Page 23 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter seventeen

Trish phoned Daniel just as he was leaving work late on Wednesday evening. “I was at a funeral today,” she announced. “With your Uncle Shane. He said he hasn’t seen you in ages. Don’t you think you should pop by?”

He got into his car with a sigh. “It’s almost nine o’clock. Won’t he be in bed?”

“Don’t be daft! Your uncle’s always kept late hours. Go and see him.”

Daniel sighed again, wondering if blindly obeying your mother’s commands at the age of forty-four was an oldest-child thing. Still, he sent a quick message to Nell, who replied immediately with a row of exclamation marks and a kiss. He took that as tacit approval and headed for Giffnock.

The Glasgow suburb had long been a favourite of the city’s wealthier residents.

Shane owned his detached red-sandstone house outright—a rare luxury—having bought it in the early 1990s.

The property boasted a sweeping driveway large enough to park five black SUVs, a sprawling garden, and a conservatory at the back overlooking lush, green fields.

These days, only one car—a clapped out Volvo estate—sat in the driveway. Daniel parked beside it and stepped out, taking a moment to study the house. It was a mock Tudor mansion, with half-timbered, white-plastered walls, dark wooden beams, a steeply pitched roof and ornate brick chimneys.

As a young man, he’d thought it was the height of grandeur.

Shane had proudly given the family a tour back then, eagerly pointing out every room and marvelling at the mod cons, like the giant flat-screen TV that had seemed cutting-edge at the time.

Now, the house looked tired. The white walls were a grubby grey, the lead-paned windows smeared, and the frames cracked and flaking.

He lifted the heavy iron knocker and let it bang against the door several times. Inside, he could hear Shane shuffling along the hallway, probably scowling at the fact that there was no longer a live-in housekeeper to handle such tasks.

When the door finally opened, his uncle peered out.

Trish’s brother was only sixteen months her senior, though these days the difference seemed more like years.

His salt-and-pepper hair was still full, but his face told a different story—deep lines carved into his skin, folding it into creases that could have stretched across his face five times over.

His shoulders were hunched, and he moved with the sluggish stoop of someone who’d long ago stopped caring about posture.

“Danny bhoy! ‘Mon in. Fancy a whisky?”

And just like that, the myth crumbled—the one that claimed Nell was the only person allowed to call him Danny. Not true. Uncle Shane, bearer of the harp tattoo on his ankle and the IRA phoenix on his left arm, had always called him Danny bhoy.

Daniel shrugged, lifting one shoulder in a way that could mean yes or no, depending on interpretation.

The inside of the house mirrored the neglect of its exterior.

The laminate flooring clung stickily to his shoes, and the wallpaper was a relic from another era.

A dado rail split the living room walls in two: above, thick green and white stripes; below, dark wooden panels.

Two Parker Knoll recliners, upholstered in once-plush velvet, faced the giant TV Daniel had idolised in his youth.

The screen was paused on a horse mid-jump, soaring over an obstacle that looked like a death trap.

A glass-fronted cabinet brimming with crystal glasses and brass trinkets tried—and failed—to lend the room some dignity.

The rest was a mishmash of worn-out relics and cheap substitutions: a faded carpet with an indistinct pattern, an IKEA coffee table ringed with wine glass stains and photo collage frames on the wall, the word family carved in chunky letters along the bottom.

“Take a pew,” Shane said, gesturing to one of the recliners.

Daniel sat, the chair releasing a soft, defeated phfffffft as it absorbed his weight.

“I’ll get you a whisky,” Shane announced, shuffling toward the built-in bar at the back of the room.

Before he got far, Daniel stood again, and the chair emitted another protesting fart.

“Sit down, Shane. I’ll do it,” Daniel said.

The whisky was easy enough to find. Two half-full bottles sat on the bar counter, their labels worn and sticky with residue.

Blended, not single malt, as they might have been in better years.

Daniel poured Shane a generous double and opted for tonic water for himself, filling his glass from a Schweppes bottle on the side.

Both drinks were topped with ice from the small fridge tucked beneath the bar counter.

“How’s that wee lassie o’ yours?” Shane asked as Daniel rejoined him, settling back into the recliner. He gestured toward a framed portrait on the wall.

Nell didn’t usually paint portraits, but after Brenda—Shane’s wife—had passed three years ago, she’d made an exception. The painting, a warm and lifelike tribute, had held pride of place ever since.

“She’s fine,” Daniel replied, keeping it brief. Shane wasn’t looking for an in-depth update. As always, he wanted to talk about the past—the so-called glory days.

When Brenda went into Glasgow, with store owners bending over backwards to cater to her, paid for or not. The young men who had lined up to work for Shane, eager to prove themselves. Tickets to football matches, gigs and film premieres that came to him effortlessly, as if by divine right.

But those days were long gone. The global financial crash had gutted his empire. The nightclub-goers who had once thronged his venues vanished as mortgages defaulted and discretionary spending evaporated.

And, of course, nightclubs hadn’t been his only source of income. But even the less legitimate markets had dried up—or worse, been overtaken by competitors who’d muscled him out.

Daniel let him ramble. He had learned long ago that interruptions only made Shane more determined to reminisce. The whisky, Daniel hoped, would soon do its job and put his uncle to sleep. Then he could consider his familial duty fulfilled and head home.

His mind wandered, as it often did, to work. Specifically, the Asda contract. If they won it, it would be transformative. He was halfway through running the numbers in his head when Shane’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“That car? Did you see it out there?”

“What car?” Daniel asked, startled back into the present.

“The wee black Fiat,” Shane said, leaning forward slightly, his voice lower now. “S-something registration. Last three letters CZM.”

Daniel shook his head. “I didnae see any cars when I drove in. Whose car is it?”

Shane frowned into his empty glass, tapping it lightly against his knee. Daniel caught the hint and refilled it, ignoring the raised eyebrow Shane shot him when he declined to pour one for himself.

“The Kellys,” Shane muttered, swirling the whisky. “It’s been sitting there all week.”

Daniel blinked. “The Kellys?” He stared at his uncle. The second mention of that family in a short space of time. “Why would they be sitting outside your house?”

He didn’t say the rest of the thought out loud— now, after all this time.

Shane knocked back half the dram in one swift motion. “Trying to catch me out,” he said, leaning forward. “Spying on who’s coming to see me.”

As far as Daniel knew, hardly anyone visited Shane these days. Most of his old acquaintances were either six feet under or had long since shifted their loyalties elsewhere.

Shane picked up a pamphlet from the arm of his chair. Daniel clocked the red-and-white banner instantly. Clyde Confidential —the so-called weekly “newspaper” notorious for plastering its front page with blurry photos of Glasgow’s alleged drug dealers and gangsters.

“Says here,” Shane shook the paper for emphasis, “that wee nyef Patrick Kelly’s out the jail. Parole board let him loose.”

Anyone who read Clyde Confidential —its stories more salacious than serious, dripping with the almost hopeful suggestion that Glasgow teemed with bad yins—needed a crash course in credibility.

“You could always call the polis.” Daniel’s tone was bone-dry. “Tell them you’re worried someone’s casing the joint.”

Shane scoffed, sharp and dismissive. “Tch! Naw, they can watch all they like. If I was five years younger—two, even—that wee rat would be cowering in his boots, looking over his shoulder, waiting for me and the bullet with his name on it.”

He stuck two fingers together, blowing them top of them as if they were a smoking gun, and knocked back another fortifying gulp of whisky, content in the vision of himself as a man still worth fearing.

Daniel hesitated, then changed the subject. “Can I get you anything? Something to eat?”

Shane shook his head, leaning back into the recliner. “Just another wee whisky, Danny bhoy.” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “Your mother says you’re having a wee party this weekend. For the family.”

Damn her. Daniel forced a smile. “Aye. D’you want to come? Nell would love to see you.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Alright, the” Shane said with a nod, his tone casual, as if he hadn’t just dropped a hint the size of Ben Nevis. “Tell your mother to pick me up.”

Promising he’d let her know—while deciding it served Trish right for making him visit Shane in the first place—Daniel got to his feet.

Shane wasn’t quite done with the orders. “Aye and tell Liza to pop round an’ all. Hardly seen a pick o’ her since her ma passed.”

“I’ll pass that on,” Daniel muttered, knowing fine well the plea would fall on deaf ears.

He let himself out with a weary sigh. At the end of the driveway, he turned right, his eyes scanning the cars parked along either side of the quiet street.

No sign of the S-reg black Fiat. Shane must have been imagining things.

Still, a faint tingle of unease crawled up Daniel’s spine. He doubted Patrick Kelly and the rest of his family were interested in his uncle after all these years, but what if they were? And if they were sniffing around Shane, could it somehow rebound on him?

The thought lingered as he walked to his car, his steps a fraction quicker than before.