Tracks

As I turn the pages I unlock secrets and dreams that not even my wildest imagination could envision. A new chapter reveals romances, hopes and desires. It was far from my reality, and I lived through my characters, following them through their adventures. Searching for a Prince Charming or revealing a moral compass.

I placed my book mark inside. Dropping the hard back to one side as I watched the clock on the wall tick by. It was just after 9pm.

Occasionally, one of my wooden wick candles, would crackle and make me jump. Apart from that, the house was pretty quiet tonight.

Clarity, was out with friends again. Doing their ‘own thing’.

I’d shot my baby sister a couple of questioning glances as she had stood in the doorway on her way out. Firstly trying to imagine what it would be like, to have friends, or leave the house.

And secondly, playing up to my ‘responsible adult’ role. Questioning who she was going out with, how long she was going to be, and where they were all going.

Clarity’s eyelashes fluttered as her glossy lips spurted out perfectly rehearsed responses. Her gorgeous auburn lochs were perfectly pinned and curled down her back. She wore her skirt up to her eyeballs, too much eyeliner, and trainer socks in the middle of winter. I admired her confidence.

It’s the first time I’ve taken a Thursday night off of work in a while. In some respects, it must be weird for Clarity to have me hovering at home. Not that, the door slamming, was any excuse.

See Thursday was always the best time to get stuff done. Rota’s sent for the week, paperwork filed for the brewery, and stock levels checked for the weekend ahead.

Thursday was also the last quiet shift before the busy weekend ahead.

You’d see a couple of business men, grab a pint after work. Maybe the odd couple having a drink before or after a mid week date night. Apart from that, it was just some of the older guys, watching the sports or catching up with their friends.

I could usually manage the evening, pretty well, on my own.

On this occasion however, Thomas had needed some extra shifts. I was more than happy to give him them.

Tom doted on the Wilde kids. Fletcher and him, would make a goal, with the empty crates from the back of the pub. Kicking a football about for hours, in the car park, way after Tom had clocked off. Mum would catch them, be apologetic, and tell him to get home. It was no bother to him. He “appreciated the company”.

When Fletcher grew up, and started getting involved with the ‘wrong uns’. Tom was always only a phone call away. Smashing a couple of lads heads together, sweet talking the coppers out of some dodgy dealings, and constantly trying to pull Fletch back on to the right track.

See, Tom had 2 sons, all grown up, and a lot older than us. Both independent. ‘Doing their own thing’. One of them had met a girl online, and moved his life away, to start a family with her in Canada. His other son was high up in the Royal Navy. He didn’t see or hear a lot from them, but always spoke so fondly of them.

The sadness in his eyes was overshadowed with a glimmer of hope. The time he spent with the Wilde kids, began to fill a gap for him.

Fletch kept up to the football talk, and the boisterousness, that came hand in hand with having a son.

Clarity and I however, were something different to Tom. Tea party’s on the pub carpet, with dolls and teddy bears. The Wilde sisters donned in Princess dresses, tiaras, and over sized plastic heels. Come to think of it, I’m sure theirs a picture of the old guy wearing a tiara after a makeover.. somewhere.

I smiled to myself. Reminiscing.

Tom had even let us walk along the bar top one evening. Strutting our stuff to s club 7, as some of the old drunks cheered us on. Clarity and I, in turn giggling as we held our hand tightly, minding we didn’t fall off the top.

Tom knew deep down, that he was the closest we could get to a parent figure after Mum passed away. Just like Dad, he had also lost his wife when his kids were small. Relatable to Dad on so many levels, apart from one. Tom could never understand why our father prioritised the bottle over his kids.

Although he’d never admit it, and nor would I confront him. I would like to think that Tom had taken it upon himself to step up to the Father role, that we needed.

As we grew up, Clarity and Fletch spent less time with Tom, understandably. Fletcher spent more time going to the pubs over on the east side, or grasping every minute he could with his girl friend Grace.

I’d enrolled Clarity in after school clubs, encouraged her studying and tried to arrange as many play dates for her as I could. I was determined for Clarity to have as normal life as possible, despite Mum being gone, and our Dads ever growing absence.

When I was sixteen I started working at the crown part time. It was worrying me that I could never get a hold of Dads financial situations, or Dad for that matter. I knew Dad was spending most of his time and money at other pubs in the area. Crucially, at the wrong side of the bar.

Fletcher had just found out Grace was pregnant and they were moving in together. I didn’t want to stress them with the burden, but money was haemorrhaging out of Dads account. Some nights I would struggle to feed Clarity, and on the odd occasion I would tell her we were having a ‘magic candlelit sleep over’ as we huddled in her bed together. Both the heating and electric turned off.

Although it broke Tom’s heart to watch me pull pints all day and ‘waste’ my life away. Picking up some shifts was the best way to grasp some security for Clarity. It just went hand in hand that Thomas was the perfect person to show me the ropes.

I’d forever be in my debt to Tom, and so an extra shift or two was just a drop in a, very large, bucket.

Reaching for the remote, on the sofa next to me. I flicked the tele on. Resting my head into the sofa back and closing my eyes for a moment. I reopened them, leaning forwards and stretching as I loosely watched the adverts. The colours of the screen would send pastel light beams around the room, the reflection flashing up the window panes.

Yet my eyes were distracted, soon fixated on something else. Something that bothered me, just about every day now.

We’d always kept our school photos just below the tele, lining along the mantle piece.

15 year old Delilah stared down at me, with a cheesy grin and peach coloured cheeks. Her glossed lips, were full and happy. There was even a beam in her eyes. The perfect sparkle from the photographers flash. I had my hair half tied up, with a gaudy looking leopard print scrunchie, the rest of my blonde lochs floating down my shoulders. A hoop in each ear. That I had pierced myself. My uniform was perfectly pressed, collar and tie immaculate, with one of those smart but itchy jumpers we had to wear.

In that moment you’d be mistaken to think I was cared for, and not a carer myself.

It was never that picture that troubled me however.

Mum had started the tradition of displaying them, when Fletcher first started school. There it stood in the middle of the beam. Pride of place. She was so unbelievably proud of Fletcher, and in turn the same with me when I started school. Proud of us for having our pictures taken. That’s the type of person she was.

Theirs obvious gaps between ages. The year after Mum passed theirs no portrait of Fletcher or I. Dad would manage it up until Fletch was 11, and then there were protruding gaps.. where we’ve aged 3 years in between 2 pictures, like some miracle anti anti ageing cream.

Clarity has gaps too, for the first few years of her school life.

To be fair, theirs not many pictures of her in those first formative years. Clarity wasn’t even a year old when Mum started getting sick. Although it wasn’t my responsibility, I always felt a heavy burden, of how much Clarity might miss out on.

Mum wouldn’t be cooing in front of the fire place, over Clarity’s first pictures at school, like she had done with Fletcher and I. And although it didn’t bother Clarity as much as it did me, I’d vow to myself that I’d take care of my baby sister.

I always saved some money away, to buy Clarity’s school photo, after that. Dad was pretty reliable with it all for a few years, getting his secretary to send off the cheques, but it soon sloped off.

It wasn’t a big deal. Most kids weren’t even bothered for their pictures taking, but I clutched on to any memory I had of our Mum, and that was one on the forefront of my mind.

I dragged myself off the sofa, wandering across to the fireplace to change the angle on the frames.

Theirs Fletcher’s last portrait at the end of the mantle. His skin is pasty, just like the rest of us Wilde ‘kids’. Hair, jet black and messed up stylishly on the top. His sides were trimmed short. I am pretty sure it was dyed too, he was always changing the colour of it.

I’ll give my brother credit, he had cracking cheek bones and a sharp jaw line just like Mum. In other circumstances, I’d often wondered if Fletcher could have made it on to a cat walk. His lanky appearance or maybe his constant smoulder when anyone pulled out a camera, or shot him a questioning glance. I don’t think his black eye or bandaged knuckles were very Paris appropriate though.

I laughed as I picked the picture frame up, taking it back to the sofa and looking over his nose piercings and bruised cheek. Smiling to myself as I could feel my eyes well up. I don’t know whether these are happy or sad tears.

Fletcher was a protector. Always looking out for his sisters, and then as Grace came along it would be her and the baby as well. He couldn’t stand any wrong doings, and served his own kind of justice on a regular occasion.

The sound of the washing machine beeping, broke me from my trance. It’s funny how fast reality always seems to creep back in.

I placed the picture frame on the side table next to me. Standing to fold the blanket from the sofa, and made my way around to the small hall way leading into the utility.

I’d added the utility room in myself. I called it a utility, but really it was just where Dad had fallen through the double doors to the airing cupboard and broken the slats.. after one of his intoxicated rages. Idiot.

I’d taken a sledge hammer to it the next day. At first it was to vent off some anger and then it only made sense to knock the double doors and frame through entirely. A perfect little alcove for my washing machine and tumble dryer.

It took me ages to fix parts of our family home up. When we were kids it soon became run down, through no fault of our own.

So after taking over the responsibility of the place, it was only a matter of time before I’d need and want to start putting my own stamp on it.

I’ve sanded, repainted, knocked things out and brought new things in. It’s still always going to be the same four walls, and hold the memories that come along with that. Whether good or bad.

Only now it’s a little more bare-able, without gaping punch holes through plaster board, and broken furniture.

I unloaded the tumble dryer into the washing basket. Replacing the empty barrel with the contents of the washing machine and turning the dial to the correct setting.

Scooping up the washing basket and making my way into the kitchen. I flicked the light on.

Our kitchen cabinets are painted a bright white. Id saved up some cash one year and managed to replace the counter tops. It was make do, but it had freshened the place up.

I placed the clothes basket on the kitchen table. Beginning to unload the basket, and fold towels, match up socks and sort through my sisters endless stream of laundry.

I looked at the clock, above the front door. it was getting close to 10pm. I was hoping my sister would be back by now. Tiding the laundry to one side, I reached into my pocket, unlocking my phone and checking any messages.

A text from my sister.

I liked Bonnie. She was quiet, responsible, and for the most part, a good influence on Clarity. Or at least the best influence two 17 year olds could be, on each other.

I scrolled through my phone some more.

Clarity was the only ever one to text me really. I kept my circle small.

This evenings CCTV tapes had been uploaded and sent to my email address. Nothing unusual. Only Tom had added a note for a change. Strange.

I clicked on the attachment. Pressing play, on the snipped clip.

Camera 3 was positioned just above the bar. hidden in clear sight, right in the top corner. It’s lense captured the whole of the bar area, including the till. You could see all of the bar stools, and any happenings from behind the bar it’s self. It provided a self of security for our staff, and although we’d never been robbed. It was one of those cameras that was a great way for them to check if they’d given the right change, if a customer ever challenged it. Which the cheeky sods had, a few times.

A couple of the locals filled the first few stools. I could see Thomas busying away unloading clean glasses, and loading empty crates, his back against the bar, before disappearing to the other side of the pub. Probably taking crates outside.

The camera kept rolling.

A dark silhouette came into light, taking a seat on the furthest stool. I presumed he was about 6ft. His head was turned away from the camera as he watched over the pub floor. The black and white footage showed Thomas taking some crates around the back, whilst one of the part timers served on.

I could see Crystal making light small talk with him. His back was still against the till. Crystal took a glass, pouring him a coke with the tap, and setting it on the mat in front of him.

I’d place the guy in his late 20’s, from his stature, but the gent’s coat collar was folded around his face. It did get cold round here on a night, but I didn’t think the pub was cold. He drank his half and made small talk. The guys back still against the camera.

Then the guys head began to follow Thomas as he came back into site.

I felt uneasy, I should have asked Tom if he was ok before I even thought of watching. What if something had happened? Surely he would tell me?

Thomas’s facial expression changed. At first it was like he’d seen a ghost, but then he looked a little aloof as he tried to make out the face. My stomach flipped. Caught off guard perhaps?

A beam across his face, as the guy reaches out his hand and gestures towards him. Tom makes his way behind the bar and reaches across to shake the guys hand. The man spins his whole body around.

My stomach fills with butterflies, as I catch a glance. Only when his face really comes into light, and by the scar across his left cheek. Do I realise. It’s my brother.