Revival

by Rebecca Sherwin

  “Who are you?” he boomed.

  “Is Jesse here?”

  “No.”

  “AJ?”

  “What do you want with the Kennedy brothers?”

  “I-”

  Another guy appeared, shoving fatty out of the way.

  “Are you Cut Throat?” he asked.

  I knew the man I was looking at was Arthur Kennedy Jr. He looked just like Jesse, but bigger and, surprisingly, ink-free.

  “I am.”

  “Come.” He nodded for me to enter. “Jesse told me you would be here.”

  The blue whale stepped aside and I squeezed past him. Inside was so dark; I could barely see my hand in front of my face. AJ reached the end of the hallway before me and opened a door to give me some light. I reached him and we stepped through the door, into a lit corridor scattered with pallets and delivery cages.

  “It used to be a warehouse for the canal,” he explained, answering my unasked question. “So, you’re my brother’s friend?”

  “I am.”

  “He’s a pussy, isn’t he?” he laughed.

  “Why’d you say that?”

  “Our father didn’t put himself through university and build an empire to have a little weed for a son.”

  My body tensed, prepared to defend Jesse. What kind of person says that about their own brother?

  “I don’t think being a surgeon makes him a weed.”

  “Ah, Dr James Kennedy.” His bellowing laugh echoed around the corridor. “It’s laughable, really. Father offered him a job, you know? It would have made him five times richer than he’ll get by shoving his hands in people’s cavities.”

  “Maybe Jesse wants to build his own empire.”

  He shot me a look over his shoulder as he pushed another door open. “I like you.”

  “I wish I could say the feeling is mutual.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get your chance to try and floor me.” He reached back and pulled me to walk next to him. “What’s your background?”

  I shrugged. “None, really.”

  He glanced sideways, giving no hint of his thoughts. My nerves grew. Backstreet fighting was something I’d never done. Every fight I’d had was for the love of the sport; the need to feel free. Not to beat someone down as hard as I could.

  Backstreet fighting was ruthless.

  So was pit fighting.

  Which was what Jesse had meant to say earlier.

  Fuck.

  There was no cage, no ring, no boundaries; the spectators set them. I saw at least a hundred men gathered in what must have been the old holding area. In the middle of the crowd were two men; one in suit trousers that were no longer suitable for work, the other in an old pair of training shorts. They were both bloody; the sweat that dripped from them made it look like there was more, I knew that, but it didn’t ease the anxiety.

  AJ stepped in front of me and threw his arms out in pride.

  “Welcome to Joe’s!”

  ***

  The rush was indescribable. Every time I stepped into the pit, I was sent on a high; I craved the fix, the feel of flesh beneath my fist, the sweat coating my body, the heat coursing through my veins; the burning ache the next day. I craved more each time. A bigger hit. A better fix. The cheers from spectators, throwing money at each other as they placed their bets, spurred me on. I forgot everything when I was in the centre of the crowd, and only the fight for survival mattered. Everything made sense when I was fighting with everything I had. Everything else blurred into insignificance and I couldn’t care less about anything but the fight.

  ***

  Blood ran into my eye as it trickled out from the slit above my eyebrow. I stepped back, swiping at my eyes and panting for air. Technique didn’t matter when you were in the pit. No one gave a shit about your fighting background. No one was waiting in the corner to patch you up and make sure you were hydrated. They were just waiting for you to get close enough for them to shove you back in. You were there for them to unleash their testosterone and make them some extra money, either by getting your ass kicked, or finding your aggression and flooring your opponent. Most of them were married; a lot of them big businessmen – bankers, investors, politicians – escaping to Joe’s to forget their pathetic existences.

  No sooner had I taken a breath, a set of hands reached for my shoulders and pushed me back in. I stumbled to the middle, spitting blood to the floor and raised my heavy hands to try and protect myself. It was no good; I knew I’d lost it. I couldn’t find the escape tonight; all I could think about was Skye and I knew I was a goner. But I also knew I could take it. Whatever the psycho in front of me had planned, I could take it. I had to get it over with. I ignored the punch to the face and drew in a lungful of air, stood up straight, raised my chin and squared my shoulders. My opponent hesitated, but I waited. I didn’t care about the people who had placed bets on me. I didn’t care about the pain. I just wanted to get out. I watched as the world moved in slow motion; he pulled his arm back and swung out. His fist hit my chin. My head snapped back and I fell to the floor.

  I refused to get up.

  ***

  I was leaning over the sink, watching as the hot water filled it and the steam billowed up. Reaching for the antiseptic and washcloth, I wet it and began cleaning my cuts. I winced at the burn and closed my eyes to squeeze the tears out. Christ, it hurt, and there was nothing pleasurable about the pain tonight. I’d had my ass handed to me again. With every fight I had at Joe’s, the freedom was getting harder and harder to find. I texted Jesse this morning to see if there was any news; I’d called him in the afternoon and again on the way to Joe’s tonight, leaving a message when I instantly got through to his voicemail.

  “Curtis?”

  I jumped as Charlie’s soft voice filled my bathroom, and I tried to hide the tears that were now falling unrestrained.

  “What are you doing here?” I growled, refusing to look at her.

  “What happened to you?”

  “None of your business.”

  She reached up and took hold of my wrist, lowering my arm so the cloth fell into the sink.

  “Sit on the toilet.”

  I exhaled in defeat and sat down, watching as she rinsed the flannel, wringed it out and turned to me. Lifting her dress, she knelt on the floor between my legs and began cleaning my face. I hissed at the burn and her face softened further.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Like what?” She dabbed the cloth over the bridge of my nose.

  “Like you pity me. I don’t want your pity.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “Nothing,” I answered, refusing to admit anything to her. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  She didn’t reply for long minutes as she tended to my broken face. I remained passive, refusing to seek comfort in the care she was offering.

  “We might not have a normal relationship, Curtis, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

  “I don’t want you to care. You are who you are and I am who I am. I don’t want to blur the lines and complicate things more than they are already.”

  “Just let me look after you, then.”

  “I imagine you’re someone else,” I confessed, trying to push her away. “Every time we’re together, I pretend you’re her.”

  “I don’t care. Imagine I’m her. And tonight, let me look after you…like she would.”

  She tapped the top of my blackened arms and stood up, dragging the t-shirt up as I raised them above my head. She dropped back onto the floor, leaned closer and pressed her lips to each of the bruises, new and old, that covered my torso. My body stirred to life, but she ignored it, focusing her attention on every spot where my body had been bruised or broken. Slowly, she got to her feet and took my hand.

  “Go and get in bed while I clean up in here.”

  I rose heavily from where I sat, changed into some clean boxers and climbed into bed. Charlie joined me a f
ew minutes later, pulled the armchair next to the bed and took out her violin. I rolled onto my side and watched the bow slide effortlessly along the instrument; her delicate fingers played a familiar tune as I drifted slowly off to sleep.

  ***

  December 2013

  Months came and went and life stayed stagnant. Every time I looked back at my life, I realised I was almost halfway in, the good years were wasting away and I had nothing to show for them. Nothing I had done in thirty five years would have made Maggie and Michael Mason proud of their only child. I fought at Joe’s every other night; I’d found my stride and I was beating opponent after opponent. I had an entirely new collection of scars from late night trips to Jesse’s so he could patch me up. Joe’s was ruthless, but it was finally a place I could call home; not that I told anyone that. Not even Jesse. I would have been out on my ass if anyone found out I had feelings. We were lifeless male machines and being a soppy fuck was not okay when you were a member of Joe’s.

  I had narrowly escaped losing an ear last night. My opponent had a ring on his little finger and, of course, instead of doing the decent thing and taking it off, he used it to his advantage. Jesse stuck on some butterfly stitches and covered them up with a strip of gauze dressing.

  I steamed through work, willing another day to pass quickly; spreadsheets were checked, ledgers were matched up and compared, contracts were drafted and ready to send to lawyers; everyone in the office had something to do and seemed satisfied that their boss had got his shit together. At least on the inside. I immersed myself in my work, Joe’s and Charlie, because if I didn’t? I’d be on my knees outside the factory begging them to tell me. Or kill me.

  Christmas was coming up. I hated Christmas. I’d never been the jolly ho-ho-ho type. It was like any other day for me. I spent the day in my apartment watching James Bond movies on loop, with my hands in a bowl of popcorn or chocolate, or those boiled sweets you could only get over Christmas. I’d spent Christmas Day at the office last year and I expected to do it again this year. Anything other than having to spend it with the Tattersell family.

  Thirty Six

  Death. Fire. Gone.

  The clock was ticking…

  December 25th, 2013

  Had I managed to avoid going with Charlie to her parents’ house for Christmas? Fuck yeah.

  I was spending the Christmas holiday in my pants watching the Rocky movies back to back. I wouldn’t change a damn thing about it. Except…

  I grabbed my phone and called Jesse. He was leaving Oxford to spend Christmas with his family at their house by the sea. He had to work Christmas Eve in A&E, no doubt shovelling water down the throats of drunk celebrators. I hoped it was that simple. Jesse was on the team of emergency surgeons at John Radcliffe Hospital, the place where he’d studied during his foundation courses.

  He answered groggily when the call connected.

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “Nah, the coffee is still filtering. I’ll be human in about six minutes. Merry Christmas.”

  I snorted. I hadn’t been wished a merry Christmas that wasn’t out of professionalism in years.

  “Yeah, you too.”

  “How are you spending it?”

  “In my pants. I may throw in some Megan Fox for some viewing pleasure. Other than that, I’m flying solo for three while days.”

  “I might join you,” he laughed but I knew he was contemplating it.

  Jesse wanted to spend time with his father and AJ about as much as I wanted Charlie to turn up at my door that second.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Soon. I’m running late, but they can wait. It gives them more time to discuss my gayness before I get there.”

  I chuckled. “If only they knew, huh?”

  So did he. “If only.”

  Jesse had been seeing Blondie from Angels for a few months. He’s finally let her succumb to his charm, although he insisted I call her Marilyn, not Blondie. He had no qualms with her insisting he still call her by her stripper name and I was sure all the expensive gifts he bought her meant he was paying for it, but I wasn’t going to question a man getting laid.

  “So how long are you there for?”

  “Until after New Year. Mother has a family party planned. I tried to use work as an excuse to get out of it, but she called my boss.”

  “Like being a kid all over again, eh?”

  I forced humour into my voice, but I had no idea. I was jealous that he had a mother, especially one who would make sure he was there. I suspected she wanted a better relationship that the one they had, but she refused to stand up to his father’s jibes. I knew that much, although Jesse rarely talked about his family.

  “Something like that.” I heard him pouring coffee and then the sound of a zipper as he began shoving clothes in a bag. “I better get a move on. Enjoy Christmas with Megan and I’ll call you when I can escape my mother’s clutches.”

  “Don’t let AJ get to you, okay?”

  “Easily said. See you later.”

  We hung up the phone and I poured fresh popcorn into the bowl on the coffee table. The Eye of the Tiger began and I couldn’t help but tap my feet to the beat.

  It was dark outside; thunder roared in the distance and the raindrops ran down the windows. I’d just popped the cap off my limited edition festive bottle of Carlsberg when my phone vibrated on the glass top of the coffee table.

  “Your mother let you out of her grasp already?” I asked, answering the phone to Jesse.

  He didn’t say anything; I heard frantic, frenzied breaths and the clap of thunder on the other end of the phone. By the time it rumbled over the city, he still hadn’t said anything.

  “Jesse? You okay?”

  All I heard was rain. He was standing outside.

  “Dead,” was all he said, his voice monotonous.

  “What’s dead? Did your car break down?”

  “Dead,” he repeated. “Fire….gone. It’s gone.”

  “What’s gone?” I sat up as the hairs on the back of my neck bristled.

  “House. It’s gone. Dead.”

  He was panting. I could hear his teeth chattering and he shivered audibly.

  “Jesse, calm down and talk to me. What happened?” His panic was transferring over the phone and I panicked, too. “Where are you?”

  “Ashes. Smoke. It’s gone.”

  “There was a fire? Where? Are you hurt?”

  He growled, “No!”

  “Tell me where you are.” I got up, pulled on some clothes and grabbed my car keys. “I’ll come and help you.”

  “No! Stay away!” He shrieked and spluttered. He was crying. “The house is gone. Burned down. My family…” He choked on a breath. “My family…they were in there.”

  “Have you called for help? Tell me where you are.”

  “Lights.” I interpreted that as the emergency services were already there. “People. People are trying to help.”

  “That’s good. Let them help.” I was almost relieved, but I felt helpless. Useless. “Don’t go into the house.”

  “It’s gone.”

  “The fire?”

  “The house!” he roared, frustrated that I couldn’t understand him. “Rubble and ash and bodies.”

  “Your family? Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” His voice was muffled. He was covering his mouth. “They’re gone. Dead.”

  “I’m coming to find you. Tell me where you are. Are you hurt?”

  “No. I have to go.”

  “Jesse, no!” I gripped my phone with both hands. “Don’t hang up on me.”

  “Dead. Gone. Fire. Have to go. Have to-”

  The call disconnected. I dropped my phone on the sofa and shot through to the bedroom to grab my tablet. I searched the news, every news website I could find, but there were no reports. Nothing about the death of the Kennedy dynasty. I searched over and over again, but there was nothing. I thought it was because it had just happened, so I kept searching. I searc
hed and searched, until the battery on my iPad died and I passed out on the foot of the bed.

  ***

  “Jesse, I’m worried. Call me.”

  I hung up the phone and stared at the screen, praying he’d get this message over the others I’d already left and call me back.

  ***

  “Jesse, please, call me. If you’re in trouble, I can help you. Just send me a message.”

  I tossed my phone onto my desk and stared at it. It was routine. I called Jesse every hour on the hour and I texted him in between.

  The fire had made it onto the news. First on the front page, and then, as the case went cold, it moved further and further back until there was nothing to report. The news said the entire Kennedy family had been killed. Arthur Sr, Emilie, his mother, Arthur Jr, Jesse’s younger sister, Amy…and Jesse.

  I knew Jesse had survived, I knew it. I’d spoken to him when it was all over. I picked up my phone and called again…

  ***

  “Jesse…”

  Charlie walked into my office, so I quickly killed the call and shoved the phone in my pocket.

  “I can't stay long,” she said. “I just need to give you this.”

  She placed a piece of rose-scented paper on my desk. It already had a kiss in the corner. She really wasn’t staying. She’d detached herself again, which suited me fine, because I had nothing left to give. I folded the paper in half and slotted it into my inside pocket.

  “See you tonight.”

  I looked down at the newspaper on my desk, glancing up as she turned and left my office without another word said.

  ***

  I was going crazy. Clinically insane with worry. I called everyone I could think of, looking for Jesse. He hadn’t returned to the hospital like he was supposed to. He hadn’t gotten in contact with Oxford. That’s what confirmed, if I didn’t know already, that something was wrong. Being a surgeon meant everything to Jesse. It was the only thing he did for himself, the only thing that wasn’t fuelled by his need to please his father. To be accepted by a man who was now dead. If there was one thing I knew, it was that the death of his family should have driven him deeper into his job, but he had just disappeared. Vanished without a trace. I called him again and then, swearing there were fewer rings before I got his voicemail, I called again.