Gunner

by Daniela Jackson

  He leans against the pool table. “Looking for some fun, lovely ladies?”

  The women giggle. Yes, giggle like teenagers even though they must be four or five years older than me.

  The blonde throws her arm around Rebel’s back and whispers something into his ear. A wide grin crosses his face.

  It seems like I should go to my motel room. “Rebel?”

  All the eyes turn to me.

  “I’m gonna clear off,” I say. “Have fun.”

  He gives me a nod. “We start at 6 am so…” He takes the blonde’s hand as I wait for him to finish the sentence. He plants a kiss on her knuckles. “So sorry but next time, love.”

  I chuckle as the women freeze with consternation. I drop my head and turn back to hide my grin.

  I walk out of the room as Rebel catches up with me.

  “We’re pussies,” I say.

  “You’re a pussy,” he says. “I’m doing what I’m paid for. I need to have a cool head to work.”

  My eyes roam over the pub. A thought stirs in my head. It’s almost empty and quiet. I realise there is nobody on the stage. A massive bodyguard emerges from behind one of the wooden booths and walks towards us. Everything about his appearance screams ‘a bodyguard’—his square face, his intimidating frame and the grey suit he has on.

  “This is a private party,” he says. “You have to leave.”

  “This is the fuck what?” I growl. I don’t like being told what to do. “It’s a pub. I want to have a glass of beer at the bar.”

  “I said ‘private party’,” the man says in a cold voice.

  It’s fucking unbelievable. My eyes travel to the couch by the bar, and I see the boys from ‘Red Asylum’.

  “No fucking way,” I say.

  The bodyguard clenches his jaws then flashes me a wide grin. “I can buy you a glass of beer then get lost.”

  “You fucking want to try me?” I bring my fists up to my chest.

  I suddenly need to shake off everything that’s been troubling me, and it seems like there is a good opportunity to do so.

  Seafra rises from his seat and moves closer to us. “What’s going on, Tony?”

  “The gentlemen are leaving,” Tony says.

  “I’m not fucking leaving,” I say and thrust my chin forward, glaring at Seafra. “You think you own the pub, you dick?”

  “For tonight,” Seafra says and tilts his head to the right then to the left along with a few shoulder rotations.

  Is that gothic motherfucker planning to fight with me?

  “I don’t fight with pussies who have eyeliner on their eyelids,” I say.

  Seafra’s jaw muscles twitch, then he flashes me a wide grin. “Try me, asshole.”

  No other words are necessary. He wants to have his jaw fractured? Fine. I can serve him a jaw fracture requiring a maxillofacial surgery.

  “No problem.” I rotate my shoulders and stretch my neck muscles.

  He sends me a provoking glance and my hands itch to knock his teeth out.

  “Outside of the pub,” Seafra says as one corner of his mouth quirks up.

  “Seafra.” A female voice whips my ears. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Tania, back up,” Seafra says and moves towards the exit. “You all back the fuck up. Just me and him.” There is power in his voice I didn’t expect, but that makes me only more happy to give him a good beating.

  Tony nods as a wide grin crosses his face, exposing his white teeth. I watch him block a woman who has short hair. The two other members of Seafra’s band are standing in silence and watching us.

  Seafra and I walk out of the pub and stand opposite each other. A street lamp casts light on us. The rain starts drizzling.

  I wave my hand to him. “I will give you an advantage, motherfucker. You first.”

  “Fuck off with your advantages.”

  Alright. Maybe he’s not as much of a pussy as his eyeliner could suggest. In fact, he looks like the guys in my club. He’s tall and well built. It’s just that the guys in my club don’t have eyeliner on their eyes and don’t have raven black hair styled by a professional.

  Seafra fixes his eyes onto mine, and I have a vague impression that he needs to shake off something like me.

  I sweep my arm, but he dodges my punch. Good. I don’t want the fight to be too easy. I want adrenaline, danger, pain. We circle around one another, the rain growing in strength.

  “No groupies to fuck?” I ask. “They didn’t like your eyeliner?”

  “Your woman didn’t like your fucked up head?” Seafra asks.

  “I have no woman.” It just pours out of me.

  “Yeah, really.”

  I freeze, and he punches me in the face. Stars twirl in my head as blood spurts from my nose. I growl and leap to him. My fist thrusts into his jaw. He falls down as blood gushes from his nose.

  “Your woman didn’t like your eyeliner?” I ask.

  “I have no woman,” Seafra barks and rasps blood out.

  “Yeah, really.”

  Seafra recovers in one motion. The thin streams of redness make his face look ghastly like he’s some fucking fallen angel seeking revenge. He bends and leaps towards me, swerving a few inches from me. I sweep my arm and punch nothing. A fist slams into the side of my chest, knocking the air out of my lungs. I rasp blood out, bounce on my knees and spurt to smash the motherfucker. My fist slams into his abdomen, and he falls down on his bottom, growling.

  “Beer?” he asks in a hoarse voice and spits blood out.

  I’m stunned for a moment.

  “I asked you a question,” Seafra says and wheezes.

  “A shot of vodka,” I say.

  Seafra nods as I lean over him and grip his arm, pulling him up.

  “Seafra,” he says.

  “I fucking know your name.” I extend my arm to shake hands. “Gunner.”

  He wipes the blood away from underneath his nose. “Where did you learn to fight?”

  “That’s my secret.”

  He bows his head and walks towards the door of the pub first. We pass Rebel and the members of his band.

  “We’re getting drunk tonight, right?” Rebel asks from behind me.

  I look over my shoulder. “They’re buying a round of drinks.”

  We walk into the pub then settle ourselves into the corner couch as Tony shoots me an amused glance and pats Seafra’s shoulder as a father would.

  “Hale and Coyote,” Seafra introduces his band to Rebel and me.

  The bartender delivers a bottle of vodka on our table. Hale pours alcohol into three shot glasses as Seafra and Coyote grab their bottles of beer.

  I down my vodka. “So, are you famous or something?”

  “Are you an outlaw or something?” Seafra asks.

  I scratch my head. “I like motorcycles.”

  “I like singing,” Seafra says. “Looking for something here?”

  “A nameless corpse,” I say.

  Seafra puts his elbows on the table. “Are you serious?”

  “No,” I say.

  He chuckles then waves his hand to the bartender. As she stands at his side, he whispers something into her ear and soon she brings a piece of paper and a pen. Seafra writes a number on the paper and attempts to hand it to me.

  “You can trust him,” he says. “His phone number.”

  “I don’t need your fucking help,” I say, but I flick my eyes over the number and memorise it.

  You never know. The number might be useful one day.

  Seafra scrunches the paper in his hand and tosses it across the floor. “Right, another round?”

  “I’ll have some beer,” I say.

  “Beer is good,” Seafra says and nods several times. “I don’t get drunk anymore. Two bottles of beer, that’s all.”

  Fucking hell. I’m not his priest to listen to his confession. A moment later, respect wafts through me. He has the courage to say that out loud. And he’s a fucking rock singer. Rock singers get drunk and
fuck but I can’t see any chicks here.

  “What’s her name?” I ask.

  “What?” Seafra looks at me and shakes his head.

  “I asked you a question,” I say. “So answer me. What’s her name?”

  “Eavan,” Seafra says and knits his brows. “Man, I’ve never seen such mysterious eyes. Yours?”

  “Her name is Sol,” I say. “Sol like our sun. She used to be our bright sun. That was before I took her brightness away from her.”

  Sol

  Asher falls on his bottom, and I leap to him to lift him off the floor. I’ve been watching his attempts to walk for the first time ever. I wish Gunner could see his first steps, but he’s not here. He left two weeks ago without an explanation and I haven’t heard from him yet.

  Each time I see Gunner, there is a disconnection between my rationality telling me that he should be present in my son’s life like he is his father by blood, and my heart telling me to be a nasty jealous bitch who wants to remove him from my son’s life and erase every memory of him.

  I’m so furious he was for my son when I failed.

  I want to go back in time, and I want to be with my son from the very beginning. From his very first breath, his very first cry, his very first smile. But, it’s all lost.

  The doctors at the hospital told me to be forgiving of myself. They wanted to help me, but I couldn’t tell them anything about myself. Three therapists tried me, but they failed. I was trained to keep my identity secret, after all.

  The drugs gave me a period of relief. Now, I’m back, focused on my son, determined to give him back what we lost together.

  Asher is my treasure, my joy, my one and only goal, my whole world.

  Gunner is like the reminder of my failure. He’s my fury and my pain.

  My forgetfulness at night. My fantasy I forbid myself to fulfil.

  My enemy.

  My yearning I kill with passion day after day.

  My evil desire. My dark thirst. The filth I remove from my head day after day.

  The peace I refuse to immerse myself in.

  The sin I regret.

  The name on my son’s fake birth certificate.

  I fucking want to kill whoever came up with that idea. Gunner Junior for sure. My dad probably. Why would they ask for my permission?

  My mom glances at me with concern as I put Asher on the carpet and he staggers towards her. She’s sitting on the floor with her feet tucked under her bottom, her arms extended. Her fingers wave like an invitation for Asher to fall into her embrace.

  “A-sherr,” she hums. “Co-mme tto mme.”

  I can see the strain of her neck muscles and veins popping out. Asher doesn’t understand sign language so she talks to him how she can. And he loves it. He giggles, and snorts, and waves his hands at her every word to him.

  I watch my son sway and my mom leaps to him to support him.

  The sound of heavy footsteps makes me look over my shoulder and I see my dad walking into the living room. A plastic bag with grocery shopping swings in his hand.

  I move closer to him and take the bag from his hand.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “No problem,” he says and leans forward to take Asher from my mom’s arms.

  He throws my son over his shoulder and tickles his chest. Asher giggles like crazy.

  “Feed him and I’ll take him out for a walk,” Dad says.

  “You feed him,” I say. “He’s your grandson, right?”

  Dad’s arm shoots towards me, and he pulls me to him, tickling my chest.

  I wiggle. “Dad, I’m too old.”

  “You’re still a brat,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “Go out for a walk or visit Carrie. Your mom and I will look after Asher.”

  “I don’t feel like walking or socialising,” I say.

  “A mo-vvie?” Mom asks.

  “I actually want to fill up the papers to start an IT course in college in October,” I say.

  Mom nods at me, a bright smile curling her lips.

  “You need to talk about it with Gunner Junior,” Dad says in a matter-of-fact tone.

  I pull away. “It’s none of his business.”

  “It is,” Dad says as the sharp tinge of his voice tells me not to argue with him.

  I fucking hate him sometimes. He thinks he has a recipe for every problem in my life. He will just command me and get furious when I disobey him.

  “I will think about it,” I say.

  Dad sends me an evil grin and winks at me.

  I sometimes admire my mom’s patience for him.

  Well, when I lived in their house, I could sometimes hear horrible sounds coming from their bedroom at night so I guess, he must compensate her for his crude personality.

  I go to my bedroom and sit in the armchair with my laptop on my thighs. My phone rings. I answer it and a shaky voice squeaks, “It’s Christa.”

  I’m numb at first then heat rushes to my cheeks as my mind pictures her blurry face.

  “Sol?” Christa sobs.

  “What is it, honey?”

  “I need help.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I really need help, Sol.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Daisy Close, UH34. I have nobody else to ask—“

  The dread in her voice makes my mind turn sharp. I know I have to act. “Are you safe there?”

  “For now.”

  “Stay where you are, okay? Someone will pick you up as soon as possible.” I disconnect and call my brother. “Hawk?”

  “Are you in trouble again?” he growls.

  Right. I always call him when I fuck something up. “No, but someone else is. Can you help me?”

  Gunner

  We’ve checked all the morgues that man, Charlie, made open for us. Yes, I decided to call the number Seafra gave me. Charlie was very expensive, but at the same time very helpful.

  I was hesitant at first, but Rebel said Seafra wouldn’t risk his career by offering us help only to expose us later. Rebel said Seafra would keep quiet because he’s like us—we could sense one another.

  We walk out of the grey building, the smell of death still lingering in my nostrils. The mortal coldness oozed by the fridges used to store corpses is still pricking my skin. My eyes travel to our bikes parked by the red bricked wall.

  “One more morgue left to check,” I say and loosen the collar of my white shirt.

  I can’t wait to shake off the navy suit I have on. My hand jerks up to touch the fake badge hanging on my neck. Yep, Charlie was incredibly helpful. He provided us with the fake badges so we could pretend to be two police officers.

  Rebel shakes off his grey jacket and rips the front of his white shirt open. “I’m hungry.”

  “Me too.”

  “Burgers?”

  “Fish and chips?”

  “Fuck off with your fish and chips. I hate this dish.”

  “You hate everything and everybody here.”

  “People talk here like they have water in their mouths all the time.” He nods. “You too. You’d better visit my club more often and learn to talk like a human being.”

  We jump on our bikes.

  “Kebab?” I ask.

  “I’m paying,” Rebel says.

  I salute him. “A large one with chips and naan bread.”

  I paid him in advance, the whole sum to have it off my head, but he’s using the money to pay for our food, accommodation and to cover all the additional expenses our search will require. The fuel. The alcohol. The clothes. He won’t earn a lot. Maybe even nothing.

  “Did you call her?” he asks.

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “Call her at last, I’m telling you.”

  “Call Star.”

  “She’s sixteen, you dick. I can’t call her. I can’t touch her or even think of her.”

  “She’ll be eighteen in less than two years.”

  “Fuck off,” Rebel growls.

&nbs
p; “You too.”

  We roar towards the main road crossing the town then we have a meal in a nice pub and when our stomachs are so full we can’t move, we tumble into our hotel rooms.

  As the day is about to dawn, we get up and visit the last morgue on our list.

  The old forensic doctor working there is very helpful though his appearance makes me shudder. He’s tall and dry, his eyeballs almost pouring out of his sockets. He must have been a handsome guy before his thyroid went mad. Yep, I know this condition. It’s called Graves’ disease. Aphrodite loved to show us the pictures in Athena’s medical books when we were kids. Cindy was scared of them, Daisy was morbidly interested in them, and I was repulsed by them.

  The forensic doctor shows us a few photos from post mortems. My eyes flick over one of them and my heart stops beating. I recognise the remains of Shay.

  The photo burns an image into my memory. The smell of the morgue burns a sensation into my memory. My heart turns into ice and crumbles into a thousand pieces. It hurts so much. It hurts even more with every second that passes.

  Rebel shoves me gently towards the exit as tears well in my eyes.

  “I’ll do this,” he says, leaning towards me. “Go outside.”

  As the cool air outside of the building fills my lungs, I can’t recall my way. I’m standing by my bike, my chest shaking. Tears are streaming down my face.

  “John Green,” Rebel says from behind me. “Buried in the cemetery ten miles away from here.”

  “Thanks, bro,” I rasp.

  “You’re welcome, bro.” He shoves a wad of money into my pocket. “It’s finished.”

  “Take that fucking money back,” I say. “You’ve earned it.”

  “I kind of changed my mind.” He slaps me on the back. “And Charlie was actually more helpful than me. Right. We’re getting drunk tonight and you’re paying.”

  “I can live with that.”

  We get drunk and early the next morning, we sneak into the cemetery, break the tablet marked with the inscription ‘John Green’, using hammers, and we take out the urn with Shay’s ashes. It’s covered with dust and cobwebs. I remove the dirt with the cuff of my shirt and polish the black porcelain to make it shine back again.

  For a moment, I feel like my brother is with me. I can almost hear him calling me nasty names, laughing at me, shouting at me. I can almost see us climbing a fence, stealing cigarettes from Dimitri, eavesdropping on the club’s church.