Deceive Me

AS Beckham crossed the threshold into the Assan household for the first time, a shiver of trepidation rippled through him, mingling with the lingering echoes of tragedy that haunted each step. His hazel eyes darted nervously around the unfamiliar surroundings, brow furrowing with uncertainty. The memory of his father Casey’s untimely death, just ten days prior, hovered like a spectre, casting a shadow over his young soul.

The whistle of the passing train, a constant radio in his mind, then silence—as the front of the train collided with Casey’s body in the distance—echoed in Beckham’s thoughts.

“I do hope you’re listening closely,” Assan uttered coolly. Beckham looked up, finding himself in a grand foyer bathed in the soft glow of afternoon light streaming through double-glazed windows. Polished marble floors gleamed underfoot, reflecting the opulence of the Assan household. Portraits of unfamiliar children adorned magnolia-painted walls, silent witnesses to this luxurious domain. With his thick, well-groomed beard, Assan fixed Beckham with a scrutinising gaze. “I’m sure your father must have told you that I’m not a Man who makes a habit of repeating himself.”

Beckham nodded slowly, an audible gulp escaping his throat. “Yes, Sir.”

Assan pursed his lips, pleased with Beckham’s respectful response. He led Beckham through labyrinthine corridors, their footsteps hollow against the marbled floors. “This will be your room whilst you’re here with us,” Assan declared, gesturing towards a door at the hallway’s end. “I don’t imagine you’ll need to leave often. I’ve had a bathroom and shower installed within the ensuite room.”

Beckham glanced up at the older man; though only twelve years of age, Beckham knew without a doubt where and when he was unwanted. Hadn’t he been the child whose mother had abandoned both him and Casey when he was a mere toddler? And here, with Assan’s tone and choice of words, he was confident that he did not want him here either.

As Beckham leaned forward to move towards his designated room, he noticed movement above them, the sound of voices and a young girl’s laugh filtering down. Two figures watched him from the balcony above the rounded staircase: a boy probably a few years senior to Beckham with jet-black hair and piercing chestnut-brown eyes, and a slightly younger girl with similar yet cherubic features and a prominent dimple in her left cheek regarded him with fascination. Beckham recognised their facial features within the pictures in the portraits he’d seen earlier in the winding corridors of the Assan home.

Not noticing Assan’s harsh gaze, the unfamiliar boy placed his hand up, pushing all his fingers down except for his middle one, in a vulgar fashion. The girl beside him gasped, “Sylver, stop that!” The boy jumped back from the railed bannister – not because of the girl’s pleas but because he caught Assan’s stern and threatening eye. But whilst he moved away, the girl remained still, her eyes glued upon Beckham’s in continued innocent curiosity.

“Those are my children,” Assan’s voice interrupted Beckham’s thoughts and his vision trail, which remained upon the children at the top of the stairs. “Not that this should be at all relevant to you. There’s no reason you’ll need to have real contact with them."

"Okay," Beckham replied tentatively.

“Okay?" Assan’s eyebrow rose as he repeated the double-syllable word. “I know Casey raised you better than to speak to your superiors so casually.”

"I mean, yes, Sir," Beckham corrected himself, a subtle stutter escaping his lips. Assan had been Casey’s employer and the owner of Assan and Son Training Operations. The same place where Casey had met his tragic end due to what had been dubbed a freak accident or possibly a company error. Casey had always spoken highly of Assan, insisting he was a good, kind man despite the fact that Casey was seldom around for Beckham due to being overworked at the company. Beckham had never understood how that made Assan a good Man in any regard, yet here he was taking him in when he had no home. This decision had allowed Beckham to escape the social services system.

Before Beckham could offer any further apologies, an older woman’s voice encapsulated the air around them. The woman immediately greeted him with a warm smile and an aura of comfort. Her dark-auburncoloured hair had been neatly styled, with the hairs tightly pulled back into a bun, showcasing a small amount of hair loss in the middle parting. Her features were elegant, with almond-shaped eyes that held a soft, understanding gaze. “Oh! You must be our Beckham! I take it your parents were very big soccer fans?"She enquired, her hands reaching out as to embrace the young boy but stopped short as though she realised that this was a boundary that she had not been yet given permission to cross.

Beckham allowed a smile to flit across his face. “My dad is a huge fan."He cut short, "I mean, my dad was, ma’am."

“Oh!" Cynthia responded, correcting him with a gentle laugh. “There’s no need to call me that. I’m just Cynthia, or you can call me Aunt Cyn if you like. I’m… Assan’s housekeeper. We’re glad to have you here." She considered her words for a few seconds. “I’m really sorry for what happened to your dad, sweetheart. It was a terrible, terrible accident.”

Beckham nodded in response to her words, noticing behind Cynthia stood a tall, very slender girl. She had a playful demeanour etched across her face, which was a stark yet inviting contrast to the solemnity of the moment. She extended her hand out to Beckham. “Hi, Beckham." She said his name slowly as though gaining a taste for them. “That’s such a weird name, even if your parents were soccer fans or whatever," she chirped, rolling her eyes, the roll becoming even more pronounced as Cynthia silently reprimanded the girl. “I’m Akira, Cynthia’s beautiful and only daughter. It’s nice to meet you…or not. I haven’t decided yet." She looped the pink-dyed curtain bang around her finger as she spoke. Beckham glanced down at her hand which was still held outright. He jutted his hand to meet hers.

Assan coughed from behind then, disturbing the current conversation at hand. "Akira, why don’t you head up and go play with Leona upstairs?”

“How about I don’t?" Akira responded curtly.

“I’m not asking you, Akira,” Assan confirmed, his peach-thin lips folding into a stern line, indicating the end of the question. “Beckham needs to rest, now." Beckham felt a stern hand on his back, not hard enough to cause the boy to fall over but hard enough to have a clear impact.

Cynthia emitted a slight discomfiting laugh. “Assan’s right. Go and see what Leona’s up to." She instructed, causing Akira to begrudgingly stomp her way up the stairs.

Just as Assan’s hand exerted a force upon Beckham’s back, encouraging him to enter his room, Cynthia moved in front of the two. "Hey, sweetheart, if you need anything, I’m here. Anything at all, yeah?" When Beckham didn’t elicit any response. “I’ve already gotten your school uniform ready for the new school, but I’ll probably have to sew them up quite a bit, I used Sylver’s measurements, but you’re much thinner than him." She pressed a hand to his cheek in a maternal manner. “I’ll call you for dinner a few hours after you’ve settled down, okay?”

Beckham nodded quietly, managing a small smile before disappearing into his room with a resonant bang of his door.

Cynthia released a sigh. “He’s just a child, Assan. A child who watched his dad in the most…gruesome and horrifying way." She remarked to Assan.

“I know that.” Assan replied candidly. “I’m giving him a home – shelter, food, clothes, what else could he possibly need or want? He’ll be fine."

Cynthia’s gaze lingered on Beckham’s closed door before she turned back to Assan. “He shouldn’t have to be just fine, though," She murmured softly.

Assan chuckled listlessly. “Young men are resilient. He’ll adapt soon enough."

Cynthia’s eyebrows furrowed with concern. “He needs time, not just to adapt. I can’t imagine what thoughts must be swimming around in his mind." Cynthia glanced back at Assan, noticing how he had averted his attention to his phone. The way his pupils erratically moved around; she knew he was rearranging his schedule once again. “You should think about getting him some therapy."

Assan released an incredulous chuckle, his phone in his hand jerking with the movement of his laughs. “I’m sorry I must have misheard you; I thought you said he needed therapy for a second there.”

Cynthia tilted her head. “Don’t be so dismissive, Assan." She sighed. “Fine, let’s do this the way you want. But mark my words, we can’t always just sweep things under the carpet and expect them to stay there.”