Blood Loss

the gossip.
‘You weren’t to blame for what your father did, everyone knows that.’ He reaches a hand out to rest it on my forearm but I back away with a shrug and pick up a book, making a play of studying the cover to let him know the conversation is over.
‘Do you fancy going for a coffee somewhere?’
God, he’s persistent. I continue to look at the book. ‘No, sorry, I’m working.’
I’m mulling over his comment about me looking fragile. I suppose he means vulnerable and he’s right. I was vulnerable. Still am, in fact. Perhaps that’s why I seem to attract the wrong men. They think they can use me and abuse me because happiness never comes my way. But I’m sick of being made to feel I don’t matter and I’m pushing back.
‘Excuse me.’ I steer the trolley past him and head for the reference section. He might just want a chat and a catch-up but I’m not taking any risks. I don’t want another relationship until I’ve got my life on track, and even then it’ll be on my terms.
I stack a few more books, studying the covers and blurbs on the back before I slot them onto the correct shelves. Who reads books about fishing anecdotes or the Japanese guide to the art of tidying? My mouth curls into a smile. Maybe I should take that one home for Mum.
I pick one up about DNA testing and flick through the pages, reading stories about people who have tried to trace their ancestry then been shocked to discover they’re not related to their family at all. I think about my parents. I’d be happy not to be related to my dad.
I put the book on its shelf and walk on but then it hits me – an idea that has me sinking into the nearest chair. Maybe I’m not related to the man I’ve always believed to be my dad. What if Mum did have an affair with Colin from her work and he’s my real father? If Dad thought I wasn’t his child all these years, it would explain why he’s always loathed the sight of me.
I have to do a DNA test and soon.
Back at the house I make myself a cup of tea and, while Mum lies on the sofa drinking vodka, sit at the table to study the book about DNA testing which I decided to bring home from the library. Her words are already slurring and she looks dreadful. She’s managed to get dressed but her clothes are crumpled and stained, and her stringy hair hangs limply around her grey-skinned face. She’s aged so much, and I can’t help but think what a waste her life has been.
I put the book down and sit on the sofa by her feet. ‘Mum, I’m going to write to Dad.’
She looks at me with her mouth open. ‘Why? You haven’t wanted to for the past eight years.’
‘I’ll ask him to do a DNA test and I’ll do one too. Something you said the other night about not being unfaithful got me thinking and now it all makes sense. Dad’s convinced I’m not his child, isn’t he?’
‘Of course he isn’t.’
‘That’s why he never loved me. Jesus, I can’t believe I never realised this before. We’ve never had anything in common. We don’t even look alike.’ I’d also like to know that I haven’t inherited a gene that gives me a predisposition for violence – that I was pushed into it rather than it being part of my genetic make-up.
Mum struggles to sit up. ‘He is your dad. I swear on my life. Don’t waste your time or money. Those kit thingies aren’t accurate. They give… Oh what did they call them on the telly? False readings. That was it.’
‘You were probably watching some daytime TV shit. I’m reading all about the tests in a book I got from the library and the results are accurate.’
Mum snorts with scorn.
‘People are tracking their ancestors all the time. One woman found out she was two percent Norwegian and another that she had fourth cousins in New Zealand. Now they all meet up. It’s fascinating.’ I might be related to people I’ve never heard of. If Colin is my father, I might have uncles and aunts, cousins and even grandparents. I carry on regardless of her derision, ‘If you didn’t have an affair, then you’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘I did not have an affair!’ Mum shouts.
I jump in surprise at her flash of anger then move my head just in time to avoid her glass whistling past my ear. It smashes against the wall with a bang, glass shattering across the floor. Next door, the dog starts barking and a voice yells for it to shut up.
‘You’re crazy,’ I say shakily, getting to my feet. ‘I’m going to do this, Mum. He’s at Belmarsh prison, isn’t he?’
Mum slumps back into the cushions, shuts her eyes and refuses to say another word.

Chapter 13


February | DI Paton
February
Paton pulled his collar higher to keep out the bitter wind whistling around the side of the building. This wasn’t the best place to make a personal call, but he couldn’t do it from the office. As the sound amplified and crackled into his phone he couldn’t hear if there was ringing at the other end so gave up and pressed the red button. It was no good. He’d have to walk to his car and waste a few more minutes.
The snow had stopped but was several inches thick on the ground, giving a satisfying creak as he put his weight on it.
‘Just a flindrikin,’ Cheryl had said about the weather.
‘A what?’ Paton wondered when he’d remember all the strange words the locals used.
‘A wee bout of snow here and there. Nothing to get het up about.’
Clearly snow was a fact of life in Perth. They rarely saw any when Paton had lived in Weymouth but he’d get used to it. Once inside