1994: A Glass Half Empty [Part 2]

Liam’s voice cut through the air, sharper now, as if he was done with the quiet interrogation. There was an urgency in his words, a need for something more than the half-hearted responses Duncan was offering. “You think just saying ‘I was working’ is enough?” he asked, his tone biting. “That’s supposed to explain why you were never there? Not for the birthdays, the holidays, not even when Mom was sick?”

Duncan’s eyes remained on his drink, the same calm, unaffected expression etched into his face. He swirled the glass slowly, watching the whiskey cling to the sides before draining back to the bottom. His silence stretched long enough that the tension in the air felt thick and heavy, pressing down on them both.

Finally, Duncan spoke, his voice as empty as ever. “It’s all I’ve got.”

Liam leaned in closer, frustration flashing across his face, his words coming out in a low hiss. “You didn’t even try. You weren’t some bystander who got caught up in his work. You made a choice—every single time. You chose the job, the cases, and what? You thought that was going to make up for it all? That solving some case was more important than being there for your own family?”

Duncan flinched, but it was barely noticeable—a slight shift in his posture, the faintest tightening of his jaw. He turned his head just enough to glance at Liam, but there was no fire in his eyes, only that same cold, steady gaze. “It was my job,” he said simply. “It’s what I knew how to do.”

Liam’s hands clenched into fists on the bar. He looked like he wanted to tear into Duncan, like there was so much more he needed to say, but the words caught in his throat, twisted by the bitterness and anger that had festered for years. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, but no less intense. “Your job? That’s all you have to say? You act like the job was the only thing that mattered, but you don’t even see what it cost.”

Duncan blinked, his expression still unreadable. But this time, when he answered, there was something different. His words were slower, heavier. “I know what it cost,” he murmured, the faintest hint of weariness creeping into his voice. “Don’t think for a second I don’t know.”

Liam’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he was silent, as if trying to understand the meaning behind his father’s words. He took a deep breath before speaking again, his tone laced with disbelief. “Then why didn’t you do anything about it? Why didn’t you stop?”

Duncan’s gaze dropped to the bar, his fingers tapping idly against the rim of his glass. There was no immediate response, no flash of guilt or regret. Just a silence that seemed to drag on, suffocating in its emptiness. When he finally spoke, his voice was as cold as ever, though now there was a weight to it, like a man who had been carrying a burden for far too long. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “Maybe I didn’t want to.”

Liam stared at him, his face a mask of disbelief and growing anger. “You didn’t want to?” His voice cracked with the weight of the words, disbelief giving way to something darker. “You’re saying you chose not to be there—because you didn’t want to?”

Duncan’s eyes flickered toward Liam, the faintest shadow of something passing across his face. “Maybe,” he whispered, though the word seemed to hang in the air, heavier than anything else he had said. It wasn’t an admission of guilt, but it wasn’t far from one either. It was a kind of acceptance—an acknowledgment that whatever choices he had made, he had made them knowingly, even if they had led him to this moment.

Liam’s voice rose, the bitterness and anger finally spilling out, no longer held in check. “That’s not good enough. You don’t get to sit there and shrug this off like it’s some mistake you made. You ruined everything. And you don’t even care, do you?”

Duncan’s gaze turned back to the glass, but this time it wasn’t as steady as before. His fingers trembled ever so slightly as he raised the glass to his lips, draining the last of the whiskey. “I care,” he said, almost too softly to be heard.

Liam slammed his fist against the bar, the sudden noise breaking the quiet tension that had been building. “Don’t lie to me,” he spat. “You don’t care. If you did, you would’ve been there. You wouldn’t have left us—left me—to figure it all out alone. And now you want me to believe that you cared? Now?”

Duncan set the empty glass down with a soft clink, staring at it for a long moment before speaking again. His voice, still devoid of emotion, carried a trace of something beneath the surface—something too small to name but heavy enough to be felt. “What do you want me to say?” he asked, the question not rhetorical, but genuinely unsure. “That I’m sorry? That I wish I could go back and change it all?”

Liam’s breath caught, his fists trembling at his sides as he looked at the man before him. The man who was supposed to be his father, but had been nothing more than a ghost in his life, even when he was alive. “I don’t want your apologies,” Liam said, his voice low, but each word dripping with the weight of years of resentment. “I don’t want your excuses.”

Liam’s words, sharp and biting, seemed to stir something in Duncan—a ripple beneath the cold, still surface of his mind. He remained motionless at the bar, but his gaze grew distant, unfocused, as though he were no longer present in The Bookbinder’s Brew. The dull hum of the pub, the faint clink of glass, and the low murmur of conversation around him faded into nothingness. All that remained were the echoes of that day.

The Café Flashback

The café was dimly lit, as it always was at this time of night. A small, unremarkable spot on the corner of a street that had seen better days, but it was familiar. Comfortable. Duncan Brady pushed open the glass door, the faint jingling of the bell above announcing his arrival to the sparse crowd. His boots clacked against the worn tiled floor as he made his way to his usual seat, the one tucked into the far corner by the window. From there, he could watch the street outside—the drifters, the addicts, the dealers—all wandering aimlessly beneath the dull glow of streetlights. They didn’t matter to him anymore, not like they used to. Once upon a time, he would have watched them with a sense of duty, maybe even purpose. Now, they were just part of the scenery.

The dark-skinned waitress behind the counter glanced up and offered a soft, tired smile. Irene had been working here as long as Duncan had been coming by. Their routines were synced in an unspoken rhythm, and after all these years, they didn’t need words to communicate.

“Evening, Duncan,” she greeted, her voice warm despite the weight of a long day. She reached for the coffee pot before he could even ask.

He nodded in return, pulling off his cap and setting it down on the table. “Evening, Irene.”

She brought the steaming mug over, setting it down with practiced ease. “The usual?”

“Yeah,” Duncan replied, his voice gruff but not unfriendly. “Thanks.”

Irene’s smile lingered for a second longer before she turned back to the counter, where she resumed washing glasses with slow, deliberate movements. Duncan watched her for a moment, appreciating the quiet, steady presence she always provided. She never pried, never asked him how he was doing or why he seemed more worn down each time he came in. She didn’t need to.

There was a sense of comfort in their shared silences, the kind that came from years of knowing someone without truly knowing them. Duncan had never asked much about her life, and she had never asked about his. They both understood that they were just passing through each other’s nights—two people anchored to a routine in a world that had long since lost its meaning.

As she wiped down the counter, Irene spoke again, though her tone was casual. “Busy night?”

Duncan shook his head. “Not anymore.”

She glanced up at him, her hands stilling for a moment on the glass. There was a brief flicker of something—understanding, maybe—but she didn’t press. Instead, she gave a soft hum of acknowledgment and went back to her task.

Duncan took a sip of the coffee, its bitterness familiar on his tongue, and stared out the window. The street outside was as bleak as ever, filled with the usual cast of characters. He had been walking this beat for years, sitting in this café for nearly as long. The faces changed, but the problems never did. Crime went up, no matter how hard the department tried. People fell through the cracks, and no one seemed to care anymore. Least of all him.

The door chimed again, and Duncan barely registered the new arrivals. He was too far lost in his own thoughts, staring at the cigarette butts lining the gutter outside, the faint glow of streetlights casting long shadows over the cracked pavement.

“I’ll get your order started,” Irene said as she passed by, gently touching his shoulder as she made her way toward the kitchen. It was a small gesture, one that held a warmth that didn’t quite reach Duncan, though it was enough to make him grunt in acknowledgment.

The coffee continued to steam in front of him, but Duncan’s mind drifted. To home, if you could call it that. To his wife, who barely spoke to him anymore. To his son, who had long since become a stranger. They had lived parallel lives for years, passing each other by like commuters on a crowded train. His wife had her lover, and Duncan, well... Duncan had his badge. His duty. It was the only thing that had ever made sense, even if it didn’t give him the satisfaction it once had.

He sighed, pushing himself up from the booth. His back ached—a persistent reminder of the years that had piled up on him. He winced slightly as he stretched, then made his way to the bathroom. Irene, as always, noticed, casting him a glance as she worked at the counter. “Same old Duncan,” she had once said with a soft chuckle. Tonight, she said nothing.

In the bathroom, the fluorescent light buzzed overhead as Duncan washed his hands, the tap creaking under his grip. The water was cold, but it was better than the stale air that clung to the walls. He took his time, splashing his face, letting the water drip down his neck. The mirror reflected a man he barely recognized—deep lines etched into his face, shadows clinging beneath his eyes, and the stiff uniform that felt more like a weight than protection.

Then came the sound. Muffled at first—a faint pop, like something heavy hitting the floor.

Duncan froze, his hand still hovering beneath the stream of water. The next sound was unmistakable—a gunshot, sharp and violent, cutting through the air like a knife. And then another. The bathroom walls seemed to close in, the fluorescent light casting harsh shadows over his face.

Instinct took over. The years of training, the muscle memory, kicked in before his mind could catch up. He reached for his sidearm, the familiar weight of it settling into his grip as he crept toward the door.

Another shot echoed through the café, followed by the sound of breaking glass. A scream—cut off too quickly—ripped through the air, sending a chill down Duncan’s spine. It was Irene. He knew it before he even stepped out.

His heart pounded, not with fear but with a cold, calculated readiness. The door swung open, and the world outside the bathroom seemed to tilt, chaotic and fractured. Two men in masks stood in the middle of the café, guns raised, their boots heavy against the bloodstained floor. Irene lay on the ground behind the counter, a pool of dark red spreading beneath her.

The taller of the two robbers turned toward Duncan, his pistol raised. There was no hesitation. Duncan had been here before, too many times. He raised his revolver and fired.

The shot rang out, louder than the others. The robber staggered, clutching his chest, his eyes wide behind the mask as he crumpled to the floor.

Duncan fired again, twice more, without thinking. His aim was perfect—had always been perfect.

The second robber fell.

It wasn’t until the silence settled that Duncan allowed himself to breathe. He moved toward the bodies, his gun still drawn, but something in the back of his mind began to scream at him, something primal and desperate, though he couldn’t place it.

The mask on the first robber slipped.

Duncan stared, the blood draining from his face.

Liam.

His son’s eyes, wide with shock and fear, stared back at him as he bled out on the floor. For a moment, Duncan hadn’t moved, hadn’t breathed. His brain refused to connect the pieces, refused to accept what his eyes were seeing. His mind was frozen in that moment, the moment before recognition, before everything had changed.

Liam’s lips had parted, as though he was about to speak, but no words came. Just the sound of his ragged, choking breaths, and then... nothing.

Duncan blinked, his eyes still fixed on the empty glass in front of him, but his mind was trapped in the past. The image of Liam lying there on the cold café floor lingered, a memory that had seared itself into his mind. But even as the horror of the moment played itself over and over, Duncan remained disturbingly composed, his face showing no outward sign of the turmoil beneath.

In the present, Liam’s voice cut through the memory, dragging Duncan back to the bar, though the echoes of that day still clung to him.

“Do you even remember it?” Liam asked, his voice low, almost dangerous. “Do you remember what you did?”

Duncan’s eyes flickered for just a moment, a subtle twitch of his brow, but he didn’t respond. His mind was still in the café, still staring at the blood on his hands.

Liam leaned closer, his voice pressing now, cutting deeper. “You killed me, Dad. You pulled the trigger. Do you remember?”

The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating, but Duncan didn’t flinch. He didn’t look at Liam. He couldn’t. His eyes remained fixed on the bar, his fingers tapping lightly against the empty glass as if the rhythm could drown out the sound of his son’s voice. The voice that had haunted him ever since that day.

“I remember,” Duncan finally said, his voice barely a whisper, rough and strained. “I remember.”

But even as he said the words, there was no apology, no plea for forgiveness. His tone was empty, almost hollow. The weight of what he had done was there, heavy in the silence between them, but Duncan’s acceptance was cold. He had long since buried the need to ask for Liam’s forgiveness. He didn’t deserve it—and he wasn’t foolish enough to expect it.

The café scene flashed again in his mind, more vivid this time. He remembered the way the air had smelled—stale coffee, spilled cream, the acrid scent of gunpowder. He remembered the way Liam’s body had jerked when the bullet hit, how the light in his son’s eyes had flickered, dimmed. But what disturbed him the most wasn’t the memory of the shooting itself—it was his own reaction. His own cold, steady acceptance of the moment. He hadn’t wept. He hadn’t screamed. He had simply stood there, watching his son die, the weight of his own actions pressing down on him like a lead blanket.

He had been trained to act without hesitation. He had been trained to make decisions in the blink of an eye. And on that day, he had done just that. But what he hadn’t been prepared for—what he hadn’t trained for—was the moment after. The moment when he realized he had killed his own son.

And yet, even now, even sitting beside the ghost of his son, Duncan remained composed. His face gave nothing away, save for the faintest tightening of his jaw, the smallest flicker of something—regret, perhaps, but not guilt. Never guilt. He had done what he was trained to do. He had done what was expected of him.

But that didn’t stop the memory from gnawing at him, from haunting the quiet moments between breaths, between drinks.

Liam’s gaze burned into him, his voice steady but full of pain. “I wasn’t just another criminal. You didn’t even hesitate.”

Duncan swallowed, the motion almost imperceptible. His fingers curled around the empty glass as if it were an anchor, something to keep him tethered to the present, to keep him from drowning in the memory. “No,” he said softly. “I didn’t.”