The Guilty One by Lisa Ballantyne

It would come running toward him: a boxer, or a mongrel, or a collie. Whatever trauma the dog had experienced, it would still stop in its tracks and heed her when she called for it to stop barking. She would tell the dog that Daniel was family and there was no need for the racket.
    Family. The kitchen floor would be unwashed and the putty around the windows would be pecked by the chickens. She would be half drunk and offer him one and he would accept and they would drink gin in the afternoon, until she cried at the sight of him, and wept for his loss. She would kiss him with her lemon lips and tell him that she loved him. Loved him. What would he feel? So long since he had been close to her and yet the smell of her would be familiar. Even though he was angry enough to hit her, the smell of her would bring him comfort and he would sit down with her in the living room. He would enjoy her company and watching the way her face flushed when she spoke. He would feel relief to be near her, listening to her lilting Irish voice. It would be baptismal and deliverance would flood him, soak him like the northern rain, and leave him clean before her and ready to accept all that he had done, and all that she had done. He would forgive them both.
    He pulled into the service area.
    I’ll never forgive you, he had screamed at her once, so long ago.
    I’ve never been able to forgive myself, lad. How could I expect you to, she had said, later, years later, over the phone—trying to make him understand. She had called often after he moved down to London, less as the years went by, as if she had lost hope that he could forgive her.
    I only wanted to protect you, she would try to explain. But he would never hear of it. He had never allowed her to explain, no matter how hard she tried. Some things could never be forgiven.
    Daniel bought a coffee and stretched his legs. He was only twenty miles from Brampton now. The air was cooler and he thought he could already smell the farms. He set his coffee cup on the roof of his car and put his hands into his pockets, pushing his shoulders up to his ears. His eyes were hot from the effort of concentrating on the road. It was nearly lunchtime and the coffee was like mercury in his stomach. He had driven halfway up the country and now that seemed inexplicable. If he had not come so far already, he would have turned back.
    He drove the last twenty miles slowly, keeping to the inside lane, listening to the friction of the air against his open window. At the Rosehill roundabout he took the third exit, wincing at the turning signposted Hexam, Newcastle.
    After the trout farm he saw Brampton ahead of him, set among the tilled fields like a crude gem. A kestrel hovered by the side of the road and then disappeared from view. The warm smell of manure came, as he had expected, and was instantly calming. After London, the air tasted so fresh. The redbrick council houses and neat gardens seemed smaller than he remembered. Brampton was primitive and quiet as Daniel checked his speed and drove right through the town to the farm he had grown up on, high on the Carlisle Road.
    He parked outside Minnie’s farm, and sat for a few minutes, his hands on the wheel, listening to the sound of his breath. He might have driven away again, but instead he got out of the car.
    He walked very slowly toward Minnie’s door. His fingers were trembling and his throat was dry. There was no mongrel barking, no hoarse cockerel or clucking chickens. The farm was locked, although Daniel thought he could still see the impressions of her men’s boots in the yard. Daniel looked up at the window that had been his bedroom. He made fists with his hands in his pockets.
    He walked around the back of the house. The chicken coop was still there, but empty. The door of the coop swayed in the wind; scant white feathers still clung to the mesh. There was no goat, but Daniel could still see the impressions of hooves in the mud. Could it be that the old