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I shut my eyes. I forgot we’d scrawled that in pencil on the back. Labelling it so our great grandchildren would know who was in the photograph when time had irreconcilably altered our appearance.
“My name’s Ivan Bradley.”
“Sure.” When I turn, she’s chewing on a mouthful of food, her expression clear. “But it wasn’t always, was it?”
I could have turned her over to Patrick. I could have turned her in to Ashleigh and let her be expelled.
Instead, I chose her and now my choices are coming home to roost.
There could be a lie that clears this up. Some combination of words that will make her curiosity disappear, make the intrigue vanish like morning fog burning off in bright sunlight.
But we’ve moved beyond that. She was courageous enough to share at least part of her truth with me, it’s the least she deserves in return. “No, it wasn’t always. My father was Dara McManus. My uncle is Creighton McManus.”
Her expression doesn’t change. She takes a sip of her wine, sitting back and rubbing her eye, then taking another large gulp.
The tension in my shoulders disappears. I top up my glass and return to her side. “You don’t recognise the names.”
“Should I? Are they famous enough to be known in Porirua or are they just South Island famous?” She leans over and pokes me playfully in the thigh. “Are they underworld crime bosses and once you reveal their identity, I’m dead?”
“They’re…” I break off, swallowing. “Yeah. That’s pretty much exactly what they are. Or what Creighton is, anyway. He killed my father when he tried to take an equal share.”
She blanches, all the fun dripping from her face. “Sorry. I didn’t…” She clears her throat. “Fuck, that’s awful. I didn’t mean to make fun of your dad.”
Paisley looks so miserable that I pull her into an embrace, rubbing her arm, kissing her on the forehead. “You weren’t. And there’s no need to be sorry. He was a shit dad.”
“You changed your name so people wouldn’t know you were related?”
“Something like that.”
“And you want me to call you Ivan?”
I close my eyes, hating the sound of another man’s name on her tongue. Hating it so much, I throw caution to the wind and tell her the truth again. “No. I’d prefer you call me Conner.”
“Did he go to jail?”
My eyelids lift. Her face is more cautious but still interested. A girl who loves learning, even if what she learns is detrimental. “No. My uncle’s never been near the inside of a prison cell.”
There’s a bitterness to my voice that she responds to, putting her glass down to pull me into a hug. I guide her onto my lap, crossways, settling my forehead on her shoulder, letting her warmth and her weight sink into my legs.
“I never fit into my family. They wanted me to be ruthless, and I wanted to read and daydream and study.” I control my exhalation to stop it devolving into a sigh. “Not a brilliant match. Then I met Saski, and she was the same, itching to break away from her family, to be part of the normal world.”
“Is that what I am?” she says with a tiny snigger. “Normal?”
“Pretty much.” I stop, passing her the wine glass before picking up my tumbler. Making an internal exchange. I give her everything she wants to know but I get to take my reward at the end. In my own way.
“You won’t understand how attractive normal is when you’re on the outside. There was always money, every physical need taken care of, but we weren’t allowed friends except ones from inside the organisation. I got sent overseas when I reached high school age because my uncle was afraid I’d be a target.”
“What about your mother?”
I shake my head. “My brother remembers her a bit, but I don’t. She died when we were really young.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“I guess.” I pull her closer. “What about you?”
“My mum died young, too. My uncle took me in and raised me alongside his sons. Money was always a struggle. He was glad when I got this scholarship because it’s one less person to provide for.”
“He must be proud of you, too.”
