by Kingsley Ash
All I want is to fuck her until we’re both raw and wasted, until my cock can’t get hard no more. I open my mouth to say something else, but there must be some animal thing in me other than the beast, some urge to protect my girl, even from me. Because I don't do what I want to do. The ache is there again — to say or do something bad. So she gets mad or hurts so much that the only thing to take away her pain is my body.
Make her need me.
MINE.
I’ll never heal, not ever. I’ve fucked up, just like I always do. But when I’m with Amy, she makes all that shit go away and sometimes I think I’m okay. Hell, better than okay.
Thinking I might hurt her, that's what stops me long enough for me to get away from her.
After that, I can't go near her. I talk to her on the phone some nights. Just about drives me insane. It's like I can still smell her, like that smell is stuck in the back of my brain. Makes my cock hard all the time, and looking at her on screen, everything she does is porn. The way she touches her neck, sucks on the end of her pen, runs her hand over her hair when she stands up.
I jerk off until I'm raw, and I still want her.
42
YOU
I ARRIVE LATE for breakfast the next morning, and take my seat before noticing Daisy isn’t here.
After we’ve eaten, we go to Magpie Ward and settle in for group therapy. Rebecca looks around her group, trying to think of something constructive to say. It must be hard, keeping positive, with a group of girls who want to disappear. Relief flowers on her face as she looks at Daisy, who’s seated next to me on a green beanbag, looking as ethereal as a fairy on a leaf.
Unlike Dr Richardson, who prefers us to feel wretched, Rebecca likes her sessions to have a positive vibe.
‘I think this would be a good moment to focus on achievement, on the fact that each of you have a life to look forward to in the future. Would you like to share your news with the group, Daisy?’
Daisy blushes, two pink apples on her cheekbones. She looks down at her bitten nails.
‘I got my period today.’
There is a hush in the room, then a ripple of whispers.
Rebecca claps, and we all join in, the applause gathering pace as we share in Daisy’s happiness. Then Daisy catches my eye, and my hands clasp together, refusing to clap anymore, because I don’t see triumph, I see fear.
‘How did you fool them, Daisy?’ I say to her, later in the afternoon.
We’re sitting in the recreational room playing a game of Black Jack. I kneel next to her on the floor, though my knees hurt from the pressure on the scratchy carpet.
‘Please tell me. Did you borrow someone else’s sanitary pad?’
‘No. It’s my blood.’
I gently take her chin in my hand, and lift her face so it’s level with mine. Her anime eyes are wide and innocent, but desolate.
‘Tell me, Daisy.’
She moves away from me, and lifts up her skirt. On her inner thigh, close to the panty line, is a long cut, red at the edges and puckered where a scab is trying to form.
‘Oh no, Daisy! You can’t fool them like that. It could get infected.’
‘Please don’t tell on me, Amy,’ she begs, her eyes erupting with tears. ‘I borrowed Scarlett’s scissors. I just wanted the staff to stop watching me. I couldn’t bear it. Promise you won’t tell. If my uncle finds out . . . ’
She pushes her face into my shoulder and cries.
‘Of course I won’t tell, Daisy. I promise.’
Before dinner time, I go to Rebecca’s office, and find her lost in a sea of paperwork. She smiles up at me.
‘I think there’s something I need to tell you,’ I say.
She puts her pen down and asks me to sit.
‘What’s wrong. Amy?’
I hesitate. ‘If I tell you something, can we keep it secret?’
‘Amy, you know confidentiality is always limited. If you tell me something that means you or anyone else is at risk, I’ll have to act.’
‘Even if I tell you it’s a secret?’
Her face crinkles with concern. She thinks I’m talking about my story. I want to tell her that Daisy needs help right now, more than I do.
‘There can be no secrets between us, Amy. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell me.’
Telling Rebecca would be a betrayal to my friend, and the code we all live by here in Swan Lake.
I promised Daisy.
I decide to keep it to myself. For now.
43
ME
I wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare, covered in sweat. My days at the children’s home still burn in me when I close my eyes, when I let the dark take over.
I shoot up and whisper, ‘Amy.’
That is what allows Amy to drag me back into life. The way my dead heart leaps at her name.
I get changed and go outside. I light a smoke under the alcove. Seconds later, I crush my fag underneath my boot, go out to Devil’s Thirst.
The night breaks. The thunder cracks my brain. I head deeper towards the woods, where the lake becomes a river. It’s shaded by branches. A tide of scum laps at the edges, but otherwise it’s still.
Too still.
I slip my underwear off, drape them over a bush next to my leather jacket and jeans.
Feels like a tool box rattles inside my head. It’s too much, the noise. I need escape.
I miss you . . .
I take off one sock, then the other, and ball them together. I slap my arse and legs a couple of times to get the blood up.
As I look around, I feel exposed here. But it’s only the birds watching up in the trees, and the odd badger or squirrel having a good laugh at my expense.
I climb down the bank and lower myself into the dense silt that smells like sump-water, and fuck it’s cold.
I expect it be like quicksand, gripping and sucking me straight down. But the river lets me move into it as I wade in deeper.
I miss you . . .
I strike out and swim towards Angel’s Stone. Mum’s old cottage. It’s been haunting the back of my mind for some time.
Then the river changes. It fights against me.
I pretend I’m the lost prince at sea. I’ll let the undercurrent drag me under and swim until I reach rock bottom, where I’ll find a lost city and live with the fishes, living my life in darkness without drowning my mermaid with me.
I step out of the water, sleek and shaking, pale and cursing. I pull my clothes over wet skin and pick up my boots, head back home.
Things have gotten worse over the last few weeks. My obsession is like a black storm. Every tiny, minute thought is like demolition in my brain.
I’m not for her.
But still, she’s in my head when I wake up. Or when I go to work. Or when I’m taking a shower, or drinking a pint, or taking a piss, or jerking off. She’s in every pretty sound I hear, like bird song and the running river. I’ve put her out like a fire a million times, but like fire, she sparks back up in the darkest corners of my twisted mind.
I figured I could rescue you from the monsters that scare you in the dark, Amylocks. But you’ve only been rescued by another monster.
The ugly in me wants to destroy her, turn her into a monster like me so we can belong together, forever. Keep her in darkness. Fuck her in darkness. But I’m not gonna kill her beautiful.
I miss you . . .
44
ME
I flick the windscreen wipers on as the lashing rain cloaks my view of the road ahead. March has just started and it’s already in tears. A dark reverie, I think. I was left on the doorstep of the church near the end of this month.
I’m driving Max to school.
Jesus, I’m turning into a modern-day Ghandi. What next? Take a trip to the theatre and sing along to a fucking musical?
Amy did this. I blame her for turning me into a lap dog.
‘There used to be a princess in a castle who was in love with a prince.’ Ma
x is reading from his school book. ‘But the prince was no prince, but a dark beast who was the kingdom’s enemy. Knowing it was their last night, the princess drew around his shadow, cast on her bedroom wall, so she would always remember him. That one day, when she would wish for his return, he would turn into a prince again and she would know him.’
Max peers sideways. ‘Tarek says this was how painting pictures was invented. He said the princess used the drawing on the wall to make a statue of the beast she loved, and that’s where art came from. Do you believe that, Shepherd?’
I look at the ink on my forearm. It’s an empty basket branded with a question mark. ‘Real art never comes from happiness, kid.’
It comes from pain.
Each tattoo a memory of another shit moment of my life. A patchwork of each fucked memory, those needle strikes boring into skin and made me feel actual pain rather than the ghosts I carry around in my head.
I drop Max at school, then check my phone to see if Fab5 has called me about club business. There’s nothing from him, but I find another voicemail message from the Mayor. He’s been calling every day, now.
And I’ve been avoiding him.
There are some things I don’t want to confront. Some things I never want to know.
I decide to pay him a visit. It’s gotta happen sooner or later. Yeah, I’m breaking a promise, and yeah, it’s gonna hurt Amy, but I push it under the rug with the rest of my worthless lies.
For a while, I wish I hadn't given Amy space. I wish I kept her with me and . . . what? I promised not to hurt her. Almost kept it, too.
I ring Fab5 and tell him to manage without me today. At town hall, a scrawny man with a receding hairline opens the door and lets me into the hallway. It smells dusty, like old books. He tries to take off my leather jacket.
Is this jackass trying to frisk me?
I’m sure he doesn’t need to stand that close to me, but I resist the urge to elbow the guy in the stomach or worse. I shrug him off, warning him never to touch my jacket — or else.
‘Please go into the waiting room there and I’ll go and tell the Mayor you’re here,’ he says.
‘I’m fine waiting here. Cheers.’
He grimaces, then goes through a set of doors. A few minutes later, he comes back wiping his hands on the seat of his trousers. ‘He will see you now.’
When I enter, the Mayor is positioned behind a large oak desk in front of a bay window. His blonde hair is receding. He hides it with a combover. He takes up his fountain pen to lend himself an air of authority.
I dislike him already.
Always did.
A rotten apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. It usually lands and festers right next to it.
There is a single empty chair in the room. Christian Earhart takes off his reading glasses and nods towards it. ‘Sit down, Shepherd.’
‘I’d rather stand.’ I lean against a bookcase.
He looks at me like I stink of piss. ‘I won’t beat about the bush. It has come to my attention that you’ve been harassing my daughter. I want you to stay away from her. Leave Swan Lake and find another job outside of Greystone. She is very fragile and I don’t want you jeopardising her state of health.’
I laugh. ‘What would you know about her state of health? She refuses to speak to you. And from what I’ve been told, you’ve never even tried to visit her.’ I plant my hands on his desk, lean over. ‘Actually, I need a word with you.’
He looks stupefied. ‘What about?’
‘Violet Adams.’
He flinches at my mum’s name. I stare hard into his eyes. They’re bright green, just like Amy’s. Nothing like my dark, untamed eyes.
Weak jaw, tiny nose — Christian Earhart looks nothing like me.
‘She was my mother.’
The Mayor looks like he’s seen a ghost. His face turns as pale as a sheet.
I go on. ‘And it’s come to my attention that you were seen loitering around with her. A thirteen-year-old girl.’
Christian bristles in his seat, clears his throat. ‘I, uh, felt sorry for her. Nobody wanted to be friends with her back then. I showed her kindness. Once gave her money for some food. Charity, that’s all it was. But afterwards she wouldn’t leave me alone. I told her to stay away. She was wild, unpredictable, a real troublemaker.’
My anger filters down into this one intensely charged moment. I fight the urge to lunge across the desk and smack this piece of shit to next Tuesday.
When the dead are trying to remember something, the living are trying harder to forget it.
Then Christian says, ‘Let’s get back to the matter at hand, shall we. I knew you wouldn’t comply with my wishes to stay away from my daughter. In that case, I have a proposal for you.’
I straighten right up, fold my arms against my chest. ‘This should be interesting.’
I light a smoke, hold out the packet to the Mayor. He declines. ‘I’m afraid you can’t smoke in here.’
‘And yet I am.’ I blow out smoke circles into the frosty air. ‘Go on. What could you give that I’d want?’
He smiles. It’s arrogant, self-assured. He angles back in his chair. ‘Money. Fifty thousand pounds, in fact.’
I start laughing, cigarette in mouth. It’s an automatic thing, a kind of knee-jerk reaction.
This guy’s fucking oblivious to the extent of my wealth.
Christian gets offended by my reaction. ‘I’m offering you a truly wonderful opportunity. The sort of opportunity that a man like you ought to be extremely grateful for.’
‘It’s true what they say about politicians. You’ve got no idea about the people. I don’t want or need your money.’
‘I know about your past, Shepherd.’
I feel those words like a death punch to the head. I was a child when I went to prison. My criminal record is kept under protection.
If I was angry before, I’m angrier now. The world won’t let a man change. All the years and all the jobs and all the damn things I’ve done to clear the past . . . it’s never good enough. Done like my stupid psyche profile said — snapped back into the world of crime like someone with my aversions to authority is expected to do. And here’s the Mayor, like he thinks I’m on a lovely vacation and am enjoying the blood, sweat and tears of being in this shithole.
‘I wonder,’ he says, ‘what would the people you work for think about that?’
My mouth is practically watering at the thought of ripping off this wanker’s smug face. I’m my own boss. It’s not like his threat could harm my career. But nobody fucking threatens me.
‘Yeah? What would Amy think about her father being friends with a teenage girl?’
His eyes blaze. ‘I never laid a finger on her. Your mother wanted me to, though.’
I pause for a couple of heartbeats. The delicate grasp I keep in check of my control weakens.
‘What do you want?’ My words are drawn out slowly.
‘Leave Greystone and stay away from my daughter. I don’t trust why you’re back here. But I know it has everything to do with her.’
He unlocks his desk drawer and extracts a banded pile of banknotes. ‘Just before I see you drive away, and you wave goodbye, I’m going to give you this.’ He lays them on the desktop. ‘It is all here for the taking, Shepherd. Everything you need to begin a new life without delay.’
Is this the reason Amy didn’t want me to reunite with her father? I know that’s wishful thinking. It’s an easier pill to swallow than the idea that Amy fucking doubts me.
I stub out my cigarette in the Mayor’s antique ink-pot. I pick up the money. It’s a lot of money. Closely bound, with perfect edges, neat, clean, new. Someone made a special visit to the bank for this. I smile at Christian Earhart. The Mayor shows me every single one of his long teeth in return.
‘Christian, I’d like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for your generosity. But I can’t leave Greystone. Call it unfinished business.’
His grin drops right off hi
s face. ‘If you’re holding out for more, Shepherd —’
‘You should quit there.’ I slam the money down on the desk, smile. ‘You should know, Christian, your daughter is worth more than all the money in the world.’
Christian’s eyes bulge out of his head, like an electrocuted frog. ‘Don’t be foolish. I’m doing this to protect us all. Do you understand me?’
He looks pained.
I’m not going there . . . I won’t ever fucking go there.
Some secrets should never be opened.
I take a long slow look at the Mayor, realise what I feel is ill at ease. It’s an unnatural feeling for me, being so keyed up. I don’t fucking like it. Even so, I can’t seem to shake it off.
‘You won’t get another offer, Shepherd. I’d advise you to take the money.’
I fold my arms across my chest and blow my hair out of my eyes. ‘And no doubt that would be sound advice. But if it’s all the same, I’ll leave it.’
‘Men like you never change,’ he says. His voice is oiled and crawling. ‘It’s only a matter of time until you step out of line and go back to prison.’
I hold up my empty hands. ‘Well, it’s been great gassin’ with you, Mayor of Greystone. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around. Oh, don’t worry . . . ’ My smile is wicked. ‘ . . . I’ll be sure to make an appointment with Frisky out there to come visit you — you know, to ask your permission for your daughter’s hand in marriage.’
I’ve never seen a man turn red so fast. He looks like a big tomato ready to explode.
I leave town hall, tread slowly back to my Aston Martin. The anger of the righteous man courses through me, dangerously electric. I look down at my right hand. I’ve been clenching it so hard that the nail of my index finger cuts into the nail bed of the thumb. I draw my thumb to my mouth, suck at the blood. It tastes electric, metallic.
I know things will be bad now, but I still feel triumphant. And a kind of release, a beautiful release, from a tension I hadn’t realised had been as bad as it clearly had.
It won’t last. I know that. Till the day I deal with finding the identity of my father, it’ll always be there, coiling ever tighter until I release it again. But for now, I feel good. Good knowing I’ve sent out a very important message to Amy’s father.