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her a single picture … I just hope he can walk the walk, too.’
    Cain holds her gaze, serious suddenly.
    â€˜I don’t think you have to worry. He’s been walking the walk since he was four years old.’
    â€˜A prodigy, eh?’
    He nods. ‘So they said.’ Standing slightly back from the exchange, T.J. weighs the words for a trace of jealousy, but his tone reveals nothing. ‘I’m glad to see he’s finally planning on doing something serious with all that talent.’
    The words sound odd in his mouth, as if they belong to someone else. She makes a mental note to ask him about it later.
    Libby looks around until she locates the small group into which Margot Tredennick has melted.
    â€˜Would you like to meet the artist? She’s here tonight. I know she has to leave soon, but I can give you a quick introduction.’
    As they move across the space, Cain looks up at one of the giant portraits that dwarf the room. An old man’s eyes stare down at him, huge in their scale and grave in their experience. In spite of the knowing eyes, something in that face reminds him of his father and he looks away.
    *
    Cain’s story
    â€˜Your father would rather not talk about it, Cain. Can we change the subject?’
    Can we change the subject?
    I swear, just one time I’d like to grab him around the neck and keep squeezing, just to see if she’d keep the same tone.
    â€˜Your father would rather not be strangled, Cain. Please stop it…’
    â€˜They’re interested in his work, Momma. In him. Do you realise what that means? It’s one of the most influential galleries in the country and he’s managed to talk his way into –’
    â€˜Talk is cheap.’ Finally the great Abraham Eveson speaks. ‘It doesn’t prove anything. All that talent and he’s never made anything of it.’
    And finally I explode.
    â€˜For Christ’s sake! Have you seen anything he’s produced in the past three years? Do you have a clue what he’s done with ‘all that talent’? At least he isn’t playing it safe, putting up with this … crap!’
    â€˜Cain! Your father was just saying –’
    â€˜I know what my father was saying, Momma. I don’t need a bloody translator. And I don’t need to be told what’s an acceptable topic for conversation. Not by you and certainly not by him. Chris is my brother. I should be able to mention his name without bringing the censorship board down on my neck.’
    My mother places her cutlery neatly on her plate and leans forward slightly. The conciliator.
    â€˜He hurt us deeply when he left, Cain. You have to understand. It’s not easy for your father –’
    â€˜Newsflash, mother. He didn’t hurt you. He was defending you. Right up until you sided with him. ’
    I punctuate the word by jabbing the air in my father’s direction with my fork.
    â€˜And he wasn’t hurt at all. He didn’t give a damn. The only thing that hurt him was the fact that someone had finally called his bluff.’ Suddenly my father is standing, slamming his hands down onto the table. His chair tips back on its hind legs then falls forward, coming to rest against the backs of his legs. He is rigid, staring down at me.
    And I remember the impact of his belt – the burning sting and the humiliation. And Chris staring back at him, unbowed and unrepentant.
    While I crawled away into a corner with my arms over my head, crying like a baby.
    This time I hold his gaze and stare back at him. I stand and we face off across the table. I’m not seven years old any more and his eyes are looking up at mine. Just a fraction, but enough. They dart away, then back. He struggles to maintain the stare, but he has weakened for once.
    He knows it and he knows I know it.
    â€˜Well, maybe you should call my bluff too,’ he counters, weakly. ‘Get out of the house and see if