The Pope: Cards of Love

by Lovell, LP

  “I’m struggling.”

  “With your studies?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I uh…” God, why am I even here? I can’t tell her anything. Yet again that feeling of helplessness crashes over me. I’m stuck here, forced to endure, unable to move forward, unable to go back. I’m in limbo, and I’m slowly just drifting away.

  Suddenly her hand is touching mine, patting over the back of it. “You can tell me anything, Delilah. It will stay between these four walls.”

  “I…” She smiles, nodding at me to offer encouragement. “My friend died,” I blurt. She stills but quickly follows it up with a sympathetic frown.

  “I’m sorry. Were you close?”

  “Yeah. I feel responsible, unable to move on.”

  “Why do you think you’re responsible?”

  I remember Judas analogy, and I realise that I don’t have to tell her the whole truth, just some of it. “She was in a car accident. Drink driving. I…I gave her the alcohol,” I say.

  “I see.” She looks at me over her glasses. “And you blame yourself?”

  I swallow around the lump in my throat and tears prickle my eyes. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” I look at her. “I should feel guilty though, right? That’s normal.”

  She gives me a sympathetic look. “Delilah, there are several stages to grief. There is no normal. Everyone handles these things differently. Feeling guilty is to be expected.”

  I hear the words she doesn’t say there. It would be normal to feel guilty for killing your friend. Of course it would! But I know somewhere along the way I became removed from it because I’m not normal. Just like Judas said.

  I push my chair back and stand.

  “Thank you for your time. I…I need to go.” Grabbing my bag, I whirl for the door.

  “Delilah.” I pause with my fingers wrapped around the door handle. I hear her release an audible breath. “Be kind to yourself.” That’s all she says.

  I yank the door open and walk outside, the pressure in my chest releasing the second I do. At this point, I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.

  When I get home, I open the fridge and take out the carton of orange juice, pouring a glass. Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s nearly seven. It’s Friday, and I have to be at Fire for my first shift in a couple of hours.

  My phone beeps with a text, so I pick it up, opening the message from an unknown number.

  It’s a screenshot of a web page. Opening the thumbnail, I skim-read the writing. It’s a Companies House business page listing a company called Element Holdings. Why would someone send me this? Zooming in, I keep reading until I pause on a name. The company director is Judas Kingsley. That can’t be a coincidence.

  Going upstairs, I grab my laptop from where it sits on the bed, the screen showing my current paper. Closing the window, I open the Internet browser, clicking on the search bar.

  I type out the name Judas Kingsley and hit enter. Instantly, the page fills with articles, and sure enough, the beautiful face I’ve come to memorise appears, proving to me that my mind can’t do him justice. One of the first things I see is that he owns Fire. Shit. Does he know that Isabelle died in his club? I thought I saw a news report about it being shut down afterwards. How would he feel if he knew I was responsible for that? And did he have anything to do with giving me that job? I push it out of my mind and keep reading like a sponge desperate to soak up everything I can about him.

  His father is called William Kingsley, his uncle; Richard Kingsley is running for mayor, and then… I pause on an article on the Telegraph website. There’s an image of Judas, a much younger Judas being shoved into a police car, his hands cuffed behind his back. My eyes skim the words, and the more I read, the more horrified I become. I place my hand over my mouth, covering the staggered gasp that slips from my throat. Oh my God, he’s a monster.

  I don’t know him at all.

  18

  Judas

  I check my watch and rap my knuckles over the kitchen counter. It’s eight in the morning.

  Delilah never showed up at the club last night. Which could just be a coincidence. She could have found another job, or just decided against it. But I have a feeling there’s more to it. Could she have found out that I own it? Would she be intent enough on staying away from me to turn down employment?

  It’s been a week since I last saw her. She needed time to come to terms with the truth of who she is, and I thought I could give her that. That I could wait patiently for her to come to me, but it’s becoming increasingly harder. I miss those sad eyes, the layer of innocence that tries so desperately to cling to her dark soul.

  I still watch her from a distance of course. At home, at university. She looks so lost and broken. If only she would see that I can heal her, that we’re two halves of a whole, two black sheep without a shepherd.

  I never thought my life was missing anything until this pretty little thing with that broken fucking look wondered into my church. I’m a businessman, a hard man, but she’s found a soft spot, and she’s dug her claws in. I want to hate her for it, but I can’t.

  For the first time in my life, I long for something more than money and power, and it makes everything else feel inconsequential. She’s blind obsession, and I can’t stop.

  But she needs a job. I can’t help her with many things, but I can help her with that. I worry that she’ll crawl back to that parasite of a boyfriend of hers because she’s vulnerable, but also because she will seek out the darkness, needing it to balance herself. Nathaniel is like a small bump to a crack addict.

  Taking my phone out, I call her, and again she doesn’t pick up. Tossing the phone down, I scoop up my keys and leave the apartment.

  I make the short drive to her house, the bleak grey drizzle bleeding down my windscreen like tears. When I pull up outside her house, I jog across the road and under the cover of the overhanging porch.

  For a moment I stand there, and I want to laugh at the nervous tension sitting in my chest. I’m Judas Kingsley for fuck’s sake.

  I finally knock, and there’s a pause before I hear footsteps and the door swings open. A blonde girl stands there, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted.

  “Uh, hi.”

  “Is Delilah here?” I ask. She nods mutely before her gaze takes a slow sweep of my body and her teeth sink into her bottom lip. She twirls a strand of hair around her finger.

  “Sure. Come in.” She steps back, inviting me inside. “Do you want anything to drink?” she asks when we get to the kitchen.

  “I just need to see Delilah.”

  Her expression sours and she rolls her eyes before stepping into the hall. “Lila!” she shouts up the stairs. “There’s a guy here for you.”

  She comes back, hopping onto the kitchen counter and crossing one leg over the other. Her denim skirt rides up her thighs, and her lips tilt into a smirk. I look away from her and fold my arms over my chest.

  “Judas.” I turn at the sound of Delilah’s voice, frowning at the tremor in it.

  “Delilah.” Her jumper dress hangs off one shoulder, and all I want to do is press my lips to the exposed skin and taste every inch of her. She reminds me of a flower with the purest form of beauty that could so easily be crushed, but instead, I have the urge to caress the softness of its petals, to nurture it. Her full lips are a rosy pink against her pale skin, and I can’t help but stare at them. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Come on.” She walks away and up the stairs. I follow her into her room, and she closes the door. The room is simple: a bed, a desk, a chest of drawers. The sheets are pale yellow with white polka dots, and I smile because ever since that day she came to mass, the colour always makes me think of her.

  She leans against the windowsill on the far side of the room, her arms folded over her chest and her gaze fixed on the ground.

  “Why didn’t you take the job?”

  She laughs, an edge of hysteria in her voice. “Because you own Fire.” Her eyes me
et mine. “I know your real name.”

  “Who I am is irrelevant in this. I’m never at the club. Just take the job.” I want to know where she is, to be able to watch her.

  She tilts her head back, her eyes falling closed. “I can’t work for you, Judas.”

  I move closer to her until I’m only a couple of feet away. She holds her hand up, freezing me in place. Whatever has happened between us, she’s never looked at me the way she is now; like she’s scared of me, or disgusted even. It pisses me off.

  “Because I’m not the pious priest you thought I was? Because I’m bad?” I mock, closing the distance further until her hand presses to my chest. Her fingers curl, nails digging into my skin through my shirt. “Because, let’s not forget, prior to your friend’s overdose, you were knowingly dating a guy just like me, peddling his drugs without question.”

  I barely see her move before her palm collides with the side of my face. The sting reverberates over my skin as I swing my gaze back to her.

  “There it is.” I smile. “Just let it out, little lamb. Let the violence, and the anger take you over.”

  Tears pool in her eyes before spilling over and running down her cheeks. “You’re a fucking monster, Judas! So don’t you dare judge me.” I blink. A monster? Well, I’ve been called far worse. “I know!” For a moment I say nothing, but my pulse ticks up.

  “Know what?” I ask, but I don’t need to. She knows my name. There’s only one heinous act that’s publically associated with that name.

  “Everything!” Her eyes hold mine, the tears continuing to flow. “I know what you did. I know about Brent James.” I take a step back away from her and sit on the edge of the bed, giving her space.

  “I served my time.”

  A soft sob breaks from her. “You put him in a wheelchair, Judas.”

  “Nothing less than he deserves.” Her mouth falls open and then snaps shut again as she shakes her head. “The world is not sunshine and rainbows. It’s ugly, and sins require punishments.”

  “You sound insane,” she whispers.

  “You know nothing.”

  “Then tell me,” she begs. “Make me understand.” I see the desperation in her eyes. She’s every bit as hooked as I am. She needs justification, to be able to tell herself that I’m not a monster. That way she’s not awful for needing me.

  “I beat him with a crowbar. He’s in a wheelchair, and I was sentenced to ten years for aggravated assault. I became a priest while in prison and only served five for good behaviour.” I clasp my hands together in front of me. “That’s it. I’m not your Prince Charming, Delilah because the world isn’t a fucking fairy tale.” I hate that look on her face right now.

  I watch the heartbreak in her eyes, the disappointment. “Why did you do it?” I say nothing. I promised Myrina I’d never tell anyone what happened to her, and I haven’t. Not when they questioned me, not in front of a jury, and not when I was inside. Would it have helped my case? Maybe. But I’m a man of my word, and I’ve always had a soft spot for my younger cousin. “Did he steal from you? Drugs? Money?”

  That would be logical. Of course, I’ve hurt and even killed people in the name of business, but this was different. This was unbridled rage. I didn’t care about the consequences because I was young and reckless. I attacked him in front of witnesses. “Judas.” I blink and look at Delilah. She shakes her head, the light leaving her eyes as though I personally just extinguished it. I’ve held my tongue for eight long years, but I can’t hold it with her.

  “He raped my cousin.” I won’t apologise for what I did because I’m not sorry. “So I beat him to within an inch of his life, and then I stopped.” She tilts her head, her brows knitting together. “I could have killed him, but I wanted him to suffer.” I lay it all out there. Allow her to see the twisting, writhing demons dancing around in fire and brimstone behind my eyes. “And now he is. Every day.”

  “I’m—”

  I push to my feet and smooth a hand over the front of my shirt. “If you want that job, be at the club tonight. Nine thirty.”

  I walk towards the door, my muscles tense and my fists clenched at my sides. I can feel her judgement, and it pisses me off more than I can say.

  “Judas,” she says, and I pause. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  * * *

  The club is packed wall to wall. It seems a shut down due to an overdose only makes a place more popular these days. The queue extends around the block, and the bar is five-deep with people waiting for drinks.

  My club manager, Marcus, wanted a big re-opening weekend to draw the crowds. It’s Saturday night, and the theme is Purge. Tattered material hangs from the ceiling, covered in fake blood like a house of horrors. Steel-barred cages have been placed in the centre of the dance floor, and girls dance both in and on them, wearing tight shorts, combat boots and ripped up tanks. Balaclavas cover their faces, the eyes X’d out. Fire dancers move across the top of the DJ booth where some new hotshot rapper is drawing a crowd. And from my office, I can see straight across the club to the VIP area, set on three, tiered balconies. My eyes hone in on the top tier, the table of people laughing and flirting, sipping champagne. Delilah walks over to them, presenting a bottle of vodka, a sparkler glistening in the top. Every man at the table pays attention to her because they can’t physically help themselves.

  One of the girls dressed her, and fuck, I wish I’d told them to keep her covered up. She’s wearing black denim shorts that are so small and tight that half her arse is on show. Fishnet tights cover the length of her thigh between the shorts and knee-high combat boots. Her ripped up white tank is tied up at the bottom and torn at the top exposing both her stomach and her cleavage. She’s like every man’s wet dream, with all that on display and her bright-as-sunshine smile that hides so much tragedy.

  I hate that their eyes are on her, but my eyes are on her as well. One wrong move and their bodies will be washing up on a riverbank a few miles down the Thames.

  She delivers the bottle, and one of the guys tries to slip some cash into the waistband of her shorts. She ducks away taking the money from his hand with a polite smile. She’s fresh meat with an air of naivety about her. They sense it. They want it — to defile and destroy. Isn’t that human nature? To take and desecrate beautiful things?

  I force my gaze away from her, my eyes sweeping across the floor of the club, but I pause when I see a familiar figure. Nathaniel. I wonder if he’s unaware I own the place, or if he just likes to dance with death.

  He’s talking to a girl — their heads bent close as they huddle against the back wall. I take the radio from my jacket pocket.

  “Jackson, there’s a girl. Back wall. Blonde. Blue dress. Search her. Wait until she moves away from the guy.”

  “Yes, sir.” His voice crackles through the speaker.

  I open my office door, stepping out into the sensory overload that is the club. Metal steps lead down behind the bar, and I jog down them, keeping an eye on Nathaniel through the crowd. The club is so packed I can barely move, but I spot him, talking to a guy this time. He’s young, probably eighteen, a student. They slap hands, and there’s the unmistakeable shady hug of a drug exchange. I would know. They part ways, and the guy walks straight towards me. Just as he gets beside me, I grab the front of his shirt, tugging him close as I shove my free hand in his jeans pocket, pinching the small plastic bag of pills.

  “Leave, before I have you arrested.”

  He staggers away from me; his face washed white. I barely spare him a fleeting glance before I move on, following Nathaniel. As he passes the door that leads to the basement, I move. Striding up to him I grab him by the back of the neck and slam his cheek to the door.

  “What the fuck,” he spits, but the music is loud, too loud for anyone to hear his struggle, and even if they do, they’re too drunk to react quickly. I swipe my key card over the lock, and it opens, allowing us to spill into the corridor beyond.

  He staggers, but qu
ickly straightens, taking a swing at me. Ducking, I crack my neck and punch him square in the throat.

  “I told you to stay away.”

  He grasps his knee with one hand, clutching the casted one to his chest. He coughs and chokes, dragging in stilted breaths. His face is still a map of blues and purples from our last run in, and his nose is definitely not straight any more. “And yet, here you are, in my club. Dealing.” I squeeze my fist, the knuckles giving out a satisfying crack.

  “You said…” Another wheezing cough. “Not to come near her.”

  I drag him to his feet and ram him up against the wall by his throat. “You’re here. She’s here. I’d say that’s near, wouldn’t you?”

  “How was I to know that? I do come for the hot girls though, and Delilah is hot.” He lets out a raspy laugh. My grip on his neck tightens. “A good fuck too.”

  My temper spikes viciously, and I want to drive my fist into his face until his skull caves in and his body goes limp. Instead, I simply squeeze, tighter, tighter. He wheezes, his mouth opening and closing and his fist thumping against my body, but it does nothing. The blood vessels in his eyes burst, the red exploding over the white in a way that’s so satisfying. I’m vaguely aware of the sound of the door opening.

  “Judas!” I blink, breaking the stare-down I have going on with Nathaniel’s bloodshot eyes. A small hand lands on my face, pulling me, forcing me to turn my head until I’m looking at Delilah. Her brows are pulled together tightly, but her eyes are…sympathetic?

  “Judas, let him go.” My grip remains, and I can feel his pulse slowing under my fingers. She strokes my cheek.

  “He hurt you, Delilah.”

  She nods. “I know, but—”

  “Just say the word, little lamb.”

  She hesitates, her gaze flicking to Nathaniel. He’s starting to sag in my grip. I can see the possibilities flicking through her mind. “There are cameras,” she whispers. “Witnesses who saw you come in here.” Ah, but she wants him dead. She simply fears the consequences.