by Claire Adams
I shook my head and turned my face towards the moonlight streaming down through the trees. “No, that’s not why I got upset.”
“Okay,” Phil said, after a moment. “Then tell me why you got upset, please.”
My hand was still in his, and I squeezed it for a moment. “I thought we had this amazing connection—”
“We do,” he interrupted.
“How is that possible?” I asked. “When the truth is, I don’t know anything real about you. We talk about books and movies and music. We talk about food and traveling and art. We talk about our opinions on each one of those subjects, but we don’t talk about each other. I didn’t even know that you had a brother until Anna mentioned him tonight.”
I saw understanding dawn on Phil’s face.
“Isn’t that something you mention?” I asked. “At least in passing?”
“It is for most people,” Phil replied.
“But not for you?”
“I don’t like talking about my brother,” he said. “In fact, I don’t like talking about my family, at all.”
I nodded. “I suppose I’ll have to respect that, then.”
“No,” he countered, drawing me in with his eyes. “I was just trying to explain to you why it doesn’t come naturally to me to talk about my past and my family. But I do want to share all that with you, Megan… Not because you’re asking, but because I feel safe with you.”
The word sent a shock of electricity buzzing through me. That was exactly how I felt about him, and I smiled in response. “I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do,” I said. “I just… I was overly sensitive tonight. I shouldn’t have just walked away like I did.”
Phil waved away my apology. “Ask me anything,” he said. “I want to answer.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay,” I started. “You mentioned not having seen your brother in years.”
Phil nodded. “Paul is… He’s in jail.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “What?”
“He was sentenced to nine years in prison for doing drugs,” Phil explained.
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
“He’s currently served four years of his sentence. But it’s going to be another five years before he sees the real world again.”
“And you haven’t seen him for four years?” I asked.
“I haven’t seen him in two and a half years,” he replied. “I visited him for the first year and a half and then… I suppose I felt like I needed to put my past behind me. And at the time, I felt that included my brother.
“To be honest, I was just mad at him. He was my idol. He was the only person I looked up to… It’s a strange feeling to watch your hero be dragged off in cuffs. Sort of ruins the image. My brother and I… You know what, I feel like I need to start from the beginning.”
“Start from anywhere I like,” I said, refusing to let go of his hand.
Phil seemed to take a deep breath. “Paul was five years older than me. He kind of took care of me, especially because half the time, my parents were in no fit state to look after anyone. My father was an alcoholic and a drug addict, and my mother… She was always sad. I say always sad because that was how I got used to describing her as a child. But now I realize she was probably clinically depressed.
“She suffered with my father and had very little joy in her life. Some women might have found comfort in their children, but I don’t think my mother had it in her to be a mother in the first place. My parents only got married because she got pregnant with Paul. They tried their hand at domesticity, but neither one was prepared for it. My mother was only eighteen when she had Paul and my father was not much older…around twenty I think.
“I don’t think I have one clear memory of my father when he wasn’t completely inebriated. He was always high on something and if he wasn’t high, then he was most likely drunk. He’d stumble home late at night and scream for my mother. She would go down quietly and tend to him. She’d make him dinner or hand him a cigarette or just sit opposite him and listen to him talk.
“I would watch from the staircase. When I was younger, I assumed that they had this strange bond that worked for them. Why else would Mom go down whenever Dad came stumbling home? Why else would she look after him the way she did when he was in that state? Why else would she sit there and listen to him talk?
“It was only as I got older that I realized he wasn’t talking to her—he was blaming her. He’d demand that she came down, order her to make him something to eat, and then he would make her sit in front of him while he insulted her and blamed her for the shitty life she had trapped him into.
“Even at that time, though, it always looked to me like Mom was the one who was trapped. Sometimes Paul would join me on the staircase, but more often than not, he would try and get me back to bed so that I couldn’t listen to Mom and Dad.
“And then one day, everything changed. Dad came stumbling home drunk and started shouting for Mom…but she didn’t come. We checked the whole house, but I knew we wouldn’t find her. She had left, and I knew even at that age that she was never coming back.”
“Oh my God,” I said, feeling awful for Phil and his brother. “Phil…”
His eyes were distant with memory, but he returned the pressure on my hand.
“You never heard from her again?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did she… Did she say goodbye…leave a letter…anything?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he replied. I felt an ache in my heart for everything he had endured. “And to be honest, I would have been very surprised if she had left a letter. It was just not in her to do something like that. She was my mother, but I can’t remember her ever mothering me. She was so distant, so removed from Paul and me. Sometimes I wonder why she didn’t leave sooner.”
“She loved you,” I said, hoping against hope that I was right.
Phil smiled, and I could see that he knew what I was trying to do, and he was grateful for it, but it didn’t change what he knew. “After we realized that my mother had gone for good, Dad disappeared for three days. He had the foresight to tell the neighbor to come and look after us. I think she only came over because we had a fridge stocked with beer.
“When Dad came back, he stunk of booze, there was vomit clinging to the front of his shirt, and he looked like someone had beaten the crap out of him. He told the neighbor to get out, and when she asked for her pay, he almost took a swing at her. She ran out of the house and never looked at us again. Then my father proceeded to drink himself to death. It took him eight years to do it.
“After that, it was just Paul and me. We were independent by the time Dad died, and we did what we could to make ends meet. At the time, we thought that meant dropping out of high school and getting involved with all the wrong people.”
“What people?” I asked.
“There was this group that dealt drugs back where we used to live,” Phil explained. “They were looking to recruit young boys to sell the goods. Paul and I were perfect targets, and there was a sense of brotherhood about the gang that we had missed all our lives. I suppose we were looking for a surrogate family and clung to the first one we came across. Except they weren’t really a family—they were a business, and we were just their mules.”
“How old were you?” I asked.
“I was fifteen,” Phil replied. “Paul was twenty.”
“Fifteen,” I repeated. It felt so young to have had so many awful things have happened already.
“The guy who handled the business was named Jonas, and he found this old abandoned storehouse to use as our headquarters. There were back rooms for us to sleep in since most of the boys who worked for him didn’t have homes or families. Some were foster kids who’d never been placed, and others were just teenagers making bad decisions.
“I drank, but I kept away from the drugs. I’ve done pot but nothing harder. I remembered how my father behave
d when he was high, and I didn’t want to be like him. Paul, however…he started using. And when he used, he changed. Our relationship grew strained for a time, and then there was a drug bust in the area. Everyone was on high alert, and we knew we were being watched.
“One day the storehouse was raided,” Phil continued. “Paul was out at the time doing a delivery run with Mackey and Fitz. I was in the back with another guy called Hans. Jonas and a few other guys were in the business end of the storeroom. They were armed, and when the cops busted in, they opened fire.”
“What?” I asked, in shock.
“Hans and I managed to get out through a back window. We took cover and watched as the cops overpowered everyone in the storehouse. If those idiots had just left their guns alone, they might have lived, but as it happens, no one survived.”
“No one?”
“Five of our guys died that day and one cop,” I replied. “After that, the gang basically disintegrated. Jonas was the brain behind the operation, and he died in the storehouse shooting. Paul and I got a tiny place in a rundown neighborhood to put that part of our life behind us.
“At least, that’s what we agreed to do. But a few months later, I realized that Paul was still using. He knew some of the suppliers that Jonas had used, and he was obviously getting his drugs from them.
“I was seventeen at the time, and I was starting to want more for my life. I watched Paul become more and more like my father, and it made me sick. I was determined not to become like either one of them. So I left.
“I rented out this tiny attic space in the home of an elderly couple. They cut me a break on the price. I lived there for about two years, working three different jobs. I started thinking about what I wanted for my future. Soon, I earned enough to be able to afford a place of my own. It was a shitty studio apartment in the shittiest neighborhood imaginable—but it was my own and that meant something to me.”
“Did you keep in touch with your brother?” I asked.
“We didn’t speak for six months after I left,” Phil told me. “But we reconnected after that and kept in touch. I chose to believe him when he said he was clean. Whenever I did meet him, he seemed pretty together. He was thinner than I remembered and much paler, but I didn’t think too hard about it. I didn’t pry into his life, and he didn’t pry into mine.” Phil sighed.
“And then…he got caught. Turns out he had used Jonas’ old suppliers and had continued the business, but on a smaller scale. He had tried to sell drugs to an undercover cop who’d developed a relationship with him over the course of months.”
“Wow…”
Phil sighed. “It was such a waste—of his life, his future.”
I leaned in and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Thank you for sharing all that with me.”
Phil gave me a smile. “It felt good to tell you,” he said. “It felt…freeing.”
He kissed me on the lips, and I felt our connection burn bright. When we pulled away, his eyes were soft and present. “Let’s get some pizza.”
“Now?” I asked, in surprise.
“Yes.” He nodded. “I want to finish our date.”
I smiled. “Okay.”
We walked through the park to the parking lot, and the whole time he kept a firm grip on my hand. I couldn’t help feeling that if he never let go, I wouldn’t mind one bit.
Chapter Eleven
Phil
For the first time in what felt like forever, my life felt complete. My work gave me purpose and Megan gave me hope. After the shaky start our first date had taken, things got considerably better. After I had opened up to her and shared my past with her, I felt a wall come down between us that I hadn’t even known was there. My mind was at peace, and I started to envision a future that included Megan.
It was all happening very fast; my emotions were speeding ahead of me, but I just couldn’t help it. Megan calmed me down and excited me all in the same breath. Everything was more enjoyable now because I knew I could share it with her.
Which was not to say that I didn’t have my set of worries. I worried all the time that my job would take its toll on our relationship. We were only a couple of weeks in, and I hadn’t seen able to schedule a second date with her yet.
We still spoke all the time, and she told me she understood. But it was still early into things, and I knew from experience that patience was not something that lasted indefinitely. I was arranging the equipment when the emergency alert went off.
“We’re up!” Kendrick yelled as he jumped into action.
Immediately, my mind jumped into firefighter mode, and everything else dropped out of my head. My only priority now was getting to where we needed to as fast as possible and handling the situation as quickly as possible. Engine twenty was ready for us, and Ryan, Mel, and Kendrick helped me load up the truck. Within six minutes, we were suited up and en route.
“What are we dealing with?” I asked Mel.
“Tenement fire,” Mel replied. “The building on Pike.”
I felt my body grow cold. “Squatter Pike?” I asked, using the better-known nickname for the tenement.
“That’s the one,” Ryan nodded grimly.
“There must be over twenty homeless families living in that building,” I said.
No one said anything. We all knew how high the stakes were. It wasn’t just a matter of getting there in time and putting out the fire. If we miscalculated, if we made a mistake, people would die. In addition to which the building was coming apart at the seams…it wouldn’t be able to withstand a big fire. As we closed in on the tenement, I poised myself at the door, ready to jump into action.
Kendrick, Ryan, and I jumped out of the truck and ran towards the building with our equipment in tow. I heard Mel fall back to call for back up. We’d need another team if we were going to put out this fire as fast as possible. I could feel the heat from where I stood; the fire had spread, and I suspected that no one had made the call until it had already done some damage.
The sidewalk and road was filled with onlookers, watching on in horror. Closest to the building were the few people who had managed to get out in time. They were poorly dressed, covered in soot, and clutching on to their loved ones. The men and women who had no one just stood there, looking at the building like some terrible monster rearing its ugly head.
“There are people still in there,” an old woman screamed. “There are kids…they’ll die.”
“Calm down, ma’am,” I told her. “We’re going to do our best to get everyone out.”
“Those poor children,” she screamed as though they were already gone.
Gritting my teeth with determination, I looked over at Ryan. “Let’s read this fire quickly; we need to get in there.”
“Why aren’t you doing anything?” a younger woman screamed. “My children are inside! I went to get milk… my children are inside…”
I felt her scream to the core of my being, but I knew that I couldn’t just run in there without thinking. That was a good way of killing myself—along with her children.
“Okay,” Kendrick said, running up to us. “The fire started on the west side of the building. We need to proceed carefully.”
We locked eyes for a moment in an unspoken understanding of the risk we were about to take. Then we headed into the building. Nearly two hours later, the fire had been put out and smoke was radiating around the building in curling clouds that made me shiver. I sat at the back of the truck, covered in soot and coughing occasionally. I had a blanket wrapped around my body and despite the heat that still radiated all around us, I was cold.
The crying was far off now—they had probably walked her away from the truck, but I could still hear her as though she were standing right next to me. I closed my eyes, but that only made it worse.
“Phil.”
I opened my eyes and saw Mel standing in front of me.
“How is she?” I asked immediately.
“Don’t beat yourself up about that,” he said fi
rmly. “You did a fantastic job in there. Everyone did.”
“It wasn’t enough,” I pointed out.
“They were in the thick of the fire—you were too late before you even set foot in that building.”
“Where is she?” I asked, realizing that I could barely hear her crying now.
Mel looked pale. “They… identified her children’s bodies. They were exactly where she said they would be… they had been taking a nap while she went out for milk.”
“Where is she?” I asked again.
“She insisted she wanted to see their bodies.”
I closed my eyes. “And, they’re actually going to let her?”
“She nearly tore one of the paramedics’ eyes out when they refused,” Mel said.
“The sight of them will haunt her for the rest of her life,” I said, distraught.
“It’s her decision.”
“She’s is no frame of mind to make decisions in the first place,” I said, rising to my feet. “Someone needs to go over there and—”
“Stop,” Mel said, pushing me back into a sitting position. “That is not your place.”
I had seen their bodies. They weren’t even recognizable as human bodies. They were just shapeless mannequins covered in black dust and the smoky smell of burning meat. That was probably the hardest part of it all. Not the way they looked, but the way they smelled. I felt tears sting my eyes and pushed them back fiercely.
“We should have moved faster,” I said, through gritted teeth.
“We responded as soon as we got the call,” Mel pointed out. “We got here within eleven minutes of the call. There’s nothing more we could have done, Phil.”
A piercing, anguished, bone-chilling scream slashed through the air, and I knew instinctively she had seen their bodies…their tiny, burnt, unrecognizable bodies. They no longer had faces or features or hair; everything had been burnt off them, leaving behind only empty shells, husks of what they had once been.
“Madness,” I muttered under my breath. “Complete fucking madness.”
“Get in the truck and wait there,” Mel ordered me.
We drove back to the station in complete silence. Usually if we’d had a successful stint, the truck was full of laughter, conversation, and exaggerated tales of our own heroic actions. But if we had lost anyone, the atmosphere was so potent with heavy emotion and sadness that you could cut it with a knife. We got to the station and then each disappeared to our separate corners to lick our wounds and get over the losses we hadn’t managed to prevent.