Father and Son by John Barlow

ago. It was his third visit, and he said he’d be back.
We don’t push, we don’t make appointments. People can come whenever they want.”
    “And it helps people does it, coming here? They feel better?”
    “I don’t know if it helps. They come, they go. Who knows if we do
any good.”
    “Kind of tough, isn’t it, your whole life doing something like this,
and you’ve no idea whether it’s worth it? You must ask yourself, surely.”
    “This is the best I can do. It’s what my dad left me, the idea that
you can make a difference.”
    “But you’ll never know if you do, not really.”
    “And what will your dad leave you?”
    John smiles.
    But Holt’s not done: “He left you with a name that people associate
with crime and violence and squalor.”
    “So much for not judging, eh?”
    Holt raises his arm, sweeping it around as he talks.
    “This. Some people seem to need it. That’s why we do it. And now
I’ve got you sitting here telling me that it’s worthless.”
    “None of my business. I was just interested. The point is, Roberto
was murdered yesterday. That’s why I’m here.”
    Holt’s eyes give nothing away, but his voice is unsteady: “Like I
said, crime, violence, squalor.”
    John pauses to think. None of this is making much sense.
    “I’m here to find out who killed my friend,” he says. “And I don’t
think you’re telling me the truth.”
    Before Holt can answer, the intercom buzzes.
    “You should go,” he says, standing. “I’ve got work to do, not that you’d
understand.”
    He’s over by the door in a second, buzzing in the people downstairs without
asking who they are.
    “For what it’s worth,” says John, struggling out of the armchair and
joining Holt by the door, “I give you my word that none of this will get back
to the police.”
    Holt nods.
    “But you should talk to them yourself,” John adds. “And you can tell
them I was here. I’ve got no problem with that.”
    Holt snorts with derision. “Yes, you’ve got a foot in both camps, I
heard.”
    “ Had .”
    Footsteps on the stairs.
    “Did he mention anything else?” John says, standing a little too
close to Holt, close enough for it to be distinctly uncomfortable for both of them.
But his eyes are pleading, not threatening. “Anything? Please?”
    “ Brought nothing into the world ,” Holt says, almost a whisper.
“That’s what he said. Over and over. That he brought nothing into the world.”
    Two people on the stairs, sounds like.
    “General regret?” says John. “Bloke with no kids, weighing up his
life…”
    Holt gives a little smile, shaking his head.
    “Perhaps.”
    His smile intensifies as he pulls open the door. A small, wiry man
in his early twenties stands there, head lowered, ducking into the room without
a word. Following him is a girl of about the same age, although it’s hard to
tell. She might be older. Her hair is dirty and her skin is dry and pallid.
Both of them smell of damp and tobacco.
    “I’ll be seeing you,” John says, taking the first few steps then
turning back to look up at Holt. “By the way, I’ve still got the letter.”
    “Letter?”
    “All these years I kept it.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    John puts a cigarette between his lips. “Like I said, I don’t think
you’re telling the truth.”
    The door closes without a sound.
     
    He lets 3.8 litres of turbo-charged machismo idle for a while, running
his hands around the black steering wheel as he thinks what to do now. The
letter? That letter changed his life. But not in the way it was intended. He
should be grateful to Holt for having written it. He’s not, though. He’s going
to read it again, then decide what to do about The Ministry of Eternal Hope.
    With the car out of gear he floors the accelerator and holds it
there until blue-white smoke billows out behind and the scream of the engine is
deafening. Up in the window above the butchers he sees the outline of Andrew
Holt,