Page 5 of Beautiful Secrets

Icould count on two hands the things that have changed in my brother Cillian’s open-plan kitchen/dining area, which isn’t a lot considering the time that has passed.

Same white paint.

Same embossed silver wallpaper on the back wall.

Same kettle. Toaster. Coffee machine. Same chrome light fixtures.

But sometimes it’s the smallest changes that catch your eye.

There’s a picture on the fridge door. The product of two hands shoved in a cocktail of paint the color of muddy dishwater and slapped unceremoniously on a sheet of paper. It’s ugly and messy, and Kill’s never done ugly and messy. Certainly not in his perfectly polished black and white house.

What happens when black and white mixes with muddy dishwater and a dinosaur fucking highchair?

I guess tonight is the night I’m going to find out.

I grab my glass of Ribena and chug it down like it’s got vodka in it, earning a wary glance from Meisie seated on the other side of the table.

Ri-fucking-bena.

A blackcurrant drink that nobody over the age of eight wants or asks for.

And it’s under-diluted too. And sugar-free. If there is one thing I hate in this life, it’s aspartame.

Aspartame.

Imagine being aspartame? The sole purpose of your existence amounting to trying to be something you are not. A shit substitute. A weak impersonation.

Imagine growing up in a house where they regularly give you aspartame instead of sugar and pretend like that’s okay.

Those kids don’t even notice, so used to the deception. Might as well just give them water and be done with it.

I take another swig, wincing as the aftertaste cloys my mouth.

I was genuinely surprised when Meisie handed me this in a glass and not a sippy cup.

What isn’t surprising is the way she looks at me like I could, at any point, decide to use this glass as a weapon.

“So?” Maddie demands like only a nine-year-old can. I turn to face her. “Were there padded walls and stuff?”

“Aye,” I say through my teeth. “Blackmoore had it all. Padded rooms and a dyke nurse the size of a horse.” I push away my plate, my appetite for overdone meat and soggy veggies long gone. “And electroshock therapy every night after dinner.”

Maddie’s eyes go wide. “Oooh.”

“Cole,” Meisie says in a low voice.

“What? It’s your fucking kid that asked.” I shrug at her.

“Language,” Cillian grunts.

“I knew this was a mistake,” Meisie says, her silver eyes flashing lightning at me as she directs the words at Kill beside her. “But would you listen?”

On cue, one of the twins—Justin? Joshua? Jason?—bursts into tears. His brother is a second behind him.

God. Were Kill and I that pathetic when we were toddlers?

“I need a smoke.” I stand, take my packet out of my pocket and head out of the house.

Should never have come. But Kill lured me here, promising we’d talk about the business. None of that’s happened. I’ve been watching them fend off Maddie’s non-stop chatter while they try to feed the twins and get some food in their own mouths.