Fighting Absolution
Page 1
FIGHTING ABSOLUTION
Copyright © Kate McCarthy 2019
ISBN-13: 978-0-6481236-4-4
ISBN-10: 0-6481236-4-2
Amazon Edition
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any other information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for brief quotations in a review.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your e-retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual person’s, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing by Maxann Dobson, The Polished Pen http://www.polished-pen.com
Developmental professional beta by Alpha Beta Inc https://bit.ly/2GKPDMK
Created with Vellum
Contents
Author’s Note
Dedication
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
THANK YOU
Coming Next
Books By Kate Mccarthy
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Author’s Note
Fighting Absolution, while a fictional story, deals with the subject of the war in Afghanistan and how it impacts the lives of soldiers and those who are left behind. The utmost care has been taken to write this story with respect for those who serve or have served their country and the families that love them.
Special Acknowledgement
To the former and current soldiers of the army who have assisted me with ensuring the accuracy of the following fictional events, thank you so very much.
Dedication
To Sergeant First Class Jeremy Hodson
US Army Retired
The best friendships are the unexpected ones.
The ones you never saw coming.
The ones that change your whole life.
Thank you for changing mine.
This book is for you.
“All that I am, all that we were,
is here in these pages.
This is me. Screaming to the world …
I was here.
I loved you.
I was happy.
It mattered.
~ Ranata Suzuki
1
JAMIE MURPHY, 15 YEARS OLD
Perth, Australia, 2006
I step outside the back door and down the three cement stairs leading to the brown, patchy grass. The rusty old screen door slaps closed behind me. I tilt my head to the sky. The sun warms my face, the sensation breathing life into my body. And there lies the problem. Because the sensation reminds me I’m alive, and with that reminder brings an ache so deep it steals my breath.
My eyes burn and I squeeze them shut.
Oh, Dad.
His image flutters through my mind. Dark hair. Strong jaw. Fierce brown eyes. The love in them. The way they shone whenever he teased me. My father was a fighter. Literally. He was signed with the Ultimate Fighting Championship—the UFC. He travelled the world in competition, claiming the title of middleweight champion. His was a meteoric rise to fame. Forbes listed him as one of the greatest fighters of all time. Of all time. He wasn’t the flashiest fighter around, but he was the deadliest. He radiated power and confidence, his eyes savage as he took down opponent after opponent like they were nothing.
Despite the success, he made it hard for anyone to like him. He was rude and aggressive, shoving a reporter who had the gall to call his fights all hype and no substance. He once fired his manager in a spectacular public rant, right outside the cage after a fight that won him a title. The media dragged all the sordid details of the divorce from his wife, my mother, including counts of cheating—on both sides—money grabbing—my mother—and worst of all the custody battle, which my father won with ease. I was the subject of his adoration. My mother was not. She hated me for it. And all this by the age of thirty.
He took sole custody of me when I was six years old, while my mother took all his money and disappeared to Europe, never to be seen or heard from again.
I was the only one who saw his smile. I was the one he laughed with and carried on his broad, muscular shoulders. The one he took to the beach and tossed in the water, watching with amusement as I learnt to ride the waves. My father taught me everything he knew, including the kind of moves that could put a guy in the ground if he looked at me the wrong way.
Seeing my father win a fight was like watching a star shooting across the sky—extraordinary and untouchable. But the problem with shooting stars is that they burn too quick. Too bright. Too fast. And far, far too hard.
Great success in sport equals injuries of similar proportions. And soon after came surgeries and painkillers. Comebacks. More injuries. More painkillers, this time downed with alcohol. He lost his title. He lost his fans along with it too, because fans are fickle creatures; they devour you until you’re nothing but an empty husk before moving on to the next great success.
Medical bills eventually took what money he had left. And while I had been the light of his life, it wasn’t enough, because the fight was the love of his life, and all the fight left inside of him was gone.
“Jamie!”
My eyes shoot open, the voice cutting through the memories. I ignore it and limp towards the back of the yard. My feet crunch across the dead grass, the sharp little blades poking my tender skin. Reaching the fence, I turn and slide my back down the timber panels until my butt hits the ground.
Now what, Dad?
I thump my head back against the fence.
Thwack!
The fence hits back. My body jerks forward, my arm jostled inside its brand-new cast.
“Ouch!” I yell. “What the …”
I twist around, peering through the tiny gap in the panelling. At best I can see a flash of golden-brown hair well overdue for a cut. It has a slight curl and hangs out from beneath a red ball cap. The sliver of a bright hazel eye peers back at me. At least I think it’s hazel. There seems to be some green and gold mixed with the brown.
“Sorry,” comes the reply. I catch the flash of a rugby ball as he tosses it back and forth in his hands.
“Jerk,” I hiss, my entire body aching. “Watch where you’re throwin
g that stupid thing.”
“Hey.” His voice sounds taken aback. “It was an accident. The ball hit the fence. I didn’t know anyone was sitting against it.”
“Well, I’ve had enough accidents to last a lifetime,” I snap, furious. “Go kick your ball somewhere else.”
I turn back around, but he doesn’t leave. “What happened to your face?”
Heat pricks my eyes, and I palm my swollen cheek, knowing my body has a thousand bruises beneath the clothes that match this one. Damn you, Dad. Goddamn you.
“Nothing,” I retort with a heated lie. How can he even see my face? “It’s perfectly fine.”
“Did someone hurt you?”
“Don’t be so nosy. No one hurt me.” A shuddery breath escapes me. “Get lost.”
“Wow, okay.”
I hear grass crunching, and I turn for another peek. He’s moving away … I think. The gaps in the timber make it hard to see. I know there’s another backyard behind this one; the houses flank each other all the way down the street.
Silence returns and I close my eyes.
Time passes.
“Jamie!”
As much as I want to, I can’t sit out here forever. I struggle to my feet and limp my return to the house, the midday heat causing a trickle of sweat to wind its way down the centre of my back.
I yank open the crappy screen door. I’m greeted by Sue standing in the kitchen, wiping her hands with a tea towel. Her frizzy blond hair is tied in a knot on the top of her head, and her cheap cotton dress flutters beneath the overhead fan. She nods towards the bathroom. “You’re a mess. Go shower. It will make you feel better.”
I don’t answer. I simply head towards the bathroom like she asked, knowing no shower in the world will make anything better ever again.
The next day I return to my spot by the fence. I turn and plonk down against it, closing my eyes, but the sound of screeching metal assaults my ears. Glass shatters, spraying my face, cutting it into a thousand pieces.
I gasp, my eyes blinking open and chest pounding. I brush at my face but there’s no metal. No glass. Just healing cuts and bruises. A mess that didn’t wash away in the shower yesterday.
Another shuddery breath escapes me. And another.
“You’re back,” comes the same voice from yesterday.
I ignore him, hoping he’ll go away as I work at calming my racing pulse.
“Did you just move in?”
My nostrils flare but I don’t engage.
“What’s your name?”
“None of your business!” I burst out with heated aggression. I came here for peace, not an inquisition.
“That’s okay. I can just make one up for you.”
A frustrated snort escapes me.
“I’ll call you Little Warrior, because you’re kinda like a rabid animal.”
Do not engage. Do not engage. “I’m not little.”
“Sure you are. You’re like, what, thirteen?”
I go to fold my arms and wince at the spike of sharp pain. A reminder that the bones in my forearm are shattered and a couple of pins and papier-mâché are all that holds it together. “I’ll be sixteen in a few months. And you’re what, ten?”
“Older than you. Seventeen.”
“Pffft.” I twist around, peering through the tiny sliver. It’s hard to tell, but he does look older. Big. Broad. Maybe. I gently press my face to the fence and squint, but I can’t get the full picture. I barely get any picture at all. All I can see is his stupid hair. “Bear.”
“What?”
“That’s my made-up name for you. Bear. Because you look like a freaking grizzly.” My comment is mean and harsh and doesn’t feel good. It just makes my insides sink lower than they already have.
Bear only chuckles, not seeming bothered by my snark at all. “Yeah, I could probably do with a haircut.”
“So why don’t you go do that and leave me alone?”
“Because I’m curious.”
“Curious about what?”
He turns his head away, his voice softening. “About how you got those bruises on your face.”
For a moment I’d forgotten they were there. The pain throbs anew. A wound that will never heal. I turn and sink back against the fence. “Go away, Bear.”
The quiet returns.
I close my eyes.
Three days later and I’m back at my usual spot by the fence. I like it here. It’s shaded by a big tree and mostly quiet apart from the occasional harassment by Bear. Inside the house is messy and loud, the noise grating. My jaw aches from biting back the urge to scream at them all to shut up.
I get almost an hour of alone time before the voice comes from over the fence.
“Hey.”
Surely he’s not so hard up for conversation that he has to harass me for it.
“So, what school are you going to?”
I sigh. Apparently he is.
School starts in less than two weeks, and I couldn’t care less. New teachers. New faces. The start of a new year. People talking about summer break, all tanned and relaxed and happy.
“Are you going?” he asks when I don’t respond.
I ignore that too.
“Why don’t you talk?”
I contemplate this question for a moment. “Because it feels better not to talk. To anyone. About anything.” Talking means remembering and remembering just hurts.
“Okay.”
The fence jolts. I twist around. Bear is sitting with his back against the fence, mimicking me. My stomach tightens at his proximity. “What are you doing?”
“Sitting here, not talking to you. Trying to see if it feels better.”
How ridiculous. Who is this guy? Then I remind myself that I don’t care who he is and turn back around. Now we’re sitting with our backs to each other, the fence a barrier between us.
A half hour passes and I risk a peek. He’s still sitting there. I’m not sure what irritates me more: his quiet presence or all his questions. I fidget with a blade of grass, shredding it between my fingernails.
“Fine,” I burst out, unable to handle the loaded silence a moment longer. “I’m going to Chatsworth High.”
His voice shows no hint of triumph at my answer. “That’s a girl’s school.”
“So?”
“I go to Bayside State. We won’t be study buddies.”
“I don’t want a study buddy.”
“We could always study together after school.”
He sounds thoughtful, as if he’s seriously contemplating it.
“No. Not happening.”
“Don’t be like that, LW.”
“LW?”
“Your name’s a bit wordy. Thought I’d shorten it.”
I roll my eyes. He can’t see it, but I hope he feels it.
“How was your first day at Chatsworth?”
Seriously? I sigh, tipping my head back against the fence. “It was fine.”
If fine means fielding rude stares from students all day long. I’m not just the new kid, I’m also covered in faded cuts and bruises, casts and bandages—though my leg is better so at least the limp is less pronounced. The worst part? They all know why. They know what happened. Who I am. Pity leached from their staring eyes until it suffocated me. It’s almost a relief to be back by the fence with Bear and his teasing questions and warm voice.
“Make any new friends?”
A huff of disbelief escapes my mouth. Who would want to be friends with some broken, angry girl? “No, Bear. No friends.”
He hums quietly. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Sure. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Hey, you got your cast off!”
I look down at my arm, wondering how Bear even knew I had one. It’s not like you can see properly through the fence. The cast had been on for ten weeks. Now my skin is pale, the muscle tone gone, angry red scars marring the once smooth, tanned flesh. It looks horrible and I don’t care. The mirror doesn’t show much better either. My once healthy
, happy face is now pale and thin. A fine red scar decorates my right cheekbone, just below dark brown eyes that once held warmth and happiness. I’m assured it will fade in time, as if it’s important my face is the unmarred perfection it used to be. I used to long for freckles or rosy cheeks—anything to make my face more interesting. Be careful what you wish for, I guess.
My long brown hair sits in a ponytail now because who can be bothered to wash it? Sue suggested cutting it, but Dad used to braid my long hair before bedtime. He would smooth the thick strands with battered hands and tattooed arms that were trained to cause damage, weaving made-up fairy tales as he plaited, ones where the girl beat her foe alone and ended up saving the boy instead.
I ignored Sue’s suggestion.
“Yeah. I got my cast off.”
“How does it feel?”
I test the arm, lifting it up and down. “Really light. Like it’s made of air.”
“How did you break it?”
I don’t answer.
“Come on, LW,” he pleads. “Give me something.”
I open my mouth, finding myself about to give him something because his voice tugs at me as if he cares. It’s hard not to respond to that. Then I close it.
“I’ll come over and knock on your door,” he threatens.