couldn’t imagine preparing food in there, scrubbing vegetables or grilling fish. Everything was immaculate, each separate item of equipment gleamed.
    ‘I’ll do it,’ Angeles said. ‘You don’t know where anything is.’
    ‘You sit down, m’dear. I’ll find everything I need. Tell me how you’re coping.’
    Celia kicked her shoes off and stood on the quarry-tiled floor. She knew the tea would be somewhere near the kettle but still had to hunt it down. She found it on a small shelf just above eye-level: a beige metal caddy with the word tea stencilled on its side. She smiled, firstly because she’d taken her shoes off and was standing in her stocking-feet, and secondly because the caddy was labelled with a name that Angeles couldn’t see.
    ‘I keep forgetting she’s dead,’ Angeles said. She’d taken a stool from under the table and sat on it, her knees together. ‘Then it comes back at me like a tidal wave. I don’t know what to do. I went to work today and that was fine, kept my mind off it. But as soon as I got back here I started howling.’
    ‘I’m not sure you should be alone,’ Celia said. ‘Isn’t there someone who could stay?’
    ‘I’m used to being alone, Celia. I don’t want anyone else here.’
    ‘It’s all right to cry, love. In fact it’s the best thing you can do. Howl as much as you like.’ Celia poured boiling water into the teapot. She glanced over at Angeles with a smile on her face. She knew the girl couldn’t see it, but hoped the feel of it was in her words.
    ‘I could’ve loved her more,’ Angeles said.
    ‘You couldn’t, m’dear. Not while she was alive. It’s only after they’ve gone that we believe that. I said exactly the same thing when my mother died. But really it was because I wanted to beat myself. Punish myself.’
    ‘And all the petty things,’ Angeles said. ‘How I was jealous of her because she could still see. Jealous of her boyfriends, jealous of her