Breaker: Gravediggers MC

by Paula Cox

  That makes me shiver. Patrick the monster, Patrick the psychopath, Patrick the junkie, Patrick the man who deserves all the bad things Jude could do to him . . .

  And yet he’s still my brother.

  Don’t get into that again!

  I switch on the TV, turning to the nature channel, and lean back on the couch. The documentary is about penguins, the one with Morgan Freeman, about how they mate for life and go on journeys together, about how the couples’ calls are tailored to be able to find each other in crowds of thousands. I wonder if people ever get that close. I wonder if it’s possible. I wonder if love can really be like that.

  The documentary’s almost over when the apartment buzzer rings.

  My chest seizes at the noise, carving through the quiet apartment like a machete. I swallow, mouth dry, and walk on shaky legs to the intercom. Has Patrick found out where Jude lives? I swallow again and this time my throat’s so dry it’s like there’s something lodged in there.

  With a hand that won’t stop trembling, I press the answer button.

  “Emily?” a woman barks, voice high-pitched and authoritative.

  “Um, yes?”

  “It’s Moira, Jude’s sister. Are you going to let me up or what?”

  “Oh,” I mutter. “Sure.”

  I press the button to open the door, thinking: Jude’s sent me a babysitter.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jude

  Tool greets me with a wide, toothy grin, shoving shotgun shells into a sawn-off. The bar is empty apart from a few old-timers sitting in the corner drinking whisky in the dancing-mote half-light and a few new-timers pouring the whisky for the old men. Tool leans an elbow on the bar as he loads his weapon.

  “Got everything you need, man?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I reply, patting the holsters hidden near my waistline, just under my shirt. “Don’t know why you’ve always got to be so loud, Tool.” I gesture at his sawn-off. “Anyway, I thought you preferred—”

  Tool rolls his eyes. “A few times, man, a few times I used a hammer—and once a wrench—on some really nasty pieces of shit. Rapists and pedophiles and all that. Thought they deserved the special treatment.” He cracks the sawn-off, loading it, and drops it into a duffle bag at his feet. “And just ‘cause of that, I have to spend the rest of my life with the word Tool tattooed on my forehead.”

  I gesture at his head. “There’s no tattoo there.”

  “Ha, ha, ha.” He scowls. “Funny man. You know what I mean. What about you, with your Judas Kiss?”

  Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “It’s just a punch,” I say.

  “Just a punch? Ha! Last time I punched a man—and trust me, I do it often enough—I didn’t fly through the air like a ninja.”

  “I don’t fly through the air. I just throw my weight into it, is all.”

  “I’d do that, but I’d end up breaking my knees. I think there should be a warning on cake, man: Don’t eat if you like your knees. Mine are shot to hell.” He pats his rotund belly affectionately. “Anyway, shall we get going? The van should pull up any second—” Tool grins. Outside, the screech of tires sounds.

  “Who’ve we got with us today?”

  “We’re the seniors today, man. The rest are green kids. Shouldn’t matter, though. I’ve heard this Barry asshole is a real monster, but no one’s too much of a monster for us, eh?”

  I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “We’ve got it handled.”

  We walk into the street, and then directly into back of the van. On the side of the van are the words: Sandwich Service! Sandwiches Direct to Your Office! Tool and I sit on one side, opposite three men who I haven’t learnt the names of yet. You get plenty of new fish in this business. The cold truth is most of these men won’t be able to cut it. They’ll be dead, in prison, or running in a couple of years. It takes an iciness to survive this life, the ability to freeze your veins, which most men lack.

  What about you? Your veins aren’t frozen anymore, are they? Not with Emily.

  I ignore the voice and listen as Tool drones on, which he tends to do before any job. The van cruises through the city, the only light the dim glow through the porthole-like back windows.

  “Have you all heard of this Barry guy?” Tool asks. He goes on before anybody can reply. “Because I have, and let me tell you, he sounds like a real piece of shit. He sounds worse than that, even. I don’t know if the boss told you, but this man’s a kidnapper, a torturer, and a rapist—of children. That’ll give you some idea of the kind of man we’re dealing with. I also talked to some buddies of mine last night, you know, to get a lay of the land. Man, man, the shit they told me would make toes curl.”

  “Like what?” an eighteen-year-old kid with freckles and a mop of brown hair asks.

  “You don’t want to know, kid,” Tool says. “But I’ll tell you anyway if you’re so damn curious.” The van goes over a bump. We all jostle in our seats and then sit back down. “My buddy’s got a buddy who’s got a sister. This sister, well . . . she can’t be the brightest light in the world, let’s just say that. This Barry asshole seduced her, took her on loads of nice dates, all that stuff. And then one day, out of the blue, he just beat the shit out of her. The man told my buddy that his sister was on life support for a while, multiple breaks, fractures, punctured lung. She still has health troubles now. So, ladies and gents.” He winces, and then chuckles. “So, gents. We’re dealing with a man who does not deserve to breathe. Never forget that. Hold it close. Push it deep into your mind. This. Man. Does. Not. Deserve. To. Breath.”

  The brown-haired kid laughs, and Tool’s eyes dart to him. “Something funny, kid?”

  The van goes over another bump. We’re all thrown up—and then down.

  “N-no,” the kid whispers, holding his hands up in a show of peace.

  “You laughed,” Tool says through gritted teeth. “You fuckin’ laughed at me.”

  “N-n-no, I’m . . . I’m s-s-sorry . . .”

  Tool leans forward, staring daggers at the kid.

  I clap Tool on the back. “Leave off, Tool,” I say. “Look at him. You’re scaring the poor bastard.”

  Tool lets out a laugh and rocks back in his seat. “I’m just fucking with you, kid. You’re my teammate. I don’t friendly fire. We’re about to meet the real enemy. Got some intel he’s going to be at a certain hooker’s apartment.” Tool strokes his sawn-off. “I don’t think he’s going to get the happy ending he’s looking for.”

  Everybody laughs, the tension dissipating.

  I clench my fists—my palms still sore from last night—and think of the moment I saw Barry pull Emily into his lap. The fear on her face. The fear on my woman’s face.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Emily

  Moira marches into the apartment like she owns the place. She’s a short woman, about my height, but she’s thick where I’m thin, sturdy where I’m fragile. Her hair is jet-black, which makes me double take when I step back and let her in. She looks me up and down, a stern expression on her face, a face devoid of freckles, just like Jude’s.

  “We’re not all redheads,” she says, and then walks into the living room. She doesn’t acknowledge my bruises, which is refreshing. She’s holding a big pile of books and she’s dressed in nurse’s scrubs. “I came straight from a nightshift, so you ought to thank me, really.” She sets the books on the coffee able and drops onto the couch. “Jude has told me a lot about you,” she goes on, without waiting for my response. “He’s told me you have a natural talent for caring. Well, I told him right back, it takes more than a natural talent to make a nurse. But he was adamant. Says you fixed him up every night for the past two weeks. Said you were brilliant at stitching and patching and soothing. Said you had great bedside manner.”

  “Oh.” It’s the first thing I’ve said since she walked in, and even that seems too much for her.

  She twists in her sitting position. “Oh?” she echoes. “What do you mean, oh? I’m
telling you what Jude’s told me.”

  I join her at the couch. She follows me with Jude’s hard eyes.

  I sit next to her.

  “I didn’t realize Jude had spoken about me at all,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah.” Moira nods. “We talk on the phone often, usually about run-of-the-mill stuff. He doesn’t mention his work and I don’t ask. That’s one thing I’ll ask of you, too. I don’t want to know. I know what he does. I don’t agree with it. But he’s my brother and I’d stand by that man no matter what. You know he saved my life?”

  Her speech is like the firing of a machine-gun, constant tat-tat-tat. She doesn’t even seem out of breath.

  “Well,” she says, staring at me plainly.

  “Well . . . what?”

  She gestures at the textbooks, piled high. “Aren’t you going to take a look?”

  “I’ve never had any desire to be a nurse,” I say.

  “Have you ever even thought about it?”

  “Before right now? No.”

  “Well, then, how do you know? Eh?” She smiles for the first time. It makes her seem less jarring. “Seems to me you need some direction in life.”

  I blink at her. “You don’t even know me.”

  “Of course I do!” she explodes. “Jude has told me all about you! Not all the details, of course. He wouldn’t betray your trust like that. That’s what he said to me, anyway, and I was damn surprised to hear him talk like that. He doesn’t talk about women like that, my brother. More of the . . .” She winces, realizing she’s saying too much. “More of the cold type, if you get my meaning.”

  “I do,” I say. “But he’s not cold anymore.” There’s a hint of pride in my voice.

  “No,” Moira says, “he’s not. You must have magic powers. So, you don’t want to look at the books?”

  I glance at them out of the corner of my eye. They call to me. I can’t deny that. After being denied education for so long—after Patrick ranting at me for countless hours about how learning is useless for a woman like me—I can’t deny that the books are appealing. And nursing, helping people . . . maybe there’s something in that. But there’s another response inside of me, too, a life-long response which causes me to recoil at the idea. You can’t do it, a voice whispers. After a moment, I realize it’s Patrick’s voice. You could never do it. In my mind, he’s standing over me, eyes burning with drugs and anger. What do you think you are? Some prissy smart bitch? Just keep your head down and get on with your goddamn work, bitch!

  I realize I’m shaking. With an effort, I stop myself.

  “Are you okay?” Moira asks, her voice suddenly softer. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I lie. “No, I’m fine. Just . . . thinking.”

  “Don’t do that,” Moira snaps. “Never waste time on that. All it does it rot your brain.”

  I tilt my head at her. “You just said that thinking rots your brain.”

  The corners of her lips twitch. “Oh, yes, I did.” They twitch again, and then she breaks into a full smile. Her face transforms. “What am I talking about!” She giggles, clutching her sides.

  The laughter is infectious. I can’t help but laugh along with her. Whatever atmosphere was in the room turns to vapor at once.

  When the laughter passes, Moira leans across and pats me on the knee. “It’s good to laugh now and then,” she says.

  All at once, I feel an outpouring of gratitude to this woman. Perhaps it’s because she’s related to Jude or perhaps it’s because she’s taken the time out of her life—when she’s tired after a night shift, when she should be sleeping—to come and make me laugh.

  “Do you want a drink?” I ask.

  “And something to eat, if you’ve got it.”

  I go to the kitchen. “What do you want?” I call. “A sandwich?”

  “Sure.”

  I check the refrigerator, which luckily escaped Jude’s anger. “Ham okay?”

  “Yes.”

  I make the sandwich and pour a glass of orange juice. I’m about to take it into the living room when Moira appears in the kitchen. She looks over the broken cupboards and ruined oven and sucks in breath through her teeth. “Jude, Jude, Jude.” She sighs. “He must’ve been really angry.” She sees me flinch and holds her hands up. “Don’t worry. I won’t pry. Not my business, I know. But I know Jude and I know he wouldn’t have done something like this unless he cared. Jude doesn’t get angry, not usually. That part of him died a long time ago. I think only giving a shit would make him angry now. He doesn’t even get angry with his work, as far as I know . . .” She shakes her head. “But I don’t talk about that. What I’m saying is, he must care about you, Emily. Care about you a whole lot.”

  “I know.” It’s like I hear the words instead of speak them. The confidence is unlike me. But I do know. Jude and I have reached a place I never thought a woman like me could reach. A close place. An intimate place. A place where we can tear open our chests and reveal the soft places inside. A place where we fuck like animals and love every minute of it.

  Moira takes a step back. “Well, excuse me.” She grins. “I didn’t know you were so in love.”

  I hand her the plate and the glass and we return to the living room. The TV’s still on, but the documentary has changed. Now the camera follows a pack of wolves as they run across an icy wasteland, hunting, mating. I get so absorbed in it I don’t realize that, when it ends, an hour and a half has passed. Moira stirs next to me, yawning and stretching.

  “You can take a nap if you like,” I offer.

  “No, not yet.”

  “Not yet?”

  She gestures at the textbooks. “My mission today is to get those books in your hands. And I will not sleep until my mission is complete!” She waves her hand dramatically. Suddenly, she’s not a sleepy nurse on a couch; she’s a vibrant actress on the stage. She yawns again, deflating.

  “You need sleep,” I press gently. “How long was your shift?”

  “Ten hours.”

  “Ten hours, and here you are still awake. Do you want to take a nap in the bed?”

  “Yes, of course I do.” She looks at me flatly. “But not until you have picked up those books. And not just picked them up, missy, but really lost yourself in them. Put your all in. Really try.”

  “Has anybody ever told you, Moira, that you’re an extremely annoying person?” I wink at her, shocked at my own playfulness.

  “Too many people.” She nods meaningfully at the books. “Now, are you going to take a look—or not?”

  I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling, can’t help but smile. I pick up the first book, which is titled, A General Introduction to Nursing. I sort through them. All but one is a textbook; the final one is a guide on how to apply to nursing courses.

  “I’ll take a look,” I say, but already my curiosity is piqued. Learning. Expanding my mind. Actually getting a chance to apply myself.

  “Good.” Moira heaves herself up, walks across the room, and stands at the bedroom door. “I’m going to question you after my nap, so study hard.”

  I bury my face in the book, reading the introduction. By page two, I’ve already learnt two new things. It feels good.

  “Thanks, Moira,” I mutter, but she’s already snoring.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jude

  The van stops outside a tall apartment building in a rundown neighborhood. I peek out of the window and see a gang of kids at the far end of the street, one man handing out little baggies of weed. The leader, a tall black man with cornrows and a tear-drop tattoo beneath his eye, is packing. I can see the outline of his pistol beneath his trousers. The rest are just kids, can’t be older than fifteen.

  Of course we’d find that prick Barry in a place like this, I think.

  Tool holds a shut-up finger and takes out his cellphone. The van goes quiet as Tool speaks. “Hey, baby doll,” he says, grinning like a madman. I can see the other guys are as nervous as I must’ve been a long, long time ago. The
kid with freckles and the mop-hair swallows, his Adam’s apple a solid ball of shifting anxiety. “Is he up there now? Ah, you’re pretending I’m one of your girlfriends. Very clever. There’s a bonus in it for you; your acting is so damn good.”

  He grins at the rest of us and then hangs up.

  “Right, he’s up there. Let’s go.”

  We pile out of the van like men ready to do murder, ’cause that’s exactly what we are.