“Fuck Max. You’re just making excuses—”
“Chill, Dad. Don’t talk to her like that. She’s dealing with enough shit right now,” Kenzie interjects.
“Did you know about this? Know she was living with this pair of arseholes?” he asks Makenzie, but then quickly turns his glare to Mel.
I can’t believe my brother is losing his shit the way he is.
“No,” Mel and Kenzie respond together.
Despite the fact I have mentioned it to Mel and that Kenz knows everything, they both sound convincing.
Cal stands with his hands on his hips, surveying us. His chest moves up and down a little too rapidly, and I can totally empathise with the frustration he’s probably feeling at this moment.
“I was gonna call you this week and ask your advice. I planned on getting out, but I didn’t wanna leave the kids without knowing they’d be safe. I was going to ask you to speak to Aaron about going to the correct authorities.”
“You should’ve put your own safety first.”
“Yeah? Well, just like you, I’m not wired that way. And just like I know you’d always put Mel, Kenz, and me first, that’s exactly how I feel about Ollie and Amelia.”
He rolls his lips between his teeth and regards me for a long moment. “He pointed the gun at his kid.”
All of my bullshit and bravado leaves me so rapidly my head spins, and I feel sick, hot and cold all at once.
“He did what? No. Which . . . which one?” I start to cry again as I ask.
“The boy,” Cal tells me. “Carmen told him to get off you then the kid came out of the bedroom. That fucker picked up the gun and pointed it at his own kid.” Cal’s mouth twists and distorts as he tries to contain his emotions. “He pointed the gun at his kid and then he pointed it at you. That’s when Carmen put a bullet right through his brain.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God!” I cry. “Poor Ollie. Poor Ollie would’ve seen it all. I’m gonna be sick. Get me something . . . I’m gonna . . .”
Makenzie sticks a kidney-shaped bowl in front of me, and I heave. I don’t remember the last time I ate, so all that comes up is yellow bile. It burns my throat, and I cough, making me heave and gag again.
Mel rubs my back, Kenzie heaves right along with me, and I’ve no clue where Cal vanishes to.
I’ve spent three hours with two detectives from the LAPD, and I’m over it.
Aaron arrived about an hour before the police were due and talked me through what they would ask and told me to just give them as much detail as I could recall.
Thankfully because Aaron represents bands from both sides of the Atlantic, he’s passed the bar and can act on my behalf while I’m being questioned.
I thought I had nothing to hide, that I was being questioned as a witness, but once the interview started, I began to feel more like I was the one who’d committed a crime. One of the detectives is okay, an older man called Schuster. The younger one, though—Foster—is a total dick.
Mel and Kenzie have been allowed to stay with me as I’ve recounted the events of Saturday night. And despite my unease, I’m able to recall most of what happened and hopefully give fairly accurate answers.
“Can you confirm for us what you were wearing on the night of the attack?” Foster asks.
Shocked at his question, I open my mouth to ask why he needs to know when Aaron interrupts.
“Can I ask the relevance of this question?”
“Yeah, I’d like to know what the fuck this has to do with anything too,” Makenzie questions.
What. The. Actual. Fuck. Surely, they don’t think I’d led Michael Bosworth on in any way? That what happened is somehow my fault?
“Can you tell us what Michael Bosworth was wearing that night? What about Carmen? What relevance does Billie’s attire have on the case?” Mel asks.
The detectives look at each other and then Foster looks back at me. “Mrs Bosworth claims you were wearing a pair of sleep shorts—”
“I was. I was ready for bed,” I snap. “As far as I was aware, the Bosworth's were out for the evening. I’d just put the children to bed when I heard Michael come home. Like I said, he was drunk, he dropped his keys, then knocked something over, and I heard him slurring as he argued with his wife on the phone. Their arguments tend to get violent when alcohol’s involved. So, before Carmen returned and it all kicked off like it has in the past, I woke Oliver and made him walk while I carried Amelia to my bedroom because they get scared when their parents fight. I’ve explained all of this.”
The room’s silent for a second. The detective's tone and line of questioning has caused the bubble of anger that is brewing in my belly to become a boiling cauldron. “What do you wear to bed, Detective Foster? You wear pyjamas or sleep in your boxers?”
“Well, I-I d—”
“If someone broke into your house in the middle of the night, attacked you, beat you, held a gun at your head, tried to rip your nipple off with their teeth as they attempted to push their fingers inside you, would it have any relevance to what you’d gone to bed wearing? Would it be your fault for wearing whatever the fuck you felt comfortable in while in what you considered the privacy and relative safety of your own fucking home?” My voice trembles and gets louder with each word.
The door opens and Cal comes through it. I’d questioned Mel earlier regarding his whereabouts, but she’d been a little evasive and told me he had shit to do.
That shit obviously involved hovering outside my hospital door.
“I think we’re done here,” he tells Foster, whose eyes widen as he takes in Cal.
Did he not know who my brother is? Not that it should matter a fuck to the way I’ve just been treated.
Aaron stands and adds, “We absolutely are most definitely done here. Ms Wild will be returning to the UK tomorrow. Any further questions will need to be directed to my office. We’ll be in touch.”
I draw deep breaths in through my nose as I attempt to control the rage and indignation I feel.
“I’m sorry, Ms Wild …” he looks down at his notes then from me to my brother, and I observe the oh-shit-I’ve-fucked-up look of realisation cross his face as he joins the dots.
And that pisses me off even more. It shouldn’t matter who I am or who I’m related to. Who my brother is should bear zero relevance on my case, this interview, or how I’m treated. But it very obviously does.
“If I offended you in any way, Ms Wild, I apologise. I was just trying to confirm Mrs Bosworth’s statements.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “And if my surname was Jones and my brother wasn’t famous, would you still be apologising?”
“Of course—”
“You’re a fucking liar, Detective Foster. If you have a daughter, I hope she never has to go through what I did Saturday night, and if she does ever have reason to go to the police, I hope she’s interviewed by a cop who shows a little more compassion than you’ve just shown me.”
Billie
The rain hammers against my bedroom window as I sit with my back against my headboard and begin the process of setting up my new phone. I’ve been out of the hospital and home from America for over three weeks, but I’ve stayed off-line and avoided all social media in that time.
My phone was smashed during my assault, and my Mac only arrived with the rest of my stuff I’d left in the States on Friday. I’ve yet to unpack it, and except for a couple of medical appointments, I’ve yet to leave the house.
I feel safe here. Back in the place I’ve called home since the age of seven. Back with the people who know me better than I know myself sometimes. The smells, the sounds of sparrows chirping and blackbirds singing, the way the morning sun forces just a sliver of watery winter sunlight through the very slight gap between my drawn curtains, highlighting the dust motes dancing around my room. It’s all familiar, comforting, and right where I need to be. I’m not depressed or feeling reclusive; I’ve simply needed the time to process what’s happened. When I was a kid, I didn’t take the t
ime to do that. I was seven and had no clue how to. So, I put it away. Compartmentalised my life into a before and after my parents were killed, and I carried on. That worked until puberty hit, hormones kicked in, and I suddenly hated the world and everyone in it.
I was a total bitch to my brother, Mel, and Makenzie—to anyone I came into contact with really. When I was eleven, I spent my first summer in the States with my aunt Deb and her husband. She and Seth run a stud farm, breeding horses and a boarding kennels where owners house their dogs while they take their holidays.
Despite my pre-teen arseholeness, I don’t think my brother and Mel sent me away. I think it was more that they were worried about me and thought the trip would do me good. They were right, it did. For the entire summer, I threw myself into mucking out stables, feeding dogs, and generally helping out around the place in any way that I could.
It was exhausting and left me with no energy spare to be angry, so I was only left with time to think and process as best I could what had happened to my parents, and so I returned to England slightly more settled.
After that first summer, I returned to Deb and Seth’s ranch for almost every school holiday. I grew to love America and decided it was where I wanted to go to college. I studied hard, and by the time I left school, I’d gained the grades required to apply to some of the best universities in California.
I decided on UCLA and embarked on the next stage of my life knowing that my family was supporting the decision.
My phone vibrates with messages, tags, and alerts as I log into each of my social media accounts.
I don’t have many friends. I had a few during secondary school, but I was always wary that people only wanted to become friends with me because of who my brother is. Makenzie is a little bit like me in that way. Our circle is tight, and one of our mutual and few close friends, Daniel, initiates a Facebook call almost the instant I have the messenger app set up.
“I honestly don’t know why I’m wasting my breath with this call. Heaven knows, girl, you don’t deserve either my time or my energy.”
“Hey, Dan.”
“Hey, Dan? Hey. Fucking. Dan? That is all you have after ignoring my messages for the last however knows how long? I’ve worried myself into a fresh round of Botox to deal with the ridges in my forehead caused by frowning in fear, and the crow's feet caused by the sleepless nights spent worrying about you, and all I get in return is hey Dan?”
“Why are you talking like you were raised in the Deep South of America when I know for a fact you’ve lived your entire life in Belsize Park?”
“I should hang up right now. Just tap that screen and end the call this very second.”
“But you love me, so you won’t, plus . . . you’re desperate to know what happened.”
The line goes quiet for a moment, and the only sound in my room is the rain hitting the window and the birds singing in the garden.
I check the screen to make sure the call hasn’t dropped out. “Dan?”
“Girl, I was shook. Do you have any idea how worried I was? I was at work and reports started coming in, saying you’d been involved in a fatal shooting. Girl, can you even imagine how that made me feel?”
“Shook?” I offer.
Being the campest gay man I’d ever known, Daniel Milliano has a penchant for the dramatic, which led to his highly successful career as one of the top columnists at Sexzy Goz, Britain’s most popular celebrity news show, it makes sense that he would’ve heard my news at work.
“To. The. Core.”
“I’m sorry. I was unconscious and my phone was smashed.”
“For four fucking weeks?”
“My Mac was still in California and only arrived here on Friday, my phone was taken from the scene as evidence, and I still have no clue to its current whereabouts. Kenz only picked me up a new one yesterday. I’m, quite literally, lying in bed, setting it up now.”
“Why didn’t you just jump online and order one?”
I scratch at my temple, which is still a little sore while contemplating my response. “I didn’t wanna see the headlines. I've only just logged into my social media, and my phone has barely stopped vibrating with alerts for the past fifteen minutes.”
“Best not waste that.”
“What?”
“All that vibrating.”
“Eww.”
It’s quiet again for a few more seconds before I add, “I knew whatever you weren’t able to find out through work Kenz would keep you updated on, and she told me that she had.”
“Yeah, but it took her three fucking days,” he complains. “And we were getting nothing from our usual sources. Rumour has it your brother's team had everything surrounding the story shut down tight. Oh, to have a rock star love me that much.”
“He’s my brother, of course he loves me.” I take a second to appreciate how true that statement is before continuing, “And Kenz dropped everything and jumped on a plane with Cal and Mel and flew to be with me. Besides, there was a police investigation going on, she wasn’t allowed to tell you much.”
“I was worried. Terrified.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. The paps have finally stopped camping outside of my house. How about you come over in the week?”
“How about you meet me in the Green Man for a drink and some lunch today?”
“Can’t. Out with the fam today.”
“Lucky you. Anywhere nice?”
“Just over to Max’s.” Despite my heart racing when I say his name, I hope my tone sounds casual.
“Just over to Max’s.” He attempts to mimic my voice. “You say that like you’re just going to your nan’s for Sunday dinner and not to the house of one of the hottest blokes on the planet. The home of your first crush, might I add. And don’t even pretend you’re not nervous, I can hear it in your voice.”
I shrug and let out a huff. We’ve had these conversations so many times now that they bore me. I’m no longer a fan of Max Young. I think he’s a bit of a dick, so why am I just a little nervous to see him?
“Told ya before, he’s just Max: mean, moody, Max. Unless I want to rub him up the wrong way…”
“I’d like to rub him up the wrong way, the right way, any way—”
“As I was saying . . . if I wanna really provoke him, I just call him Wilma.”
“And he calls you Bamm, yeah, heard the stories before, and it just makes the bloke hotter.”
“How so?” I ask, as my bedroom door opens and Makenzie walks in. I tense as she flops down onto my bed. My ribs are healing but still really sore. I’m so used to holding my breath when there’s any kind of movement around me—it’s become a habit.
“It just makes him more human.”
“He is human, they’re all human. They just also happen to be musicians in a successful band too.”
“And hot.”
“Who’s that?” Kenzie mouths.
“Dan,” I reply.
“Jake, maybe. Jay’s happily married and not my type, Max is a dick, and Cal’s my brother.”
“That’s my dad your talking ’bout, homie, best check yourself,” Kenzie says, clearly not amused.
“What is it with everyone talking in terrible American slang today?” I ask.
Kenz looks at me in disgust and shakes her head. I’ve no idea why.
“Hey, girlfriend,” Dan responds.
I switch my phone to speaker and leave them to talk.
I head into my walk-in wardrobe and switch on the light. I have about four things looking very lonely as they hang forlornly in the vast space. A pair of ripped jeans, a Khaki green sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder and has “Stick ’em with the pointy end,” printed across the back and a sword on the front. It’s a Jon Snow quote from the first season of Game of Thrones, a show I might be a little obsessed with. Next to the sweatshirt is a black tutu, and next to the tutu, a light blue floral maxi dress, which still has the tags attached. I purchased it online when I was here last summer for a quick visit.
It didn’t arrive until after I’d left, so I asked Mel to hang it in my wardrobe. The rest of my clothes are still in the boxes that have just arrived from the States and are sitting in the garage waiting for me to unpack, something I would do once my arm was out of the cast I still had to wear.
“I came to see if you wanted help washing your hair,” Kenzie says from behind me.
“I did it in the shower last night and let it dry naturally. Could probably do with some help putting it up or something though.”
I run the fingers of my good hand through it.
“It’s got long,” Kenzie states, “and really fair from all that California sunshine. How about I plait it so it curves around your head and hangs around your shoulder?”
“Sounds good. Have you got a pair of boots I can borrow? I’m a bit limited for outfit choices so was just gonna throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, but I’ve nothing to put on my feet?” I pull the items off their hangers.
Kenzie eyes my sweatshirt. “I’ve got the perfect pair to go with that little ensemble, just bought them at work last week.”
When Kenzie’s not at school, she works at Mel’s trendy retro clothing boutique on the King’s Road. Stuff, Your Nan Loved, sells everything from pre-loved clothing and shoes to accessories, household kitsch, and vinyl records. You could spend hours rifling through their wares, searching for something unique.
“You doing okay?” Kenzie asks as I turn around and catch her staring at me.
“Yep.”
“You sure? Not, you know, nervous about leaving the house?”
“I told you, my not leaving the house has nothing to do with nerves, I just needed—”
“To process. Yeah, I know. So, have you? Processed, I mean?”
“I think so. I don’t feel as angry as I did, and I definitely don’t feel any kind of guilt or responsibility.”
“Nor should you. That fucking copper needs a dick kick for even going there and putting that idea in your head.”
“He does,” I agree.
“Mel thinks you should see a counsellor.”
“I know, but I’m honestly doing okay. I think coming home has been therapy enough.”
All the Forbidden Things Page 11