‘Wow,’ said Mark and, unconsciously, I began to pull at my hair. Mark knew me well enough to steer me towards the piano. My hands, on autopilot, found Bach’s Partita Number 2 in C Minor.
‘Tea or wine?’ said Mark.
‘Tea,’ I said. Tina had advised that turning to alcohol in times of stress was not a good idea.
As soon as I took my fingers off the keyboard, they trembled, until Mark pushed the hot mug into them.
‘Wow,’ he said again. ‘Should we call the police?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I have a brother.’
‘We don’t know that yet. He could be anyone, chancing his arm,’ said Mark.
‘Why though? Why would anybody do that? What would he have to gain?’
‘I don’t know. Unless he’s a journalist?’
I lifted the small box and opened it. It contained a sealed cellophane bag, inside of which was a plastic tube containing a viscous liquid, his saliva. The larger box contained a full kit for me to use. There were no names, just code numbers.
I held up the DNA test information leaflet. ‘It’s easy to find out. Doesn’t it seem true to you, Mark? I believe him. He says he won’t come unless I invite him. Mark, why would he come all the way from New Zealand if he wasn’t sure I would want to meet him?’
‘How do we even know he was in New Zealand? This guy could be –’
‘Toby. He sent Toby.’
‘But Denise never mentioned him – unless …’ Mark’s eyes widened.
‘What?’
‘At one point, in the taped interviews, she mentions “my boy”.’
‘I don’t remember that?’
‘Yes, I’ve been listening to them over and over. I hoped it was a reference to me, but it didn’t add up. She said something about not letting go of you, because “he took my boy”. Your father quizzed her about it, but she clammed up. The recording was full of static. I thought she was talking about Toby.’
I remembered it now. I had also thought she was talking about Toby. There was nothing in the written files to note this reference. Dad had missed it too.
‘Oh God,’ I said, doing the maths in my head. ‘She was twelve years old when she gave birth to him.’
‘You’re right. Fucking hell.’
‘I have a brother –’
‘But he sounds so damaged, he could be dangerous.’
‘You’re describing me, exactly two years ago.’
‘Fine. Fine. But I’m doing a DNA test too, to make doubly sure. If you’re my niece, then he’s my nephew.’
‘Mark!’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Conor Geary is dead!’
‘Let’s not jump the gun, Sally. According to these DNA instructions, we may have to wait up to a month, and then if the results prove it, you have a phone call with this guy, okay? Not until then. You must promise me. I’m speaking as your uncle now, okay?’
I poured more tea from the pot. After the initial shock, I felt elated. Conor Geary, the bogeyman who loomed over my entire life, was dead. And I had a brother, someone who sounded exactly like me. Someone who might completely understand me.
