The Family Man

by Amy Cross

  "I want to fly in a plane," Kieran replies.

  "Aren't you scared?" I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  "You've got to admit," Sharon adds, "this family deserves a vacation. We've barely been to the end of the block recently."

  "I can't argue with you there," I tell her, eating a mouthful of lasagna. The truth is, although I instantly bristled at the idea of going abroad, I can't deny the appeal of spending some time with Sharon and the kids. Looking over at our daughter Eliza, I see the smile on her face and realize that although she's a little too young to really understand what we're talking about, she too would undoubtedly enjoy a trip to Europe. There's really no reason for me to refuse, although I feel that a full-on family vacation would represent quite a commitment on my part. I'm not sure I'm ready.

  "Maybe we should talk about it some other time," Sharon says, clearly keen to keep expectations in check.

  "No," I reply, turning to her, "why not do something a little exciting and spontaneous once in a while?" I turn to Kieran. "You've never had a proper vacation, have you?"

  He shakes his head.

  "Then I guess it's settled," I continue. "We're going to England. Big Ben, red-top buses, the Tower of London.... The whole damn package!"

  "Are you sure we can afford it?" Sharon asks, trying to strike a cautious and realistic note even though she can't wipe the grin off her face. She's been wanting a vacation for so long, and although I managed to dissuade her for a while, the kids have finally won me over. For now, anyway. I guess I can always back out of the whole thing later, if I decide it'd be a bad idea.

  "Of course," I say, reaching out and squeezing her hand. "Anything for the family."

  "Wow," she replies, clearly shocked that I was so easily persuaded. "There are so many fun things we can do in London. We can go shopping, and see Buckingham Palace, and Trafalgar Square, and -"

  "Harry Potter!" Kieran shouts.

  "Absolutely," I reply, before looking down at my lasagna and feeling a faint pang of sadness. I check my watch again and see that only a couple of minutes have elapsed since the last time I looked; the meeting with Albert is playing on my mind, and I'm still not entirely sure that our entire operation is on course. Everything with Sharon and the kids seems so perfect right now, but it could all be derailed if Albert has particularly bad news. Still, I have to keep a smile on my face for now. After all, there's still a chance that everything might be okay. A slim chance, but a chance.

  "I want to go ice-skating!" Kieran says.

  "In London?" Sharon says. "I think maybe that can be arranged."

  "Excuse me," I say quietly, getting up from the table.

  "Are you okay, John?" Sharon asks, with concern in her voice.

  "Of course," I reply, stepping over to her and kissing the top of her head. "I'm sorry, work's very difficult at the moment. I just need to check something. I'll be back in two minutes."

  "But -"

  "Two minutes," I say again. "I promise."

  Without waiting for a reply, I head back through to my office, where I immediately hurry to the desk and pull open the middle drawer. Reaching inside, I carefully unfasten the false bottom and lift it up, before pulling out the six passports I've been keeping in there for the past few years. Flicking through them, I feel myself starting to relax. There's really no need to be worried. All I have to do is make a few arrangements regarding my other commitments, and then enjoy a nice family vacation in England.

  It's what a good family man would do.

  Still, everything depends on what Albert has to tell me later. There's still a chance that my whole operation, my whole world, is about to go to hell. If that's the case, a trip to London might still be in order, except that I might only need a one-way ticket.

  Katherine Shaw

  It's the sound of the TV that wakes me. Somewhere in the distance, a man is droning on and on with that peculiar cadence that people only ever use when they're talking to a camera.

  I blink a couple of times, wondering why my eyes feel so sore.

  "This is the house where the women first appeared," the TV voice is saying. "Several miles from the nearest town, at the end of a dirt road, it's certainly isolated from civilization. Who would ever have thought, though, that such an innocuous looking location could have played host to such horror?"

  Sitting up, I realize that somehow I managed to get home after my evening in the bar, although I don't remember the journey at all and I'm completely naked under the bedsheets. Looking down, I feel a shiver pass through my body as I see the two faint, raggedy scars running horizontally on either side of my chest, where I used to have breasts. It's been three months since the operation, and I still haven't got used to the way my body looks these days. Still, I'm not the kind of person to dwell on morbid thoughts, so I figure I just need to -

  "Damn it!" splutters a male voice from somewhere else in the apartment.

  I freeze.

  Who the hell was that?

  Keeping the sheets pulled up to cover my naked body, I lean across the bed and look down on the floor. Sure enough, not only are my clothes scattered around as if they were taken off in a hurry, but there's also a torn-open pack of rubbers. I lean a little further, straining to look under the bed, and finally I spot my sneakers. It's been many, many years since I had a random one-night-stand (or one-evening-stand, in this case) with a guy, but I still remember the tell-tale signs. Taking a deep breath, I feel an unassailable sense of embarrassment - maybe even humiliation - start to rise through my body.

  What the hell happened?

  "Stupid bitch," I mutter as I spot my reflection in the bedside mirror.

  I glance at the clock by my bed and see that it's still only 10pm. Christ, I'm completely out of sync with the world.

  Getting out of bed, I keep the sheets over my body as I gather my clothes and then I quickly get dressed. My shirt smells of beer, and sure enough there's a partially-dry stain on one sleeve, but I figure I don't have time to change right now. I check the drawer of my bedside table and find that my gun is still where I left it, so I figure I'm not in any immediate danger. Whoever this guy is, however, I need to get him the hell out of my apartment as fast as possible.

  As soon as I get out into the corridor, I realize that there's a distant hum coming from the kitchen, as if someone's singing. I make my way slowly to the door, tensing with every step and already trying to think of an excuse to kick the guy out as fast as possible. When I reach the door and look through, however, I'm immediately both relieved and horrified as I see that my unexpected guest has a familiar face and, as he stands with his back to me, a familiar ass.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" I ask.

  Standing stark naked by the sink, Jason turns to me. "Good evening to you too. You know, I really like your apartment. It's great to finally see where you live"

  "What are you doing here?" I ask again, shuddering at the realization that I invited him back here.

  "My job," he replies, drinking a glass of water before walking over to the kitchen table, his dick swinging with every step. "You called me, remember?"

  I stare at him blankly.

  "Oh Jason," he continues, clearly mocking my tone of voice, "I know it's a bit last-minute but I really need to get fucked right now. I can't be bothered with a motel, just meet me at my place. Please, Jason, just come and fuck my brains out with your big hard cock! I'll pay double!"

  "I didn't say anything like that," I reply cautiously, even though I know it sounds a lot like me. When I'm drunk, anyway. Which I guess I was.

  "Do you wanna hear the voicemails you left while I was on the subway?" he asks with a raised eyebrow. "You were in a hell of a hurry to -"

  "Okay," I reply, interrupting him as I double-check that the sheet is firmly tied around my chest. "I get it. So I called you." I pause for a moment, trying not to stare at his fat, flaccid penis. "Did I at least pay you already?"

  "A hundred and fifty plus travel cos
ts," he replies. "You know, you're starting to become one of my regular customers. I could almost quit the rest of my clients and just use the money I make from you to get myself through chef school."

  "Don't get too comfortable," I tell him, heading over to the coffee machine just as my head starts to pound. I have no idea how much I drank this evening, but it's starting to catch up to me. Damn it, I'm pretty sure this hangover's gonna feel worse than my last session of chemotherapy. "Hang on," I add, turning to him. "Chef school?"

  "You think I wanna be a male escort all my life?" he asks.

  I look down at his penis for a moment. "Cover yourself up," I mutter, before turning away and starting to fill the machine.

  "So I was right, I see," he says.

  "About what?" I ask, even though I'm pretty sure I know what he's talking about. For the past few months, I've always kept my top on during sessions with Jason. Based on how I woke up this morning, however, I'm pretty sure that in my drunken stupor I stripped completely naked and let him see, for the first time, the full extent of my scarred chest.

  "You could have just told me," he continues. "I'm not superficial."

  "There was nothing to tell you," I reply, wishing the ground would open and swallow me up.

  "Don't think I didn't notice," he says. "About two, maybe three months ago, you suddenly got real defensive about keeping your shirt on when we were going at it. I suspected something was up, but I wasn't sure whether..." He pauses. "So was it a preventative mastectomy, or..."

  I set the coffee machine running before turning to him.

  "None of your business," I say firmly.

  "Well, if -"

  "Why are you still here?" I add.

  "You told me to stay around for as long as I want," he replies. "You said you were worried about sending me back home so late."

  "It's 10pm," I point out.

  "You said you were concerned for my welfare."

  "I said that?" I reply, genuinely shocked.

  He nods.

  "I guess I really must have been out of my mind," I continue, blinking a couple of times as my headache gets worse and worse. Looking over at the TV, I see that a news report is still running at low volume, with a journalist standing outside some kind of rundown old house in the middle of nowhere.

  "You hear about that?" Jason asks. "A bunch of tortured girls just turned up on this couple's doorstep with, like, injuries and broken backs and stuff. No-one knows where they came from or who they are. They just appeared out of nowhere."

  "No-one appears out of nowhere," I mutter.

  "You know what I mean."

  I stare at the screen.

  "It's a sick world, huh?" Jason continues. "The thought that people could do that kind of thing to others... And it's always women, isn't it? Almost always, anyway. Men doing fucked-up things to women. Those poor girls are probably gonna be scarred for life now."

  "You can live with scars," I say darkly, before turning to him. "Scars mean you survived. Now get your clothes on. I've got things to do tonight."

  "Aren't you gonna offer me a coffee?" he asks with a smile.

  "No," I say firmly.

  As he gets dressed in the bedroom, I try to focus on the job of making a big pot of coffee and sorting out some food. Hell, I don't think I've eaten a proper meal at home for five years, but right now I need to distract myself. My refrigerator is pretty bare and I don't want to contemplate the ancient packages that are lurking in the cupboards, so I figure I'm limited to some old bread and maybe some cereal. There's an old bag of popcorn somewhere, too, but I really don't want to lower my standards so far that I end up eating something like that for dinner.

  "So are you feeling better now?" Jason asks as he comes back into the kitchen, still buttoning his shirt.

  "I'm absolutely fine," I mutter. "As long as I paid you already, I figure we're done here, right?"

  "Oh yeah," he says with a smile, heading to the door. "You insisted on slipping the wad of notes between my butt-cheeks. Using your mouth."

  I can't help but shudder at the thought of how drunk I must have been. Looking up at the ceiling, I realize that the room is still slightly spinning.

  "You seemed angry," he continues. "Something seemed to have pissed you off. I don't mean the usual level of being pissed off that's normal for you. This was something extra. You were sad, too. You kept making jokes about getting pregnant and -"

  "Okay," I reply, smiling forcefully as I interrupt him, "it was great to see you again. Unfortunately, this'll be our last session, but good luck with your life. Don't let the door-knob hit you in the ass on the way out."

  "But -"

  "Leave!" I say firmly, feeling as if I'm on the verge of physically ejecting him.

  "See you soon," he replies, opening the door and stepping out into the corridor. "You know, every time we hook up, you always say it'll be the last time, but then you always - "

  Before he can finish, I kick the door shut in his face, and finally I have some damn peace. Filled with piss and vinegar, I make my way to the counter and pull a loaf of bread out of a paper bag, only to find that the damn thing is covered in blue mold. Sighing, I look over at the TV and watch as the reporter continues to talk outside the remote house. This looks like exactly the kind of case that I used to love, and I have no doubt that Dawson's probably been assigned. If he doesn't call for my help soon, I guess he never will.

  John

  "Okay," Albert says, "here's the thing. I think I've worked out where we went wrong with Manuel and the Staten building, and I'm one hundred per cent certain I know how we can guarantee that nothing like that ever happens again."

  It's a little after midnight and we're sitting in the squalid little drop house we've been renting, in cash, on the far side of town. The place is a goddamn dive, complete with cockroaches and rats, but at least there's no chance of us being recognized here. It's a hell of a lot more secure than talking by phone; even burner phones give me the sweats, and I prefer to meet Albert face to face so that I can be absolutely certain we're not being watched or recorded. I don't like leaving anything to chance: everything has to be pre-planned to the nth degree.

  Sometimes, I feel as if Albert doesn't share my dedication.

  "Go on," I say after a moment, taking a deep breath. "Tell me your great idea."

  "The problem with Manuel," he continues, "is that he couldn't stomach the job. I mean, the guy had a pretty rich past. His hands weren't clean, if you know what I mean. Still, it's one thing to go around enforcing matters against a bunch of cheap dime-store hoods, but it's another to watch over a bunch of our girls. I mean..." He pauses, and I can see that he's worried. "Even I sometimes feel a little shifty, you know?" He waits for me to say something. "Don't you?"

  I stare at him. "No," I say eventually.

  "But sometimes you must wonder," he replies. "You know, about whether they're feeling pain? Whether they understand what's happening to them?"

  "No," I say again.

  He clears his throat. "The point is," he continues, "it's one thing to feel a little sorry for the poor bitches, but it's something else entirely to act on those impulses, but the key difference is that the Staten building was purely populated by women."

  "So?" I ask.

  "So women and men are different," he replies. "Women tend to look more pitiful when they're in pain, don't they? I'm thinking, if Manuel had been at one of the other buildings, with just men to watch over, none of this shit would have happened. He'd have just ignored their moans. It's because he had women, John. That's the problem, right there. He started feeling sorry for them."

  "You think he went soft?" I ask.

  "Totally. Some men, they just get all protective when a girl's in pain." He pauses again. "Maybe you don't feel the same way, but it's human nature for most of us, we start feeling sorry for them. Now, I can deal with that and get over it with a bottle of rum and some smokes, but other guys..." He pauses yet again, as if for some damn reason he's havin
g trouble getting the words out. "So here's the deal," he adds eventually. "I think we need to shift our staffing patterns. Hired help watches the men, and only the men. As for the women, we'll make sure that only you and I ever go near them. I mean, we both know we're not gonna flip and do a Manuel, right?"

  I stare at him.

  "We can trust each other," he adds. "You and me. No-one else."

  "Maybe we should reduce the number of women we hold," I reply. "Women don't sell as well as men, not in our line of business. We probably have twice as much demand for men."

  "Exactly," he continues. "We cut the women down to maybe half a dozen, maximum. Keep them all together, and you and I can watch over them while we hire people in to watch the buildings with the men. I know it'll mean more work for us, but it's not like we got into this line of business because we're lazy, right?" He grins nervously. "And then, when we reach the bail-out point, we just do what we always planned. Torch the places and walk away."

  "And that's your great idea?" I ask.

  "Maybe this was a good thing," he continues as he starts rolling himself a cigarette. "Maybe it was the wake-up call we needed. We were getting ahead of ourselves."

  "And the girls," I reply. "The ones who got away. The many, many who got away. Where are they now?"

  "They've got 'em somewhere in the city," he replies. "The story's only just starting to break on the news channels, but I'm pretty sure it's gonna be huge by morning. Still, we both know, there's no way they can trace this back to us. Hell, there's no way they can even work out why we were keeping those women. They'll probably just assume it was some dumb-ass slavery or sex thing, you know? They'll be so busy getting all lathered up about prostitution rackets or some other kind of shit, they'll never work out the truth. It's not like the cops are that smart, right?" He pauses. "We're in the clear, John. We've taken a financial hit, but we're in the clear."

  "As long as Manuel didn't leave any other nasty little surprises," I point out.

  "Like what?"

  "How do we know that he didn't call the authorities before you caught up to him?"