What were his worst? Again, he simply didn’t know.
Again his attention drifted up the bare brick walls that had once held artworks from the previous years, and would no doubt become adorned with this new year’s too. The wonky fan overhead hung suspiciously, like it threatened to eviscerate should anyone be foolish enough to activate it. The well worn and heavily scratched tables were metal and wood, marked irreversibly by a procession of students all leaving their mark in time. Nat loves Josh, KT loves Graham. So many lovers that probably didn’t stand the test of time.
In the corner of the room, writing furiously was an Asian kid. It would be rude to ask, but Chris guessed he hailed from Chinese heritage. He had two columns and one was far fuller than the other, but Chris couldn’t read from so far away and he was left to wonder which trait he had accumulated more of.
Such a profoundly complex question and Chris had no answer. It was a rather humbling sensation, for so long he had been top of the world and now…
If Juno had tasked them to emulate styles then Chris would’ve soared to the top of the class. But instead he’d done the impossible and forced Chris to search within himself. Wasn’t that the cliché trite about artists, it was always about expressing oneself…and their demons.
Chris’ demons were far darker and more violent than most, he thought as he flashed back to the dead hitman from the early hours of the morning. It occurred to Chris that he was faced with the unpleasant task of faking his answer to this assignment, because he wasn’t going to be able to represent himself as a murderer and wanted man was he! Not that anyone would believe him. Was that a bad trait, the murdering? Or was the fact he had the capability to retaliate and defend himself a positive? Again his mind wrestled over it.
So many shades of grey…
He dropped the pen and admitted defeat, perhaps he needed to be alone in his studio for inspiration to strike? As he packed up his items, a little question was niggling in his guts.
Who am I?
For so long Chris had been so focussed on one particular thing that he hadn’t ever considered what he was without it. Who was he now that his father was dead? What was he without revenge?
A word came to mind, and Chris felt discomfort. He sighed and retrieved a pen to write one solitary word on the scrap of paper. In the negative side he wrote: orphan.
For that’s what he was, what he had arguably always been.
It felt profound, even if nobody else would ever see the significance of him admitting it.
Then, in a moment of inspiration, his pen travelled to the positive side.
He wrote a new word; survivor.
--------------------------------------
“You’ve got to meet my boyfriend,” Alexis announced proudly as she took hold of Chris’ arm. They were on the way out of the art block and heading towards the exit off grounds. Chris was headed for the bus-stop, armed with his Aunt’s handwritten list of stops so he could safely return home. She had the time to drop him off in the morning, but he had to make his own way home. He didn’t mind, in fact he was secretly relishing the chance to sit on the bus and watch the world go by. Lost and anonymous in the throbbing pulse of the world. Her arm snaked around his and she was dragging him off and towards the car-park, a somewhat drastic deviation from the collection point. He almost shirked out of her grip, but he allowed himself to be dragged. Despite feeling that Alexis was a little too strongly willed, and overpowering, for comfort he had decided that he would at least attempt to foster a friendship with this girl. She led him to a sporty little car that was parked and waiting. It was an exceptionally tacky gold with green neon lights underneath. The driver revved the engine and snagged a few admiring glances from fellow students. Very expensive, but very gaudy too. The blacked out windows rolled down and a somewhat handsome male peeked out at them approaching. When he climbed out of the car he revealed himself to be a long and tall male, who must’ve been early twenties. It was odd that a twenty-something male was dating someone as young as Alexis, but what could Chris say? He’d been fucking his teacher with a much more pronounced age gap.
He was muscular, with model-esque looks. Perhaps he was something of an Adonis years ago, but now he looked tougher and darker. His tightly curled brown hair was shaved down the sides, leaving the curls only to populate the top of his head. Dark eyes and a short beard that was almost nothing more than a heavy shadow.
He looked, all in all, something like a bit of a bad boy. That was probably what Alexis saw in him, he concluded. The good girl going bad with the very inappropriate boyfriend to boot. He looked a little familiar to Chris, but he couldn’t think why. Maybe he’d crossed paths with him previously? A nobody who’d somehow managed to store himself in his memory banks…?
“Sam, this is Chris…” she introduced in English. Sam, a little taller and definitely a lot broader than Chris, stepped round and extended a hand. Very formal and polite, at odds with the dark vibe he was giving off.
“Nice to meet you,” he smiled pleasantly. His accent was French but his English was confident. “The English boy,” he added. So obviously Alexis had already spoken of him. Chris wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
“That’s me…” he shrugged gently. The handshake had been strong and forceful, but in its aftermath now neither man knew how to respond. They hovered awkwardly.
“You might know my brother,” Sam made small talk as Alexis purposefully avoided rescuing the conversation. She studied both the boys, a little shimmer of satisfaction in her face. “He went to England for a bit…” was there a hint of sadness to his voice?
“England is a big place,” Chris dismissed politely. Why did everyone do that? England was not some minute place where everybody literally knew everybody. How come nobody ever stopped to think that the possibility of knowing their relative was actually slim to non-existent.
“Boss, we got business…” A short and rotund man craned out from the backseat of the sports car. He extended a phone out to Sam, who took it. He read the message, then handed it him back without a word. Boss? That changed Chris’ perception of the man, boss of what?
“Get in the car babe, we got shit to do,” Sam turned to Alexis. It was effortless, an assured command like he owned her. She complied easily, threading under Sam’s arm and into the backseat of the car. Chris was surprised the blonde he’d met in the classroom was so submissive and so easily controlled. She was not who he’d initially thought. Sam waited a beat, making sure she was in the car.
“I warn you now, don’t be thinking of even thinking about fucking my girl…” Sam stepped in close and growled in Chris’ ear. For a moment Chris was stupefied. Was he for real? Was Sam going to beat his chest like a Neanderthal now?
“I assure you I’d have more interest in the likes of you, than her…” Chris answered flatly but firmly. There was a little edge to his voice that he’d not managed to reign in.
For a second Sam didn’t know what to say, he wasn’t sure if Chris had just admitted he was gay, or that he fancied him. Or both? But judging by the very cold expression reflecting in his eyes, he wasn’t completely certain it wasn’t a deadpan joke. He opened his mouth as if to respond, but no words came out. He was surprised that the pretty little boy in front of him had such audacity… One to watch perhaps?
“You’d do wise to keep on the good side of me, ask around and they’ll tell you Samuel Le Bont is not someone to fuck with…” finally words came back to Sam and he turned back into the car.
Samuel Le Bont? The name ricocheted straight through Chris.
“See you tomorrow Chris!” Alexis called as the car tore off.
Le Bont…?!
“Fuck…” Chris heard himself mutter aloud. Suddenly the world felt heavy around him, he blinked forcefully. Fuck… A Le Bont?!
He turned and headed for the bus-stop, arriving in perfect timing as the bus pulled up to the kerb and opened its doors. He joined the queue of other students, too absorbed in his thou
ghts to give them any notice.
A fucking Le Bont? He couldn’t believe it, how incredible, and utterly incredulous, was that coincidence. No, he stopped himself. It surely wasn’t a relative of the Jason Le Bont. That was just impossible, no he had to be mistaken. He took a seat on the bus window-side and tried to convince himself that this Samuel Le Bont was no relative to Jason. It was as simple a coincidence as Alexis and him sharing a surname.
But it was no use. Instantly he was travelling back and making the connections he’d never even thought to consider. It’s why Samuel was so familiar, the resemblance to his brother was pretty striking and undeniable.
Fuck…
Chris’ first day had just taken the most drastic and surprising of turns. He’d unknowingly wound up in the home town of the boy who’s life he’d ruined and inadvertently all-but killed.
An odd mix of emotions began to rise up out of his stomach…
CHAPTER FOUR:
“How was your first day?” It was his Aunt, she was hovering at the door. She was attired in a grey suit and had swept her freshly dyed brown hair up into a loose bun. She looked exhausted and it had obviously been a rather long day. It was nine pm and she’d only just returned home. Chris had arrived home from college, fixed himself some tea and then retired to the studio where he still remained many hours later. The night was cool, but not too cool. A serene stillness permeated the air and the only sound was a soft hum of an electrical dryer and the soft thudding of last night’s clothes drying inside it.
“It was good…” he answered applying a fresh black stroke to the painting before him. It was a portrait that he had been deliberating over for weeks. It was also his sixth attempt, the other five were tossed in the corners rejected. A woman in a sharp angular black suit with an orange harsh bob that was as brilliant as it was square. But she had a blank face, for he couldn’t recall it. The middle of this canvas was ice-white as Chris couldn’t picture the face he’d felt the need to paint.
The previous five attempts had all been wrong, he wasn’t sure he felt up to a sixth just yet.
Quite why he couldn’t picture his mother’s face he didn’t know. Maybe because he’d barely seen her in his life, had barely any resemblance of a relationship with her? Yet he dreamed about her so often, revisited that moment when she died next to him.
“Oh good,” his Aunt replied happily. She was staring at the blank portrait and just knew it was supposed to be her sister. Her nephew couldn’t recall her face, and she wasn’t that surprised. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d ever had a sit-down conversation with her sister. She had always been too busy, always too wrapped up in her work. They’d kept in touch via a long procession of emails instead. So her untimely death, a largely unsolved mystery, was a peculiar concept in her life. On one hand she was sad her sister was dead, but on the other hand she didn’t know her enough to actually mourn for her. Now looking at her sister’s son, she saw the same kind of warped sense of family had tainted him too. He couldn’t paint her face, his own mother.
“Good night lad,” she disappeared from the door heading across the patio towards the kitchen; her takeaway and glass of wine calling.
Chris wasn’t really interested in the painting, it was merely devil’s work for idle hands. His head was spinning and spinning with an overload of information. The same surname kept cropping up and punctuating the maelstrom, Le Bont.
What were the odds that he’d end up in the very town the Le Bont’s lived in, let alone befriend the older brother’s girlfriend!? Was it fate? Was it a wicked twist of karma for the wickedness he’d inflicted on Jason Le Bont?
He closed his eyes and deposited the paintbrush in the jar of water.
Jason Le Bont had been a means to an end, a disposable step in the attack on his own father. For Chris’ father had built himself a small business on very volatile and precarious foundations, or in other words he owed a lot of people money. He’d, rather foolishly, borrowed extensive amounts from exactly the wrong sort of people to borrow money from. His desperate scrambling up and out of the shit had almost come to fruition when he had secured himself a rather rewarding deal with Senior Le Bont, an owner of a plastic manufacturing company. And with that financial backing, and a little private funding from his brother’s wife’s father, Chris‘ father had almost cleared himself out of trouble. Those two deals were the only things that were to keep his head above water.
And that was exactly how Chris had planned to disassemble him and his pathetic legacy.
Chris had, in cold revenge for being abandoned years ago to the icy keep of his disinterested mother, destroyed those plans. He started a sexual relationship with his teacher, who eventually learned that he was in fact Chris’ uncle, and then mailed the evidence to the wife. Who’s father predictably withdrew financial support in light of the affair. Only that wasn’t quite enough, so Chris had to take further steps and make sure the Le Bont deal fell through. Initially Chris had planned to seduce his way into Jason’s good graces, as a method of reaching Senior Le Bont, but he came to learn that Jason was having a secret love-affair with his gym coach so he used that and released the damning evidence causing a huge scandal. The scandal shook Senior Le Bont, and exactly as Chris planned for, withdrew financial support citing he needed to be home with his family. Jason’s death was unfortunate and unplanned, an accident that occurred during a fight that broke out in the canteen of Callinghurst. A fight that Chris started, but someone else finished. Aden Harrison, the school bully who had initiated a sexual relationship with Chris, was the one responsible for the manslaughter. Or was he? The accident had always been more that than outright murder. Aden had pushed but Jason had fell, stoving his head on the corner of a table as he went.
It had all been a rather elaborate and calculated ruse of lies and treachery, all designed to destroy his father. Fucking his father’s son, and thus Chris’ half-brother, had just been the icing on the cake. Jesse Mullamworth had been chewed up and spat out, solely to wound their father’s pride. His father had come to learn all of this wicked and elaborate plan just moments before Chris put a bullet in his skull.
Now here he was, in the sleep town of Melun, the stomping grounds of the Le Bont clan.
A little Google had educated Chris on the extent of the scandal and fallout, but it wasn’t particularly interesting. Mr and Mrs Le Bont upped and left, Senior Le Bont stepping down as head of operations and probably retiring to somewhere warm where the world didn’t know that his youngest, and brightest son, had been involved in an almost-paedophiliac love-affair and then died. The Coach had avoided jail time somehow and was now in hiding, having been publicly shunned and ruined. Only Samuel Le Bont remained in the town, but nothing could be found on how his brother’s sexual affair had affected him. Judging by the macho act, perhaps Sam was taking no prisoners? Maybe he was scaring everyone out of acknowledging the family scandal? It was probably a subject that Chris should avoid too.
The depths of Google hadn’t shed much light on the intricate details of the scandal, even Jason’s untimely death was nothing more than a footnote in a different article. There was no large and informative account of the events that transpired, Christopher Bourgh had not been named anywhere and that meant Chris was quite safe. He knew he’d planned well but yet he couldn’t shake the niggles of paranoia. The alias he’d used to drag Jason’s secrets out would no doubt be long forgotten and didn’t connect back to him in any meaningful way. Chris had never been named in the official summary of how Jason Le Bont died, English or French. The only name held accountable was Aden’s. Chris was nothing more than a “student who’d been engaging in conversation with the victim moments before the altercation.” The world didn’t know they’d argued, that Chris had revealed his deception in their brief French exchange. Only Chris did. He had often considered that if he hadn’t have initiated the argument and exposed himself to Jason’s wraith, the boy would probably have been still alive. Aden had been defending Chris…
>
Now Aden was incarcerated and Jason was dead.
So it was impossible that Samuel Le Bont understood how much Chris was implicated in his brother’s fall and demise. Despite all his paranoid misgivings, he was indeed quite disconnected from the event. If Chris was sensible he’d make sure that Sam never knew that he and Jason had even known each other. It kept things from becoming more complicated.
Chris turned away from the portrait, his life had turned itself inside out! As if having hitmen trying to take you out wasn’t enough, now he had a whole new Le Bont to contend with.
And then there was Alexis. Something about that girl seemed off, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Chris stopped half way out of the door, what had happened to him? A few months ago he’d been in control, he’d been confident and ever-so-calculated. Now he felt like he’d become a shell of his former self…
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A few days later curiosity had drove Chris off the bus four stops too early, then down the little streets of suburbia till he came to stand outside a house distinctly different to the rest. The houses on the street were all semi-detached, pretty brickwork and clean white fascias. Their gardens were individually styled, and mostly well maintained. They did not have the word “pedo” scrawled across the front wall like this house. The front garden was overgrown and wild, three of the four windows had been boarded up with plywood. It was an eyesore in this nice little road. Common sense would tell you to expect the occupant to have fled and started anew somewhere else. But Chris wasn’t convinced, there was absolutely zero trace that Mr Jon Clemmons had left at all. He glanced up and down the road, in the furthest stretch to his right a collection of children were playing on pushbikes. Wasn’t that oh so very quaint…
Chris took a breath, adjusted his satchel and stepped up to the front gate. He didn’t bother with the front door, instead he headed straight for the back of the house. It was in equal neglect as the front of the house. The back windows had all been smashed and replaced with plywood, surely Jon Clemmons’ wasn’t haunting the house in this state? As Chris took hold of the backdoor and pulled it open, he was beginning to doubt his own theory. Perhaps Jon had managed to do the impossible - utterly vanish? The door opened easily but inside was not what he expected. The house had been gutted and trashed, vandals had scrawled all sorts of derogatory remarks and crude graffiti over the walls in black paint. Why was it always penises? He brushed his attention off the terrible drawings and noticed how the entire house was nothing but an empty shell filled with litter and leaves. He stepped into the next room and spied just the same. No drug paraphernalia, which was interesting for an abandoned house. He didn’t bother going upstairs, he didn’t see much point.
The Killing Games Page 4