Dirty Nights: Dark Mafia Romance

by Paula Cox

  “You can’t have it?” I hate how my voice sounds, tear-choked and desperate. “It’s none of your business, Jude. It’s not up to you how I deal with my own brother . . . Oh my god, Patrick. Patrick is dead! My big brother is dead!” I sound hysterical. I pity the woman. I pity how under Patrick’s thumb she is. But then, when you’ve lived your life under somebody’s thumb, that thumb doesn’t dislodge without a fight. I try and think: This is good. Patrick was a bad man. But my mind just plays the brother card, halting that train of thought.

  Jude walks to the bathroom door. His boots leave bloody prints on the floor, on the rug I bought for him. It seems grotesque, my brother’s blood staining the rug, which after all is a sigil of my dedication to Jude. Suddenly, the dedication seems misplaced. I feel lost.

  “I’m going for a shower,” he says. “We’ll talk when I get out. There are some things I want to say. I’ll . . . I’ll explain everything after the shower.”

  He goes into the bathroom and locks the door behind him. Without giving myself time to think, I charge to the front door, pull on my sneakers, and walk out into the hallway. As I’m walking down the stairs, I misstep and trip. My arms flail and I manage to catch the banister, but the sensation of falling doesn’t stop, even when I’m in the street, even when I walk away from the apartment, marching blindly through the city. I’m still falling, reeling, spinning. Control has been wrenched from me. I feel as though I am lost at sea.

  I tell myself, time and time and time again, that Patrick is—was—a bad man, but bad man or not, he’s the only family I ever knew. He was the one constant in an otherwise hectic life. He was the man who—who what? Who beat you? Who hated you? Who made you feel small? I want to listen to this voice, part of me knows it’s talking sense, but a bigger part of me keeps imagining Patrick on his back, Jude’s boot stamping on his face. I hear Patrick screaming in agony, begging for mercy. Surely Jude must’ve paused, just once, and thought that Patrick is my brother. Surely he must’ve thought how this would’ve affected me.

  But, in the end, my first observation about Jude was right. He doesn’t care one tiny bit about how I feel. My desires mean nothing to him. In the end, all he cares about is himself, his own desires.

  I pause at the end of the street, wondering if I should turn back, but then my mind throws up another image, this time of Patrick cold and blue.

  I keep walking.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Emily

  I walk through the city in a state of profound shock. It’s like I can feel the spinning of the earth. Every time I walk by somebody, I expect them to stop me and ask if something is wrong. I feel as though I must look like a lonely, wandering woman. But people just brush by me and that suits me fine. I don’t want to talk to anybody. I don’t want to have to explain how I’m feeling to another person. They’d never understand; nobody would. How can I explain to another person that I’m distraught because my abusive brother is dead? But distraught is the right term for it.

  I walk for a long time through the sunlit streets, past honking cars and bustling businessmen and frantic parents dragging along even more frantic kids. I walk until my legs carry me, by accident, to Central Park. I don’t think. I just plunge into the park.

  I pass by a man and a woman holding hands. The woman has a wide smile on her face as she leans across and kisses the man behind the ear. The man turns, kisses her on the cheek. The love between them is almost physical, reaching across the park and nudging into me. I stop for a moment and imagine that I’m that woman, that life is carefree, that fear and pain and longing and regret and confusion are alien to me. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t completely put myself in that woman’s shoes. She’s one of the smiling, happy, loving women, the type I’ll never be.

  I reach into my pocket, meaning to take out my cellphone, but I forgot to bring it with me.

  I press on, deeper into the park, until I reach the pond. I go to a bench and throw myself down on it. My mind is filled with memories and not all of them are bad.

  Sometimes, Patrick was a good brother, and right now the good seems to massively outweigh the bad. It doesn’t help that I know it’s a skewed point of view. It doesn’t help in the least.

  I remember once, after we’d moved out of the orphanage and into our first apartment, I had recurring night terrors. I would dream that I was standing at the edge of a cliff, rooted in place as you often are in dreams, and behind me there was a huge, lumbering beast. Every night, the beast loped at me, slowly. I could hear every step, its breath as it got closer, its claws tearing up the earth. I looked down at the rocks, jagged and razor-sharp. Soon, I thought, the beast will push me over the edge and that’ll be the end. Despite the pain, I didn’t want to die. I always woke just as the beast smashed into me, sending me toppling over the cliff edge.

  I would scream and spasms would course through my body. I would pound the bed with my fists. I would claw at the sheets.

  I remember Patrick coming into the bedroom. I fell silent, a hand of terror gripping me. He’d hit me now, I thought, and no matter how many times he’d done it before, the pain never became less, just easier to accept. I shrank to the other side of the bed, arms at my face in a pathetic attempt to shield myself. But he didn’t hit me. He crawled onto the bed and wrapped his arms around me.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered, stroking my hair. Stroking my hair with hands that would, the next day, bruise my face. “You don’t have to be scared. I’ll never let anything happen to you.” Never mind that all the bad things that happened to me were his fault. “You’re safe.” A lie, because I was never safe with him. But in that moment, with the phantom of the lumbering beast in my mind, I didn’t care about the other things Patrick had done. All I cared about was how safe he made me feel. He kissed me on the forehead, tucked me into bed, and sat on the floor as I fell asleep.

  That’s what people on the outside never understand, I reflect as I watch the ducks drift across the water, leaving ripples in their paths. The ripples spread outward and create more ripples until the whole pond is shimmering in the sunlight. There is no such thing as just bad, or just good. There’s always an in between space. But nobody ever sees that. They think a devil must be a devil and an angel must be an angel. They never stop to consider that sometimes devils wear halos and angels sprout horns.

  And yet . . .

  I allow another part of myself, so far ignored, to pour its feelings into this potent brew.

  And yet now, I will never again have to fear him. I will never again have to shrink in terror as his huge, lumbering body comes at me. Because the truth is, Patrick was the monster in my dream. He was the monster and he was the protector. He’s dead. I never have to fear him again. I don’t have to be scared anymore. But he’s my brother. But he hit you. He’s dead. Be happy; he sad. Be strong; be a good sister. See him for what he really is; sometimes he was a good man.

  “Ah!” I snap, picking up a stray twig from the bench and throwing it into the water. I mutter under my breath: “Why can’t life just be simple for once?”

  “It rarely is.” The voice comes from behind me.

  I leap to my feet, spinning.

  The man doesn’t make a move toward me. He’s large and soft-looking, wearing an old-man overcoat which covers his knees. He’s short, squat. His face is squashed and he wears wire-framed glasses. A crescent of grey hair frames a bald spot on stop. His coat is pulled up around his neck, but there’s something under there, marking his skin.

  “It’s not polite to sneak up on people,” I say, voice breathy. The tears have stopped flowing now, though, so that’s something.

  “I didn’t mean to sneak up,” the man says, completely at ease. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a transparent bag of breadcrumbs. “I’m just here to feed the ducks. I couldn’t help but overhear.” He strolls to the edge of the pond, passing by me, and begins throwing breadcrumbs into the pond. The ducks gather around him at once.

  “Well, yo
u did,” I say, backing away to the bench and sitting down again. Really, I should go away, but my legs are aching from so much walking and this old man doesn’t seem to even notice I’m here.

  For around ten minutes, I watch as he feeds the ducks. He takes a genuine pleasure in it, oohing and ahhing every time a new duck joins the fray. He even waves away some of the bigger ducks so that a duckling can get its share. When his bag his empty, he turns to me.

  In his other hand, he holds one final pile of crumbs. “Would you like to feed them?” he asks.

  “Uh, sure,” I reply, grateful for the distraction.

  I take the crumbs from him and toss them into the water. Together, this kind old man and I watch as the ducks polish off the last of the breadcrumbs.

  Then he faces me. “Are you okay?” he asks, gesturing at my eyes.

  “I tripped,” I say shortly.

  “Ah.” He nods knowingly. “I’ve known many women who tripped—”

  “I tripped.”

  He holds his hands up and wanders over to the bench. Without even thinking about it, I join him, dropping next to him. “I knew a girl once,” he says. “She was young, pretty, smart. Brilliant, really. She was eighteen years old and her father was a real nasty piece of work. Real nasty. The sort of man to kick a homeless person in the stomach whilst he’s sleeping. That’s not some random example. He really did that.” The old man sighs. “The girl had a boyfriend, but back then the boyfriend was too weak and pathetic to do anything about it.” He shrugs. “Long story short, the inevitable happened. The man beat the girl to death. By the time the boyfriend learned of it, it was too late. Not even killing the mean old bastard could do any good. He was half a man after that.”

  “You’re talking about yourself,” I’m not sure how I know, but it’s so obviously true that I don’t question the statement.

  The man smiles tightly. “Yes, I’m talking about myself.”

  “Is there a moral to this story, old man?”

  “No moral. There never are morals, not in life. Just decisions.”

  “Are you a philosopher?” I ask, genuinely curious. He talks like one.

  “No.” He laughs. “I’m just an old man with too much time on his hands.”

  There’s a pause, lengthening, ducks quacking and kids giggling and wind rustling the leaves overhead.

  “Was she scared?” I say. “The girl, I mean.”

  “Right up until the end,” the man murmurs, voice choking. “Right up until the goddamned end.”

  “I know fear like that,” I say. There’s something about this old man which allows me to open up, some disarming aspect. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never known a father.

  “You do?”

  I nod. “Too much about it, I think.”

  He spreads his hands. “I have all the time in the world. Why don’t we talk awhile?”

  I think: He’s a stranger. But I say: “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jude

  I shower quickly, realizing it’s cruel of me not to tell her the truth. But there’s something else, too, something which slides under my skin and spikes through my body. Rage. Cold, hard rage, the sort of rage which makes a man clench his fists until his knuckles strain to burst out of his skin.

  Why would she keep defending him? I ask myself as the blood runs down my body in rivulets and swirls down the plughole. He’s a monster. And the way she reacted . . . it was like he was the best brother who’d ever fucking lived! Why would she keep fighting for him after everything he’s done? Worst of all was the way she looked at me, like I’m the monster. Like I’m the man who should be ashamed of himself. Like I’m the beast. She went from loving to distant in the space of a couple of minutes and all for him. She chose his side. She defended him. It makes me goddamn sick.

  I get out of the shower and towel myself off. Blood is a tricky thing to clean, especially when you’re caked head to toe in the stuff, but I’m used to that by now. I’ve been dealing with it for most of my life. It gets under your fingernails, in your hair, sinks deep into your pores. You have to scrub it off. I splash water in my face and then walk into the living room with the towel around my waist.

  I need to tell Emily the truth. I need to tell her I didn’t kill her brother. It may piss me the hell off, but I can’t have her hating me.

  I walk around the apartment. I expect her to be sitting on the couch, watching one of her documentaries or perhaps reading Moira’s nursing book. But the apartment is empty; it feels deserted. I go into the bedroom, but she isn’t there, either. Dammit. I return to the living room and pick up my cellphone, call Emily. There’s a vibration. Her phone is on the couch, humming against the cushions.

  Damn. It.

  So she’s stormed out. I immediately begin to panic. She’s left the apartment in a rage under the impression that I betrayed her—at least from her point of view. I look at the clock—the clock which she bought and hung above the TV, a stylish modern thing—and see that it’s been ten minutes since I stepped into the shower.

  Okay.

  I dial the bar.

  Normally, Tool or one of the other guys picks up, but Mickey’s voice rings down the line at me.

  “Hello,” he says, sounding like a kind, sweet elderly man who isn’t quite sure how the telephone works.

  “Boss, it’s me. Jude.”

  “Jude. Are you okay? You’re probably wondering why I’m answering the phone. The rest of the guys are out, partying. I gave them the afternoon off.”

  “Oh, okay.” I sense one of Mickey’s long, drawn-out speeches coming on. I press on quickly before he can get started. “I was just calling because Emily…She’s my, err…”

  “Girlfriend, isn’t she?” Mickey says. “I heard the report from the fight—and from the bakery.”

  “Oh.” Is there anything this man doesn’t see? “Well, she’s stormed out and I was going to ask one of the guys, one of the new guys, to track her steps, just to make sure she’s safe. But obviously I’ll do it myself now—”

  “No, no,” Mickey interrupts. “I can handle it. I’m bored anyway. And in my experience, women tend not to be too keen on seeing the man they just walked out on. I think it’d be best for both of you if you stayed out of it until she’s had a chance to calm down.” Is this man a relationship expert now as well as the boss? “I know what you’re thinking,” Mickey goes on, and when he says it, it’s as though he really does know what I’m thinking. “You’re wondering how the hell a man like me would know something like that. Well, let me tell you, Jude, I wasn’t always the boss.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I don’t know what else to say to that.

  “I’ll find her,” he says.

  “How?” I ask.

  Mickey chuckles. “How does a bird know where to migrate when the weather changes?”

  This man… “I don’t know, sir.”

  “It’s in his nature. Well, it’s in my nature to find people. Keep your cellphone on. I’ll call you with an update if there’s an update to give. It’s like we’ve switched roles, isn’t it? I’m out in the field and you’re the one waiting for an update.” I can hear him smiling down the phone.

  “Ah, yes, sir.”

  “See you on the other side, Jude. Or should I say boss?” He laughs, and then hangs up the phone.

  I go into the bedroom and get dressed.

  I pace the apartment for about two minutes before I think, fuck it, and take a bottle of whisky from the kitchen, stuff it in the inside pocket of my jacket, and walk out of the apartment. I need to move. I can’t just sit here. I check the battery of my cellphone, make sure it’s on loud, and place it in my pocket. I walk out into the sun, glancing up and down the street, but Emily’s nowhere to be seen.

  I take a slug of whisky, burning my throat and making me feel warm, and walk down the sidewalk, my eyes never resting in one place. My hope is that Emily is lingering somewhere out here, waiting for me to chas
e after her. It’s funny, because if Anna had pulled a stunt like this, there’s no way in any circle of hell I’d be chasing after her. But that’s just another sign that I love Emily, that I didn’t love Anna.

  I’ve just turned a corner when I spot an old black man hobbling down the street. He’s eighty, older, at a guess, with straggly strands of hair clinging to an otherwise bald head. He leans heavily on a walking stick and his clothes are the cardboard-like, papery suit jacket and trousers old men often wear. Behind him, three young men—around nineteen to twenty—hurl insults at him. The old man walks on, ignoring them, but I can see by the way his eyebrows are furrowed he isn’t enjoying it.

  Two of the young men are little jackrabbits, scrawny things with backward caps. One has a misspelt tattoo on his neck. Curage. The other sucks on a fat joint. Their leader is a tall, brawny man wearing a tank top to display thick muscles covered in layers of hair. As I watch, he passes the joint to one of the jackrabbits.