by S Gepp
Julian just glared at him, feeling like the man who had lost the war in the very first battle.
Chapter Eight
2012
Chantelle stood against the front wall of the night club and groaned. She felt awful—light-headed, nauseous, weak. Her legs struggled to keep her upright, but she knew she couldn't afford to sit down or do anything else. The taste of vomit struck the back of her throat, so she turned and tried to throw up, to get whatever it was out of her system, but to no avail. All it did was make her vision blur and her dizziness increase. It was an effort to even stand steadily but she forced herself to do so. This was not good and getting worse by the minute.
She leaned back against the wall and looked across at the door, where two bouncers were ignoring her plight, instead choosing to deal with two clearly underaged boys who were trying desperately to bluff their way inside.
Her eyes drifted across the road to the multi-story car park that serviced this part of town. Her little Hyundai was parked between two large four-wheel drive vehicles on the third level. She had struggled to get out of the door when she had first arrived, squeezing between her car and a new Toyota, but there was no way she was going to force her way back through that gap in her current state, let alone get the key into the lock.
Something buzzed against her hip. She actually started to relax. She pulled the phone out of her pocket. 'Where r u?' was blinking on the screen under the name "Carmel."
She brought up the screen and tapped in, "sic ouysodi." She scowled, deleted everything, and tried again, taking a lot longer than she would have liked. 'Sick. Im outsid'
The response was not what she'd expected: "Call a cab." She felt the tears welling up. Why was Carmel ignoring her? Why were her friends treating like this? Why…? She shook her head hard. It wasn't Carmel. Whatever this shit in her was, it was messing her up, not only physically, but also emotionally.
She scrolled down her phone's contact list until she found the three-letter word she wanted. She tapped it and held it to her ear. She closed her eyes while she waited, but the colors swimming in what should have been darkness made her open them rapidly.
"Luke Archer speaking." The voice sounded distant to Chantelle's addled mind.
"Dad, it's me." The tears started to flow as soon as she started to talk, an emotion that sounded loud in her words, a warning bell to a doting father.
"Where are you, Shan? What's wrong?" He clearly could not keep the panic out of his voice.
"At the Down And Out Nightclub." Her words were starting to slur. "Get me?"
"Give me five." She managed a smile as her father disconnected the call. She glanced once more in the direction of the bouncers and saw that somehow the line to get in had grown, giving them even more potential patrons to harass. She debated joining the throng but decided that being sick over there would only lead to more trouble because the vomit was creeping up on her again.
A man stepped out of the hotel, shaking his coat and looking casually across at the high-rise car park. Then he turned his head slowly until his eyes fell on Chantelle.
There was no mistaking his malicious smile, nor the recognition in his eyes. He started towards her, slow at first, but his speed increased, hands opening and closing like the claws of a lobster.
Chantelle stumbled away as quickly as she possibly could on weak, unsteady legs. She reached the edge of the building, used it to turn the corner, and continued on her way before her vision focused enough for her to realize she was heading towards a dead end with just one firmly closed door to greet her. "Oh, shit," she whispered and spun around.
He was already standing there. The grin was wide, revealing broken and rotting teeth punctuated by random gaps. "Come on, honey-bunch," he rasped. "Don't be shy. You won't feel a thing." Then a low laughter followed as he licked his cracked lips with his lizard-like tongue.
"Ge' 'way fru muh," she blurted, her mouth feeling as though she'd just left a dentist's office.
He continued to approach, the hands opening and closing, opening and closing. She stepped backward, but her legs could no longer hold her weight, and she collapsed to the ground, painfully and abruptly. She tried to push herself, but her arms had lost all their strength, and she fell heavily onto her back.
The man was standing over her before she realized what was happening. He knelt down with a leg on either side of her hips. He let his hands run up her sides and roughly cup her breasts. He squeezed them hard before planting his disgusting mouth on her neck. As he was doing that, he dropped down so that his pelvis rubbed against hers; she felt him grow hard even through the layers of clothing that separated them.
"Nuhh…" she uttered as he moved one of his hands to her pants and forced his fingers down towards the hem of her panties.
"Oh, yes," he growled and lifted his head to look at her.
For the briefest but clearest of moments, the face that stared down at her was female, another delusion caused by whatever the hell had been given her unawares. A beautiful girl, maybe the same age as her, staring at her so sincerely and serenely…and then it was him again, and this time his mouth crushed against her flushed cheek. She squeezed her eyes shut and pursed her lips and swung her head sideways, but he sought her out, trying to latch onto her mouth, moving across her like a snake constricting its prey.
Then he was off her. She heard a solid thud and a loud cry of pain. She risked a peek and saw one of the bouncers standing off to one side, holding her assailant against the wall, the light from a torch showing that the ugly man's face was bloodied, his nose very disfigured and flattened, a swelling under his eye growing even as his feet struggled to reach the ground.
Then: "Shan!"
The bouncer holding the bleeding man turned his head with an almost audible snap, and the torch beam was redirected.
"It's okay. It's okay, mate…"
Chantelle knew that voice. "Da'!" she cried, and then Luke was there. He lifted her head and held her close, and she bawled against his chest, sobs wracking her body, her arms hanging down uselessly.
The bouncer growled and rammed the butt of the torch between his captive's legs, then gave Chantelle a satisfied nod. She tried to smile back.
Suddenly, she turned her face and threw up all over the ground, the regurgitation burning at her throat and mouth. It came out again, and this time it was accompanied by a scream of pain that Chantelle did not realize was coming from her. Then it happened again. Now her ears were filled with the rhythm of blood pumping through her brain; her eyes clouded over completely.
Yet again her stomach spasmed and more was forced out, but there was now little left inside her; she could taste the blood that filled her mouth, even as the searing pain within her filled her body. She desperately sought her father but could not even feel his arms around her. All there was was pain.
And then nothing.
1991
Silence.
It enveloped the seven teenagers sitting on the ground, none of them really sure what was what anymore. What had seemed to be something that should be done now, in the harsh light of reality, just felt so, so… wrong? Terrible? Really fucked up? No. No words could adequately describe the way they felt.
"So, now what?" Julian muttered, his tone a mixture of dejection and anger.
"I guess that's it," Francis said with more hope in his tone than he was aware he was expressing. "We go home." He shrugged. "It's all shit anyway."
"So, why are you here?" Troy demanded.
Francis dropped his eyes, partly in embarrassment, partly in confusion. "I…I didn't want to miss out," he muttered, then threw himself onto his back. "For fuck's sake, is this what we've become? We're smart! We're going to make something of our lives! And we're out here doing something like this? And to her? Following each other like pathetic sheep? Seriously?"
"I know what this is all about," Troy hissed. "You were going to stop us, no matter what. All for her. Un-fucking-believable."
"Like you were real
ly going to do it anyway," Francis countered.
Troy's mouth barely moved. He chewed the inside of his cheek and seethed.
The others all remained silent. They gazed around, but eventually, all eyes returned to the direction of the copse.
"So, what about…you know… Her?" Brandon jerked his thumb where they were all looking.
"Leave her," Troy stated coldly. "We'll call someone to come get her. Call it payback. We just go."
"Payback?" Francis asked.
"What do you mean?" Luke asked carefully.
"Well, I don't care," Troy snarled. "We just go."
"For fuck's sake," Francis muttered.
"She'll know it was all of us," Julian said suddenly. "Don't tell me she doesn't know it was you in the first place." The last comment was directed right at Troy.
He mulled it over in his mind as if this was the first time that thought had even occurred to him. Panic marred his expression. He knew that Julian was, unfortunately, so very correct. Somehow, things had just become worse. "We'll pay her off," Troy said quietly. "Buy her silence. Say it was a joke that got out of hand. We'll get away with it. Her family's rich, but not that rich. She'll take the money, and we'll run."
Eyes fell on Francis.
"Just go?" he repeated.
"Just go." Troy glared at his old friend. "Sorry for you, I guess, but we just fuckin' go."
"Sure," Francis murmured. "Go. Leave it all behind. Why not?"
But, he noted uneasily, not one of them made a move.
Including him.
Chapter Nine
2012
The office door was unimposing, with only the legend "Dr. Worthington" on a faux brass plaque set in the middle of it to indicate whose office it was.
Brandon knocked loudly and then looked around in case he'd disturbed anyone in any of the other rooms.
The door was opened, and Julian stared at him in surprise. He noticed a head appear a little way up the passage. He decided to play this one formally. "Mister Cornelius, good of you to come. Please, come on in," he stated graciously.
"My pleasure," Brandon replied, entering slowly and closing the door behind him.
Julian offered him a seat, and he fell into it. "Shit, look at you," Julian said. "What the hell's wrong now?"
Brandon stared at him for a long, before saying, "I got a call from Luke this morning. His daughter's in hospital. They don't know if she'll make it or not."
All color drained from Julian's face, but he tried to keep his composure. And yet he found he couldn't say anything.
"That leaves you, me, and Randolph," Brandon went on, suddenly and quietly. "Randolph and his wife are already at my place with his kids and my family."
Julian held a hand up. "Why?" he asked.
"Four out of the seven of us. The oldest child each time. You call this coincidence?"
"Yes." His smirk was unintentionally condescending. "You're a writer. You're letting the whole imagination thing get the better of you. You might be a journalist, but I'll bet you're a frustrated novelist. Sorry, mate."
Brandon shook his head. "Even after everything we…"
"Nothing happened!" Julian shot back.
"How can you say that?"
"No, we did what we did, and nothing happened. It was all a sham! Bullshit mumbo-jumbo! We were suckered in because Troy and Sean got lucky."
"Then explain all of this!" Brandon was growing increasingly frustrated. "For God's sake, Troy and Sean lost kids, Troy topped himself, Francis's son got lucky, Luke's daughter is touch and go. What is it going to take?"
"To what?"
"Admit that this is related to something we did, and you know perfectly well there was only one thing we ever did that…" His voice trailed off.
"That what?"
"Deserves revenge," Brandon stated softly, almost sadly, the emotions threatening to break out.
"Revenge? Seriously? Now, after twenty-odd years? Come on, grow up. Troy and Francis were questioned because of all that crap in the uni caf', but it was never serious, and they didn't even bother to talk to the rest of us. And why should they? Academically minded scholars from an elite private school? Shit, by the time they questioned them, Troy was sort of doing that Samantha chick—the one fixated on organic chemistry, remember her?—and we all hardly looked like the sort of desperates who'd do…well…what they guessed had been done. And Francis was a fucking basket-case. He was beside himself. God only knows how he passed that year."
"Then you explain it."
"Coincidence." Brandon opened his mouth to argue, but Julian continued quickly, "Look, it's simple. It's unfortunate, but it's simple: Coincidences happen. Shit happens."
Brandon stood and shook his head. "Well, that's your choice. We're not taking any chances. We're going to watch our kids and keep them watched and do everything we can to keep them safe. Everything," he said before striding out of the office.
Julian watched him go. What he had said made no sense. How could normally rational people believe crap like that? It was as bad as high school with the priests forcing their Catholicism down the throats of everyone in their care. Beliefs were crutches, excuses, examples of ignorance. He, on the other hand, knew. And his knowledge was more important and more powerful than anyone's belief.
Especially a two-decades-old piece of adolescent fuck-wittery that they had all paid for a thousand times in their dreams.
1990
Troy stood at the wooden block and looked at the other two with him. He opened the old book and read the words within with a practiced ease borne of too many years of exposure to Latin. Randolph and Luke exchanged glances but said nothing; this was Troy's baby, Troy's idea, and, if anything was to come of it, Troy's good fortune.
They were here out of curiosity and a sense of friendship that Troy's fervor was making them both think was incredibly misguided.
Then he slid out from the back of his pants a long, thin-bladed knife, the metal etched with three markings that stood out; Luke recognized them as the Greek letters theta, eta, and omicron. Troy held this up with both hands as if offering a child up for baptism and proffered a long string of Latin, spoken quickly and fluently.
Then he grabbed a bag lying behind the block and lifted it carefully. He opened it and removed a chicken; its beak, wings, and legs were all bound, yet still, it struggled for release. The band on its leg told the other two this was one of the pets from Troy's own backyard. He laid the bird on the block and raised the knife. Then he screamed, "My greatest desire is to have more money!" And with those words, he drove the point of the dagger into the back of the helpless animal, right between the wings. The blood sprayed up, and it struggled more strongly, yet futilely, against its bonds. Troy looked at the book one last time, nodded to himself, and then lifted the chicken and bit into its neck, wrenching his head back and forth until the animal's throat came out in an eruption of red. He turned and spat out the hunk of flesh and errant feathers, then grinned at the other two, blood staining his mouth, his eyes maniacal, his muscles tense and on edge.
He looked as much like an animal as any man Luke or Randolph had ever seen before. And both of them were terrified.
Chapter Ten
2012
Francis pulled the wheelchair in through the double doors and paused.
Luke peered up from his bedside vigil with all the world-weariness of a man who had refused to sleep, but even on seeing who his visitors were, he could not force so much as a half-smile onto the corners of his mouth.
"Hey," Francis said quietly. "How is she?"
Luke shrugged, but that was all it took for the crying to start. "They still don't know," he muttered. "Whatever she was given burnt her stomach, right through her stomach. The acids got out and… and… oh, shit, man, she's in a real bad way."
Francis pushed the chair to the bed and looked at the girl. Her hair, slightly longer than shoulder length, was unbound and spread messily across the pillow. Her cheeks were sunken, her color a
shen. Tubes ran into her nose and mouth, intravenous drips into the crooks of both elbows. A heart monitor beside her bed told the world that her heart rate was a steady but low fifty-eight beats per minute, while her blood pressure also was not strong.
"And who's this?" Luke asked, seeming to notice the wheelchair for the first time.
"Oh, Luke Archer, meet my son Nathan," Francis said, then snorted a humorless laugh. "It's about time our kids met, I reckon."
"Wish it could have been under better circumstances," Luke mumbled, stroking his daughter's head absently.
Nathan leaned forward, his bandaged leg restricting the movement. He did not show any discomfort, and Francis could not tell if that was a deliberate ploy or if his desire to play football again was pushing him through everything. "This is Chantelle," Francis said, "and this is her father, Luke, one of my old high school friends."
Nathan watched the girl on the bed for a long time, then asked almost nervously, "If you were such good friends, why haven't we met before?"
Luke and Francis cast one another sad glances before Francis placed his hand on his son's shoulder. "Sometimes things happen when we're kids. People grow apart. Lives change. That's all," he explained.
"But mum didn't even know about these guys."
Francis grimaced. "Well, looking at it, I guess I lost contact with everyone at the end of first-year university. Your mum and I didn't meet until I started work at Winston and Carruthers when I was in third year." Nathan knew the rest of the story—his mum got pregnant, they got married, his dad finished his studies, and now here they were. It all seemed a world away from a group of seven friends living out of one another's pockets.
"We've sort of kept up with what each other's been doing," Luke added. "And Brandon's kept tabs on all our contact details. That's how we found out about Sean, and Simon's funeral." His voice faltered on those final words, and he subconsciously shifted his hand to Chantelle's cheek.