My Brother's Keeper - By Donna Malane Page 0,23

in the spare bedroom, Karen’s stepbrother.

I probably hadn’t made that great a first impression.

Chapter 9

FRIDAY 23 NOVEMBER 2012

According to Ned, he had used the spare room on a regular basis when Norma was alive and since her death he’d continued to stay there roughly one week out of every four or five. They were his clothes in the wardrobe. Karen, apparently, was happy with the arrangement. He had his own key, which was waggled in front of me as proof. In the excitement of learning she was going to meet her daughter, Karen had obviously forgotten to tell Ned and me about each other. He claimed to have been as surprised to discover me in the house as I clearly was to discover him. Though we had each, he repeated several times with increased emphasis, reacted rather differently to the situation. He had tried to wake me to introduce himself, whereas I had flown at him like a freakin’ she-devil. Despite his words, it seemed to me he actually looked quite thrilled each time he said it and I noticed some new little detail was added with each repetition. Finally he settled on the story: I threw myself at him like a freakin’ she-devil and set about ripping him apart with my bare hands. No doubt by the time the story had done the rounds I, the she-devil, would have ripped off each of his limbs and consumed them one by one. Even as a joke, I didn’t want to encourage him by suggesting it. At least he’d had the decency not to refer to the she-devil being stark bloody naked when she attacked him. Not yet, anyway.

Eventually I apologised, begrudgingly. The explanation of my deep-sleep condition fascinated him. Well, he seemed fascinated. But he was an inveterate charmer from way back, this one, with his elaborate storytelling and the attention he paid. With every new story the accent grew stronger. I accused him of turning it on when it suited.

‘Oh, well, everyone loves the Irish, you know.’ He swirled his wine around the glass before knocking it back. ‘Except the Irish,’ he added, with a wink. Normally I hate being winked at, but I laughed.

‘So where are you from then?’ I asked.

‘I was born here, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘And now?’

‘And now I’m based in Perth, but I travel between here and Australia on a fairly regular basis.’ He stopped as if he thought that was information enough. It was unusual to meet someone who didn’t want to dominate the conversation with information about themselves.

‘How come?’ I’m a born questioner.

‘Well, I’m one of the partners in a restaurant in Perth and another in Melbourne, though that’s more of a bar than a restaurant, really. And I’m a silent partner in a little place here in Parnell.’

‘What’s the difference between a silent and a sleeping partner?’ I asked. ‘I’ve always wondered.’

‘I thought you’d know all about that, being the expert on sleeping and all.’ He tilted his head in my direction and I smiled and tilted mine back at him. He wasn’t going to let the she-devil incident go easily.

‘So why restaurants?’

He seemed to genuinely think about my question before delivering me an expressive shrug. ‘I’m a useless cook.’

‘You own restaurants because you can’t cook? Seriously?’

‘Well, no. The one thing you can say about me is I don’t do anything seriously. I’m constitutionally unsuited for it. I’m told that’s part of my charm.’ They were right about that. ‘But even though I’m a dreadful cook myself, I love food. Actually, I don’t so much love food as the eating of it. With other people, I mean. There’s just nothing that compares with sitting at a table with a bunch of people, eating and drinking and carousing. I love it, especially the carousing. What do you love, then?’ Innocent though the question was, it made me blush. He smiled so readily in response, maybe the question hadn’t been innocent at all.

We talked and drank wine and crunched the ice cube splinters from our makeshift ice packs, then at three o’clock he cooked up the only dish he claimed to be able to cook: a big plate of scrambled eggs and toast. We squatted on stools either side of the benchtop island, fork in one hand and ice-packed facecloths against our sore bits in the other, while he filled me in on the family history. His father, Arthur, had been in a relationship with Karen’s mother, Norma, for ten years before he