Page 97 of Pyg

“Bernie, didn’t you leave the circus years ago?” I laughed.

“Ha-fucking-ha! It’s called fashion, dear. Perhaps you should try it sometime?”

“You look like a peacock!”

“Better than a dull grey pigeon.” He pushed his aviators back into his long hair.

We went in for a back-slapping hug and I clutched him to me like it had been much longer than three months since I’d last seen him.

“Right. Shall we get this over with?”

I swallowed. “Yeah, I would’ve made a start, but I didn’t want to go in without you.”

Bernard draped an arm around my shoulder and steered me towards the house.

“Cheer up, Georgie. Ding-Dong, the witch is gone. We can sell this old wreck now and put it all behind us, can’t we?”

“Do you think she’d mind?”

“Who, Grandmother?”

“No, I meant Mum. Do you think she’d mind us getting rid of it?”

“I think she’ll be fucking delighted. This place was nothing but a prison for her. And if she ever shows up again, we’ll take care of her, won’t we?”

I looked into my brother’s bright blue eyes and nodded.

Even now, Bernard held onto a hope that I’d long since let go of. And the solicitor’s letter that landed on my doormat last month diminished any glimmer that had remained.

Dear Mr George Shaw,

I am writing to you in my capacity as a solicitor handling the estate of your late grandmother, Mrs Sylvia Shaw, who passed away on 13thNovember 1977. Please accept our heartfelt condolences for your loss. Regrettably, our records indicate that Mrs Shaw did not leave a valid Last Will and Testament. As a result, the estate will be administered under the rules of intestacy. You have been identified as one of two surviving relatives entitled to inherit from the estate…

And it continued, but my eyes kept drawing back to the same words:one of two surviving relatives.I contacted the solicitor to ask if they had any more information, but if they did, they didn’t tell me. Thus far, I hadn’t had the heart to tell Bernard, and fortunately he hadn’t received a letter of his own, probably owing to his inconsistent living arrangements.How had he put it?

“Why be tied down when I can flit from one wealthy fucker to the next? Saves me paying rent and I get to have a bit of fun whilst I’m at it.”

I didn’t entirely agree with Bernard’s lifestyle — not on moral grounds, more safety concerns. Bernard had been hurt on more than one occasion, physically and emotionally. And whilst he always laughed it off, I couldn’t help but worry for him.

But here we both were, ready to recover any valuables before we had our childhood home cleared and put on the market. Living there hadn’t ever been a consideration for either of us.

I twisted my key in the lock and pushed, but the door had swollen with damp. I took a step back and barged it with my shoulder, it inched inwards a little but didn’t budge.

“Shit,” I said rubbing my arm.

“Here, let me.” Bernard smoothed his moustache and sniffed.

I grinned. “Don’t ruin that nice shirt, Bernie.”

“Oh, fuck off,” said Bernard with laughter in his voice. He clenched his fists and his technicolour sleeves tightened around his biceps. Clearly, my little brother was not so little any more. With a run-up and a grunt, he crashed through the front door.

I stepped inside and coughed as the dust swirled around. The place smelt musty and damp. Cobwebs draped from the ceiling like spooky bunting. No one had been in the house since the church had moved Ruth on. When she left, she must have pulled all the curtains shut, and now they kept the light of the spring day from penetrating the thick gloom.

Bernard flipped the light switch up and down, but nothing happened.

“They must have shut off the electricity,” I said.

“Better get finished before it gets dark then, hadn’t we?”

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