by Mark Ayre
"Here, take a look."
"Seen it," he said.
Abbie hovered over Ollie a few more seconds, then nodded, though he wasn't looking at her. "Fair enough. I might keep this one, actually."
All it took was a single step away for Ollie to spin.
"No, you can't take her things. You can't."
Now they were looking at each other, and Abbie was able to hold those hurt eyes. The boy looked awful. He had been on the verge of a breakdown when Abbie had seen him at the shopping centre yesterday afternoon. Now he was in the middle of it, sliding further and further into despair. Unlike with Jacob, Abbie could not believe Ollie's parent would be in a position to offer him the emotional support he so clearly needed.
"No," said Abbie. "You're quite right, don't know what I was thinking."
The picture was still in her hand. Ollie jutted out a palm. Abbie hesitated only a second before stepping forward and placing the image in his grasp.
His hand retracted. For several seconds, he stared at the photo, then he began to cry again.
"I miss them."
Abbie looked at the picture from her position a few steps back. "Morris was good to you, then?"
Ollie's eyes were sharp with anger, if not hate. "Why wouldn't he be? Because I'm messed up? Because I'm a worthless piece of shit?"
"I didn't say you were either," said Abbie, her voice calm. "I meant because you were the son of his step-daughter. A step-daughter he didn't meet until she was in adulthood. It would be easy to believe a man might struggle to connect with a child like that."
“He was amazing,” said Ollie. “He was nice to me, so of course, he died.”
“People who are nice to you always die?”
“Morris and Aurora,” Ollie whispered. “No one else has ever been nice to me.”
“Not your mother?”
“She loves me,” said Ollie, which said a lot. Parents like Angel had little time for their children. They put more emphasis on obedience and achievement than on care and enjoyment. Kids of such parents are more likely to associate love with duty than with kindness. Abbie had no doubt Ollie loved his mother greatly; hence he was so keen to protect her. The question was, did he like her?
Rather than pull this thread, Abbie said, "What about your grandma?"
Ollie shrugged. "She's nice now. But she abandoned me. She was careless and stupid, and she went away."
Careless. Stupid. These were words fed to Ollie by his mother. Angel professed to be turning against Alice because of how Alice had handled the Louis situation. Abbie wondered if that were true. How long, really, had Angel resented her mother? How long had she felt the need to poison Alice's children and grandchild against her and take control of the family?
"Well, if people who are nice to you end up dead, I'm in real trouble because that's exactly what I intend to be."
"You're not nice," said Ollie. "You attacked me."
He rubbed his jaw where Abbie's elbow had caught him. Abbie rolled her eyes.
"I elbowed you because you attacked me."
"Because you attacked my mum."
"Because your mum sent people to kill me."
"Because you attacked Auntie Ariana."
"Because she was going to hurt Jacob."
"Because Louis killed Aurora."
"Aha," said Abbie. "You lose the because-off. No untruths. That's clearly stated in the rules. Five points to me."
"Louis killed Aurora," Ollie said again. Then, "So I don't lose."
The boy was angry, upset. At his comment about Abbie’s made-up-on-the-spot game, Abbie could not help but smile. She came towards the bed.
"Mind if I sit?"
"Yes."
"Okay, good." She sat. "Ollie, do you truly, without a shadow of a doubt, believe Louis murdered Aurora?”
"He blamed grandma for what happened to Niall. And he's always had it out for us. And he kills people who get in his—"
Abbie raised a hand. "Stop. You're not answering the question. I'm willing to accept Louis is a bad person who was angry at your grandma. I'm willing to accept he's killed before. I'm even willing to accept it's possible he killed Aurora, though I suspect he didn't. Here's what I'm asking… do you believe, without the slightest reservation, Louis killed Aurora?"
"Yes." Except he hesitated first; his eyes flicked to the ground. Because, of course, he wasn't sure. How could he be?
"Okay," said Abbie. "In that case, you'll have no problem detailing the evidence that makes you so certain. And before you go on," she cut him off, "remember, I don't mean the circumstantial stuff: he was angry, he had form, that kind of thing. I'm talking about evidence that convinces a jury that a man is guilty of a crime beyond a reasonable doubt. So, now you understand the parameters: go."
Ollie stared. Didn't speak because what was he supposed to say? Instead, his anger bubbled. He'd convinced himself Louis was guilty and didn't want to field probing questions that could make his conviction tremble. Before he could explode from her previous comment, Abbie decided to push things a little further with her next.
"Did you know," said Abbie, "that when we humans have taken actions we believe may have caused something awful to happen, something that would lead to soul-crushing levels of guilt, we tend to project. We find someone else to blame for the horrible event, whatever that may be, and we use our hatred for this victim of our blame to flatten and diminish the guilt we would otherwise experience." Louis was the perfect example of what she was trying to explain. Given how Ollie felt about the man, Abbie decided not to mention him. "Does that make sense?"
Ollie's face was twisted into a mask of half grief, half depression. "You're saying I killed Aurora."
His hands were balled. Before he attacked again, as in the shopping centre, Abbie shook her head.
"Absolutely not. I know you didn't kill Aurora, but we’re often our worst critics." Abbie paused, wondering how far she could push this. Decided to go a little further. "You were with her the night she died, weren't you? You argued about Jacob."
Ollie hadn't expected Abbie to know this, and for a moment, was stumped. Inside, his emotions had created a clogged mess, meaning he expressed nothing at all.
"I want you to know," said Abbie, "it's okay that you argued and refused to walk Aurora home. That doesn't make you responsible for her death. You're not to blame."
This was taking some leaps of faith. Jacob had told Abbie that Aurora and Ollie had been together on the night Aurora died, but Abbie had no way of verifying the claim. Even assuming it was true, the stuff about arguing and Ollie leaving Aurora to walk home alone was complete conjecture. It was a risk throwing it out there but a risk worth taking. If Abbie asked Ollie if he and Aurora had argued, Ollie might lie. Speaking of the events as though she knew they were true meant Ollie was more likely to cop to them if they were.
"She was everything to me." The words came as a whisper, and Ollie turned his head from Abbie, unable to meet her eye any longer. "From when we were the littlest of kids, we did everything together; I thought it would always be that way. She was my best friend, my partner, my sister. Then she started drifting, and I didn't know why. When she told me she was dating that… that…" Ollie squeezed his eyes closed and shook. For a second, it seemed merely thinking of Jacob might cause Ollie’s head to explode. In the end, he dodged the name or descriptive altogether. "Louis was trying to rob my grandma. That family was the enemy, and Aurora was choosing to be with that prick instead of me. I was angry, so angry. Then I... I... Oh, no."
Ollie put a hand to his mouth as the emotion untangled and broke free. He began to cry. Balling his hand into a fist, he thumped his own knee once, twice, three times. On the fourth attempt, Abbie caught it.
"Stop," she said. “You don't need to do this."
"But I do," he said, though he didn't yank his fist from her hand. "I do because I deserve to hurt. I'm good for nothing else."
"I disagree," said Abbie. Releasing his fist, she squeezed his shoulder. O
llie looked at her hand but didn't shake it away. In fact, he seemed pitifully grateful, and Abbie couldn't help but wonder if his mother had ever shown him even this tiny level of affection.
"I hit her," Ollie said, his eyes widening with the horror of the memory. "She was the best friend I ever had, and I told her I hated her, and I hit her."
His face was paper white. Tears continued to pour down his cheeks. The pain was so raw, Abbie could almost feel it. Wanted to recoil from it but kept her hand on Ollie and stayed put.
"You said I wasn't to blame," Ollie whispered. "But I was."
"You weren't."
"Yes, I was," he said, his voice rising. "I didn't slit Aurora's throat, but—“
"No," Abbie cut in, and her voice was firm, hard. "Look at me. Ollie, I said, look at me."
He did, though he didn't like it, though he was ashamed of himself and couldn't bear to look someone else in the eye.
"You can't make me stop feeling guilty."
"You should feel guilty," said Abbie, taking Ollie by surprise. She squeezed his shoulder a little more tightly. "You hit your best friend, a girl you see as a sister. She lied to you, but she was in love and didn't know how to tell you. She didn't deserve your anger or your fist."
"I know," he sobbed. "I never meant—“
"No excuses," said Abbie. "You feel guilty for what you did, you regret it, but you also own it; you did it, so suffer. Apologise to Aurora's memory, and promise to learn to control your emotions. And mean it. That's the big one.
"I will; I can."
"Don't promise me," said Abbie, "and don't do it now. Now, tell me if you killed her.”
“I already—“
“Tell me again.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Then don’t you dare feel guilty for her death. Don’t you dare.” She paused, let him take that in. “Now, tell me, are you to blame for Aurora’s death?”
"No."
"No," Abbie agreed. "So who’s to blame? Who should feel guilty?"
"The person who killed my sister."
"Right, the person who killed Aurora, and no one else. As for you, there's something else on which you need to focus, and it won’t be easy."
He looked at her. Yesterday, he hated her; now his eyes pleaded with her to tell him more, to help him, because God knew his mother never would.
"Revenge against Louis, against Jacob, is a distraction," said Abbie. "It stops you from grieving and processing your loss, both of which are vital if you're to reclaim any kind of life."
Ollie was still staring. Abbie hadn't released his shoulder. Within her grasp, he seemed to find strength.
"I don't know that Louis killed Aurora," he whispered.
"I know you don't," said Abbie, "and that's okay."
Ollie bowed his head and cried quietly for almost a minute, then did something Abbie didn’t expect. As he had yesterday, in the shopping centre, he threw himself at her. Instead of punching and kicking, he put his head on her chest and swung his arms around her body.
It took a few seconds for Abbie to realise this wasn't an attack but a hug.
"It's okay," she said, awkward but forcing herself to put her arms around him. She wasn't great with affection. "It's going to be okay."
"I blamed Jacob," Ollie said into Abbie's tee, onto which he was also crying. "Mum's going after him because she thinks that's what I want, but it isn't. It isn't."
"I know it isn't," said Abbie. "Your mother—"
She stopped herself. Her anger began bubbling, boiling to the surface when she considered how much damage Angel had caused Ollie. Not only Ollie. How long had Alice been behind bars before Angel dragged her kid sister into her orbit, drilling into her son that Aurora was a sister to him now, forcing the absent Alice out? How many times had Ollie watched his mother deal with a problem and believed that was the right way? His hatred of Jacob hadn't been emotional but preconditioned by a mother who refused to take responsibility and taught her son to search for someone to blame in all unfavourable situations, regardless of how culpable you were.
"You should call your mum," said Abbie. "Tell her you don't want Jacob harmed."
Ollie shook his head into Abbie's chest. "It wouldn't work."
"You don't know that."
"I do." At last, he pulled his head away. Abbie tried not to look at the damage to her new top. "It's happened before."
That was interesting.
"What do you mean?"
"When I was little, I got upset about not having a dad like Aurora and my friends. Mum said it didn't matter, but I couldn't get it out of my head. I went on and on about it, begging her to tell me something, anything, about him."
He put his fingers to his mouth. Started biting his nails, but Abbie yanked his hand away. After a shocked jump, Ollie went on.
"She resisted for ages, then one day she comes home, puts me in some nice clothes and drags me to the car. She drives me to a house and knocks on the door, and when he answers, Angel shoves me inside and tells me I'm looking at my daddy. This is him. Then she leaves, telling me she'll wait in the car."
Ollie stopped. Abbie realised she was clenching her fists and forced them apart. That bitch. The words were on her lips, but she held them back.
Abbie knew what this was. It was natural that a boy who had never known his father would be curious, but rather than seeing it as what it was, Angel had taken it as a slight. Her little boy telling her she wasn't enough. How insulted Angel must have been. In her eyes, Ollie had misbehaved, and what do you do with a misbehaving child?
Punish them.
"My father told me he didn't want me; that I should pretend I didn't have a dad. He cried and said he was sorry, but what good was that when he'd told me I was nothing to him? I ran to mum's car. I was crying, and I couldn't stop. Not until mum shook me and told me to stop being a baby. To grow up, stop sobbing, and tell her what I wanted."
Ollie looked at Abbie as though wondering if she might ask what he'd told his mum. Abbie didn't have to. She knew.
"I said I wanted him dead," said Ollie. "But I didn't mean it. When I calmed down, I told her I'd been stupid. I didn't want him to die. He was still my dad. I begged her not to do anything."
Ollie's face was flushed now. Telling the story, remembering, was exhausting him. Abbie might have stopped him but found she couldn't speak. The sick story had her enthralled.
"Mum told me not to worry," said Ollie. "Then she took me for ice cream, and when I was on my second helping, talking about how I thought I could get my daddy to change his mind, she smiled and told me I'd fooled myself into believing I wanted dad to live. Only in the heat of my anger, mum said, had I been brave enough to tell the truth. The truth was I wanted daddy dead, and it was my lucky day because as we ate ice cream, someone mummy trusted was making my dream come true."
Abbie closed her eyes, took a breath. It was all she could do not to scream. Always so good at keeping her temper in check and her face clear of emotion, now Abbie’s rage must have shown.
"I didn't mean to," Ollie sobbed, and Abbie knew what he was saying. Opening her eyes, she pulled the boy back in for a hug.
"No, no, no," she said. "Of course you didn't. Your mum flipped it. When you were angry, that was when you least knew what you wanted. The calm you was the real you. Oh, Ollie, I'm so sorry. It's not right. Your mother should have never—"
"She only ever does what's best for me," said Ollie.
Abbie almost responded but stopped herself. Angel had brainwashed the teen. No good could come of trying to explain what a foul creature his mother was.
"I'll try and talk to her," Ollie said. "I'll explain I was wrong about Jacob. He isn't the problem. I am."
"No, you're not, sweetie," said Abbie, thinking about Angel. "I promise you're not."
She held Ollie close as he sobbed, held him close and shushed him and promised it was going to be okay.
Abbie held Ollie close and wondered how long she would be made to wait befor
e she could raise a gun and put a bullet between Angel's eyes.
Twenty-Four
Hope and the scent of bacon clung to the air downstairs. Both hit Abbie as she left the bottom step and turned towards the kitchen. That and the whistling plus the sizzle of fat in a pan.
Alice was in the kitchen. A vast skillet contained numerous rashers of bacon, sausage links, and eggs. The oven was on, and there was a pot of beans beside the bacon. Also on the go was French toast, mushrooms, black pudding.
"Abagail, wonderful," said Alice. On the round table straight out of Arthurian legend were bottles of ketchup, brown sauce, BBQ sauce, plus dispensers for salt and pepper. Alice had been removing a plate from the cupboard and leaned down to get another. "Care to join me?"
Abbie moved towards the hob, looked into the various pans, took in that wonderful scent of bacon and tried not to let the hope in the air ruin it.
"Presumably, you were expecting me,' said Abbie. "Me and half the south coast."
Alice laughed. Without waiting for a proper answer, she had taken a second plate from the cupboard and placed both on the table before returning to grab cutlery.
"I'm a woman of few bad habits," she said. "But we all have some, and this is one of mine. I go overboard on breakfast. Luckily, for the last four decades, at least one of my children has always lived beneath my roof; and all of my children have healthy appetites. Breakfast like a king is more of an edict than a suggestion in my house."
Alice placed the cutlery on the table then came to the stove, hustling Abbie aside as she did.
"Breakfast like a King is one thing, but this is enough to feed a King, his family, and all his courtiers. I'm no vegetarian but poor livestock."
"Calling them livestock certainly gives you away as a carnivore," said Alice. She turned some sausages, flipped some bacon. After turning off the beans, she started removing long, ceramic dishes to serve the food.
"Let me help," said Abbie, but Alice almost shoved her away.
"I won't hear of it. Sit down. Right now."
It was a tone with which an intelligent person did not trifle. Bemused, Abbie nodded and stepped away, taking a seat as Alice began to serve the sumptuous breakfast onto the dishes.