by Esme Devlin
I don’t pay my friends any attention, instead I head straight out to the balcony and light up another cigarette.
I do know what I want from her, but I’m not going to tell her that. I want her to remember what happened and understand that it’s not me who needs her forgiveness. I want her to know what she did to me, and I don’t just want her to know it, I want her to feel it in her fucking bones.
My fingers curl around the cold damp stone of the balcony, and I glance down at her old beat-up car.
Why isn’t she getting in it?
Unless she’s still busy seeing to Lucia? She did say she had work to do.
I watch the car for a short minute to make sure she’s not getting in it. It looks like an old Honda Civic, the type before they changed the shape. How the fuck is that thing still running? It’s probably older than me.
“Josh?” I shout on him from the balcony and a few moments later he comes out to stand beside me.
“That car doesn’t leave these grounds tonight, understand?”
He looks down at it and I watch his face change as realization dawns across it. “Aye, alright mate.”
I whip my phone out of my pocket and cancel the taxi. We’re having a Saturday night in.
Chapter 7
Grace
“I love it but I think it could do with being a couple of inches shorter?”
I nod enthusiastically, even though I think she’s talking shite. It’s already shorter than it should be, in my opinion.
“Sure, I can take the hem up a bit,” I say, sitting back down on my knees at her feet and rolling the fabric up an extra inch at the front. “Hows that for length? I’ll need to take it back to the shop to stitch it up properly, but I can have it ready tomorrow.”
Lucia nods, not taking her eyes off her reflection in the mirror. “This is perfect. You have a gift, truly.”
I smile while I drag myself up off the floor. “It’s nothing.”
“No, it’s a blessing. I wish I’d have done… something. Learned a skill of sorts. Something that will always be useful, you know?”
She wiggles out of the dress, carefully avoiding the pins, and I busy myself packing my things up into my travel bag.
“Well, why don’t you learn something?”
“Pfft. I think I’ve missed the boat there. Plus, Robert wouldn’t have it.” She folds the dress and places it down on the couch beside me. “I mean, he only lets Mal do what he does on the agreement that he’ll cut it out when he gets to twenty-one.”
I want to ask her why Robert — who I can only assume is Mr Hunter — wouldn’t allow it, but I’ll ask that later. I’m too fucking curious about the man upstairs, the man who makes me feel nervous and angry all at the same time. Nergry. That’s not a word but fuck it; it is a feeling and it should be a word.
“I saw Malachy at college on Wednesday. What does he do?”
I try to act all casual and continue stabbing excess pins into the cushion but my eyes occasionally flick up to see her reaction.
She shrugs. “I think it’s kitchen fitting or something. Carpentry. Who knows, stuff with wood. He locks himself away in that basement down there all the time, but I’ve never been allowed in.”
Interesting. What does he make in there? Kitchens? Probably fucking weapons judging by his attitude.
Voodoo dolls in my image.
Stop it.
I drag my wits back to the conversation at hand. “Hmm. So what do you enjoy? If he lets Malachy, then surely he’d let you do something too?”
She rolls her eyes, silently telling me as if. “Mal will have to step up to his role soon enough. And I’m already in mine.” She gestures up and down her body with her hands. “I’m the trophy wife.”
This is getting awkward. It’s not my place to judge her lot in life, or her marriage for that matter. But I can’t fucking help myself — always wanting to fix stuff. My mum says it’s because I survived death, it makes me more of an optimist. I think I need to learn to turn the other cheek and keep my nose well away.
But fuck it.
“Well, trophy or not they have a value. It’s your life, and you only get one shot at it. If you’re not happy then you need to tell him what you want, you need to go and get it yourself.”
She smiles and pops herself down on the couch beside me, tightening her housecoat around her.
“I admire your attitude,” she says. “I like interiors. I like to take a room that’s lost its spirit and turn it into a space that makes you feel something the second you walk inside it. I’ve been doing it to this place, albeit slowly.”
“You did this room?”
She nods her head enthusiastically.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell her, looking around again at the fine furnishings and the smooth cream palette.
Although I don’t know if it makes me feel anything — other than perhaps out of place amongst the finery.
“Oh, it’s just a hobby,” she dismisses, swatting her hand in front of her face. “Not real work, like what you do.”
I smile at her. “Speaking of work… I want to get this finished this weekend for you.”
For you. I chuckle inside my own head. I just really, really, need the money, but spinning it in a way that makes it sound like good customer service is always a good idea.
“Of course. Sorry for keeping you. I’ll see you out,” she says, standing and smoothing her hands down her house coat.
“Thank you.” I pick up my bag and retrieve my car keys, following her to the door. “I’ll text you tomorrow to arrange delivery.”
“Great,” she says. “Goodnight, Grace.”
“Goodnight.”
And with that, the huge door slams shut behind me, and the chill of the wind hits me in the face like a cold wall.
I take a few steps, trying to catch the sensors for the outdoor lights, but they’re obviously switched off because they only light comes from the reflection of the few lit rooms inside the house.
The sound of the branches swaying in the wind across the courtyard is almost deafening, but I try to block it out. I know it’s ridiculous. I know they can’t hurt me.
But neither can spiders, and that doesn’t stop most folks.
I try to take my mind off the surroundings as I cross the court to where I parked the car and put my belongings in the boot.
I’ll think about that prick instead.
What the fuck is his problem? He’s given me nothing but attitude and snarky one-liners since the day he walked into my shop. I tried to be the bigger person, but that’s clearly not good enough for him.
And the way he boxed me in at the door, like I’m his to be pushed around.
I can’t help wondering if he will actually think about what he wants me to do. He can think all he wants, but I’m doing fuck-all. He had his chance at being civil, and I’m not about to make a fool of myself again anytime soon.
I let out a deep breath as I slide into the drivers seat, pleased that my little rant has successfully kept the panic at bay.
And then just when I think I’m in the clear, the car won’t start.
I try again, turning the key and leaving it in position while the engine tries to turn over and fails.
Fuck.
My phone is in my back pocket, and I pull it out to call Scott only to be met with beeps and a ‘call failed’ message on the screen.
No signal.
Lucia will have a house phone.
I try to get the car started one last time and when it refuses to move, I move, slamming the door shut behind me in frustration.
Remembering they have a bell, I try to find it in the dark, while simultaneously praying I don’t reach into a fucking spiders nest.
After a few moments, the door swings open to reveal Malachy’s silhouette, a tall dark wall of blackness in the space where the door should be. I can just about see him crossing his arms in the dim light.
“Can I help you? — Again,” he adds dryly.
&
nbsp; I snort, can’t help it, then promptly regret it because actually, I do need his shitting half-arsed help again.
“My car won’t start. Can I use your house phone? Please.”
He stands to the side of the door and lets me in, and I wait in the hall while he closes and locks it behind me. We eye each other up a few feet apart and when the silence gets uncomfortable, I break before he does.
“The phone?”
“We don’t have a house phone,” he shrugs.
“A mobile then? I need to call Scott and see if he can help get it started.”
Malachy smiles at me but it’s not a friendly one, it’s patronizing as fuck. “He’ll not get it started tonight, it’s pitch fucking dark outside.”
I want to ask him what does he suggest, bright-spark? But that would be rude, and I won’t lower myself to his standards.
“I’ll ask him for a ride home, then. If I could use your mobile for two minutes?”
He nods and walks passed me, and I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to follow him or not. He seems to get some fucked up thrill out of keeping me in the dark.
I go to follow him but his gruff voice floats back to my ears before I’ve taken the second step. “You wait there.”
Aye, alright then.
He keeps me waiting a few minutes and when he returns, he has on a black hoody under a leather jacket and a set of keys swinging from his left hand.
“Move your arse,” he says with a sigh, taking me by the shoulder and dragging me into step with him.
“What are you doing? I just need to phone Scott?”
He unlocks the door and we’re back outside in the cold wind. I brush my hair out of my eyes while I look up at him, waiting on his answer. “Malachy?”
“Josh is up the stairs but he can’t see in the dark either. Scott’s a pretty wee steroid wanker, Josh is an actual mechanic. I’ll take you home and he can look at the car in the morning.”
“It’s fine,” I snap, insulted by what he just called my brother. “Scott can take me home.”
He stops dead in the gravel and spins me around to face him. “Are you always this fucking ungrateful?”
I swallow at the accusation in his tone. “No. I just— ”
“You asked for my help, I’m helping you.”
“You were drinking tonight,” I tell him, my tone accusatory.
“I had a shot of whiskey 2 hours ago. You’ll live.”
I don’t trust Malachy Hunter as far as I could throw him. He makes no secret that he doesn’t like me at all, and after tonight I’ve decided I don’t like him either.
But refusing his offer will make me sound petty.
And why would he offer me a ride home if he hates me that much?
Maybe he’s just prickly.
Or maybe this is a ploy to get me in his car and finish what he started ten years ago.
“I—”
“Grace, you’re starting to fuck me right off. Do you want me to take you home or do you want to stay for a sleepover?”
“Uh. You’re a wanker, do you know that?”
“Yup. The car’s this way,” he tells me, turning around and walking towards the side end of the house.
I follow him because what the fuck else am I going to do? We round the corner and his car lights up and bleeps as he flicks it unlocked. A big fucking black German SUV thing that probably costs more than our house.
“I see Daddy’s been good to you,” I snipe as I head over to the passenger side. That was payback for Scott.
He snorts in reply as we both open our doors and get in. “If I relied on my old man, I’d have even less in this world than you do.”
Prick. But maybe I deserved that.
He starts the engine and pulls the car away. The smell of him fills the tight space and I’m on edge. I don’t know if it’s him or that fucking forest beside us, but I cannot seem to sit still. I fiddle with the radio, hoping for a distraction, and then clench my fingers around the sides of the leather seats.
“Fucks wrong with you?”
We’re about a third of the way down the long windy road that cuts through the trees and I keep my eyes on the dash.
“Nothing,” I grind out, kicking myself because that’s like the most obvious thing you can say when there is something wrong.
“For someone who claims forgiveness you act like you’re expecting me to jump on you any second.”
“I don't like the trees,” I tell him. I’d rather admit to that than let him know just how much he puts me on edge.
“The trees?”
“The trees. The woods. I don't like it.”
“Like… a phobia?” He glances over to me and I meet his eyes briefly before he drags them back to the curved road.
“More like crippling anxiety.”
He nods his head once and taps his tattoo’d fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the music. “Interesting.”
“It really isn't,” I argue.
He shrugs as he changes gear and speeds up. “I like shit like that.”
“Strange thing to like.”
He chuckles. “I find it interesting how events have the power to shape a person.”
“Sure you’d think differently if you suffered from it yourself.” I look out the window now that we’re pulling out on to the main road. I feel my heart rate steadying and it’s like I can breathe again, although I hadn’t been aware I was holding it in.
I’m calmer, and I’m not sure if it’s because the woods will shortly be behind us or if it’s that Malachy appears to be engaging in a somewhat civil conversation with me.
“We all have demons. Some of us just find different ways of dealing with them.”
“What like walking around being an arsehole to everyone?”
I sense his eyes on me and spin my head around to look at him. Reflections from the orange streetlights move across his face. He’s fucking handsome, more than handsome, and I can’t help wishing that he wasn’t such an arrogant bastard.
Then again, maybe that’s a good thing. Looks like his are dangerous.
He flicks his eyebrows before turning back to the road. “You want me to be nice to you? You don’t want that, darlin.”
“I think it’s you who doesn’t want that.”
“You need to direct me,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “What, in being nice?”
He laughs, a real one, and it completely changes his face into something more than his usual cold hard handsomeness. “In where to find your house, you fucking half-wit.”
“Oh.” A smile creeps across my face because his laugh is infectious, but I don’t let him see it. I explain the way to my house without giving him the name.
It’s not that I’m ashamed of where I’m from, where I live. I’m usually not. I just can’t deal with another sarky comment from him.
We pull into my street and I do cringe slightly when we pass the abandoned burst sofa lying out in the street, and the old kitchen appliances littering the gardens.
But if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
“How will I get my mum’s car back?”
He pulls the handbrake up but leaves the engine running and watches me. “Well I can send smoke signals or you can give me your phone number.”
I hold my hand out for his phone and he pulls it out of his back pocket, unlocking it before he shoves it into my hand. I go into his contacts, to add my number, and can’t help noticing that no one has actual names.
“Absolute Tits?” I look at him with raised eyebrows, and he chuckles while he grins.
“Might have overestimated them, can’t really remember.”
“You’re disgusting,” I tell him.
“Save yours as disgusted wee cow then, and I’ll know it’s you.”
I type my number and save it as the first thing that pops into my head, then pass him the phone back and go to open the door. The screen lights up his face while he scrolls through what I’m assuming is his conta
cts list.
He glances up at me. “I’m seeing fuck-all under D, darlin.”
“Check T. Darlin.”
I slam the door feeling pleased with myself and hear the window rolling down.
“I dunno when me and you are going to happen, but with the amount of thanks you’re due me, it’s going to be fucking dynamite,” he shouts out as I open the front gate.
“I’m not a manners person,” I shout back, hoping he catches my meaning.
He smirks. “I’ll teach you.”
Chapter 8
Malachy
.
Text Me Then Delete This THANKYOU
I laugh to myself as I pull the car out of this shitehole street. It’s the sort of place where you’d need to give a feral child a score, just to make sure the street-rats don’t steal the dust caps off your tyres.
And it’s the place Delete This calls home.
That pleases me.
But not as much as winding her up does.
I enjoy our banter, but it’s nothing more than a guise. I want her to be drawn to me, but still scared at the same time.
She told me she was scared of the woods beside my house, and I know exactly why that is. Her brain has linked the surroundings with the trauma that occurred there. This is a survival instinct. Stay away from the woods — stay alive.
I don’t want to kill her, though. I’m a monster but I’m not a murderer, at least when it comes to Grace. I want to fuck her up worse than that. I want to take away everything and everyone in her life she ever cared about. I want her to know what it feels like to know loneliness in a room full of people.
I don’t want her forgiveness. I want her tears. I want her to cry and beg for my forgiveness. I want her to feel the injustice that has lived inside me so long I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be without it.
And now I know exactly how I’m going to do it.
.
Pick you up at 10am. Be ready.
I hit send and throw the phone down on my bed beside me. I had thought about texting her last night, more than a few times.
But every time I hit the message icon next to Delete’s name, I talked myself out of it.