Twin Effect Page 12

  “Dad, there’s something else. You know how Mum asked you about Ian adopting me?”

  Dylan could talk of this without too much ache now. He’d had time to grow used to it. “Yes, I remember. I thought it might have already gone through.”

  “No, I asked her to wait because I wanted to think about it. I’ve decided that I don’t want to go ahead after all.”

  Dylan refrained from poking his ear to make sure he’d heard correctly, only because it was a stupid thing to do. “Why, Kieran? I thought you were keen.”

  “Not really. I mean, I could see why it made sense, but I talked to Ian and he said that since Mum already made him my legal guardian if anything happened to her, the adoption thing didn’t make any difference. I can change my name if I want to, and he’d still be my dad too, whether he adopted me or not. He was totally cool about it. And I thought, there’s lots of kids at school with stepdads, and they kept their names, and a lot of them have brothers and sisters with different last names. No one cares.”

  “Not these days, no. But what about your mum?”

  “At first she still wanted to go through with it, but when I said I wanted to keep my real dad, she was happy. Said I could do whatever I wanted.”

  “Your real dad? Me?”

  “Of course you’re my real dad, Dad. Ian’s my dad too. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Dylan’s throat closed up and he had to cough. “No,” he managed. “Not even a bit. I love you, Kieran. Even if Ian adopted you, that wouldn't change.”

  “I love you too, Dad. When I’m older, I can come visit, can’t I?”

  “Yes, you can. You all can. Now you’ve got to be a great big brother to Meg, and a good son for your mum. It’s hard work, having a baby.”

  “I know. I think I love her already. Is that okay?”

  “That’s more than okay, Kieran.”

  He grinned as he closed the call. He was still a dad. Kieran’s dad. His existence still counted for something.

  ~~~~~

  Toby didn’t make any attempt to contact him. Dylan wasn’t that surprised, although he hoped for forgiveness at some point. Greta and Keith sent a Christmas card, which was nice of them, saying thank you, hoping he was well, and asking him to stay in touch. He had no doubt it was sincere. But with their surviving son so hostile, he doubted he would be able to re-enter their lives any time soon.

  He removed the photo of Max at the pub from his phone, along with the message Max had recorded for his brother—still unlistened to. Dylan fully intended to put the files in the trash and delete them, but when it came to it, he couldn’t. He put them back on his desktop. He only listened to the message a couple of times. Max had a nice voice. Toby should have listened to it.

  He kept the photos because, well, he didn’t have another recent one of himself. And Max/Toby was a handsome guy. What could it hurt to have a bit of eye candy on his laptop?

  All right, he kept them because every so often he could look at them, like tonguing the space where a tooth used to be. It hurt at first, but then it didn’t. Much. He told himself it proved he was getting over it all.

  It was a good job Lisa was the psychiatrist, not him.

  He caught the train to Chichester two days before Christmas, to spend the holidays with his family. He still hadn’t talked to Lisa about everything that had happened, and wasn’t in any hurry to bring the subject up. He let the seasonal cheer and the seasonal booze carry him along. It helped that he was genuinely fond of his relatives, and they felt the same about him. Dylan had always felt sorry for people who hated Christmas with their family. In that way, he’d been one of the luckiest people he knew.

  Lisa drifted to his side on the day after Boxing Day, as the extended family went for a walk to work up an appetite for a supper of leftovers. “So, how are you doing, Dylan?”

  “Is that sisterly or professional concern, Dr Gallaher?” Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan saw Ned steer his youngest daughter away from them to stop her interrupting her mother and uncle. He suspected this ambush had been planned.

  “Don’t be an idiot, Dr Gallaher. You’re down, and you haven’t mentioned Toby at all. Does that mean it all went pear-shaped?”

  “Not completely.”

  He explained, she listened. It took a while because emotions kept intruding. Emotions Dylan had sternly told himself were simply ridiculous, but yet, they wouldn’t stay hidden.

  When he finished, Lisa stopped and hugged him. “Oh, Dylan.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “You’re not. But you know this has worked out for the best. Hopefully Toby can move on and get more therapy, and his parents will help him.”

  “Who’ll help them?”

  “They’ll help each other. I know you miss Max, and it’s okay that you do. But he wasn’t real.”

  Dylan looked away, and couldn’t answer. His heart was too full, and it was choking him.

  “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt,” she added, hugging him again. “You’re a good man. A loving man. I’m so proud of you.”

  Dylan hugged her back with all the strength of his gratitude for a sister who could forgive his many faults and love him despite them. She’d helped make him someone worth giving a damn about. He was a fortunate man.

  He travelled back on New Year’s Eve to avoid having to travel on a bank holiday. Lisa and Ned were going to a party at a friend’s house, the kids all had plans, and there was no reason for him to lurk at their home when he could hang around his own place.

  He had deliberately not taken his laptop with him or checked his email, knowing Kieran and Rachel could call him if they needed to. He wasn’t expecting anything to come up that needed urgent attention, not with the university on Christmas hols, so when he got back to his flat, leaping onto the computer wasn’t a priority. He tossed his dirty washing into the machine and put it on, and opened the letters that had arrived while he’d been away.

  He warmed up the food that Lisa had insisted on giving him to take home, and cracked a bottle of bitter. Sitting in his armchair, eating a meal made with love and care by people he loved and cared for, and drinking excellent beer, he thought life wasn’t too bad when all things were considered. New year, fresh chances. He’d let his move and new job be derailed by the mess with Max and Toby. If he put that all behind him, the coming year could be good for him.

  So it gave him a nasty jolt to see an email from Toby waiting for him in his inbox. He almost deleted it unread, not wanting another blast of anger to destroy the hard-won mellow mood he had brought home with him. He closed the laptop and walked away, not wanting to deal with this shit, not today.

  But if he didn’t delete, he had to deal with it. Finally he girded his loins and clicked on the message, ready to trash it at the slightest sign that Toby was still spewing rage.

  “Hi, Dylan. Merry Christmas. I’m sorry about the last time I spoke to you. When you get back from your sister’s, can we meet for a drink? I need to talk to you.”

  Well. That was better than he could have expected. But did he want to respond to the invitation? He had, with Lisa’s help, managed to make sense of his feelings over Max’s loss, and now he thought he really could move on, even if the memories made him sad.

  He’d done all he could for Toby. What could the kid want now? Just to apologise?

  On the other hand, he had no plans, so he emailed back, “How about the pub, tomorrow? Four pm is good for me, but I’m free all afternoon.”

  There. He hadn’t made himself completely available, but he’d shown willing. If Toby messed him about again, then Dylan would cut him off.

  He belatedly realised it had been a mistake to arrange it for a day when he had no other plans. He ended up rattling around the flat, unable to settle and irritable with nervous tension. Toby had responded politely with a “Thank you, see you at four” so Dylan had no excuse to cancel. He wished he had, but it was too late now. Better to get it over and done with.

  He shaved careful
ly and was annoyed at himself for taking the trouble. He had to restrain himself from putting on his best shirt, but still chose one that was better than a casual visit to the pub warranted. “It’s not a bloody date, Gallaher,” he told himself in the mirror. Absolutely pathetic.

  The pub was empty. People were still away, or nursing a New Year’s Eve hangover. The sleet and fog weren’t any inducement to go outside either, though the fireplace in the pub was cosy to sit next to while nursing a beer.

  He’d arrived ten minutes early, and was prepared to leave if Toby was more than five minutes late. Petty, yes. He didn’t care.

  He sipped his beer, though he wasn’t in the mood for it. Five minutes, he was giving him. Not a second more.

  “Hi, Dylan.”

  Fortunately, he’d already set his glass down. Toby had come up from behind him and caught him off guard. Dylan forced himself to smile. “Hi. Happy New Year.”

  “And to you. Want another one of those?”

  “Not just now, thanks.”

  “Then I’ll be back in a tick.”

  Dylan watched him at the bar. The kid looked great. Shaven, hair brushed into some kind of order, and he’d made the same effort with his clothes as Dylan had. From a psychological perspective, these were good signs. From a Toby perspective, Dylan had no idea what it meant.

  Toby set his drink down and sat. “You look good. Are you?”

  “I’m doing okay. And you?”

  “Yes. Dylan, I was absolutely horrible to you before Christmas. I’m so sorry.”

  Dylan brushed it away with a wave of his hand. “Just don’t do it again and we’ll call it even.”

  “I won’t. I won’t feel like I need to. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the last few weeks. And a lot of talking.”

  He took a sip from his glass. Dylan frowned at it. “Since when did you start drinking cider?”

  Toby grinned. “About the time I made this for you.”

  He pulled something from his pocket—a small bowl made of a light-coloured wood, with delicate tracery carved down the side. “Or should I say, Max made it for you. I bought the cider for him.”

  Dylan stared at the bowl. His brain refused to work.

  “He’s back, Dylan. Back for good.”

  “How...how can you tell?”

  Toby tapped his skull. “Because we can talk now. He can talk to you if you want.”

  “Hi Dylan. God, you look gorgeous.”

  The cadence was slightly...and the words.... “Max? But how?”

  “I’m not sure. It just happened two weeks ago. Suddenly I could hear Toby again, and he could hear me. I’m really here, Dylan.”

  “I started to hear him in my dreams,” Toby said. “Then the week before Christmas, I could hear him even when I was awake, and he could hear me. He proved it wasn’t just some delusion by making that bowl. That’s when I told Mum and Dad....” He stopped and stared at Dylan’s face, then reached for his hand. “Are you okay?”

  Dylan pulled out of Toby’s grasp. “No...no, I’m not. I...I can’t...excuse me.”

  He shoved his chair back, grabbed his cane, and walked as quickly away from the source of torment—of unbearable temptation—as he could. The beer garden was empty, unsurprisingly, since it was subzero and snowing. Dylan barely felt the cold for the chill inside him.

  Grief was so much easier to bear than wanting.

  Max was back. Which meant the impossible things Dylan wanted were now almost possible, but just as wrong. Max was still in someone else’s body. A someone Dylan liked, but who had his own serious issues.

  “Dylan?”

  He scrubbed his eyes. “Uh...Toby...give me a minute, will you?”

  Behind him footsteps crunched on the icy brick paving.

  “Dylan, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I’m happy for you. Both of you. But I have to go home. Sorry.”

  He turned and tried to push past Toby, but the kid grabbed his arm. “Wait. Please, don’t run away.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  He stomped back into the pub, picked up his coat, and fled outside.

  He should have known Toby wouldn’t give up that easily. Or was it Max? Yes, it had to be Max. Max never gave up.

  “Dylan, wait for me. It’s Max. I need to talk to you. Please!”

  He kept walking but wasn’t surprised when a hand grabbed his sleeve. “Dylan, what’s wrong?”

  He turned to face Max. “You. This. Me. I can’t...I can’t deal with you.”

  Max frowned. “Have I upset you? What did I do?”

  “Nothing. You didn’t...it’s not you, it’s me.”

  “What’s not me?” Max held his shoulders. “Please talk to me. Come inside again. It’s bloody freezing.”

  “No. I can’t...don’t you understand? It’s not just you. It’s you and Toby. I...it’s wrong to....”

  “To?”

  “To want you, damn it! Want you while you’re inside him and always will be.”

  Max dropped his hands. “Oh. He knows, Dylan. He knows how I feel about you.” Dylan stared at the kid. “Toby, tell him it’s okay.”

  Panic seized Dylan. This was all going too fast and too far. A taxi drove past, its light showing it was available, and he grabbed his chance to escape. He threw up his hand, yelled, “Taxi!” and the taxi wheeled around. “I’m not talking about this in the middle of the street.”

  “Dylan, you don’t understand—”

  “Not here. I can’t.” He slid into the taxi and slammed the door before Toby or Max could argue further, and gave the driver his address. The taxi sped off. Dylan didn’t look back.

  His heart thumped too hard, and his head hurt from stress. He couldn’t do this. Toby would never bear the strain of two souls inside him, with his brother chasing what Toby had never sought. Dylan refused to break Greta and Keith’s heart again. He refused to break his own by encouraging this madness.

  The taxi was outside his flat in two minutes. He paid the driver and went upstairs. No one was in the street, and he turned off his phone. Hopefully Toby would go home and, after the hols, perhaps they could have a sensible discussion. By then Max would understand that it wasn’t fair on Toby to try and have a relationship that only one of them wanted. What Max would do, Dylan didn’t know. He didn’t want to know because that would mean accepting Max might leave again.

  The door buzzer went. With a jerk, Dylan sat up and realised he’d dozed off. It was now close to six. He ignored the buzzer, but the person kept pressing it.

  “Go away,” he snapped into the intercom.

  “Dylan, stop being a prat and let me in. I’m freezing.”

  “We can talk in a couple of weeks’ time. Go home, Toby.”

  “It’s Max.”

  “Go home, Max.”

  “No. I’m going to ring your bell until you let me in.”

  “I’ll call the police.”

  “Go on then.”

  Now the irrational fear that had overcome him outside the pub had subsided, Dylan wasn’t so desperate to flee from the inevitable conversation about this, though he was more than a little cranky Max had decided to push this tonight instead of giving him time. He calculated whether he really possessed enough mulish idiocy to go through with his threat, and decided that no, he didn’t fancy dealing with the Old Bill and exposing his private affairs for the sake of making a point. With a growl of annoyance, he hit the door release and unlocked the flat’s door. Then he walked back to the couch. He wasn’t going to invite the sod in.

  The door opened and closed, and footsteps approached the couch. “Gosh, that’s a cranky face.” Max sat down on the other end of the couch. His hair was especially frizzy and his nose was red from the cold. He looked fantastic, damn him.

  Dylan refused to give in to his baser feelings. “I told you—”

  “That you didn’t want to talk in the street. So what’s wrong with here? You said I’d always be welcome here, Dylan. Was that a
lie?”

  “No, but Max, you...can’t be here. Toby won’t be able to cope.”

  “But he can. We’ve talked about it. We’ve done nothing but talk about it for more than a week. He’s fine. Better than fine. Toby, please tell him.”

  “It’s true. I’m sleeping better, I feel happier and better rested. And my heart doesn’t hurt any more.” Toby rubbed his chest thoughtfully. “It’s me, isn’t it? You want Max, but he’s with me, and you don’t like me. I should have realised...I’m sorry. But you don’t understand. I don’t have to be here at all. That’s what we’ve realised. It’s so much less stressful now. I can let Max take charge whenever I want, and just go to my safe place while he does what he wants to. It’s great for me. So you don’t have to...deal with me.” He looked away. “I didn’t know you hated me that much.”

  “I don’t hate you. Christ, you’re an idiot.”

  “You don’t need to be a snot about it.” Toby pouted. Dylan found the expression strangely irresistible.

  He tugged at Toby’s arm. “Come here, dummy.” Toby let Dylan drag him closer, though the pout remained impressive. “I’m fine with you. I like you. I like you a lot. That’s not the problem.”

  Toby curled onto his shoulder. “So what is it? I’m serious. Max can be with you whenever I have free time. It’s not like I’m super busy outside my studies.”

  “And if you can’t cope again? Max will go, you’ll slide into anger and misery again, your parents will have to go through it all over again...I don’t think I can bear it, Toby. Not twice. You have no idea if you can handle this.”

  “It’s going okay so far. Max has taken over three evenings so he can cook. Mum thinks it’s wonderful and Dad’s so happy to have us both around, he looks like he’ll explode.” Toby twisted around to look into Dylan’s eyes. “You don’t understand. I’m healed. Max is the cure, and I’m his cure too. It didn’t work before because we couldn't control things properly.”

  Dylan couldn’t prevent his scepticism leaking into his voice. “Right.”

  “Look, how long did it take you to get used to this thing?” He tapped Dylan’s right hand.