But I couldn’t.
No matter how much I wanted to.
The risk was just too high. What had happened to Helen a clear warning.
Willing him to get out of my head—and failing, I chose a spot by a large pillar, standing alongside other people waiting for their loved ones. A few passengers appeared through the arrivals gate, dragging their luggage behind them or wheeling it on a trolley. A high-pitched squeal rented the air, a wife or girlfriend spotting her other half. The woman rushed at the man, who let go of his trolley and took her into his arms, both of them looking so happy. I watched them with envy, wishing I held that same thrum of excitement at seeing Markus again. A sadness fell over me. When had I lost my desire for him? He was a good man. A loving man. Attractive. Fit. Everything I should want. And be happy with.
But I wasn’t. Not anymore.
Somewhere during our time apart, a shift in our relationship had occurred, my feelings for him changing, weakening, diluting... Had I fallen out of love with him? Or had I even been in love with him in the first place? Maybe I was just overthinking things. I could be overwhelmed with what had happened with Dante, the boy clouding my mind as well as affecting my judgement. Everything was an unhealthy mass of confusion, a jumbled minefield of feelings constantly battling with one another, my own private war.
A shock of blond hair caught my attention. My husband walked through the arrivals gate, dragging his suitcase behind him. Markus had the physique of a champion swimmer, with wide shoulders and a slim waist that would make Ian Thorpe weep with jealousy. But despite all of that, he looked unwell. Although his face was still handsome, the dark rings under his eyes were prominent, while his expression was drawn. He was obviously still suffering from the death of his father, his upset gaze searching through the crowd for me. When it landed on me, he didn’t even pretend to smile. All he did was roll his luggage over, leaning in for a hug and a kiss, giving me the impression he would much rather be pushing me away than touching me.
“Are you all right?” I asked, concern tempering my tone.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, unconvincingly. His eyes went to the necklace Lindy had given me. “Where’d you get this from?” he asked, lifting the pendant up. “It looks expensive.”
“I found it on my desk with a secret admirer’s note,” I replied, having forgotten I was wearing it. “I think it’s fake.”
“I get a lot of those,” he said, turning to leave, his abruptness throwing me.
I quickly scurried after him, heading through sliding doors, exiting the terminal. “You get necklaces?” I joked, trying to cheer him up.
“Mostly notes and presents,” he mumbled, walking across the pedestrian crossing without checking for cars. “I even got a box of condoms once. It had a letter attached to it, asking me to meet the student at her home. Apparently, her parents were away for the weekend.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You never mentioned this before.” I stopped by the pay machine and slid the ticket in, dropping my spare change into the slot. I removed the ticket and directed Markus to his car, waiting for a reply that didn’t come. Not wanting to press him for it, I unlocked the door of his Ford, which I’d taken instead of my Volkswagen since his car had more room for luggage. He slipped his bag into the boot, then got into the front passenger seat, clicking his seatbelt on.
“I didn’t want to burden you with my troubles,” he finally said, almost making me jump from his out of the blue reply. He started rubbing his right eye roughly. “You were ’aving a hard time at school when it happened.”
I pulled his hand down. “What did you do in regards to the girl?”
He jerked his hand free. I stiffened, surprised by his strong response. An uneasy feeling prickled at my senses, but I forced it down, because he couldn’t possibly know about Dante, especially since he’d been away for so long. Yes. His reaction wasn’t about me. He was tired and grieving, something I could relate to, the death of my mother having affected me badly, not to mention turning me into someone I barely recognised. I’d lived a coddled, almost pampered life up until my mother had gotten sick just over five years ago, her illness and passing changing me considerably.
“I went straight to the principal,” he answered, rubbing his eye again. “There was no way I was going to confront the girl on me own. The principal took care of it, saying I did the right fing,” he said, his pronunciation of thing showing just how tired he was. He usually tried to pronounce words clearer around me, but when he was tired or upset his Cockney accent rose a notch or two.
He continued, “I can brush off giggles and stares, but not somefing like that. The girl was only fifteen years old, for Christ’s sake.”
Like Dante.
His expression clouded over. “This kid’s an A-grade brat, finks she can get anything she wants. She’s also an accomplished liar and extremely vindictive. She absolutely humiliated one poor boy after he rejected her. I could see her doing worse to me, so I nipped it in the bud before I blinked and found meself in jail.”
Jail.
Needing a distraction, I started the engine and backed out of the parking space, heading for the exit. The sky was overcast, looking like there was rain on the horizon, the weather as oppressive as Markus’s mood. “Do you get girls coming on to you a lot?” I asked, stopping by the ticket machine, wondering why I knew none of this.
He leaned an elbow against the windowsill and rested his head in his hand. “Enough for it to be a bloody nuisance. I wish they’d quit it. For one fing, I’m married, and secondly, I’m not a bloody paedophile.”
Like me.
I slipped the ticket into the exit machine, waiting for the barrier arm to rise. Markus continued talking, mentioning he wanted to work at an all boys’ school, his looks now a hindrance in regards to the girls at Highland College. I nodded to his words as I drove out of the car park, wondering what his reaction would be if he knew what I’d done with Dante.
8
Dante
“It’s that one,” I said, pointing at Mrs. Hatton’s small cream-coloured house.
Jasper pulled the Holden over to the kerb, the V6 engine practically purring. “I’ll wait for you,” he said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.
“Nah, Teach will drop me home,” I replied, smiling at him. I didn’t feel so bad now. Actually, I felt fucking great. I wasn’t in prison. I wasn’t under Ngaire. And Jasper was for once doing something I wanted, which was dropping me off at Mrs. Hatton’s ... no ... Clara’s house. That was what she’d told me to call her in private. It was also what I wanted to call her, because it meant she was on the same level as me. Not better. Not my teacher. Just my hot as fuck bi-atch.
I burst out laughing at my last thought.
“Fuck, man, you’re totally off your face,” Jasper said. “I’m telling ya, I don’t think Teach will be happy seein’ your drunk arse. You should lemme take ya home.”
My smile disappeared, my laughter drying up in an instant, his words true. “She doesn’t wanna see me at all. She told me we can’t be together, that we can’t fuck again.” Or did she? Because she had wanted to fuck at Phelia’s house. But was that really her? Or was it my mind playing tricks on me?
Jasper’s eyes widened, then his face lit up as though he’d seen the light, with a chorus of angels singing Hallelujah. “I knew you fucked her! When, where? How wuz it? Wuz she tight? Don’t skimp on the details. I wanna know everything.”
I frowned at him. “Know what?”
“You just said you fucked Mrs. H.”
I shook my head. “No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you bloody did. Where’d you do her? Here?” He indicated to her house.
“Nah, at school, on her office desk.”
Jasper hit the steering wheel and let out ripper of a whistle. “You’re a legend, mate, a bloody legend! You’re the only dude I know who’s fucked a teacher.”
He pulled out his wallet and removed a fifty, thrusting it at me. “You won fair and squa
re, man.”
I took the fifty bucks. “Why’re ya givin’ me money?”
“You won the bet, you fucked her.” Jasper clapped a hand on my shoulder. “She’s so prim and proper, yet you still fucked that tight arse of hers.”
“Nah, I didn’t fuck her arse, I did her twat.”
He laughed. “You’re a legend.”
I shrugged. “It’s not hard to fuck a teacher, I could’ve fucked my maths one if I wanted to.”
Jasper’s smile dropped. “Everyone knows that.”
Melancholy washed over me, the memory of Ms. Farris’s face ... of her tears.
All because of me.
Everything that ever went wrong was because of me.
Jasper placed a hand on my back, making me jolt out of my thoughts. “I know you think I shouldn’t have said anything ’bout that big-nosed bitch, but she’s not like Mrs. H. You want what Mrs. H. gives ya, unlike that skank Farris. And if she didn’t eye-fuck you that day, you wouldn’t have called her out on it, and gotten your arse kicked outta class when I wuz offing the McDonalds. She put you at risk.”
No, you put me at risk when you killed Happy Meal.
I wiped a hand down my face, not wanting to think about it. I needed more booze. That would make me forget. I could get some from Mrs. Hatton. She had loads in her wine cabinet.
Jacky D come to me.
Smirn-get me-off my face.
And all those other pretty coloured bottles.
Just
For
Me
Myself
And
I.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Jasper asked.
I turned my head towards him. “What?”
He indicated to me. “You were acting all loopy, wiggling your fingers in front of your face and singing about pretty coloured bottles.”
“No, it wuz all in my head.”
“Whatever, just go fuck your bitch and get back quick. I don’t wanna be waiting all day for you.” He snorted out a laugh. “That’s if you can even get it up, you drunk bastard.”
“Clara always makes me hard.” I held up my right hand. “So does this bitch.”
Jasper snorted out another laugh. “Be careful, you might make your left hand jealous.”
“Nah, my left hand already knows it can’t wank to save itself.”
Jasper sniggered. “I can do it with both.”
“That’s only cos you’ve had loads more practice. If the Olympics had a wanking competition, you’d win hands down.” I laughed. “Hands down. Get it?”
“No! I’m ambidextrous, you cunt!”
“Nah, nah, nah, I’m not just a cunt, I’m a smaaart cunt.” I pushed open the door. “Anyway, I’m outta ’ere. Gotta go make Clara like me again.”
“She already likes you. That woman can’t take her eyes offa you.”
“Then, w-w-why does she keeps pu—” I hiccupped, “pushing me away?”
“Cos she’s old.”
“No she’s not, she’s only twenty-four, and I’ve fucked waaay older than her, like your auntie. She wouldn’t stop li-li-licking me. It wuz sooo gross.”
Jasper froze. “What did you just say?”
“She said she’d tell my dad I wuz selling drugs and fucked some chicks for cash if I didn’t lay still, but I didn’t fuck for money. I’m not a ho.”
Jasper grabbed my shirt and yanked me to him. “Did you just say you fucked my auntie?”
I shook my head. “No,” I slurred, my head feeling fuzzy, not knowing what he was talking about. “I don’t wanna fuck her, she’s gross.”
“But you said she licked you.”
“Who licked me?”
“My auntie.”
I screwed my nose up. “Nooo! I don’t want her licking me! I want Mrs. H. licking me. Sucking me, fucking me.” I started moving my crotch back and forth. “Humping, stooming...”
Jasper let go of me, his expression still upset. “You’re just spewing drunk shit. And my auntie wouldn’t fuck you. She brings men home. Men.”
“Don’t care, don’t like your auntie, won’t fuck her.”
“Will you stop talkin’ ’bout my auntie like that! She’s like a mum to me.”
“Wouldn’t fuck her, not her. And not my fault Phelia likes me and not you.”
“I wuzn’t even talkin’ ’bout that bitch, so shut the fuck up ’bout Phelia.”
“No, it’s not my fault. It’s your fault she doesn’t like you.”
He grimaced at me. “How’s it my fault?”
“If you weren’t such a fat fuck, she might’ve liked you instead of me.”
“Watch your mouth!”
“No. I’m gonna tell it like it is.” I pointed a finger at his stomach. “She won’t ever, ever, eveeer like you. She only goes for fit guys, not tubba-lubba-lards.” I poked his stomach.
“Piss off, you cunt.” He shoved me through the door.
I fell out of the car, grunting as I hit the kerbside. Using the car as leverage, I struggled to my feet, yelling, “Arsehole! Fuck off!”
“No, I’ll wait. Even though you don’t bloody deserve it after what you said.”
I shook my head. “Clara will take me home. So piss off, you sheep shagging bastard.”
Jasper’s eyebrows winged up. “You are so off your face. Teach is gonna be pissed with you. Good. You deserve it.”
“No, I’ll win her over, make her see she likes me, make her hawt.”
“I’ll still wait for you.”
“Whateves.”
I turned and stumbled up the footpath, heading around Mrs. Hatton’s yellow Volkswagen, happy to see her car there. A siren burst sounded down the road, startling me. I spun around, almost falling over in the process. I reached out, grabbing onto the Volkswagen to stop from kissing the pavement. Without warning, Jasper took off, the Holden disappearing down the road. A second later, a police car sped past, looking like it was chasing Jasper. I rubbed my eyes, thinking I must be hallucinating, what I’d seen happening too fast to be real.
“Imagin-ation,” I said, and turned back, knocking on Mrs. Hatton’s front door. “Hallucin-ation.”
No answer came, no approaching footsteps either. I knocked again, this time louder. When no one came, I called out, “Clara! Clara! Let down your hair, Romeo is here, so let down your hair.” I started laughing, not sure whether Romeo knew Rapunzel.
I stumbled over to a window, pushing up onto my toes to look inside, again, almost arsing over in the process. I grabbed onto the brick ledge that jutted out from under the window and pressed my nose against the glass. I couldn’t see anything but wallpaper and a cabinet, which looked blurry, as though I was peering through really thick medicated glasses. No, prescription glasses, because glasses couldn’t be medicated.
I blinked rapidly, clearing my vision, things coming into focus once more. The room was empty, giving the impression no one was home. Hoping Mrs. Hatton was in her bedroom, I started rapping on the window. It morphed into a beat. I hummed along to it, swaying on my toes to the drunken melody.
“Excuse me!” a voice called out, startling me.
I stopped humming and turned around, leaning my back against the house for support. A man stepped over a purplish flower bush. I blinked, the dude looking a lot like Mrs. Hatton, just older and of course, male. I rubbed my eyes, thinking I was hallucinating again.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
I lowered my hands, staring at his face in wonder. “Dante.”
“Dante who?”
I laughed. “Rata the Farter.” My laughter died at the man’s stern expression. I blinked again, thinking he really looked like Mrs. Hatton. “You real?”
The man’s brow creased, making me want to trace the lines on his forehead with my finger. I lifted my hand to do it.
He pushed it away. “Are you drunk?”
I shook my head, fascinated by the resemblance. He even had the same coloured eyes as Mrs. Hatton, all silvery grey like the mo
on. I reached out to touch his face again, sure he couldn’t be real.
He stepped back, avoiding my touch. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“You look like Clara.”
“That’s because I’m her father.”
“Oh.”
“Why are you here?”
“I wanna see Clara. She home?”
“She’s gone to pick up her husband from the airport.”
The mention of her husband went through me. Hit me. Hurt me. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know anything. I turned to leave, wobbling from the sudden movement.
Mrs. Hatton’s dad grabbed my arm, stopping me from falling over. “Can I call someone for you?” he asked.
“No,” I said, wishing that Jasper was still here. A heavy weight fell over me, making me feel alone. Making me question why I was here. Mrs. Hatton wouldn’t want me no matter what I did. She was married to a man with a Colgate smile, someone who could give her a nice house in a nice suburb, unlike me, who could give her jack shit.
Her dad stepped closer, placing his hand on my back. “Come on, you can use my phone.”
I allowed him to direct me to a neighbouring property, almost stumbling over a dip in the footpath. I raised my gaze as I entered a house that looked identical to Mrs. Hatton’s on the outside, but very different on the inside, the interior filled with art and—
I took a step back into her dad, startled by a strange-looking dark-skinned man in the far corner. He was half-naked and holding a spear, as though he was hunting for something to fill his protruding belly.
I pointed at him. “What the fuck is he doin’?”
“It’s not a he, it’s a sculpture from South Africa.”
“Then send it back there. It’s oogly as fuck.”
Noise came from my left, pulling my attention away from the ugly sculpture. My gaze landed on a beautiful woman as she stepped through a doorway. Or was it a man? Because she had no tits whatsoever. She or he was wearing a hot pink T-shirt that ended just above tiny red shorts. My gaze ran down their toned, hairless legs, then lifted back up to their chest, still not sure whether it was a chick without tits or an effeminate guy.
Shattered Poetry (Broken Lives #2) Page 8