Into My Arms (19 page)

He closed his eyes and gripped the edge of the desk. It was ridiculous to be so unreasonable, so insecure. He’d read through the website that Nell had told him about, and then done his own research. Genetic sexual attraction was a documented phenomenon, discussed in medical journals and at conferences.
That
was why Skye had left him for Ben, he told himself, not because of something he lacked, some deficit in their relationship. It was bizarre, it was wretched, but it was no one’s fault: not hers, not his, not even Ben’s. If anything, he should be thanking Ben for realising how wrong the situation was—criminally, morally, ethically
wrong
—and breaking it off with Skye rather than trying to press on as other misguided couples had done. Hamish shuddered as he recalled some of the cases he’d read: the doctor who had impregnated his long-lost daughter; the mother so overcome with lust for the son she’d given up for adoption decades earlier that she’d set out to seduce him. When Skye had first told him why she was no longer with Ben he had felt the bile rise in his throat, and he’d had to fight the urge to take his arms from around her. Skye had been crying and hadn’t noticed, but it had always bothered him that her reaction to the situation was one of sorrow rather than repulsion. It was incest. The very idea of her and Ben together made his skin crawl.

All that reading into GSA had been both a blessing and a curse, Hamish decided. A blessing, because it explained Skye leaving him so abruptly—no warning, no discussion—and because it removed him from the equation. GSA meant that it wasn’t his fault, there was nothing he could have done—he’d been vying with a force of nature. Yet that was what scared him too, kept him awake some nights with his gut clenched in dread: how could he compete with a brother? With
blood
?

Hamish opened his eyes. He
had
competed, and he’d won. They were married and expecting a child. He’d never stopped loving Skye, and that was all that mattered. She couldn’t help what she’d done. If she hadn’t met Ben it wouldn’t have happened, and that was how they had to live now—as if she’d never met Ben. Hamish sighed and picked up the phone.

Skye answered on the sixth ring, just as he was about to hang up. ‘Hello?’ she said, her voice groggy.

‘Hi, it’s me,’ said Hamish. ‘Were you asleep?’

‘Napping,’ she replied, stifling a yawn. ‘I lay down on the couch for a few minutes and I must have dropped off.’

‘Didn’t you sleep well last night?’

‘Not really. The baby was kicking my bladder and I had to keep getting up and going to the toilet. Not that you noticed,’ she added. ‘You were out to it.’ Her tone was faintly accusatory, as if he’d encouraged their foetus to disturb her. Hamish was tempted to retort that he’d slept so soundly because he was exhausted from working two jobs, but thought better of it.

‘Sorry I disturbed you. You can lie down again after this, but I got your email about the pram and thought I’d better call. I’m not sure I can help, Skye. I don’t know anything about them, I don’t have time to look, and I’m not the one who’s going to be pushing it anyway.’

‘Not pushing it?’ she yelped. ‘Of course you’re going to be pushing it. Who the hell else is? This is your baby too, Hamish.’

‘Calm down,’ he said, glancing towards his door and wishing it was closed. ‘I simply meant that you’ll mainly be the one using it, during the day when I’m at work, so you need to make sure you buy one that suits you, that you can lift in and out of the car and get the baby into easily. There’s no point me choosing something that you might end up hating.’

‘You’ve got to like it too,’ she protested. ‘There’ll still be evenings and weekends—just say I get something that doesn’t suit
you
?’

Skye was scared, Hamish suddenly realised. All this concern about the pram was simply a smokescreen for bigger issues, bigger fears, and God, who could blame her? He was nervous too. There was the cost, for one thing. He’d only just started his first proper job, and they already had a mortgage and his uni debt hanging over them. But it was more than that. The pregnancy had been a shock, unplanned and unanticipated, and right from the moment Skye had told him she was expecting he had wondered if they were ready for it. He loved her, of course—he loved her desperately, or he wouldn’t have gone back—but sometimes he thought that maybe they should have just been rebuilding, not building something new.

Hamish sighed. ‘Hey,’ he said, as gently as he could, ‘we’ll go shopping together on Saturday, OK? That way we can find something we both like. Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal.’

For a moment there was silence on the other end of the line. ‘We need a car seat too,’ Skye mumbled eventually. ‘I had a look on the internet and I couldn’t work out whether to get one with a capsule, or buy one separately. Plus I don’t know if I’ve got the right bolts.’

‘Bolts?’ Hamish asked, nonplussed.

‘For the car seat. To hold it in place. There’s an Australian standard but I can’t tell if my car has the right ones.’ Her voice had a catch in it, as if she was holding back tears. ‘And that’s another thing—should we get a second car seat for your car? It would be expensive to buy two, but just say you want to take the baby somewhere, and I’ve already gone out? Or we’re on holidays, when it’s better to take your car because it’s bigger and more comfortable. Do you think we could just switch the car seat across? But then we have to check your bolts too.’

‘Skye,’ he said. ‘Relax. We’ll go to Babyco on the weekend. They’ll know what we need, and they can have a look at the bolts. Don’t worry about anything else. We’ll work it out. People do.’

Ria appeared in the doorway, and he signalled to her that he was almost done. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said to Skye, ‘and you need to rest. We’ll talk about it some more tonight if you want, but don’t think about it now. Go back to the couch. I’ll try to get home a bit early.’

‘Thanks, H,’ she said, the words subdued and shuddery. ‘OK. See you tonight.’

‘You too,’ he replied, and hung up the phone.

Ria had wandered across to the bookcase behind his desk. She picked up a photo of Skye sitting with Jess and held it up. ‘Is this your wife?’ she asked.

‘The one on the left,’ he joked. ‘Skye. That was her I was speaking to.’

‘Very pretty,’ Ria remarked. ‘How’s the pregnancy going?’

‘Not brilliantly,’ Hamish admitted. ‘She’s worried about prams and car seats and she can’t sleep at night.’

Ria laughed. ‘Better get used to that. How long till she’s due?’

‘Just on a month,’ Hamish said.

‘And then it’s all change for you, huh? I hope you’ll still have time to have lunch with me, and won’t be rushing out to buy breast pads and extra nappies.’ Ria turned to put the photo back on the shelf, her fitted skirt clinging to her thighs. For a brief mad moment Hamish wondered what it would be like to pull her down to the carpet, her body sinking into it as her heels had done, him on top of her, kissing her, one hand between her legs, the other pulling at the blouse that hid her breasts . . . That would show Skye. That would even the score.

Ria smiled at him and picked up her handbag from his desk. ‘Are you right to go? You look a bit strange.’

‘Fine,’ he muttered. It would be better when the baby was born, he told himself. Pregnancy was tough. Everyone knew that, particularly the first time—all the waiting, the worrying, not knowing what was normal. It had been a big year too, with the wedding and buying a house, but things would settle down soon, after the birth. A baby would change everything, Hamish decided. It would cancel out what had happened with Ben; it would create their own bond of blood. He followed Ria out of the office and closed the door behind him.

22

He’d had an idea. It was a great idea, but then they all were at first, in the middle of the night or under the shower, wherever it was they came to him. The trick was discerning if they still made much sense a day or a week later. This one did, Arran reassured himself as he sat in the car, waiting for the lights to change. The idea had legs. Hell, it had wings. He’d been making a note in the Vasseghi file when it first materialised; he looked up from the page, his pen in his mouth, and there it was, like a bird that had just flown in through the window.

He would go to the Middle East. Not for a holiday, or as a tourist, but to search for Habib and Iman. He had the leave, after all, two weeks of it owing; he had booked his flights and submitted a visa application. A contact at World Help had offered to get him an aid-worker fare, heavily discounted, in exchange for some pictures and interviews from the refugee camps that they could use in their next appeal. Arran had quickly agreed. That was where he was headed anyway; to Syria, where Habib had last been heard from. His phone calls and internet enquiries had got nowhere, but that wasn’t really surprising. Communication in that part of the world was shot. Everything was in chaos. Habib and Iman were just two of millions displaced by war, or bad luck, or their own corrupt governments. It would still be tough, but he’d have a better chance of finding them on the ground, where he could talk to real people, not email addresses; where he could cajole or threaten or bribe if necessary.

His boss had laughed when he told her what he was doing. ‘Saint Arran,’ she’d remarked. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be so cynical,’ he’d retorted. ‘Didn’t we get into this to,’ he paused to make quotation marks with his fingers, “help people”?’

‘Sure,’ Diane had shrugged, ‘but that’s our job. It’s not our holidays too. Don’t you just want to lie on a beach somewhere?’

‘Not my thing. I always burn. And beaches are boring. If I want to lie down somewhere I’ve got a perfectly good couch.’

Diane had laughed, but then her expression grew serious. ‘This family’s part of your caseload now, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ Arran said. ‘I swapped it with Shona at the Red Cross. Exchanged them for that Afghan couple I couldn’t do a thing with. Why? I told you about it, didn’t I?’

‘You did.’ Diane nodded. ‘It’s fine. Relax. But you don’t think you’re getting too involved, do you?’

Arran bristled. ‘Hey, I haven’t brought those kids home to live with me yet, though God knows I was tempted after that call-out I got. That flat is a mess.’ He took a deep breath. Getting worked up was only going to prove Diane’s point. ‘Would you feel better if I told you I’d always wanted to see the Middle East and this is just an excuse? That I rorted World Help to get the fares? That I’m going to spend my time holed up in a souk with some hooker and I couldn’t give a shit about the Vasseghi family at all?’

‘Much,’ she said, smiling. ‘That’s fabulous. Off you go then. Have a good time—just don’t come back here all burnt out and depressed.’

It was partially true, Arran thought, as the lights finally changed and he turned into Brunswick Street, where he drove slowly, looking for a park. He
had
always wanted to see the Middle East. Travel was in his blood. He never felt truly happy unless he had a trip coming up, even if it was only for a week or two. His body was held hostage by the wanderlust genes passed down by both Charlie and Nell. Mark had never understood that. He’d acted so cool, with his designer clothes and his Celtic tattoo, but all he’d ever really wanted was a house in the suburbs, a mortgage of his own. They’d argued about it, whether to rent or buy, if they should tie themselves down to one place. Arran’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as he recalled the tension, the arguments. He soothed himself by thinking about the trip again: he’d try to get down into Lebanon, maybe also Turkey. Was that still the Middle East, or was it part of Europe now? It didn’t matter anyway. It was what it was, and he wanted to see it. He was going for the Vasseghis, and because he needed the change, and because Mark wasn’t around to stop him.

After finding a park, Arran got out, locked the car and checked his watch. He was just in time. The drop-in centre would be closing in ten minutes, which would give him a chance to talk to Zia. He set off across the road towards the flats, tram tracks shimmering in the February heat.

The centre appeared empty, and he stood there for a moment, cursing. Had he got the day wrong? He was sure that it opened on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He’d been careful to check before he first brought Zia along. Thank goodness they’d taken him. The drop-in centre was only supposed to be for the children who lived in the flats, but the powers-that-be had been flexible, thank Christ. They understood. In that respect, asylum seekers were no different from commission kids. They both needed everything you could give them.

‘Are you looking for Ben?’ asked a woman whose name he knew he should remember. ‘They’re on the basketball court. It’s past the playground, just around the corner.’

Arran thanked her and retraced his steps, the housing commission towers looming over him as if watching to see what he was doing. He found the playground—three empty swings and a seesaw marooned in an apron of grey concrete—then followed the sound of voices to the basketball court.

Ben was the first person he noticed, standing on the sidelines with a whistle between his teeth. Arran felt his stomach shift and lurch. He still couldn’t believe that this man was his brother. Nell had told him what had happened, of course, just over a year ago now, but it still hadn’t fully sunk in. Part of that, he supposed, was that he barely knew Ben. He’d met him one or two times before he and Skye had broken up, and only once since then, when he’d first brought Zia to the drop-in. Arran felt bad about how he’d behaved on that occasion—shoving the kid at Ben and retreating as quickly as he could, awkward and embarrassed—but it had been a shock. He hadn’t expected to ever see him again.

The chance meeting had awakened something, though. In the four weeks since they’d come face to face, Ben as patently uncomfortable as he was, Arran had found himself thinking about him, more than he had in the whole previous year. The encounter had made Ben real somehow, not just part of a story or some weird footnote to his own life, but a living, breathing person. There had been shadows under his eyes, and stubble on his chin. Was he upset about something, Arran wondered, or was he just letting himself go a bit now that he didn’t have to get up for school every morning? And that was another thing—why wasn’t he teaching? Had he hated the job? Did Skye know he had left?