Page 71 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter fifty-four

Joe had sent a text too: Nell on the warpath.

Brilliant. So she must have gone to the office first before dropping in on Trish with the bombshell.

Mark would be at the kitchen-fitters in the Hillington industrial estate, blissfully unaware of the chaos heading his way.

Daniel drove over the River Clyde, turning right into the sprawling estate—far bigger than the one in Anniesland—but the second he pulled into the car park determined to have a go at the little shit, his nerve failed him.

No. This wasn’t the time.

Instead, he swung into a parking space outside Dunelm Mills, the furnishings store, staring at his phone. No missed calls from Nell. That wasn’t reassuring. He called her anyway.

The cheery voicemail message kicked in: Hi there! I know people hate speaking to answer machines, but I’d love it if you left me a message…

He hung up. The phone rang immediately. His mother.

“Well?” Trish demanded. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

Daniel exhaled. “The boy’s not mine, Mum.” He ran a hand over his face. “Though… he could have been.”

“What?” Her voice sharpened. “What does that mean?”

At forty-three, should you be ratting out your brother to your mother? No. No matter how tempting it was to finally dump Mark—her golden boy—right in it, he decided against it.

“Ryan—that’s the boy’s name—works for me. I’ve just spoken to him. Turns out I’m not his dad. Years ago, I woke up in this woman’s room and had no idea if we’d… slept wi’ each other. Which is why I thought there was a chance. But Ryan knows who his father is, and it’s no’ me.”

Silence.

Then came the explosion.

“Terrible, terrible! To not even know if you’d slept with her! What sort of man, a son of mine, does—”

“If we’re weighing up good and bad,” Daniel said, voice flat, “what sort of woman provides false alibis for her brother? Knowing full well she’s lying about where he was when people turn up beaten or dead? Connor Kelly, for a start. That’s worse than infidelity, I’d say.”

“I… I…” His mother faltered. “We needed Shane’s money! Your dad couldn’t work. You needed it too! You’d never have started the business without it.”

It was a low blow, and he knew it. Trish had probably never grasped the full extent of her brother’s crimes. Chosen, deliberately, to remain ignorant. Spent plenty of time on her knees in the chapel, begging God for forgiveness.

Unlike him.

He’d known exactly where Shane O’Malley’s money came from—heroin, trafficked women, smuggled cigarettes and booze—but he’d taken it anyway. Shane had likely assumed the van and shop would fold quickly, that he could launder money through them for years.

He hadn’t expected Daniel’s sheer bloody determination to make it work.

So Daniel worked. And worked. And worked. Paid Shane back as fast as he could.

Still, when Jennifer Frazer had mentioned Shane, he’d jumped a mile.

But Dougie, the crime writer, hadn’t followed up.

No ominous emails, no digging. No Well, Mr Murray, despite their best efforts, the police were never able to link your uncle to murder, trafficking, assault or drug possession with intent to supply.

But when you accept blood money, how do you reconcile your conscience?

Daniel exhaled. “That’s true, Mum. Anyway, I’ll be round later to pick up my stuff. Holly’s found me a flat. Thanks for letting me stay these past few weeks.”

“A flat ?” Trish’s voice shot up an octave.

“But you’re not a bachelor . Look, I’ve mentioned it before but Father Reilly’s counselling for couples is very good.

Why don’t I ask if he can fit you and Nell in?

He’s very broad-minded, and he’ll have heard far worse than anything you two have done. I’m sure he can—”

Daniel cut her off.

Father Reilly, broad-minded or not, might have turned a blind eye to infidelity and people booking in for abortions, but divorce? That would be a step too far.

His phone buzzed with a message from Nell.

I can’t speak to you after all. This is too much.

Too much.

Would it change anything if he told her, No, Ryan’s not mine. He’s my brother’s kid. God help me, but part of me wishes he was mine. And aye, early on in our marriage, I woke up in a hotel room with a strange woman and no idea if I’d shagged her or not.

He dropped the phone onto the passenger seat.

He’d book a hotel for now. Ask Holly to prioritise finding him that flat. Anywhere was better than staying with his mother.

And first thing tomorrow, he would call his lawyer. Just an informal consultation. A sense of what to expect.

Because at this point, divorce felt inevitable.