Blood Lines

‘What are you up to today?’ he asked.

I hesitated to answer in case he was going to ask me out.

‘Don’t worry – you’re safe. I’m just going to bide my time and catch you when you’re lonely – again.’

‘Was I that pathetic?’

I didn’t have to turn to know that Deans was nodding his head.

‘Actually, I do have plans. I’m supposed to be seeing my grandad and my moth— and Kailash – they tell me they’re worried about me, so I need to go and calm them down.’

‘They’re not the only ones bothered,’ he commented.

I looked at him sharply. Insulting me, glorying in finally getting me into bed, I could take – but care and concern?

‘Not me.’ He looked as aghast as I felt. ‘It’s the hairy-arsed sheep-shagger you hang around with who’s all het up.’

‘Glasgow Joe?’

‘Aye, the one and only.’

‘Jack – you’re the only one I know who could consider Glasgow the heart of sheep-shagging land. It fits in so well with your impeccable journalistic credentials. Never let facts get in the way of a good insult.’

My heart started racing at the thought of how Joe would react if he knew what we’d done.

‘Whatever you want to call him, he’s the one who’s concerned.’ I sighed. One problem after another. Right now, there was one particular issue that I had to bring up with Jack.

‘Jack? Do me a favour? Don’t mention last night to Joe.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t – under usual circumstances it would be the talk of the steamie, but …’

‘But you’re rather attached to your bollocks?’

‘No, it’s not that – actually, Brodie, you won’t understand this, but I like Joe and I wouldn’t want to hurt him.’

‘Don’t give me that crap – if you really felt like that you wouldn’t have dragged me back here last night,’ I countered.

‘As I recall, Miss McLennan, it was you doing the dragging.’ He paused for effect.

Jack moved towards me at the kitchen table – I expected him to kiss me or try to do the dragging to bed this time. I don’t really know whether I felt relieved or disappointed when he only reached down for his battered briefcase which he threw on the table.

‘Like I said, Kailash and old man MacGregor aren’t the only ones who are concerned,’ he said, handing me some sheets of paper. ‘Take a look at this.’

‘You sad git, Jack. I didn’t know you were into tracing family trees. It’s the new train-spotting for blokes your age, isn’t it?’

‘No – blokes “my age” have got other things to do with their time.’ He managed to say this whilst looking lecherously at me – I was touched: I looked a right state but he was still so desperate he wasn’t kicking me out.

‘It’s your family I’m digging at, Brodie, not mine. Now stop being so vain and put your specs on to look at it properly. Don’t worry about me seeing you less than perfect – I’ve seen it all now, even …’

‘I’m putting them on,’ I said loudly, cutting him off mid-sentence.

I looked at what was in front of me.

My line.

My blood.

The blood that I didn’t even know I had running through my veins until just about this time last year. At the bottom of the page, I saw my own name and that of my parents. If you could really call them that – a paedophile and a whore. A match made in heaven. My blood parents.

Alastair MacGregor ———Kailash Coutts

|

Brodie McLennan (bastard)

The line ended with me.

Even on the sheet of paper I looked lonely.

‘Cheers, Jack, I’m moved. It makes me feel all warm inside. How nice of you to remind me what I came from.’

I threw the papers down on the table.

‘Don’t get bloody touchy with me, Brodie. Those bits of paper simply state facts. You always knew your dad wasn’t around, you always knew you were a bastard – you just have to understand that now you are a high-class bastard.’

He poked his fingers at names above my own.

‘All high-court judges. All above the law. They’re protected, Brodie. To a man.’

‘My father wasn’t safe, though, was he?’

I still felt odd calling the man who had raped Kailash by that title. And poor dead Mary McLennan, cold in the ground with only me to remember that she was the woman I considered my real mother. She’d taken me on with more love than most people receive in a lifetime. Running through it all in my head made me think I was reading the TV listings guide for a particularly tempting episode of The Jerry Springer Show. There wasn’t much to laugh at when it was my own life, though. Jack’s words dragged me away from my reflections.

‘Alastair MacGregor was protected, Brodie. He was protected by the law – not the law that you and I live by, but the law that has protected men like him and their interests for centuries. That’s why Kailash had to kill him. He had gotten away with it for decades. All those girls, all those boys, with no families to worry about them, being taken out of the care homes and sent to be abused by good, upstanding legal men like your father? Fucking protected to the hilt, the lot of them. I’d rather there were a thousand Kailashes than one of him. She may not be the usual type of mother, but she knows right from wrong – and she fights for what’s hers.’

I imagined my mother in her work guise as Scotland’s most notorious dominatrix, running her girls across the country, and doing it all with beauty and style. I wasn’t much closer to understanding her than I had been a year ago when I represented her – not knowing then that our connection was so much more than lawyer and client – but I did realise that she loved me – in her own way.

‘You’re not your father, Brodie. Just like he wasn’t his. All the stuff you learned last year might make your head spin, but it’s true – it’s your truth, the truth of who you are. It’s not every day your mother asks you to defend her for killing your father. But there are decent people in your blood, Brodie – your grandfather is a good man. Like Kailash, he loves you and knows that his only son was an evil bastard. What more evidence do you need? He saved Kailash, he stands by her now – and they both want one thing: they want you to be careful.

‘Yes, you have enemies. You’ve made a lot in the last year – but they’ll back off if you decide to toe the line. You have to listen to the old man, Brodie.’

‘Has Grandad been speaking to you?’ I said accusingly.

‘Maybe …’

‘Family trees, now cosy chats with my grandad? I’ll just nip out and get you some slippers and a pipe. The years are taking their toll.’

‘I’m not daft, Brodie – even if I wasn’t … keen on you,’ he raised his eyebrows at me as he found the right word, ‘I’m a journo, I’d have to be stupid to ignore everything in my line of work. Look at this …’