by Paul Kane
But when Hannah moved forward, all she got was a slap in the face that split her lip. “Where the sodding fuck do you think you’ve been?” said her mother. Her words were slurred, as per usual, and Hannah could smell the booze on her breath. Again Hannah regretted drinking the lager earlier, for more reasons than one. “Look at the time!”
Hannah almost said, “Why, have you been worried?” But she knew the answer to that one. More likely Freddie had been waiting for something to eat.
And here he was, talk of the Devil. Freddie walked out of the bedroom on her right, wearing just his boxers. It was obvious what they’d been doing to pass the time, apart from drinking that was. Funny how it never seemed to satisfy him, though. How her mother was never enough. He smiled at Hannah when he saw her. “Hello, Goldie.” The name rang hollow; it had no meaning to it; no love. Not in that sense anyway.
Hannah wiped her busted lip with the back of her hand and fixed him with an icy stare.
“And look at the state of you,” her mother continued. “Just fucking look at you!”
Hannah’s eyes dropped to the carpet, until her mother started shaking her that was, awakening the pain in her back. “I asked you a question, Hannah. Where have you been till this time of night?”
“Answer your mother,” Freddie chipped in, coming to stand alongside her. A united front – against Hannah.
“I-I’ve been out… walking.”
“Liar!” her mother screamed at her. “Have you been with a boy, Hannah? Well, have you? You little slag.”
Like mother like…
Freddie smirked again at the thought of this.
“No,” said Hannah.
“Let me, Viv,” said Freddie. “I’ll get her talking.” Her mother stood aside and allowed her boyfriend access to Hannah. He held up a finger and stroked Hannah’s cheek. “You know we’ll get it out of you eventually, don’t you? We always do.” His hand snaked around the back of her neck, fingers running through her blonde hair.
“I-I told you. I’ve just been out walking. Honest, Freddie.”
Freddie was still smiling as he grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked it. Hannah let out a cry that verged on a scream. He tugged even harder, bringing up his free fist this time.
There was a knock at the door.
Everything stopped, everyone froze. Hannah’s mother looked at Freddie and he looked back.
At last, Freddie spoke. “Ignore it, they’ll go away.”
The knock came again; more urgent this time.
“I don’t think so,” said Hannah’s mother.
One final knock.
He nodded at the door. “Go and tell them to piss off, Viv. We’re busy in here.”
She went to the door, put the chain on, and opened it. “Look, whoever you are you can just–” The door was kicked inwards, knocking Hannah’s mother off her feet. It was the last thing in the world she’d been expecting.
Still holding Hannah by the hair, Freddie twisted them both around to face the intruder. Hannah gasped when she saw the figure at the door, even though in her heart of hearts she already knew who it had to be.
Art.
“What the fuck…?” Freddie began, looking from his floored lover to Art and then back again. His mind was trying to deal with the information, trying to work out what was happening. A burglar? It wasn’t unheard of on this estate, was it? But the man didn’t look like he was here to steal anything. He looked like he was here for revenge.
Art stepped through the entrance, slamming the door back against the wall. Hannah’s mother started to get up, but Art simply shoved her back down again.
“Get out of–” Freddie began, then noticed there were more people behind Art. A woman and a youth, both fairly meaty. What was this, some sort of family outing? A fucking picnic?
Art shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked across at Hannah. It was fair enough, she’d been in their home. Now it was payback time. But what form would it take?
Once more Viv got up, this time with an angry “how dare you?” look on her face. She grabbed Art by the arm and when he turned she raked her nails across his cheek. Art touched the wound and his eyes narrowed. Then Mabe was on her, gripping her tight in a bear hug. The two women struggled for a moment, but it soon became obvious that Viv was fighting a losing battle.
Art focused his attention on Hannah and Freddie again. He started walking toward them. Hannah could feel Freddie’s body trembling. He was a big man, but Art was considerably bigger. Art drew up and pointed at Hannah. “She belong to you?”
“Why, what’s she–”
“I asked you a question.”
Freddie gawped at Art, mouth slack. His hand wound Hannah’s hair tighter. If this was all her fault, if something she’d done had brought Art here then she was the one who should answer for it, not him. Freddie shook his head. “She ain’t mine,” he said and nodded over to Viv, laying the blame for this mistake of a child squarely at her feet. “She’s a worthless little bitch.”
Hannah could feel the tears welling up in her eyes.
“A worthless little bitch who should’ve been drowned at birth.” Freddie smiled at Art, hoping these were the words he wished to hear. “What’s she been up to now?”
“Been in our place,” said Art matter of factly.
Freddie looked at Hannah. “That right?” She said nothing, so he yanked her hair. “I said is that right? You been in their place?”
Hannah nodded as best she could, tears flowing down her cheeks.
“She’ll be punished; I’ll see to that,” promised Freddie.
Art looked at Freddie, then at Hannah. He smiled; Freddie smiled back. Then Art punched him so hard in the face Hannah could hear his nose splintering on the spot. Freddie let go of Hannah’s hair and brought his hands up to his broken nose. “By dose!” he cried out. But before he had time to do or say anything else, Art was picking him up. The burly man’s strength was astounding. He flung Freddie back onto the sofa and it broke under the strain, one leg collapsing so that the whole thing tilted at an angle.
Viv screamed. She tried to break free of Mabe’s grip again, but it was no use. Hannah stared at the scene, head snapping from Freddie on the couch to her mother in the clutches of big Mabe. This wasn’t happening, wasn’t real.
But there was more to come.
As Hannah watched, the fingernails on Mabe’s right hand started to grow. They grew almost until they were the size of claws: huge, sharp claws which she then brought up to Hannah’s mother’s throat. Hannah opened her mouth to say something. No words would come out. Seconds later it was all over anyway, Viv’s throat torn out leaving a ragged hole in its place. Her cream robe was painted red with blood, and Viv’s eyes were like two golf balls jutting out of her head. Mabe let her go and she crumpled to the floor with a thud.
Now there were gurgling noises coming from the sofa. Hannah turned and saw that Art was on top of Freddie, virtually covering him with his bulk. Art’s head was down over the top of the man, and when he raised it up again Hannah could see blood smeared around his mouth. Art growled, showing teeth that couldn’t possibly fit inside that mouth. Large, crooked – some curving like tusks – they glistened in the light with a sheen of crimson. “You’re not the only one who can bite, little lady,” Art barked, bubbles of saliva and blood bursting forth with the words. His eyes were as black as night.
Art stood up and Mabe came to join him. They approached the terrified Hannah, now shaking against the wall. “P-P-Please,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t know… I won’t do it again.”
Art nodded, brushing his long, curly hair out of his face. “We know you won’t… Junior. Where is he? Come here, boy.”
Junior appeared behind them. He was clutching a box of Cheerios he’d sniffed out, delving in with what could only be described as a snout and eating the contents. “I’m here, Pops,” he said, his mouth full.
“Good.”
So this was to be her fate, left
to Junior’s devices so he could do to her what his parents had done to Freddie and her mother. Revenge for the chair, for sleeping in his bed? Junior looked her up and down.
Art pointed to Hannah, and she knew the end was near.
“Say hello to your new sister, son,” said Art, grinning.
***
Life was different for Hannah now. Maybe even better too, she wasn’t quite sure yet.
But she was no longer frightened. No longer scared. She had a family, a real family, and that was all she cared about.
She was safe.
It had taken her a while to work out why they’d done what they did – because she wasn’t about to ask them, wasn’t about to question any of this. But she’d come to the conclusion that they had recognised one of their own that night. An outcast, a misfit. And had they too been taunted and bullied in the past themselves? Because of what they were, because of how different they could become sometimes. It was okay once you got used to it, though. They weren’t monsters, not monsters at all really.
Not compared to some.
No one came looking for her, nor the killers of her mother and Freddie. Or if they did, she didn’t hear of it. Her days were spent walking, exploring with Art, Mabe and Junior; it was where they’d been when she came upon their house. They knew secluded routes that she never would’ve found in a million years. It was hand to mouth living, and there was never much food in, except for cereal of course, but she was happy in a strange sort of way. They made space for her on the settee, next to Junior’s mended chair, and the boy even gave up his bed for her while he slept downstairs next to the fire. Not exactly a prince or charming, but his heart was in the right place.
It felt right when they called her Goldie, fitted in with the rest of them somehow. And it reminded her of Granddad, as did this place itself.
Life was different for her now. Whether it would be happily ever after, Hannah didn’t know. She’d take it one day at a time, just like she’d always done. Anyway, as she so often told herself, stuff like that only happened in fairy tales.
Didn’t it?
The End
Giants
Two Jacks.
That’s what he won with: a pair. Though actually, it could very easily have been just a single Jack. He’d been bluffing, totally; didn’t have a clue how he might have paid up if he’d lost. But John-Boy (so-called because of his ever-youthful appearance – in spite of the fact he was in his mid-30s now – not to mention his resemblance to a character in an old US TV show), JB for short, had always flown by the seat of his pants, always made the leap of faith. Lived by the motto that when opportunity knocked, you opened that door and not only invited it in, but sat it down, then gave it a brew and a plate of biscuits in the hope it might become a regular visitor.
Everyone else had folded long before that, leaving JB and the man sitting opposite him. Chaz, he called himself; relative newcomer to the poker nights held in the back room of The White Swan once a month after hours (and combined with the obligatory lock-in). Wasn’t usually these kinds of stakes either, or JB wouldn’t have become a regular himself, because he tended to lose just as often as he won.
But something about the game that night had told him to carry on, to push it even though the money in the middle of the table just kept growing and growing, the chips piling high. In the end it had been Chaz who’d caved first, JB managing to hold his nerve – stare him out – and convince this opponent that he had a superb hand. But the look on the man’s face when JB finally showed his cards had been priceless: eyes wide, rubbing a hand back and forth over his closely-cropped ginger scalp.
“Shit!” had been his only word, breathed out in disbelief.
JB had been just as surprised to see what Chaz had been holding – two pairs, fives over threes this time – one more set than he had. A hand that would have beaten him easily, if Chaz hadn’t been convinced he’d got a Royal Flush or four Aces or something.
Ned Sanderson, owner of the establishment and the person who set up these sessions, clapped JB on the back and congratulated him. “Well played, son,” he said. “I’ll get you a drop of the good stuff t’celebrate.” A couple of the other players came and shook his hand, but JB still couldn’t take his eyes off Chaz – who looked for all the world like someone had not only shot his dog but dismembered it in front of him.
So, he wasn’t surprised when the man came up to him at the end – when JB had that glass of very nice and rather old whisky in his hand – to “have a quiet word” as he put it.
“Look…there’s no easy way of saying this, so I’ll just come right out with it. I don’t have that kind of money right this minute.” Now he couldn’t even look JB in the eye. “Messy divorce, long story. I’m sorry.”
“What? You’re kidding me!” JB replied, knowing full well this would have been his own confession if he’d lost. “I need that money, Chaz!”
“Keep your voice down,” said the man, flapping his hands. He was no doubt worried that Ned would hear and want to know what was going on. Ned wasn’t the sort of bloke who took kindly to people he’d vouched for, people he’d made a space for at his table, welching on their bets… and he had connections. “I’m good for it, I promise.”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say.”
“It’s true. Here…” That was when he’d fished into his pocket and come out with his fist closed. “Open your hand up.”
JB did as he was told, opening the hand not currently being used for sipping that scotch. Chaz opened his as well, dropping several small coloured objects into JB’s palm. “What’s this?” he asked.
“What do they look like?” said Chaz, glancing around him and over his shoulder. “They’re pills.”
JB frowned. “Well, yeah. I can see that.” He rolled them around, the yellow and red of the capsules catching the light in the back room. “But what’s–”
“I know a place where you can get a shit-load more of these from.”
“So what?”
“So…” Chaz looked about him again. “So, you can sell them! A guy like you wouldn’t have a hard time finding a buyer, I’m sure.” JB cocked his head; that was true. But he’d sworn a long time ago that he’d have nothing more to do with drugs, the peddling of such and its ramifications – and he told Chaz so. The man simply smiled. “That’s the beauty of it, they’re not drugs as such. Not the harmful kind, anyways. They’re things like slimming pills, training supplements, stuff like that – but cutting edge. Things that can also help with certain… problems in the bedroom, if you catch my drift.”
Oh, he did – and JB still wasn’t convinced, but he was hearing a knocking sound. Something was definitely at the door. “Okay, so you can get hold of more of these and…?”
“Not me. You. I can get you inside the place, because I work security, see? This is my weekend off… So I can get you in, but it’d be up to you to grab the merchandise.”
JB laughed out loud at that one. “Okay, let me see if I’ve got this straight. Not only do I have to run the risk of selling them, I’ve also got to steal them as well? Fuck off, mate!”
“Someone has to make sure you don’t get disturbed. There’s only a skeleton security crew at the moment, a handful, but even so… Listen,” said Chaz, lowering his voice again. “You can take as much as you like, they’ve got tons of this stuff – it’s candyland. They won’t miss it, I promise you.” Chaz said that a lot; made a lot of promises. “They’re going through some kind of change in management, hostile takeover or something. Lots of stuff getting lost in the shuffle. Lots of people getting the shaft as well – probably me included in the near future. Most of my mates have been canned already. Bottom line, you can make more from this one job than I owe you tonight, that’s for damned sure. It could make enough to set us up for life!”
“Us?”
“Yeah, well, I was thinking maybe we could split it. You know, fifty-fifty. My divorce and all…”
“What, and I’m taking al
l the risks?”
“All right, sixty-forty.”
In spite of his misgivings, the knocking sound was getting louder and louder. Nevertheless, he told Chaz he’d need to think about it; a bird in the hand and all that... although Chaz didn’t seem to have any birds at all to give him right now. He took the man’s details, his mobile number and even where he lived – knowing full well that Ned would also know where to find Chaz, even if he skipped out. Also, that he’d know what to do with him when he made him an example. “And I’ll be keeping these,” said JB, jamming the pills into his jeans pocket and swallowing the rest of the fiery liquid in his glass.
“Sure, sure,” said Chaz.
“This had better not all be bullshit,” JB warned him.
“It isn’t,” Chaz replied, still looking anywhere but in his eye. Then he said: “I promise.”
***
JB hated this place.
Hated the way you had to be coded in, the doors kept locked because the people inside were always trying to escape. Hated the smell when said doors were open, the stench of bleach, piss and shit in equal measures – the former valiantly battling and failing to disguise the latter. Hated the way the residents – those who were capable of it, anyway – would wander the corridors like extras from The Walking Dead. Some would look at you like you were an alien, some gazed right through you like you weren’t even there; like you were a ghost. Others would mistake you for relatives that probably never came within a hundred miles of this place – and JB couldn’t really say that he blamed them.
If he hadn’t been such a loyal son, if he hadn’t felt that obligation to keep coming, he wouldn’t put himself through all this. No way. He’d been through so much with her already, seen and experienced things nobody should have to go through, yet many did on a regular basis. A nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.
But she’d looked after him when his dad fucked off, leaving them both in the lurch when JB was only just out of nappies. She’d brought him up as best she could, working two jobs to pay the rent, put food on the table. Not everything she’d done had been strictly legal, of course, which was why when JB began operating on the wrong side of the law himself she hadn’t had a leg to stand on – but her intentions counted for a lot. She’d always been a loving mum, always worrying about him, always so kind.