Devil You Know

by Max Henry

  “You aren’t hopeless.” He rubs his temple. “Most of the time, places like this are helpful because they’re an outsider’s point of view. They’re trained to help you see things from a new perspective.”

  “I guess.”

  His hand slips over mine. “You’ll be okay.”

  I look down at his smartphone, and swipe through some of the options. “I had no idea they could do so much these days. I mean, I saw the ads on TV, but wow, they’re kind of fun to play with.”

  “Have you figured your one out yet?”

  I shrug. “I think so.”

  The phone vibrates under my hand, and the word ‘Dad’ flashes across the screen. Malice snatches it back, and swipes to silence it.

  “Aren’t you going to talk to him?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Nothing to talk about.” He mentally leaves the room for a minute. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not really.” My gut still churns with acid. I’ve had a couple of dry pieces of toast, but the thought of anything else going in there makes me ill. “If you have anything else you want to do, I’m cool with that. You don’t need to hang about and watch me feel sorry for myself all day.”

  “No. I don’t have anything else on.” He smiles. “What would you like to do?”

  I stare out at the warm day. “I’d kind of like to do nothing. But I’m also sick of being in the house all the time.”

  “I have an idea.” Malice stands, and holds his finger up. “Wait there.”

  I don’t know where he thought I’d be going. It’s not as though my current state calls for an afternoon run. I watch Rocco sniff around the edges of the garden while I wait. This house is so peaceful—I’m not entirely sure I ever want to leave it.

  Malice returns with a blanket and two pillows. “Come.” He nods toward the garden.

  I follow him out the French doors, and across the lawn to a large oak tree that sits halfway along the back garden. He spreads the blanket out, places the pillows at the top, and gestures for me to lie down.

  Somewhat awkwardly, I relax onto the blanket. He positions himself next to me—both of us on our backs, staring at the sky. A furry nose blocks my vision, and I swat away Rocco’s lick attack.

  “Stop, Rocco! Lie down.” I pat the blanket beside me and he does as he’s told, leaning his big head on my hip.

  “What do you see?”

  “Huh?” I roll my head to the side, and watch Malice stare up at the sky.

  “In the clouds. What do you see?”

  I look at the fluffy white shapes, and try to imagine what they could represent. “I don’t know.”

  “Can you see the rabbit?”

  I squint, and try a little harder. “I think so. Does it have its ears back?”

  “Yep.”

  We lie like that for the next few hours, pointing out shapes in the clouds, and birds that dart through the branches of the oak. I’m entirely relaxed. Not once have I worried that he’s getting frustrated with me, annoyed with wasting his time doing something so mundane.

  The afternoon passes in sheer bliss.

  In doing nothing, he’s done everything for me.

  I love him for it.

  JANE FIDGETS beside me, restlessly flicking through magazine, after magazine. She’s on edge, and despite our lengthy conversation on the way here, she’s still unsure if this is the right thing to do.

  “I’ll be here the whole time,” I reassure.

  She looks over, flicks me a brief smile, and goes back to rifling through the pages for nothing in particular at all.

  “Jane Darrow?” a short, round woman calls her name from the doorway.

  We’re in the waiting area of the counselor’s offices. Four days ago I showed her the listing for this place, and she appeared eager to try anything that would help her out. This morning, the reality of it has sunken in, and she’s retreating into her shell.

  “Relax,” I say, catching her elbow as she stands. “You’re not the first.”

  She nods, and then takes me by surprise. Her lips leave a patch of tingly skin where they connect with my cheek.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, and disappears.

  A few minutes pass before I can collect up the strewn remnants of my self-control, and put the public charade back in place. I was completely not expecting that. We asked on arrival if I could sit in, provide her support, but apparently due to the privacy laws, non-members of family aren’t welcome.

  I glance around the waiting room at the sterile décor, broken up with a pot-plant here and there. Kids toys lay strewn in one corner, and a wastebasket overflows with Styrofoam cups beside the coffee machine, which looks as though it’s seen better days.

  The appointment is for an hour, so I take the opportunity alone to walk outside and place a call. The sun hides behind ominous clouds, and a cool breeze whips around my face as I look for a place to stand out of the noise of the sidewalk.

  A café across the road appears relatively quiet, and I make my way over, order a coffee, and take a seat. I scroll through the missed calls, hit dial, and bring the phone to my ear.

  “Hey, bro. Thought you were avoiding me.”

  “Nah,” I tell Ty. “Had a lot on my plate.”

  “Right. Well, I’ve got a job for you.”

  “Today?” I’d hoped to have a break, spend the time with Jane.

  “Man, you know this shit doesn’t rest.”

  “True that. So, what is it?”

  “Run of the mill; tweaker owing debts he’ll never have enough to pay. I’ll message you the details.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How’s Jane?” Ty asks the question that’s probably on all of the guys’ minds after the other night.

  “Making progress. She’s at a counselor right now. Thought it might help if she talked it through with someone.”

  “Dude,” Ty admonishes.

  “What?”

  “You have all the advice, but you never follow it. When are you going to talk it through with someone?”

  “What have I got to say?” I frown, annoyed that he has to pester me again about the same old shit.

  “I think you’d be surprised if you gave yourself the chance to let that fucking stew in your head out for a change.”

  “Look who’s talking?”

  “Hey,” Ty retorts. “I’ve got a therapist. I’m not the one who can’t admit he has a problem—I’m the one who can’t fix it, is all. You, bro—you have the chance to.”

  I know what he’s referring to: my dad. Ty knows he’s the reason why I left home, and took my chances on the street. Ty knows how my mother died. I’ve just never shared exactly what it was about my dad that pushed me to the point of giving up on him—on us.

  “He’s been trying to call me, you know.”

  “Then fucking talk to him, you douche. He’s obviously got something to tell you.”

  “Can’t be any good.”

  “Won’t know until you hear it.”

  I sigh. “Fuck you. Why do you always have to be right?”

  “Can’t sort my own shit out, so I’ve gotta be good at working yours out for you. Right?”

  “Whatever. I better get back. Catch ya later.”

  I finish my coffee in contemplative silence, and then make my way back across the street. Jane’s still in her appointment when I arrive in the waiting room, so I take a seat against the far wall, and wait her out.

  I should call my dad back. What if he’s trying to get hold of me for some family emergency? Although, I can’t see that happening. When I left home, his brothers were the only family other than him I had left. None of my grandparents are alive. I don’t have any siblings. What could he be so desperate to get in touch about?

  Jane emerges twenty minutes later: red-eyed, and smiling. Odd combination, but it works. The counselor shakes her hand, and gestures to the reception desk. I stand, and walk up behind her as she makes an appointment for next week. Her hand seeks mine, and I wind my finger
s between hers while she sorts out a suitable time.

  “How did it go?” I ask as we head for the car.

  “Good. I think it’ll be useful.” She smiles, and wipes her eyes. “I didn’t last long before she made me cry.” She leans against my arm as we walk. “Thank you for turning up that night.”

  My chest tightens, and I struggle to catch the words skipping over my tongue. “It wasn’t near soon enough.”

  “Still, thank you.”

  If only she knew how many times I’ve questioned whether I did the right thing that night. I don’t regret saving Rocco from certain death one iota, but fuck, was it worth it getting involved with her? My selfish, asshole side says yeah, it was. But I know I’m not what she needs. She may think I’m helping, but that’s only because she doesn’t know all of me yet. When she does, it’ll kill me to lose the way she looks at me now. I should have just taken her to a shelter, and left it at that.

  What’s going to happen when she find out who I am?

  What will she do when she see’s what kind of savage fucker I can be?

  When she realizes that I haven’t been doing all of this solely for her.

  MALICE COOKS us dinner that night. I can’t thank him enough for steering me toward the counselor. She didn’t say much I didn’t already know deep down, but hearing somebody else say it, in her own way, was an eye opener.

  Given time, I hope that I can do what Malice said the other day: accept I’m a victim, and move on.

  “Have you had enough?” Malice asks. He stands, and reaches for the dish of leftover roast meat in the center of the table.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  He carries it to the kitchen, all the while talking as he goes. “I wanted to talk to you about something, see if you were okay with it.”

  “Um, sure?” My nerves peak. Is this a good, or bad thing?

  “The boys and I meet up once a fortnight, and this week it’s my turn to host. Are you cool with them coming over?”

  “It’s your place, Malice.” Yes, we both live here, but he still pays the rent. He still refuses my help.

  “For the last time, it’s our place, Jane.” He smashes cutlery around, loading the dishwasher. “Are you okay with it?”

  My shoulders drop, and I hang my head. “Yeah, I’m fine with it.”

  “Once more with meaning.” He pretends to conduct me with a dirty knife.

  I smile. “Yes, I’m okay with it.”

  He nods, and continues loading the dishes.

  “I like Bronx, and Tigger. It’ll be nice to meet the other three.”

  His head shoots up, and his eyes bore into mine. “Three? Who said there’s three?”

  “The photo in the hallway.”

  He drops his gaze to the floor, and relaxes. “True. I forgot about that.”

  “Is there not?”

  He shakes his head. A dread fills my gut at where this is going. “There’s only four of us now.”

  “Now?”

  “Case and Seamus were taken out in a car accident a few years back.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah,” he says stacking dishes with a lot less vigor. “They were good guys. Anyway, it’s me, Bronx, Tigger, and Ty now.”

  “I’d still like to meet Ty,” I offer.

  He nods. “You’ll like him.”

  “So, what do you do on your nights together? I mean, should I go somewhere, give you space?”

  He shakes his head side to side, and puts the powder in the compartment. “No, you’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t mind. I could go see a movie, or something.” Truthfully, the thought of going out alone scares me shitless—still. But I don’t want to crash a boy’s night in.

  “One thing at a time, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  Rocco edges up beside me, and I run my fingers through his silky fur. Malice finishes tidying up, and we move ourselves to the lounge. He sits on the sofa, while I lie on the floor with Rocco. Without a TV, our nights have been spent talking, and it’s nice. We get along fine, even if we have kissed, and the sexual tension still tugs at us like a couple of charged magnets.

  “Did you have any luck with those jobs you applied for?”

  I nod. “A couple have asked for me to come in.”

  “Interview?”

  “I think it’s more to see if I can do the shifts they need.” Rocco emits a whistle out his nose, letting me know he’s enjoying the scratch I’m giving behind his ear.

  “How you planning on getting there?”

  Isn’t that the million-dollar question? “I’m not sure yet.”

  “The bus doesn’t come this far, Jane.” The bastard smirks.

  “I know that, Malice.”

  “I can drop you off until you save enough for a car, or until you find a place closer to town.” His blank stare gives nothing away.

  “What if the shifts don’t match yours?”

  “I’m flexible.”

  “How many times is your boss going to do you favors before he says enough is enough?” I ask. “I’ll find another way—it’s okay.”

  “Honestly, Jane. It’s not a problem.”

  “What shop do you work at?” I run an inventory of the butchers I know in town, and fall short on any that would offer flexibility like that.

  “I don’t work from a shop, as such.” His eyes avert my gaze.

  What’s he hiding?

  “How can that be?” I ask, gaze narrowed on him.

  “The people I work for specialize in home-kill. I go to their place, instead of them having to arrange transport to the works for the kill.”

  “Oh.” Guess that makes sense after all.

  His phone ringing breaks the silence. He doesn’t move.

  “Your dad again?” I ask. It would be the third time this week his father’s called, and he hasn’t answered.

  “Probably.”

  “Why won’t you answer?”

  “What business is it of yours?” he snaps.

  I sit, and draw my knees up. Rocco lifts his head, and watches Malice.

  “I’m sorry, Jane. I need to get a handle on this.” He stands, and walks over to where his phone sits.

  I watch as he punches the screen, and heads outside into the inky darkness that shrouds the back yard.

  Rocco looks up at me, and whimpers. “I’m not sure, buddy,” I say. “I can feel it, too.”

  The tension around Malice when I bring up his father is palpable. Something serious went down between the two of them—serious enough that I’m guessing they haven’t talked for a while.

  Sounds familiar.

  Malice returns a short while later, a storm in his expression.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Fucked. It’s all fucked.” He flops on the sofa, and throws his hands over his head. “Seventeen fucking years without a singular word. He gave up, and he left me—long before I ever did. And now? Now he wants to talk? I mean, what the fuck?” He screws his eyes tight, and grits his teeth. “Tell me to shut up if you want to. I know it’s not your problem. Fuck, it’s probably light years from on your radar.” He laughs.

  “It’s fine,” I reassure him. “I want to help.” He doesn’t move when I take a seat next to him on the sofa. “Truth be told, it keeps my mind off my own shit for a while.”

  Malice drops his hands, and rolls his head to face me. “You sure?”

  “Yeah.” I shrug. “You’ve listened to me bleed on long enough. Why not take the floor from me for a while, huh?”

  He rolls his head away, and closes his eyes. Silence falls between us, and I look him over. His nose is crooked from this angle, and that scar under his jaw intrigues me. It’s only human to wonder what happened to him.

  “I left home when I was thirteen.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.” He chuckles. “It was kind of ‘wow’ to start with.” His eyes open, and he fixes his gaze to the far wall. “You think as a kid, you know everything
. I mean, I was adamant there couldn’t be anything worse than living with him. But fuck me, I was wrong. When you’re young, people can smell you coming. Every hawker is your best friend, and every fucker wants their pound of flesh.”

  His gaze slides around the room, but his interest isn’t there. This man who has shown me nothing but strength and resilience, given me support, now looks lost. I’ve finally found his weakness, but the victory is hollow. Knowing what I do now, I’m not so sure I am entitled to every detail about him. Sometimes it’s easier to battle on keeping the memories most painful to you inside. Not necessarily hidden, just shelved. Put somewhere safe for you, and only you.

  “Where did you go when you left?” I ask. “Did you have other family?”

  He shakes his head. “I hung out with school buddies for a while: slept on their sofas, in their garages. When their parents got sick of me hanging around, I went my own way. I lived on the street for quite a while.”

  “And that was better than living with your father?”

  Malice swivels in his seat, hangs his legs over the side, and places his head in my lap. My fingers find their way to his hair, and I gently stroke it while he talks.

  “He tried to kill himself when I was eleven. It freaked the fuck outta me. He strung a rope up, and hung himself. I was too weak to lift him up, so I dragged the outdoor table across the back porch to where he was, and cut him down with the hunting knife he gave me the Christmas before. He was lucky to survive. But you know what fucked me up worse? He never apologized. He never said sorry for doing that to a kid, for showing me something so fucking horrific. For quitting on me.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know how,” I offer.

  “Nah. He chose not to. Denial was his weapon of choice. He denied everything. Denied the fact nobody could have predicted what would happen to Mom. Denied the fact he should move on. Denied the fact he had me to care for. The guy only thought about himself, and how fucking sorry he felt for the situation we were in.”

  I don’t know what to say. To me, it sounds as though his dad had issues of his own, but without knowing the full story there’s no reasonable way I can cast assumptions.

  “How did you survive?”

  “Barely.” He chuckles, yet the sound is hollow. “I became the hawker. I scavenged, and I begged.”