To Keep You Safe

by Kate Bradley

  When a son kills his own father with his bare hands, he gives himself his freedom.

  I am free.

  Take it like a man, I told the old guy again. I held him by his shirt collar and then brought my head forward. My forehead connected with what was left of the bridge of his nose. His eyes rolled back, and he made a grunt, but it wasn’t much. He had nearly rolled into the black. And I wanted this. I dropped him to the ground again and took a step back, regarding his crumpled body. Go into the black, meet me there; I am waiting. We will be together.

  The crowds around us rippled, ebbing between fear of being too close, yet too shit-scared to stay away. ‘Stop!’ shouted one loudmouth. Another one glanced at his friend, feeling braver for his shout. ‘Security are coming!’ that one shouted. Then: ‘And we’ve called the police!’

  Bang, I punched that fucker in the face. Call the police on that. I saw his hands fly up in reaction, the other guy now hesitated – he was about to say something else, but his courage caught in his throat like a fish hook. I stepped up close to him and he stepped back, but couldn’t even manage a full step because of the people behind him. I grabbed him by his Nike jumper, a full scruff, and because he was taller than me, I did a little jump to get the right angle, before bringing my forehead hard, down, against his nose too. Fuck you all. My nose was broken, now yours is too.

  Both of them sunk away into the crowd. Cowards.

  Somewhere, someone screamed again. For a moment I thought it was my mother, the high-edge panic, the shrill note catching in the same way hers used to.

  I punched the man again. My father’s ring cut his face.

  I thought of the dog collar my father made my mother wear at the end. Thick brown leather that used to belong to Juno our wolfhound.

  I thought of that last time. Coming home after two weeks away and finding her tethered by it to a pole in the yard. It was cold and the rain had turned her long hair to rats’ tails. But worse was the beaten look in her eyes. Her lips were swollen and the dark under her eyes showed like the thinness in her face. Dried blood caked in the corner of her mouth and she had a cut under one eye. I was like my mother; I never gave up. But I saw then she had given up. It was nearly winter. I don’t know how long she’d been there. Even when I stood before her, she didn’t raise her face. Her eyes stayed looking in the dirt. I lifted her chin and still she looked at the dirt.

  I untied her, led her to my pickup. I ran the engine, so the heater would warm her. My hands shook as I scrambled through the glove compartment, my holdall, looking for food and water. I left her under my winter jacket with a packet of peanuts I’d found in the foot well and a half empty bottle of water.

  I let the porch door drop behind me. I knew where I would find him. He was in his favourite chair in front of the fire. I stood where I had stood all my life. Once I had looked up at this man mountain. Now I was looking down.

  He had a can in his hand, his eyes were closed. I waited. I let the rage rush over me, redden my cheeks. The heat of the fire baked into my skin, reminding me of how cold it was outside. Did he bring her in at night? How long had she been there? It hurt me. The thought of my mother, baker, giver of cuddles, funny with the faces she could pull and her talent for mimicking voices, ground down into someone who couldn’t even raise her gaze.

  Perhaps at that thought, I sighed. Perhaps I hit the back of his chair. I don’t know. I do remember that he suddenly knew I was there. It would’ve been a surprise. I no longer lived at home, and had already started to spend a lot of time out of the country. I was already shipping goods and travelling a lot. If I was close by I’d visit home – I was their only surviving child – to pay my respects to my father and to spend time with my mother as often as I could. But sometimes I would be away for a month. This time I’d cut my trip short; my father wouldn’t have been expecting to see me. But I’d met a woman I wanted to marry and I wanted to see my mother to discuss it with her. Destiny was still only fourteen and I wanted to ask my mother what she thought I should do. So I had gone home.

  My father looked up. We had the same narrow grey eyes. We had the same Slavic cheekbones. Like me, his shoulders were wide and his hands were big. He was a strong man. He was taller than my five foot ten, but his sleepy drunkenness was no match for my fury.

  ‘Get up,’ I told him.

  He looked at me, steady, unblinking for a long time. His hand still held the beer can, his feet stayed on the footstool. He didn’t move.

  ‘Get up,’ I repeated.

  ‘What you want, Aleksander? Didn’t you leave me for something better? Isn’t Jakub a better father to you than me?’

  ‘Get up.’

  ‘You think my own brother is a better father to you than I was?’

  I didn’t know if he was genuinely hurting or if he was taunting me. I did know he was envious of his younger brother. Part of me wanted to twist the knife, to tell him that Jakub was a better worker, that Jakub had shown me ways to improve my own life; that through Jakub, I had met the woman of my dreams. Perhaps I did with my stare, because my father finally looked away. ‘Forget it, I understand. Jakub has made you too good for us now.’

  ‘Get up.’

  His hand brushed me away like a horsefly. ‘OK, I can see you are upset. Tell her to come in; tell your mother I forgive her, if that makes you feel better. Get yourself a beer and we can sit together and you can tell me how you’ve been making all your money with my brother. You can tell me how you have both become so rich.’

  I tried to haul him up out of the dirty, old chair. The chair he sat in as I used to climb onto his lap when only a child.

  He was heavy and he didn’t want to move. We struggled, my hands around his dirty jumper, trying to pull on it. He sat like a boar determined not to go to slaughter. He held on to the chair arm with one hand, and kept pushing me back with the other. If he had stood, he could’ve held me away from him, but he stayed sitting, a stubborn pig in his chair. He didn’t realise how strong his son had grown.

  I could only think how much I hated him. The fear I had for him was incinerated by anger – he was no longer the big man. Now he was just the man who was killing my mother bit by bit each day.

  He hadn’t moved. I punched him in the shoulder. ‘You understand now, pig?’

  He stared at me with hatred in his eyes. He wouldn’t get up.

  I pulled at him again. Stepped back, frustrated. Then punched him in the other shoulder.

  ‘Aleksander! Go back to your new life. This is not your fight.’

  My mother was my fight. I punched him in the face. His head bounced back, hitting the back of the chair. When he opened his eyes, his grey eyes were first shocked, then narrowed. He’d been stunned; even through his booze-addled brain, the punch had shown him that his son was bigger now, had become a man. This surprised him because he’d barely noticed me all my life, and when I started going away on business he’d noticed me even less. He hated that I didn’t want to learn his trade and be a mechanic, like him. When I was fifteen, we had terrible fights about it. Once or twice I had tried to point out that he hadn’t learnt his own father’s farming trade. He hated any kind of smarts and would dish out the punishment. But now everything was different – now I was in control.

  The rage overpowered me. I reached for the fire poker and hit him across the face and head. I don’t properly remember. I’ve heard men talk about the red mist, but it wasn’t like that with me. I saw the disgust on his face when he looked at me and thought of the way he must have looked at her when he tied her up. There was no mist. There was nothing but seeing the poker, feeling the release of my anger, and then his collarbone was broken through his skin and he was crying but half conscious.

  Whatever went on afterwards, I am not sure he would’ve come back from that even if I had driven him to the nearest hospital. Not that I would – I didn’t want to save him, I only wanted him gone. So I hit him again.

  When he finally slumped, I was able to drag him out of the
house. He was a big man and normally it would’ve been hard, slow work. But my anger meant that I dragged him easily. I pulled him through the mud of our garden, careful only to check that my mother couldn’t see.

  He was bleeding and mumbling, but was nearly gone; I couldn’t hear what he was saying through the blood bubbles – I didn’t want to.

  The stake was still driven in the ground and the chain and dog collar still attached.

  I pulled him closer to the pole and attached the collar to his neck and then I kicked him in the face and I knew then that I wanted to destroy him and then it was easy because—

  *

  ‘Someone do something!’

  I heard cars, but I wasn’t thinking. I smelt exhaust, but I was still so, so angry.

  I punched the old man again. I felt something give underneath my fist, more teeth perhaps or—

  ‘Please!’

  I had to kill him. If I didn’t, he would’ve killed her. I had to save her. I held his neck and he looked up at me, still fogged with surprise. I hated him for what he did. I punched—

  But this man was not my father.

  I stopped, stood back, rolled the tension out of my shoulders.

  Someone near me was screaming again. I couldn’t see who it was, but I wanted it to stop. I looked around, wiping the sweat and the blood from my face. It was in my eyes, and stinging.

  Gary pulled on my sleeve. I popped him one. He flinched in time and it only cuffed him on the side of his stupid face. It didn’t stop him. ‘Aleksander, we have to go – you have to go.’

  I stopped and looked down. My own blood was down my face, my shirt.

  The older man on the floor was not moving. People from the crowd had gathered around, but their faces were more turned to me than to him.

  Gary was still saying my name.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ I told him, already thinking about witness reports. I glanced around, but couldn’t see any police. The CCTV would’ve caught it all.

  Instead, I placed my boot on the man’s head.

  Friday

  19:33

  George

  I could feel the tread of his boot against my face.

  I felt calm. My face was a mess of blood, of saliva. I lay waiting as the pressure increased. I thought of Sal, squeezing my hand in childbirth. Caitlin had been first; her delivery slow. Sal had gripped my fingers, telling me that the pain was killing her, telling me that I didn’t understand.

  I understood now.

  But where her pain had been the beginning, I knew that mine was the end. That I would die here. But there was no panic, no anything.

  I hurt, so bad, but even that had started to blur.

  I think of Sal, smiling at me through the window of the house. I am in the garden. In one hand I hold secateurs, in the other, cut roses. I lift them up to show my beautiful wife what I have picked for her. Even from here, I can see the pleasure flush in her face. I drop the secateurs and raise my gloved hand to her, she raises hers in response. I don’t understand if I’m greeting her or if I’m saying goodbye. It doesn’t matter.

  My beloved children.

  I think of them aged eight and six. They are arguing over a bucket on the beach. I don’t understand why this has come to me so vividly now, but it does: we are in Cornwall. The sun is strong, but not strong enough to make me sweat. I have a camera. I take photos of them, amused by their tussle, before it becomes so heated that I’m forced to intervene. I tell them they must share. Their mother is swimming, so I am free to produce a packet of jammy dodgers and Caitlin throws her arms around my neck, kissing me all over my face. I love you, Daddy, I love you forever. You are the best daddy. James is laughing, pretending to make sick noises. He grabs the bucket while I am distracted and throws it at her; it glances off her forehead and she starts to cry. But we are happy. We love Cornwall. We love each other.

  *

  The pressure on my face increased. I didn’t mind. I had finally done the right thing.

  I felt the tread of his boot.

  I understood.

  Friday

  19:37

  Aleksander

  The man moved; he was still alive. I nearly pressed, nearly snapped his neck.

  But I took my boot away.

  He would live.

  I ran, glancing back at the crowd behind me. A couple of them were pointing at me, while talking to a man wearing a grey polo shirt and grey trousers – staff from the services, perhaps.

  I was close enough to see his face. He was looking at me as if considering challenging me. He wouldn’t.

  I ducked into some nearby shrubs. Gary had told me that he would get the car and meet me by the petrol station. The petrol station was ahead. I took off my shirt. Underneath was a black T-shirt. The blood didn’t show. I nearly threw my shirt into the undergrowth but, fearing DNA profiling, balled it in my hand: I would burn it later.

  Busting out the other side of the undergrowth, I’d meet Gary and then we would get on the road.

  Then I’d get to Destiny and that teacher bitch.

  When I found them, there would be more blood, I promised myself.

  Friday

  19:40

  Aleksander

  Gary didn’t speak, waiting for me to say something. I flicked through the radio stations; I wanted to think about something other than the pounding in my face. I kept hearing that woman scream. I kept thinking about my mother.

  I gave up and went back to Radio 1. I could see her in a few days; I’ll be back in Poland then. I could make the journey, do that bit on my own. Maybe I should. I thought about the cash I could give her; I had seen her a month ago, but I worried about her not having enough, she is still so thin. I worried if she was happy. She wanted me to come home. I told her that I would, perhaps in a couple of years, perhaps a little longer. She wasn’t yet fifty. I worried that she would never meet anyone else. I worried that she would.

  We never talked about what happened with my father. After I killed him, I drove her to the next town and left her with her sister. Her sister screamed at the sight of her, she hadn’t been allowed to see her in three months, she told me. She cried about how thin my mother had become, touching her injuries with a touch used for nervous horses. I left her there, drove back to the piece of land that had once been my grandfather’s farm, prosperous then, but now overgrown and silent. The cold rain lashed, and I was glad for it. Our nearest neighbour was Maja Nowak, but she was an old lady now and a thirty-minute walk. She would never risk the wolves and be out at dusk; that and the rain would keep others away.

  I dug a ditch in a dark patch of land on the north side and pulled and rolled my father’s body to it and dropped him in with the water and the mud.

  I stared at him, lying in the pooling rain water. And then I pissed on him.

  He was scum. I am from scum and have become scum. But my children will be something else – I swore it then. I swore it over my father’s dead body. I swore that the next generation I raised would be different.

  I buried him, then forked the manure from our one pony over the top. He would rest under shit for the rest of his life.

  My mother hasn’t been back. I bought her a house in the same village as her sister.

  I sold the horse. The house stands empty. It’ll stand empty until I’m in my grave too.

  *

  ‘Boss?’ Gary’s voice drifted to me. ‘You . . . OK?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up.’ I didn’t want Gary to know that I felt unsettled, had remembered my father’s death more than I had in a long time. For a moment, it felt like I was there again, punching him, feeling the release.

  ‘We’re still tracking Destiny?’ I asked.

  ‘Boss,’ Gary nodded.

  ‘Good. I’ll be on CCTV now, won’t I?

  ‘We’ll get you a hat, boss.’ Pause. ‘If you want that?’

  I thought about it for a split second. ‘It’s a good idea.’

  I listened to the thrum of the road. ‘A
nd the car, you’ve pulled the fake plate?’ Although I already know the answer because Gary only pulled over a couple of minutes ago and I’d asked him then. ‘I mean, without being seen?’

  It wasn’t just DNA profiling we lived in fear of, we also feared long-range CCTV. We were always planning against it.

  ‘I put another one on. I thought we would ditch them both nearer Hull.’

  Gary is pretty dumb, but everyone is guaranteed at least one good idea once a year. I nod in approval. It’s the biggest bone I’m prepared to chuck him. ‘So I should be pretty safe.’

  ‘Safe as houses,’ Gary agreed.

  My thoughts turned back to Destiny. I watched her tracker on my phone. She was one mile up the road. I liked to see the black dot on the map. I watched it for a few minutes. Then, when I felt like it hadn’t all fallen apart, I thought about tonight. ‘Have you heard from Ollie and Jay?’

  ‘I gave them a call when I was waiting for you. They’re cool.’

  ‘The van,’ I realised is what he is talking about. ‘It got through the MOT OK? No issues?’

  ‘Jay had it done by his mate. He stayed in the garage the whole time.’

  ‘They definitely didn’t find the modifications? You’re sure?’

  ‘Sure. He said to tell you that he did exactly what you said – he didn’t even take a wazz. He watched the guy like his life depended on it. He said to say it exactly like that. That’s why I’m saying it exactly like that. I did good. I remembered it right.’

  I still didn’t feel reassured. One look at the modifications and we’d be rumbled. But I had to take Jay at his word. He’s no fool and it was his face fronting it. But the van’s in my name and it would be me doing time on it.

  ‘And the passports?’

  Gary’s face flashed with panic. ‘I dunno about no passports! You never said anything about no passports!’

  I knew I hadn’t, but I still felt irritated. The truth was, the passports were too important to leave to Gary. I had the passports in my bag, but I still felt a flash of irritation that he didn’t know. With Destiny only a black dot on the map instead of her being right where I wanted her, I was irritated with Gary, though there was no reason why I should have been. I was tempted to smack him but he was driving.