Dead of Light by Chaz Brenchley

through the pack of my relatives, nodding back recognition where it was nodded at me, shaking what few hands were offered me and pausing politely to listen if anyone deigned actually to speak, I thought that this was easy after all, that I could simply slither my way through like grass through a Canada goose and be out and free again, just a little shit hurrying back to Laura.
    But I had to be polite to Uncle James; and of course Uncle Allan was standing right next to him. Such an occasion, where else would he be?
    Allan had always been special to me. Special to all of us, I think; but to me he was the father-figure my father never was, the god of my childhood and the consolation of my hard adolescence. And I hadn’t seen him for three years, he had necessarily been disowned along with the others, guilty by definition; and there was no question of my passing him by with a nod or a handshake or a false polite smile.
    No question of that, even if he’d been willing to allow it. In fact it was he who detained me, hand on my arm and, “Benedict. Good to see you,” and no question of that either, he meant it truly. “Can we talk?”
    I glanced sideways, but Uncle James had already turned away, after a cold word of greeting and a fleeting handshake.
    â€œOf course we can talk, uncle. Please, I’d like to.” I need to.
    He nodded, receptive as ever, and guided me away, still keeping that grip on my arm. He’d always been one for touching; but he had a purpose over and above the implicit messages. You’re family , his fingers said on my skin. Whatever happens, you belong. We belong together, you and I. All that was there and hard to argue with, because only his fingers said it and no way was I pulling free; but more than that, his fingers asked a question and found an answer in my flesh.
    He asked the same question aloud, though, as soon as we were alone, in the shadow of a high mausoleum. Never one to hide his thoughts, he stroked my shaven cheek and said, “Still nothing, then, my poor Ben?”
    â€œNot a glimmer,” I said, trying to sound ebullient. “Believe it, uncle.” Believe what your fingers tell you, there’s no thrill in my blood, no potent tingling. “Whatever talent there was my father passed down, my sister got it. Came first, and grabbed it all.”
    â€œMm. Well, it’s not strong in your father, of course. And he did marry out.” Briefly, Uncle Allan sounded like nothing so much as a disappointed scientist, seeing a breeding experiment gone wrong. “Too much dilution, I suppose...”
    Ever the theorist, he’d been fascinated by me since I reached puberty, and my lack of talent became increasingly evident. There was no history of twins in our family; that came from my mother’s side, where for once a Macallan hadn’t married a cousin. No one had known what to expect of Hazel and me, so of course they’d expected what was normal between brother and sister, that I would develop a talent and Hazel none. That it had come out entirely the other way around had been a source of profound embarrassment to my father, the cause of many a battle for me until I’d simply stopped fighting, and a matter of endless detached interest to Uncle Allan.
    â€œUncle?”
    â€œMm?”
    â€œWhat, what happened? ”
    â€œTo Marty? I can’t say. Yet,” with just the glimmer of a promise in the word, I’ll find out. “I’m not clairvoyant, Ben, as you know; and I wasn’t even in town at the time. But — well, one conclusion seems unavoidable, doesn’t it?”
    â€œDoes it?” To him, perhaps. Not to me.
    â€œCome on, Ben. Concentrate. You’ve never been stupid. And you saw Marty’s body, I’m told.”
    â€œYes.” Everyone had seen the body. But it was no surprise if Uncle Allan had asked specifically about me. I thought he’d been keeping a particular eye on me,