by Paula Cox
“I can’t do this,” she pants, as the midwife tries to coax the baby out. Livia turns to me, face looking as though all her energy has drained from it, white in places, red in others. “I can’t…Aedan. This is too hard.”
“You can do it, baby,” I say. I lean into her, whisper in her ear so the midwife can’t hear. “Remember all the shit you’ve been through, princess. Remember the bar; remember how you tricked Carlos. Do you remember Ireland, when you heard about Hare’s Gap? The hardest walk in all of Ireland, the man said, and what did you do? You marched me to the shop, bought some hiking gear, and conquered that damn walk.” I remember the day well ’cause all I wanted to do was relax and fuck, but Livia said that if I had the gall to trick her into coming to Ireland, I’d have to go with her. “By the end of it, I was more tired than you, remember?”
“Aedan, thank you,” she says, “but walking is a little different from pushing a vending machine out of your vagina. Men!”
I chuckle, can’t help but chuckle. Almost a year of marriage—the baby was almost certainly conceived in Ireland…or maybe it was on the plane, actually—and Livia still has it in her to make me feel like that foolish jackass who mistook her for a secretary once upon a time.
“This. Is not. Funny!”
She slaps me across the arm.
“Come on,” the midwife says. “You can do this. It only needs a little push.”
“A little push…”
Livia turns glaring eyes to the midwife.
Thank god she hasn’t got that pen on her. I reckon she’d stab the midwife, no question, a stone-faced sturdy woman who operates down there like this is business as usual.
“Come on, princess,” I say, wiping sweat from her forehead over and over. Her beautiful thick hair is plastered to her skin with sticky sweat and her dimples, which I know she hates but I find so, so cute, are deeper than ever, as though pitted in frustration. I give her hand another squeeze. “You’re stronger than this.”
“Don’t tell me how strong I am. Don’t tell me how easy this is. Don’t tell me anything. Just be quiet, you Irish beast, and let me break your hand.”
I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
After a few moments of blowing air, Livia makes another push. The veins on her neck bulge so much I’m sure she’s going to explode, like lava coursing beneath her skin. The only other time I’ve seen her veins bulge like that, I reflect, is when the pregnancy made her super-horny and we did it in a club, in the toilets, and she came so hard she looked as she does now, on the cusp of explosions. She pushes even harder and screams so loud I’m shocked when the ceiling doesn’t come crashing down.
“Raghhhhhhhhhhhh!”
But then, after the screaming and the pain and the sense that this is never, in a million years, going to end, the midwife pulls a mewling pink bundle from between Livia’s legs and carries it off to the side, where the cleaning station is. Livia gets on with the rest of the business—stuff which confuses me, truth be told, afterbirth and all that, stuff which I didn’t even know about before Livia got pregnant—and then, finally, she slumps on the bed.
“You did well,” I say. “I’m proud.”
The baby screams louder than its mother.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” Livia asks.
She didn’t want to know beforehand, and I saw no reason to argue with her. The way I see it, as long as the kid is healthy and happy, that’s all that matters.
I’ll be a better dad than Patty, I think. I have to be. I have to do for that kid what Patty never did for me. I have to give him love. Dammit, I’m going to give that kid so much love he’s going to hate me by the time he’s a teenager. Fine, let him hate me. Just let him never think I don’t love him, is all. Let him be one-hundred percent on that. Or her…let her…
But then the nurse says, “It’s a boy,” and carries the tiny pink thing over.
Livia takes the boy in her arms and smiles down at him with such love that you wouldn’t guess she was roaring like an ogre just a few minutes ago. She looks spent and can hardly keep her eyes open, but she spends a good ten minutes stroking his face, playing with his hands. I watch this eagerly, finally feeling, for the first time in my life, that I have a family, a real family, a family of my own. Then Livia offers me the child, and suddenly I’m afraid.
“I…”
She tilts her head at me. “What’s wrong?”
“I just…what if I drop him?” But it goes deeper than that, deeper than I can put into words.
Luckily, I don’t have to; Livia knows me as well as I know myself by now, probably better.
“You are not Patty,” she says. “You are your own man and you’ll do one-hundred times better than he did. I promise you. I won’t let you get out of line.”
I take my child, hands shaking, heart pounding in my ears, more nervous and scared than I’ve ever been on a hit. I hold him close, feeling the warmth of him, and then something changes inside of me. It’s like something is added; the hole which I’ve spent decades trying to fill with Patty’s love is finally filled. I smile, and then I laugh, laugh like I’ve never laughed before, and the baby makes a bubbling, coughing noise which sounds like my laughter.
“Luca,” I say, looking into Livia’s eyes. “I think we should call him Luca.”
Livia nods, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Luca,” she repeats, and then bursts into the tears of a woman who has just given life, happy that the baby’s alive and well, and yet sad that she’s no longer pregnant all at once.
The midwife takes Luca away to be monitored and I stroke Livia’s hair, twining it around my fingers, until she falls into an exhausted sleep.
I’m the luckiest goddamn man alive, I think.
Livia
I’m the luckiest woman alive, I think, as I watch Aedan dance around the room with Luca.
The room itself is a testament to Aedan’s love for our child. He painted the walls, built the crib, bought the toys, built and painted the box the toys go in, applied the wallpaper, built the shelves. Luca grins his gummy grin as Aedan dances here and there. Looking at them both, I feel a swelling of love in my chest, not just lust, but real, true love, the sort of love a happily married woman feels, the sort of love a happily married mother feels. I feel it all the time, and yet it still takes me by the surprise. It’s like I’m watching myself, thinking, Who is that lucky bitch? Who is that woman? And then I realize it’s me, and I’m happier than I ever dreamed I’d be all over again.
“Are you getting jealous, princess?” Aedan says, as he lays Luca down in the crib. He does this with care, bundling the blanket and propping it behind him so he doesn’t hurt himself. Watching him work, it’s difficult to believe those hands capable of murder. But they are, I think, a thrill moving through me. He’s still the man I married, after all.
“No,” I say, giving him a pout. “I’d never get jealous over you, you Irish—”
He darts across the room, grabs me, and kisses me firmly on the lips.
“Get away from me!” I giggle.
He moves behind me, wraps his arms around my belly, and lays his chin on my head. The sky is blue and the sun is bright, a shaft darting through the curtains and making the room glow yellow. The house—paid for with Aedan’s savings, a detached four-bedroom out of town—is unusually quiet.
“I love you,” Aedan says. “I’m so glad you once almost stabbed me with a pen.”
I laugh, and then turn in his embrace. He looks down at me with those hard eyes. Still hard, still dark, but now with a glint of sunshine in them.
“I’m glad I almost killed you once, too,” I say.
Then we kiss and passion erupts between us, passion which makes me wonder if Luca will have a sibling before long.
THE END
Read on for your BONUS book – Dirty Whispers
DIRTY WHISPERS
Chapter One
Jude
If there’s one thing guaranteed to get your blood pumping in this life, it’s a co
cktail of whisky and bare-knuckle boxing.
I feel the whisky in my bloodstream, making me reckless, making me not give a damn. I savor the sensation, feeling invincible. All around me, the crowd is cheering. The crowd filled with hungry-eyed bastards from a hungry life, eager to get their fill of bloodshed for the night, before slinking off to the strip clubs and bars and squatter’s houses where they can lose themselves all over again in drink or drugs. One man doesn’t wait so long. As I leap back in the circle, I see him between my raised arms, pushing a mound of powder around on the back of his hand and then, in one quick snort, vacuuming it all up.
I focus on my opponent. He’s a big man, at least twice my size, but that doesn’t bother me much. I learnt a long time ago that big men fall just as easy as little ones when you catch them right. Just got to find the right angle, the right amount of power. Just go to reach deep into that killer’s place and show them what’s what. A tall, wide vending machine of a man, ugly as all hell with a ten-time broken nose, all mangled and twisted.
We stand at opposite ends of the circle. The crowd screams:
“Get him!”
“End him!”
“Knock him out cold!”
“Do him!”
“Take him!”
“Fuck him up!”
Anybody’s guess as to who they’re cheering for, and against. Doubt even they know themselves. They just want blood.
The man squints at me. He’s not calm. I can tell that right away. A calm man’s lips wouldn’t tremble. A calm man’s hands wouldn’t shake. A calm man’s chest wouldn’t rise and fall so dramatically. No, this man’s feeling the pressure. And that’s a damn good thing, because I never feel pressure. Easygoing, even when it comes to blood. Easygoing and carefree. Life’s more fun that way.
“Come on, you prick,” the man grumbles, lumbering toward me. “Come on. Come and get it.”
“You that eager to spend the night in the hospital, eh?”
My tone pisses him off. He flinches, as though my words hit just as hard as my punches.
“Cocky bastard,” he hisses.
“Yep.” I grin at him sideways. “This is one cocky bastard who’s about to show you what it means to be put on your back.”
The man growls through gritted teeth, spraying spit everywhere.
He charges.
He comes at me like a bull at full tilt, no patience, no practice, no strategy apart from the desire to cave my skull in. I watch, his charging form made hazy by the whisky surging through my body, and then, at the last moment, I weave aside. He charges straight into the crowd, is thrown back in by pushing hands, and launches himself at me. I’ve been in so many fights, sometimes it’s like time slows down. But sometimes, even time slowing down doesn’t do a bit of good. Too much whisky . . .
The man’s giant fist catches me cleanly under the chin, knocking my head at such a severe angle that the back of my skull touches my shoulder blades. The rest of my body follows, flipping over. I land in a heap, grunt, and try to rise. Dizzy, dammit. I stumble again. I look up with hazy eyes and see the vending-machine fucker at the other end of the circle, arms raised, lapping up the cheering like a cat at an all-you-can-drink milk buffet.
My gaze snaps around when she emerges from the crowd. What the . . . Maybe it’s the whisky or the blow to the head, but she looks like an angel. I’m not one for that sentimental shit, not since my first love turned into a junkie, was shipped away by her family, not since Mom and Dad drowned to death because I was too damn weak. No, that sentimental stuff isn’t for me. But this girl . . . Is she really an angel? My drunk mind wonders.
She walks timidly into the circle and kneels beside me. She’s young, probably a few years younger than me, nineteen or twenty, and breakable-looking. Looks like she’d shatter if she tripped. Her hair is long and flowing, red like fire, and her eyes are enormous saucers of green, the sort of eyes that seem to invite a man in. She wears a modest shirt and pants, not one inch of skin showing, and around her neck is a small, gold cross.
She takes me by the arm and before I register what’s happened, this angel has helped me to my feet.
Maybe I’m not thinking too clearly, but with this good luck charm right in front of me, I can’t resist.
I lean in and steal a kiss, full on the mouth. She’s caught unawares and for a few moments, she kisses me back. I feel it, I hear her soft moaning even over the gasping of the crowd. Then something in her triggers and she takes a step back, forehead creased, eyes burning in confusion and outrage. She shoves me hard in the chest.
I stumble back, away from the angel, and spin as I fall. The momentum of her shove sends me right across the circle into the vending-machine fucker. Never one to waste a golden opportunity, I aim my fist as I fly. He yelps, but it’s too late. My fist pounds into the side of his head. A sound like cracking wood fills the arena for a moment. Then the crowd erupts into cheers. The man falls boneless to the floor.
I go to the other end of the circle, arms above my head.
Then I watch in disbelief as the angel who helped me to my feet walks across the circle and kneels next to my opponent, making as if to help him to his feet.
Who is this woman? I think, intrigued despite myself.
Chapter Two
Emily
A quiet life, I think, as I kneel next to Patrick. That’s all I ever wanted. A quiet, peaceful life.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Sometimes at night when I close my eyes I imagine that Patrick is not my brother, my tormentor, my abuser. I imagine I find the strength to leave him. Find the strength from God, maybe; or maybe not. Anywhere I can find it. I become stronger than I ever dreamed and I tell him: No more. I won’t live with you. I won’t let you hit me. I won’t be a part of this madness.
But here I am, kneeling beside him in an abandoned warehouse.
That man . . .
He kissed me. Just kissed me. I don’t know why I helped him to his feet. He just looked hurt and sometimes, I can’t bear to see things hurt. But I didn’t expect him to kiss me, that’s for sure. But it felt good, didn’t it? You kissed him back before you remembered everyone could see, you don’t know this man, it’s not who you are. I tell myself I didn’t, but I’m lying.
I steal a glance at him now. Around mid-twenties, with an easy, carefree smile despite the surroundings. Dark red hair, cut short, with a shadow of red stubble. No freckles. His hands are covered in tattoos, making him look dangerous, the sort of man you cross the street to avoid. And yet I helped him.
He walks through the crowd to the organizer, a large man in a suit sitting on an umpire-style chair overseeing the fights. The organizer hands him down an envelope and the man nods. He weaves through the crowd, to the makeshift bar in the corner, hands the barman a note and takes a bottle of whisky. He swigs it and then drops onto a barstool.
“Patrick,” I whisper, prodding him as gently as I can in the arm. “Patrick, it’s time for us to go. I think they want to set up for the next fight.”
Part of me wonders what it would be like if Patrick never got up. Maybe that’s a nasty thought to have about your brother, but Patrick is a nasty man. Even now, as I kneel down, pain throbs from my ribs where his giant fist beat me last night. And for what? What did I do that was so dreadful, so unacceptable, so evil that I deserved to be punched? I forgot to rinse off the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Patrick’s the only family I’ve ever known and I tell myself I love him, but I’m not so sure of it.
Slowly, his eyes blink and he rolls onto his side. Propping himself up on his elbow, he squints at me. “What the . . .” He shakes his head, groans. “What the hell happened, Emily?”
“You lost,” I whisper. “The other man hit you and you went down.”
As if that needs explanation.
“Oh.” He grunts as he tries to stand, wobbles, falls back down. “Are you going to help me or not, for fuck’s sake?” he snaps.
Biting down my pride—so
metimes it seems all I do is bite down my pride—I take him by the arm and help him up. It’s not easy. He weighs at least ten tons and he doesn’t help himself, flopping in my arms like a dead fish. After around a minute of panting and pulling, he wobbles to his feet. He waves me away, as if already forgetting that I’m the one who just helped him up. He looks around the arena with big dumb eyes, mouth hanging open stupidly, and then he glances at the victor and then to me. I see the cogs working in his face, trying to figure out how, exactly, he got beat.