Broken Rock

by K. A. Finn

  He’s seen her lifeless eyes staring over at him enough times to know that much. Tate holds up his shaking hands and sees her blood covering his palms. He turns on the hot tap and scrubs with the nailbrush until they’re red and raw. It doesn’t matter how many times he washes his hands, he can’t get rid of her blood. It’s always there. When the pain becomes unbearable, he turns off the tap and stares down at his hands.

  The last two weeks have been hell. It’s like someone has torn him from the life he knew and dumped him into a fucked-up reality he has no control over. He’s being dragged from hour to miserable hour and nothing is helping to break the cycle.

  He wanders back into his bedroom, grabs his duvet and drags it down the stairs behind him then dumps it on the couch. He switches on the TV and turns the volume up loud. Anything to drown out the constant screaming in his head.

  He pulls a beer from the fridge and drops onto the couch. As he’s downing half the bottle, he glares at the sheet of paper on the table in front of him. The fucking autopsy report arrived in the post yesterday and brought with it a whole new level of hell. Just like with the photo, the text was short and to the point.

  ‘It is your fault she’s dead.’

  No longer a question. Just a statement.

  According to the few sentences on the report the sender didn’t black out, the woman had been beaten to death.

  He rubs his eyes, but his vision won’t clear. It feels like his eyeballs are full of sand. His last full night of sleep was while he was still on tour. He’s so far beyond exhausted at this stage. The new pills Eddie gave him are doing fuck all. If anything, the dreams got so much worse since he started taking them. He’s going to bring over something stronger in the morning. He just needs to hang on another few hours. Then he might get some peace.

  Tate pulls the duvet around himself and hits the remote on the fire. He can’t get warm. Can’t stop the shakes no matter how high he turns up the heat. He must doze off for a few minutes because instead of being in his living room, he’s on the floor of a cold, sparsely furnished room. Tate jolts himself awake just as the dark figure looms over him. He beats his fists against the side of his head over and over again. ‘Fuck off! Please.’

  He shoves the duvet off and goes into the kitchen. He opens the fridge then slams it closed again. He’s not hungry. Maybe working out will tire him enough to knock him out for a few hours? That idea falls flat after a pathetic ten minutes. He worked hard to keep himself in shape. All that was going to go to the dogs unless he can get himself together.

  He wanders back to the couch and wraps the duvet around himself again. He just needs to hang on another few hours.

  ∞

  Tate opens the door and is shoved to the side as Gregg forces his way into the house. He groans to himself and shuts the door then follows Gregg into the living room. His friend comes to a stop and looks around the open plan space. He slowly steps around the dozens of people sitting on the floor and on the expensive couches. He stops under the mezzanine level, grimacing when he sees yet more bodies upstairs. He turns around, grabs Tate by the arm, and leads him back outside.

  ‘Who the fuck are all those people?’

  Tate shrugs. ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Excuse me? What the hell do you mean you’re not sure? Your house is full of drunk strangers.’

  ‘It’s a party.’

  Gregg pulls the bottle from Tate’s hand and gestures towards the house. ‘It’s Tuesday. Who the fuck has a party on a Tuesday? And while we’re at it, what the fuck is Eddie doing here?’

  Tate takes the beer back from Gregg. ‘What do you want?’

  Gregg turns to face him and crosses his arms. ‘You’ve been ghosting everyone for nearly a month. I know we all need space after touring but you’ve never been off the radar like this before. And no offence mate, but this drunken, rock star, hobo look isn’t doing anything for me. When was the last time you slept? Or ate? Or had a shower? Or did anything except drink? You look shite.’

  ‘You want a drink?’

  ‘No I don’t want a fucking drink, Tate.’ He peers in the window and gestures at the crowd inside. ‘They’re destroying your house. I’m surprised your neighbours haven’t called the Garda on you. I can barely hear myself think.’

  ‘You going to call your old mates in to break up the fun?’

  ‘You really think I want them to see what I stepped away from a fucking good career for?’

  ‘No one’s forcing you to work with me. You can go back to fighting crime and putting the fucking world to rights.’

  Gregg laughs and takes a few steps back. ‘At this moment in time I’m sorely tempted. What the fuck is going on with you, Tate? We’re friends. Talk to me. Has something happened?’

  Tate finishes his drink and drops the empty bottle in the flowerbed. ‘Nope.’

  Gregg points to Eddie’s BMW parked beside Tate’s pickup. ‘I thought you were easing off on contact with Eddie? We all agreed we’d knock that on the head.’

  ‘I changed my mind. What the fuck is the problem? We have the month off. I’m relaxing.’

  ‘You know we’re due to fly to Germany in two weeks, right? You seriously telling me you’re ready for that? Cause right now if you walk on stage looking like that, people will be asking for their money back.’

  ‘Give it a rest, Gregg.’

  He turns back to the house, but Gregg grabs his shoulder and spins him around. ‘What are you taking?’

  Tate shrugs out of Gregg’s grip and pokes him in the chest with his finger. ‘How about you mind your own fucking business.’

  He turns away again, but Gregg steps in front of him, blocking his escape. ‘What are you taking?’

  ‘Get out of the way.’

  ‘Not until you tell me. In all the years I’ve known you you’ve never been this far gone. I just want to help.’

  Tate tries to sidestep around Gregg but he’s not backing down. ‘I don’t need help. Move!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re seriously pissing me off, Gregg. Get the fuck out of my way or—’

  ‘Or what?’

  Tate punches Gregg in the jaw. He may have been letting himself go to shit lately but he’s still strong enough to send his friend stumbling back against the wall. Any regret or shame is overshadowed by the desperate need to get Gregg away from here. He doesn’t want Gregg to witness this sorry fucking show. He’s falling apart. He can see it happening, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He just hit his best mate but the only thing he can think about is getting back inside so he can wallow in his own fucking misery.

  Gregg stares across at him as he wipes the blood from his lip. ‘You really think clobbering me will convince me you’re okay?’

  ‘I couldn’t give a damn if you’re convinced or not. Keep your nose out of my business, Gregg. I mean it.’

  Tate smiles as a scantily clad blonde steps outside and takes his hand. ‘You’re missing the party, Tate.’

  Gregg curses under his breath. ‘Can you give us a minute... whoever you are.’ She hangs off Tate’s arm and makes no move to disengage.

  ‘Get out of here, Gregg. We’re done.’

  Tate lets the woman lead him back inside and locks the front door behind him so Gregg can’t come in. He slumps back on the couch before the blonde stranger straddles him. She pulls off his t-shirt and he closes his eyes as she runs her hands over his chest. He doesn’t care what she does to him as long as she distracts him. So far, she’s doing a pretty good job.

  He slips his hand around the back of her head and pulls her towards him. She attacks his mouth like her life depended on it. Her hips gyrate as she kisses him, her short mini skirt riding up her legs as she moves against him.

  She pushes back from him and runs a long bright orange fingernail down his arm. ‘Time for more?’

  ‘Yeah. Time for more.’

  Tate rests his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes. The woman lifts his arm and rests in
on her lap. He barely feels the needle going into his vein anymore.

  As soon as the drug hits, time ceases to have any meaning for him. People come and go. Different faces appear in front of him, but he doesn’t think he knows any of them. Every time he comes back to his senses, there is always another fix ready to help him slip away from all the mental shit that’s torn his life apart the last few weeks.

  Whether it’s been days or weeks, his mind has been blissfully silent since that first hit and that’s all he cares about.

  He keeps telling himself the next fix will be the last one. It sounds convincing when he says it to himself, but his body isn’t on board with that plan. It needs him to keep going. It needs something to silence the tremors and cravings that own him now. Maybe he’ll try to stop after the next one.

  3

  Chloe Quinn closes her book as the plane lands at Dublin Airport. She slips her book into her bag and pulls her headphones out of her ears. It’s only been a year, but she feels like she’s been away from Ireland for forever. She follows the crowds through the terminal and collects her bag from the carousel. Her gran is easy to spot when she steps through the glass doors into the arrivals lounge. She waves frantically and rushes over to Chloe, throwing her arms around her.

  ‘It’s so good to see you.’

  Chloe smiles and squeezes her back. ‘I missed you.’

  Her gran, Dorothy, links arms with her and leads her out of the airport into the multistorey car park across the road. ‘How was your trip?’

  ‘It was fine. I’m glad to be back on the ground. So, have you made a decision about going away?’

  Dorothy smirks at her. ‘Eager to get rid of me?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I’m not having a go at you. I’d imagine after spending all that time living under your uncle’s roof you could do with some time to yourself. You’ll have to endure my company for a few months then I’ll have no choice but to leave you for a bit.’

  Chloe laughs at the sour expression on her gran’s face. ‘It’s a holiday.’

  Dorothy makes a face and waves her hand dismissively. ‘Some holiday. Your aunt is the most irritatingly organised, scheduled, perfectionist I had the pleasure of giving birth to. How that woman shares DNA with me I’ll never know. I’m in for a month of being fussed over and told what to do and when I can do it. Why would I be looking forward to that?’

  Chloe climbs into the driver’s seat of her gran’s battered pickup and smiles across at her. ‘You’ll have a blast. You did last time.’

  ‘Yes. For a few days. Anyway, I will endeavour to be on my best behaviour and not disrupt her household too much.’

  Chloe pulls out of the parking spot and glances sideways at her. ‘Oh Gran. Please behave.’

  Dorothy smirks and settles back in the seat. ‘My dear, I am always on my best behaviour. How could you suggest otherwise?’

  Chloe smiles but doesn’t bother responding. Her gran has the mentality of a mischievous child at times, but that’s what makes her amazing and so much fun to be around.

  It takes an hour to get through the busy Dublin traffic to Newcastle where her gran lives. She pulls into the driveway of her gran’s cottage and hops out of the car. The sea breeze whips her long dark hair around her shoulders. She closes her eyes as she takes a lungful of the fresh, salty air.

  ‘Oh my God, that smells—’

  ‘Fishy,’ her gran finishes.

  ‘No. I was going to say it smells... actually it does smelly really fishy. What is that?’

  Dorothy points a finger at the hedge separating her house from the neighbour. ‘Jim next door. Daft man took his boat up to repair. Smells like a rotten fish. He promises it’ll be back in the water and stop offending the neighbours by tomorrow. Come on, dear. Let’s get you settled in,’ she says as she unlocks the bright red door.

  Chloe brings her bags upstairs and sits on the bottom of the creaky double bed. The spare room is stuck in time – just like her gran most of the time. The floral wallpaper matches the floral duvet which matches the floral lampshade and the floral curtains. The old floorboards are worn and creak with every footstep. She flops back on the bed and smiles up at the beams in the ceiling as she yawns. The flight was long and her body clock is completely off.

  A few days of relaxing by the sea will sort her out. She’s not due to start her new job until late August so there’s no rush to do anything. She can’t remember the last time she had absolutely nothing planned.

  Looking after her cantankerous uncle for the last year after he took a nasty fall was different but also hard work. It didn’t help that he lived off-grid in the arse end of Alaska. No power. No running water. No flushing toilet. She shudders when she thinks back to that part. It was a once in a lifetime experience but getting back on the flight to Dublin had been such a relief.

  Time to spoil herself. She laughs as she looks over at the door to the bathroom. Having a flushing toilet is heaven.

  She closes her eyes as the hours of travel finally catch up with her. Maybe she’ll have a quick nap to refresh herself. This summer is going to be a good one. Plenty of sea air and drawing. What could be better than that?

  4

  Three months later...

  Tate rolls over and stares at the clock on the bedside table. Five am. He rubs his eyes and flops onto his back. A few more hours of sleep would be nice but he’s done tossing and turning in bed. With a long sigh he turns and looks at the calendar hanging on the wall beside him. He slides the pen from the holder and draws a large line though the date.

  Eighty-two days. Eighty-two lousy days clean. No alcohol. No drugs. And in a few hours, no more rehab.

  Time to face the world again.

  Not something he’s looking forward to. In truth, he’s fucking dreading it. At least in here everyone had fucked up in one way or another. Out there he’s going to be another failed rock star who took things too far.

  He dresses quickly and walks through the corridors to the gym and breathes a sigh of relief when he finds he’s got the place to himself. The last thing he wants to do is have another forced polite conversation. He’s had his fill of them since he checked himself into the facility. It’s part of the deal, but he came here to sort out his problems, not make friends.

  After an hour, another resident appears so he makes his escape back to his room to pack his things. Three hours later, with the reams of paperwork completed and follow up appointments booked, he slips on his sunglasses and steps into the early May sunshine. He walks through the lush gardens towards the visitor’s car park beyond.

  He wipes his hand on the leg of his jeans. It’s strange being back in his own clothes. The facility preferred them to wear these god awful pale grey tracksuits and matching t-shirts. Something about no one standing out. Everyone being on an equal footing. It was a battle they wouldn’t win. With the price tag for the place far beyond most people’s reach, it was clear exactly what footing everyone was on.

  In his scuffed biker boots, jeans, and t-shirt, you’d be hard pressed to see how he could afford to check himself into this place. But that’s the thing with being a celebrity. It didn’t matter what you wore or where you grew up or how you looked. It only matters how many people know who you are.

  In his case it’s quite a few. Which doesn’t make checking himself into a rehab facility something he could keep quiet for long. It was only a matter of time before the world knew how much he’d screwed up. Hell, they probably already knew. Then his career would take a nosedive. Something to look forward to.

  He pulls himself out of his thoughts as he nears the car park and spots Gregg sitting on the bonnet of his beat-up Defender. Gregg wolf-whistles and waves.

  ‘Hey gorgeous.’

  Tate can’t help but laugh. He’s never known how Gregg manages it, but he could always be counted on to cheer him up. Which is something he desperately needs right now. He honestly doesn’t know how he would have survived the last few months if not for
his friend.

  He fully expected never to see Gregg again after he hit him, but he wasn’t so easily pushed away. And that’s something Tate is unbelievably grateful for. His friend had been with him every step of his recovery, visiting regularly and going to as many family counselling sessions as he could.

  Gregg pulls him into a bear hug and slaps him on the back a few times.

  ‘Fuck me, mate. You’ve bulked up a little.’

  ‘Not much else to do in there.’

  He squeezes Tate’s bicep. ‘You’re just making me look bad now. You ready to get out of here?’

  ‘More than ready.’ He throws his bag on the back seat and climbs in beside Gregg. ‘Thanks for coming to get me.’

  ‘Not a problem. Right, so before we head off, I may have a slight confession.’

  Tate raises his eyebrow as he looks sideways at his friend. ‘What?’

  ‘I may not be taking you back to your place.’

  ‘Gregg—’

  ‘No, hear me out for a sec. Your folks are worried about you. They want you to stay with them for a few weeks. Just until you’re ready to set off by yourself again.’

  ‘I’m a big boy, Gregg. I don’t need a babysitter. I need to get back to normal. How the fuck am I going to do that if I’m living with my parents?’

  ‘Don’t be like that. They’re all worried about you. And I got to say I agree. I don’t think you should be by yourself just yet.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Nope. Afraid not. I’ve already taken some of your stuff over. They’re putting you in the annex, so you’ll have your own space. They want to make sure you’re okay.’

  ‘Fine. Can we just get out of here? I’m done with this place.’

  ‘As you wish. Let’s get you home.’

  A feeling of dread settles on him again. It wasn’t a surprise his parents wanted him where they could keep an eye on him. He could put his foot down and go home, but he’s put them through hell recently. The least he can do is give them what they want.