Chapter Thirty-One
Regan couldn’t imagine how Bernice was feeling. To find out your brother was dead was one shock, but to find out he had been living rough just a few metres away was something else. Regan was wrung out – she thought she’d cried all her tears for Kevin, but apparently she hadn’t. In the last hour, she and Bernice had set each other off a few times. After the police had taken some details and left, Malcolm had got them some drinks and Bernice had called her uncle, who was coming to pick her up so she had some company for the weekend. The women sat silently drinking their coffees whilst they waited for him to arrive.
Elvis was keeping them company and had fallen asleep stretched out across Bernice’s feet – something Regan was sure she would have fiercely objected to an hour ago, but everything had changed, and Bernice was now viewing the hairy creature in a very different light.
‘I thought my brother was living a happy life in New Zealand,’ said Bernice. ‘That’s what my parents had told me. Always trying to protect me. When I found no details after they died I tried to track him down but drew a blank. I figured we’d just lost touch.’
‘Did the police say how they traced who Kevin really was?’ asked Regan. The last time she’d spoken to the police they hadn’t been hopeful of tracking down Kevin’s family, so something must have changed.
‘He had a tattoo on his calf. Something else I didn’t know about. Apparently it was of his Royal Navy trade badge and it had his service number on it.’ Bernice looked up from her coffee. ‘He was a weapons engineer. They said he was scarred. Burns, apparently. Did you ever notice anything?’
Regan nodded; she wasn’t sure what else to do. ‘His hands and his torso.’ She could picture the red, twisted skin. She had wondered how Kevin had been hurt.
‘He was in the Falklands conflict. I knew that, but what my parents hadn’t told me was that he was on HMSSheffieldwhen it was hit by a missile. Dale was lucky to get off alive.’
‘How awful.’ Regan didn’t know much about the Falklands war. She wasn’t born when it happened, but she vaguely remembered something about it at school when it had been the anniversary of the conflict.
‘The Navy are sending me a letter to explain everything, but it seems he was badly burned and after treatment it was clear he was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.’
‘That explains a lot. Sometimes he was fine, but after those kids attacked him …’ Bernice looked alarmed. ‘They just roughed him up a bit, nothing serious,’ – telling her the details now wasn’t going to help her – ‘it kind of sent him off somewhere. He wasn’t the same afterwards. I guess it was the PTSD.’
‘It’s like we’ve known two different people.’ Bernice wiped away silent tears. ‘I remember my big brother sovividly. Strong and funny. He was twelve years older than me and he was my hero. But I’ve not seen him since I was eight, and I’m forty-five now.’
‘That’s a very long time.’ Regan hoped that didn’t sound like she was implying Bernice was old.
‘What was he like? The Dale … Kevin … you knew?’ Bernice asked.
Regan smiled. ‘He was a truly lovely person. He used to cheer me up. There he was, a guy living on the streets, and yet he looked out for me more than once. Every morning he used to tell mecarpe diem– seize the day. I used to buy him a coffee and …’
Bernice sobbed openly. ‘Thank you.’
‘It was nothing really.’ She pulled up the blind and looked out of the office window to give Bernice a moment to compose herself. Regan could see Malcolm directing an older gentleman towards them. ‘I think your uncle’s here.’
‘Regan, I’d like to talk some more about my brother. Another time maybe?’
‘Sure, I’d like that too. Whenever you’re ready.’
‘And I’m sorry if we didn’t see eye to eye over … things.’ She gave Elvis a pat. He stretched and let out a fart.
Regan waved both the comment and hopefully the smell away and stood up. ‘Forget it. We’re on the same page now.’ She hoped that with a family member to give them a poke, the police might actually make some progress on finding Kevin’s killer.
She’d never get used to him being called Dale. He’d always be Kevin to her. Regan’s dad was such a big football fan she’d grown up hearing all the old players’ names. Kevin was such an obvious nickname with a surname like Keegan. She almost chuckled. If only they’d known hissurname, he and his sister might have been reunited; but then it struck Regan that perhaps he knew who Bernice was all along and that was why he was there. Maybe it was why he stayed by the market, and somehow he couldn’t bring himself to explain who he was. Sadly, they would never know.
It brought a lump to her throat, and she was grateful for Bernice’s uncle coming in and taking over. Poor Bernice – she broke down again, and Regan left her crying in her uncle’s arms. Strolling back to her stall, Regan thought of the times Bernice had complained about the homeless people hanging around the market and her comments about the floral tributes on the crossing where he’d been killed – they must have been haunting her now.
Despite the delay, Regan managed to get to the studio before Cleo and have a bit of a tidy-up. She found her lottery list and checked it over. She’d been able to tick off a surprising amount, including pedigree puppy now that she had Elvis – he appeared to be a pureblood wolfhound and, whilst he technically wasn’t a puppy, he still thought he was, so that counted. The market stall was doing okay, so she ticked off ‘Run my own successful company’ too.
She looked at the tick next to the last item. She tore off the corner to remove the tick next to the hot boyfriend line. She’d ticked it off prematurely, but hopefully there might be another one sometime in the future. Regan folded up the list and stored it carefully in a box. That list had got her back on her feet – she owed it a lot.
She was wondering if there was anything she could do about the canvas Elvis had trashed when Cleo arrived.
‘Sorry,’ said Regan. ‘Look, I’m making a tit of myself,’she said, holding it up and poking her head through the hole for comic effect.
Cleo chuckled. ‘Nutter. It may even be worth more now. That’s what happened when they shredded the Banksy painting.’
Regan removed her head and had a look at the gaping hole. ‘I doubt it.’
There was a knock on the door making them both pull puzzled faces. Regan hoped it wasn’t the landlord. That would be just her luck; to be moving out, yet still get into trouble. Cleo went to answer it.
