Page 15 of Tribute Act

She was crying and holding Mack’s hand. Mack looked deeply uncomfortable with the contact, but to his credit, he didn’t pull away. Twice our eyes met and twice he dropped his gaze. Neither of us mentioned the previous night.

I’d been nine when Derek and Mum first got together. I remembered him going up to Scotland occasionally back then to see his own son. Even after Mum and Derek had got married, they used to talk about Dylan coming down to visit over the summer holidays at some point. Derek had kept saying how the two of us could be friends and I could take him down to the beach with me. Show him round Porthkennack.

I’d had a secret fascination with this other boy, just a year younger than me. I used to make elaborate plans of how I’d entertain him when he came to visit. But he never did come, and as time passed, it seemed like Derek mentioned him less and less. Then, one evening—we’d been sitting round the TV, eating dinner—I’d asked, with all the diplomacy of a self-absorbed teenager, whether Dylan was ever going to visit us.

Derek had got this funny look on his face and I’d realised I’d put my foot in it. I’d thought maybe he was going to get angry with me, but he hadn’t. He’d just got up very quietly and left the room. And when I’d tried to ask Mum about it, she wouldn’t explain.

It was years later that she’d told me, one night after too many glasses of wine, that Derek and Dylan had argued on one of Derek’s visits and Dylan had told him he didn’t want to see him again. Derek had taken him at his word, and Mum had been unable to persuade Derek to go and sort things out with him.

I’d been shocked. My easygoing stepdad, the guy who drove me around and took me to football and swimming training and nagged me to do my homework, had argued with his own son badly enough that they hadn’t seen each other since?

Given the state of their relationship, I’d stopped expecting to ever meet Derek’s son. It had been easy to forget he even existed—Derek hadn’t mentioned him in years.

But now here he was.

Dylan.

Mack.

Sitting on the sofa next to my mum as she clutched his hand with one of hers and wiped away her tears with the other.

“I’m s-sorry,” she hiccoughed. “You must think I’ve gone mad. Only, it’s so good to finally meet you, Dylan love.”

Derek was standing awkwardly by the mantelpiece, his body language screeching his discomfort and adding to the strained atmosphere—certainly Mack kept sending him wary sidelong glances. Rosie sat curled up in her usual spot, silent but watchful, her eyes all but eating up this new half brother who had suddenly presented himself.

Mack offered Mum a tight smile and said, “It’s good to meet you too. I’m sorry it took me so long to get here, but I only got the letter a few days ago.”

“Letter?” Mum glanced at Derek, her eyes welling up. “I thought you didn’t know where he was?”

“I didn’t.” Christ, Derek looked awful: miserable and uncomfortable and somehow shell-shocked. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

Mack cleared his throat. “He sent it to my grandparents, so it took a while for the letter to reach me. I don’t see much of them—I only speak to them every now and then.”

Mum pressed her lips together and blinked hard, trying to keep back another flood of tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s awful that we didn’t even know where you were living.”

She glanced at Derek again and he stared back, ashen-faced. Mack himself was expressionless, though there were tell-tale signs of discomfort. His jaw was clenched tight, and his throat bobbed nervously. My gut twisted in sympathy.

Mum took a deep breath and turned her attention back to Mack. “So, where do you live now?”

He shrugged. “I move around a lot. I’ve been in Manchester for the last few months, but the bar where I’ve been working is closing for renovation, so I was thinking of heading back down to Essex. Or maybe London.”

Mum nodded but her eyes looked suspiciously shiny, and I knew why. She had a big thing about family and home, and hearing that Mack—her own stepson—didn’t seem to have that would be eating her up.

Fuck, I thought, please don’t start crying again. It’s obvious he hates it.

“Anyway,” he went on. “Like I said—I got Dad’s letter a couple of days ago. It’d been at my gran’s for a few months, but I only found out when I called her a couple of weeks ago and she forwarded it to me. And . . . well, here I am.”

“Why didn’t you call me first?” Derek asked, almost desperately. “I put my number in the letter. I asked you to ring me.”

“Derek!” Mum hissed. “He’s come all this way!”

“I know,” Derek said, flushing. “All I mean is it would’ve been better if we could have spoken first. It wouldn’t have been such a—you know, such a shock.”

Another shrug from Mack—that seemed to be something he did a lot. A speaking gesture that I was beginning to interpret as It doesn’t matter.

“I was going to call,” he told Derek. “But every time I dialled the number, I ended up disconnecting before you could answer. I just . . . I dunno, I felt weird speaking to you after so long, especially after the last time. And doing it by phone?” He shook his head in swift rejection of that idea. “In the end, I decided to get on a bus so we could at least talk face-to-face.”

“When did you get here?” Mum asked, and Mack’s gaze flicked to me, making my stomach flutter, before he quickly looked away again.